I know my talent well.
That writing poetry
Is not so difficult, I can attest.
But, poetry apart,
The love I bear my country,
Has tortured me,
Given my.heart no rest.
To praise in rhyme
A girl, the stars or moonlight -
Why, anyone can do that without strain...
But it's a different feeling
Eats my heart out,
And different thoughts
Are pressing on my brain.
I wish to be a poet-bard
And citizen,
A model praised
By all men near and far,
Accepted as a real son,
Not a stepson,
In these great states of the USSR.
I ran away from Moscow for a time:
With the militia
I don't get on well.
For every drunken escapade of mine
They kept me locked up
In a prison cell.
I thank those gentlemen for their kind care,
But sleeping on a bench
I do not relish
Nor in a drunken voice
Reciting there
Some lines about a wretched
Caged canary.
I'm no cagebird to you!
A poet am I!
And not to be compared with that slob Bedny.
What if drink sometimes makes my feet unsteady,
Amazing worlds unfold
Before my eyes.
I see it all
And clearly understand
That this new era's
Not a passing phase,
That Lenin's name
Stirs like a wind the land,
Sets thoughts in motion
Like a windmill's sails.
Turn, darlings!
You shall profit, I suppose.
I am your nephew,
You are all my uncles.
Sergei, open your Marx,
Sit down and study it,
Let's taste the supreme wisdom
Of dull prose.
Like streams converging
Days pass in review.
Towns flicker past
As letters do on pages.
Of late in Moscow,
Now I'm in Baku
Where Chagin tells me
How wells are sunk by stages.
"Are not these derricks
From which black oil spouts
Much finer than the churches
You're admiring?"
He asks. "Of mysticism folk are tiring.
Here's something live and real
To write about."
Oil like a Persian rug
Lay on the water,
Dusk scattered a sack of stars
Across the sky.
I'm willing to bet
Baku's illuminations
Are fairer now
Than all the stars on high.
With thoughts of industry my brain is busy,
The voice of human strength rings loud and clear.
Of bright stars in the sky
None wish to hear.
To make our own light here on earth
Is easier.
So here I go,
I pat my own head lovingly
And say:
"The time has now come, I suppose.
Sergei, open your Marx,
Sit down and study it,
To grasp
The supreme wisdom of dull prose."