After the Civil War Eduard Bagritsky returned to the native Odessa to work in the southern division of ROSTA, the Russian news agency, together with Yury Olesha, Vladimir Narbut, and Valentin Katayev. Bagritsky's talented, multicolored poetry provided, in its time, a master school for the young poets of the 1920s and 1930s
About Pushkin
And Pushkin crumples into blueish brittle
Snowâs blanket. And he knows this is the endâ¦
The cruel bulletâs sting is true and itâll
Take poetâs lifeblood with its flighted trend.
The bloodied shirt⦠The fur cape now abandoned.
The sledgeâs runnersâ rattles seem to cough.
The forest and the snow and journeyâs boredom,
And now the burdened sledge speeds off, speeds offâ¦
And Pushkin dozes. He again remembers
All that by lover cannot be dismissed â
His Goncharovaâs spreading curls, like embers,
The silent, honey-eyes that he has kissed.
Chance wind will not dispel the poetâs craving,
In lonely pine treesâ needles freezes landâ¦
â¦Towards the rebel poetâs heart the raving
Tsar Nicholas directs the wretchâs hand!
Gendarme is here! Heâs tracking needlesâ bleeding â
His finger on the trigger, stubborn-faced,
His pupils, unintelligent, receding
Peruse where Frenchmanâs slender pistolâs placedâ¦
And how can I, whoâve studied all thatâs needed
For writing verse and firing rifles well,
Leave call to vengeance for spilt blood unheeded,
Or not reward the singing killersâ yell?
For Pushkin in Crimea Iâve sought vengeance,
Iâve carried Pushkin over Uralsâ heights,
With Pushkin I have staggered through the trenches,
A hungry barefoot host to liceâs bites.
And, uncontrolled, my heart has then pulsated,
And in it carefree flameâs begun to flare,
And as machine gunsâ fire has screamed, elated,
Iâve feasted on beloved Pushkinâs fare!
And so the years still chart their course unswerving,
And in my heart there swells a burst of songâ¦
â¦Spring blooms â and Pushkin, now avenged, deserving,
Still sweetly freedom loves as all along.
1924
Translated by Rupert Moreton
Autumn
The drumming swans have fallen silent far away,
Beyond the sultry meadows cranes have ceased their whooping,
Above the ruddy ricks a hawk is circling, swooping,
And in the reedbed autumn rustles with its sway.
On broken wattle fence the agile hop now trains,
The apple droops, the scent of morning plum is wafting,
In cheerful inns the beer into the kegs theyâre drafting.
From darkened hush of fields comes quiver of pipeâs strains.
Above the pond the light and pearly clouds drift by,
And lilac and translucent, western skies are gleaming.
And, bush-concealed, the boys to catch the birds are scheming â
Their snares theyâve set where needlesâ green blots out the sky.
From fields of gold, from where a haze of blue smoke reeks,
Behind the laden wagons moves the girlsâ procession â
With swaying thighs concealed by skirts of skimpy hessian,
And sunburnt, almost honeyed gleam of golden cheeks.
In autumn meadows, where the vastness has no bound,
The hunters hurry under wraiths of misty lacing.
And in the drizzly dampness, where the packâs been chasing,
Spin sharp and horrid howls of hounds who prey have found.
And from the gloomy thickets drunken Autumn tramps,
His frigid hands now clasp the darkened bow and tighten,
And aims it at the Summer as the fields his dances brighten,
On swarthy back a yellow raincoat as he stamps.
And dallying sunset on the forest altar slab
Sets fire to blackened nard and bloody crimsonâs splashes,
And flies the chilly sound of falling applesâ crashes
Towards the summer turf, the headboardâs crown to dab.
1915
Translated by Rupert Moreton
Deribasovskaya at Night (Spring)
Across the dirty sky, words etched with rays
of greenish light: âChocolate and Cocoa.â
And cars, like cats with trampled tails,
wail frantically: âMeow! Meow!â
Black trees, like scraggly brooms,
have swept the rouged stars from the sky,
and red-haired, loud-mouthed trams
creep over cobble-skulls â done for the night.
Dolphins of granite, looking like fat pugs,
drink from a grimy fountainâs spout,
while Pushkinâs statue reaches for a smoke
and asks a lantern: âHave you got a light?â
Decadent clouds go floating overhead,
and womenâs lips all smell like cheap cigars.
The crescent moon â an orange sausage link â
dangles above the roadwayâs parted hair.
A seven-story house, arms full of signs,
smokes coal like dandies smoke cigars,
and a red-nosed lantern in a schoolboyâs cap
winks at a sign â heâs doing great so far!
Atop the lakes of oily asphalt, ruddy stars
worship the night in a black massâ¦
O pimps, rejoice, raise chimneys from the rooftops â
Rue Déribas has found its poetess!
1915
Translated by Boris Dralyuk