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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781550964516 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Exile Editions |
| Publication date: | 08/28/2018 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 128 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
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CHAPTER 1
SONG I: EARLY MARCH
Early March and it's cold,
Early March and there's still no thaw.
At school, I stomp my snug winter boots To warm my frozen feet, my whole body. But ...
No. Stop. Don't stomp.
Soles, I whisper to my feet:
A stomping sound might Be mistaken For joy these days:
The radio has announced: HE DIED.
Only his enemies are happy hearing that.
He died. I turn my head:
Nobody behind me, to the side. No witnesses To my involuntary two-step.
Thank God. Grief clutches at the Soviet heart.
He died. He is gone, now. Forever.
Oh Little Father.
Leader, Internal Ruler, Great Architect, Superior.
Number One. Great Composer.
Soviet Conductor of many millions of Human instruments in his Communist Orchestra.
Yes. He died.
Who'll rule us now? Accompany Us to the Apex of Communism? Oh. Our riverrun Of tears, for Him.
People weeping openly on the street in all The capitals of the 16
Soviet Republics, all the cities, towns, the Collective farms. And here, too, in Blessed Kazakhstan,
Where I am spending my childhood Hard on the heels of my exiled parents.
Just the other day,
This December, I wrote a poem in honour of His Birthday. December 21. And now,
TODAY There's only frostbite,
The sun shines, as a kind of excuse during this universal tragedy ...
SONG II: SHE KNOCKS
She knocks On my door.
She talks, the terrible monotony ...
So many things that I should DO,
Her dictation: this, this,
And this ...
I call out to her from A long distance, Muse. My Muse.
Oh, her boring talk. Endless.
Her tirades, her clip-clop on the typewriter keys, bland,
Sentimental, semi-scientific, semi-architectural,
Semi-theosophical, semi-philosophical, semi-historical,
All commonplace.
Remember Pushkin and Akhmatova.
What is POETRY? Play.
An imitation of LIFE, a play on words.
WHAT'S life? — PLAY.
On this day, TODAY.
A sunny day today.
Tomorrow it may be cloudy,
A new night, different phases of the moon,
Stars anticipate the oncoming night.
Today it's raining, tomorrow, it'll snow.
The usual resurrection Baby Christ suckles at Lady Mary's breasts Today. Oh.
Star of Bethlehem.
I'm not leading wise magi,
Old men who are Lost in the hot desert.
And so, Mother Mary's deed Might be Her Dream in Midsummer.
Dreams of a holy future Giving the milk of her full breast To the BABY Why not?
It might well be the Archangel Gabriel's prophetic joke.
TODAY is not Christmas, it is the day of a brief THAW.
April is the cruelest month.
A parrot's voice: bla-bla-bla. Repeat repeat repeat.
Someone. Help me. My limited vocabulary.
Lady Mary. Christ. Wise Magi. Dream of Midsummer. Cliché.
Banal. Silly. Middle class.
SONG III: ALL OF US IN MOURNFUL ROWS
All of us in mournful rows,
I.e. students at my school, in our recreation hall.
Window casements Enclosing a Kazakhstan landscape: thin Naked trees seen through the rococo Frost designs on A double-glazed window,
Our atheistic Christmas ...
March Thaw is so far away.
On the window sills there are Ceramic pots, dried plants and flowers, a friendly cemetery Facing our teachers, so seemingly sorrowful,
Tears twinkling in their eyes.
And our Communist director, Nikolai Semenovich,
An imposing man who speaks so solemnly,
Accompanied by Beethoven's and Chopin's requiems played over Moscow radio.
The director's slogans rise up, and up.
And up-p-p ...
His voice reaching a thunderous climax.
Young souls shiver. Anger, grief,
Sorrow, panic. And.
What? What happened?
Crash, crack, rattle. All of us.
Frightened young creatures A boy loses consciousness. He faints.
The back of his head is down Among the withered blooms of the Cemetery. The ceramic pots have become his Hard pillow.
Black soil mixed With scarlet blood.
Our sorrow compounded.
Girls and boys crying.
No school discipline. I Run to my barrack home.
I've not heard about that dead student since.
Collateral damage. Another Victim of the Great Genius back When no Thaw existed ...
SONG IV: THE THAW
The Thaw: A poster from the '50s.
Khrushchev.
His heavy step. And soon, his infamous shoe.
His brave revolutionary OPENNESS.
About the decades of Soviet rule. Terrified folk.
He lanced an inflamed boil ...
With his sharp knife. More accurately, his Tongue.
Long live this brave Tribune.
My father is home From the Gulag. He can Smile, saying nothing About survival's brutality.
Jail doors are open.
Grief is stilled in the heart.
Blood leakage Is staunched by Khrushchev.
People speak openly About the Great Tyrant.
Aroused youth are dancing to
(A bit late)
Forbidden rock-n-roll.
Picasso's Communist Dove is in flight.
Read the half-forgotten Akhmatova. And Soviet youth Can join the Global World of Girls, Boys.
It was the 57th Year.
Khrushchev. Calls across Iron Borders.
To the World's Youth and Students.
Festival. Hurray. Hurray.
SONG V: AFTER GOING TO MY BED
After going to my bed so late, I dream Of a doctor, and a nurse who has a long syringe,
Baring my stomach,
Begins to inject. NO.
I lift my heavy lids and see Her:
This aging ugly woman who is my official Muse.
From a community of social workers.
She shakes me by my shoulder, she breathes heavily.
She's almost in tears.
I am in tears:
"Why are you here? It's early.
Go away."
"No.
It's seven.
Tolstoy always got up at six o'clock. And went out into The field with his beloved scythe.
To get himself going.
So. Get up.
Go to your desk.
I've got a story for you. Lenin met Inessa."
"I've got to go to the washroom."
"Later."
I pull on my robe, sit in my work chair.
"Hey, little client. Hurry up.
I've got a lot of clients this morning. Is there a problem With your laptop?
Ah-h. Rogers. You are clumsy?
Get up, call 611."
"Better, I will call 911."
I hear my door slam and I get into my bed. A nurse has a Huge syringe,
I talk to my doctor, seeing Sorrow in his attentive Chinese eyes.
He is explaining, smiling ...
SONG VI: LITTLE LAMB
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
The answer is God.
Tyger asks,
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Yes, God made the Tyger too.
So many benevolent Lambs And fighting Tygers Came to the Moscow Festival Of World Youth and Students On account of the Thaw,
And Khrushchev.
I see hundreds of this new species Of the international young In our Architectural Club's capacious solemn Hall, brightly lit by crystal chandeliers In Soviet Art-Deco style.
I am still a student But I am in the hall, too.
See the chaotic whirl Of the International Chorovod.
All those who are here are great.
I admire as most beautiful a Foreign couple:
Two figures. Who stand out In the crowd.
My friend Yuli
(Member of our Student Festive Committee)
Says:
"I know their name: the Bradburys.
We all know this name, the Famous Ray Bradbury, we read him as teenagers.
Maybe this is the man's father?
They are young married architects From far-flung Chicago.
They are so introverted,
Absorbed in their designs."
Yes: they don't smile,
They ignore this dancing, this whirling, this Ball.
But, from time to time The architectural young lady's Stern face ('50s makeup)
Is visited by a Giaconda Smile, her pale rose lips, almost a smirk.
My guess:
One of her spaghetti straps has elfishly tickled Her bare shoulder.
But I find her companion more fascinating
(Now that he is in front of me).
But why?
Because of his elegant corduroy khaki jacket.
My close friend Yuli says to me,
"Hey. Look at his architecturally impressive back:
His right shoulder blade juts out just like Yours.
His right shoulder blade."
Slackening my pace:
"Yes, Yuli, thanks for your kind attention.
But what I want is that
Soft, so casually comfortable corduroy Jacket," and I sigh ...
SONG VII: INESSA ARMAND
When Inessa Armand met Vladimir Lenin in a Paris café
in 1909, so began one of the most speculated about love affairs on the revolutionary left. It has been Inessa Armand's ill-fate, however, to be historically remembered as Lenin's mistress, rather than the leading Marxist feminist she was.
— PHIL SHANNON
Such is her end:
Coming into Moscow station, she is met by Lenin and her five children.
Broken by cholera.
Such a sad finale. A couple of Years ago ...
She likes mountains and horses, this French woman,
Not an aristocrat, daughter of a Paris Opera singer.
Because of her aunt, she is in Russia,
Wife of a rich man, Armand Alexander, himself An aristocrat: deep roots In the dark of Russian history.
Her life between two men: her husband Alexander, and his Brother, her lover. Outside Moscow.
Inessa's romantic tempestuous life begins.
Feminism, her fight for Truth,
Marxism, Lenin's Books, and Communism.
Her husbands helps,
He puts up the bail money when she is jailed.
In spite of her being in love.
Inessa? France, Russia.
Back to France.
With Lenin drinking coffee in a Paris café.
Then. A rumbling thunderstorm.
Lenin's train brings the Revolution to Petrograd.
She is in Lenin's armoured carriage.
Civil War. Terror. Blood. Reds and Whites.
Trotskyites. A new Religion, Bolshevism.
She is highly strung. On edge.
Then. Then. The days fly by like rockets.
1920.
Lenin and her five children on a Moscow platform.
Before the flame scorched everything around us, she is In Switzerland escaping from Russia.
A horsewoman on a rented horse,
Passing through the snow-capped Alps under an azure sky.
Dismounting, she Waits for a man on the mountain path.
The man is Lenin.
She, Inessa,
Is no eugenic Eva Braun.
Inessa is entirely different.
The horse is back in its clean stable with fresh hay.
The horse is not one of the hundred and twenty steeds That are still in her husband Armand's stables.
Inessa-Lenin in Switzerland. He writes, "Imperialism,
The Highest Stage of Capitalism."
She helps him with language. Their endless conversations Are debates.
She is at the piano. She smiles hearing His voice.
She is listening intently, admiring the hyper energy Of this short, unimposing man:
Love is blind.
"We need to destroy all the old world. We shall build a new one.
The Revolution has to happen in all countries.
No tranquil indifference. Awake from the dream.
We should be strong. We need to smash all barriers,
Obstacles, all boundaries, all limits, frontiers.
THERE ARE NO MORALS IN POLITICS, my dear Revolutionary friend, Inessa."
She looks warmly at her beloved Vladimir Lenin But thinks: destroy the Hemispheres. But do not touch Beethoven ... she's at the keyboard,
Plays a strong chord from a sonata. She knows it's Lenin's favourite piece,
Heard at his mother Maria Alexandrovna's knee.
Lenin cries: "Hooray. It is passionate, like the Revolution.
Beethoven confirms everything I've said."
Inessa sees his flaming hawk eyes.
She continues to smile.
Cocooned in Russian gaiety,
She takes Lenin's hand, guiding him through a starry Alpine night,
So fresh, slightly chilly ...
SONG VIII: THE INSIDIOUS THAW
The insidious Thaw Tickles sleeping buds,
Green-within-future greens,
Woods, parks, parkettes, gardens,
Even household plants On the window sill.
The Thaw begins to melt ice-mirrors,
The sun's Surprising, unexpected warmth.
So, noble Soviet man
(Sorry, this is about K. again.)
Gets his fashionable pointed shoes shined During the Thaw.
They are tight On his wide, Ukrainian feet.
He is Nikita Khrushchev,
Who, in 1960, yanks off one of his shoes
(Freeing his scrunched foot At an Assembly of the United Nations In New York)
And pounds it violently On a table as a sign of protest.
(And by so doing, he makes his shoe wider.)
Not any old shoe, no,
This Soviet Premier Is ordering his clothing From Angelo Litrico,
His favourite Italian designer,
The great man's tailor from Catania,
Who helped drive the Thaw forward during the Cold War, encouraging Needle-nosed footwear ...
Excerpted from "Broken Pastries"
by .
Copyright © 2014 Vladimir Azarov.
Excerpted by permission of Exile Editions Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Preface,
SONG I ~ EARLY MARCH,
SONG II ~ SHE KNOCKS,
SONG III ~ ALL OF US IN MOURNFUL ROWS,
SONG IV ~ THE THAW,
SONG V ~ AFTER GOING TO MY BED,
SONG VI ~ LITTLE LAMB,
SONG VII ~ INESSA ARMAND,
SONG VIII ~ THE INSIDIOUS THAW,
SONG IX ~ SHE, PERSISTENT MUSE,
SONG X ~ LILI MARLENE,
SONG XI ~ SVETLANA,
SONG XII ~ ALL OF MY LIBRARY,
SONG XIII ~ NORTH STAR,
SONG XIV ~ NO,
SONG XV ~ YESTERDAY,
SONG XVI ~ NIGHT, DARK,
SONG XVII ~ I DO NOT BELONG,
SONG XVIII ~ I DID NOT SLEEP,
SONG XIX ~ I WAS BAPTIZED,
SONG XX ~ ELECTRICITY'S POLES,
SONG XXI ~ SELF-PORTRAIT THROUGH A MAGNIFYING GLASS,
SONG XXII ~ TITANIC,
SONG XXIII ~ OF BROKEN PASTRIES BY SOUR GRAPES,
SONG XXIV ~ OF NATIVITY,
SONG XXV ~ BROKEN PASTRIES,
SONG XXVI ~ BUS BERLIN-PARIS,
SONG XXVII ~ GODOT,