War of the Beasts and the Animals
look, the spirits have gathered at your bedside
speaking in lethean tongues
hush-a-bye, so flesh and fine,
for what do you long?
*
I smiled
he said, marusya,
marusya, hold on tight and down
we went
*
no vember
the cruellest month, the hoarsest mouth
driving from the dead clay
peasants forged to the field,
cows, curs, leaving over their dead body
the postbag snagged in the stream
the tin spoon
the quick streams slipping the quicksilver
slip sliding away to the estuary
this little piggy went to market
and this little piggy froze to death
and the landowner put a gun to his head
and a black car came for the officer
the greek in odessa, the jew in warsaw
the callow young cavalryman
the soviet schoolboy
gastello the pilot
and all those who died in this land
out of the murky pool, the surface still warmed by the sun
in a night in may, steps rus al ka and quickly begins her work
throws her wet clothes from her tramples with her wet feet
her black body shines her white smock cast
mother, mother is that you? alyosha I don’t rightly know
o swallow, swallow, is it her? she flew away, my friend
*
such high-minded intercourse
topples and must fall at last
a plague a’ both your
(ivy-clad turret, waterside folly)
masha learns on breakfast tv
’er petticoat was yaller an’ ’er little cap was green
till apples grow on an orange tree
breaches of password security
if I were drowned in the deepest sea
thus sung the maid down in the valley
russian actor mikhail porechenkov
fingers his warm little rifle
like the latest novelty musical box
like he’s desperate
to grow his own golden fleece
and the narrow water’s already round his knees
svyatoslav in kiev did hear the ringing of that knell
and tom thumb
bid them listen
who were of the lands of surozh and korsun:
black night brings long strings
foot-foot-foot-foot slogging
all the millers-of-god
hi ho hi ho and off they go
to civil war
*
lathe operator lay to the left
a general touched his side
over the marxist’s chest
the liberal’s curls spread wide
o your goldenes haar
and a pair of blue eyes
few words spoken
feel free to surmise
thou art the armourer of the heart
sing me a ditty, something from rossini
rosina, perhaps, like on radio rossiya
*
as in a chariot race
the chosen one, glistening like quartz
in his roaring metal carapace
whips this way along the course
but the chariot is cleverer
throwing up stones
crashes the barrier
and crushes
the marrow from bones,
so, setting out rooks and queen
in their chequered chambers
culture leads fear
down the gauntlet of human nature,
stinking of laurel wreaths
steeped in a boiling pan,
to where there’s a lively trade
in the living unit of man
sing to me of how, on an ancient alley on your family’s estate,
the weathered bones lay bleached and scattered
under a birch tree; quietly they chattered:
there was no point to us, we didn’t lend each other our hands
like babes we lay in the nursery in our swaddling bands
*
I can just imagine coming under him
says one, and I can hear everything
and the other is speaking, speaking
fruits of the kerbside reads the jar label
from whatever takes root in the stony rubbish
embers, sawdust, scorched wood
suspended in sweet amber sugar
cockerel-shaped lollies for the day of the dead.
when I’m off to market, or when I’m coming home
I always remember what she said back then
*
one leg crossed the other: who goes on top
one leg vows to the other: I’ll top you
*
when we seize all the banks!
share out the fruits of our labour!
and the engines in all the tanks
flooded with rainwater
then we’ll help the poor earth
shake the wig from her head
erect a polytunnel instead
with a multiplication of those poles: cold and dead
and the south will come knocking at our ears
pears will droop in the heat
gleaming bulbous pears
swollen globular fruit
and the pizza delivery’s well-oiled
and the truth wears at our heart:
for the rapid soil
shall bring forth its own bard.
*
were it not seemly, citizens
to begin in ancient diction
to stay silent
*
oh in paris I could have lived and died
if there had been nowhere else besides
moscow of your land
china of your water
and tanganyika of the small trees
where the saplings and new roots are hidden
when it comes to it
somebody’s been put here to keep guard over it all
here, at the crossroads
of two legs, vast, fumble-footed
the un-russian god rose
the puddles reflected
to swell the goats and plump the hazel shell
the shadows under a birch like a cut out
my darling priapus, surely it’s time to sprout?
or is the geist not doing so well?
nothing here corresponds to the spotted skin
and the pink dusk
comes from the time of a nation’s devastation
no one calls for coolness,
all want con flag ration
and here the iambs trip-trap: tetrameters chirrup
but trip up on naked vowels
and fall so far from europe
bleeding pelts, they howl
*
children in the yard played at being olympian gods
and then at gestapo interrogation – tbh it’s much the same
I had a dream
night in its nuptial attire
the cornfield the melon’s swelling belly
under the stars the machine gunner sings
to the machine gun,
swaddled
cradled at his breast
sleep my sunflower
sleep my poppy
soon the warm sun will come back from the south
and there’ll be new life in the
pedestrian subway
playing on the half-dismembered harmony
and soldiers soldiers
gather the light ash in pots
*
how little earth was saved on the bosom of the earth
lift the corner of the blanket, replace the hot water bottle
measure perspiration, water allow reach for it
deep in-draught:
ditch after
dug-out
dogged indrafted
*
say the word that don’t belong
put it on and march along
forget the old and step anew
and the word will march with you
that word, it curls up and dies
at your lips as it emerges
like the spread-eagled toad it lies
in the heat on the verges
it clots sticky in the mouth
froths issues
here let me wipe out
it’s in the tissue
ugh with it e u
and gagging om
they don’t half-mean anything
when they die they’re gone
blue wings thrown wide
under the weight of the sky
the eagle floats over the forest
undulating in the air like a plaice
divested of alphabet
*
on the twenty-second of june
at four o’clock on the dot
I won’t be listening to anything
I’ll have my eyes shut
I’ll bury the foreign broadcast
It’s the news but I won’t lift a hand
If anyone comes I’m out of the loop
I’m a sparrow I’m no man’s land
*
the home fires are burning low
be still my heart beat slow
don’t spend the kerosene douse the fire
it won’t end as I desire
strongly it bears us along in swelling and limitless billows
a hundred young warriors scrambling to form the watch
the warrior’s raven-black horse returns without its rider
the dark cloud was without silver lining
the song snatched
from the river the bayonets glittered
glimpses of white sleeve
volunteer walking at volunteer
cigarette in the death-grip of teeth
human waves
drum bangs
machine gun strafes
camera pans
birds singing in the sycamore tree
major petrov fucks major deyev
in the coarse pockets of ploughed soil
*
that night
over the field of battle
the nachtigall tells the nachtigall
nightingasps in disbelief
and in neighbouring places
bird tells bird passing
from beak to beak like a dead frog
the exact science:
earth’s caesura
between the stains of the sighted
between one mottled zone of streetlights
warmed by proximate life
and its answering beam
the sightlessness of moss on boughs
anxious flight
armoured vehicles
lenses
aimed at movement
*
no difference between first and second
patriotic or patriotic
great or pacific
atlantic
world
all the same they fall
to the only the civil
where sunrise quivers in the cinders
draws out the spear-tips
mate eh mate
giss a light
says the dead to the dead
says the killed to the killer
*
the flower dies under a skin of glass
mouth blackens stumps trickly crust
earth takes the dead she keeps them
and brings them up when she must
the sensible animals hold court
the witness box is a transparent lung
dark and trickled the way is damp
the bitch suckles her young
the judge lifts its eyes from the bench
to daylight’s low-hung bulb
holds up wanted posters
and asks the jury if I am absolved
barely pausing their talk
yesterday’s brothers emerge from the copse
in charred pelts, mud-crusted
get up on the cart, whip on the horse
to where the meadow holds an awning,
pins a path of stinging plants and thorns
the way back is belted down
even hope is stillborn
how to justify this? on the greedy tongue
milk writes in curds,
and paper is marked by tree rings
traces of axe a fool’s words
magna imago
*
the acacia has long blossomed
the army is long gone
melodeclamation
has spread its wings and flown
ride a cock horse
to wherever the cross
and rip out the stuffing
and give it a toss
and freedom needs stripping
stay standing, lads, as long as you can
bust the joint, smash the game
one of our gang will crouch in a hole
wherever we are, and swig champagne
gypsies – dead
hussars – defunct
dusk now falls
colour shrunk
pitter patter
across the heart
sputter spatter
on the tablecloth
voices raised in lament
which once were full of joy
*
who is that riding on to red square
towards st basil’s cathedral
countries rejoice cities jubilant
across my territory
begins two minutes history
vixens bark at the crimson shields
mosquitoes’ drone
drowns out the pealing of bells
russian hares
in all the polling stations
the country has spoken
and then the midges
tearing themselves from flesh
rotate tactically overhead
who wouldn’t want to be drinking the quiet don from grandfather’s
wooden cup, going back in time, rub your eyes
put kebabs on the fire
reclaim those words sprinkle them on
soup
sprinkle earth
*
Vlas the volunteer, a fortnight dead
forgot the ruble rate, and what the sparrows said
and where he was from.
A current of explosive air
held his bones in embrace. As he flew
the years passed from him, chubby-cheeked
babbling.
Russky or Ukrainian,
o you, whoever you are, in this neglected crossing place,
consider Vlas. Vlas was nicer than you.
*
we no ger man we no ger man on our off spring down grew no man we not be come we no ger man rage blood no fish we fish now dumb fish we can do deal with no thing we no skull we no house bird no cherry tree we no we you we no we we in the myrtle grove I sleep and see be yond be hind spoke n word rush an bear mel o dies we no a not straightaway
*
the human body
is not soap wearing thin to a hole
in the scented water bowl
nor is it ever wholly
of the past, always of the here and now
glows through the deadwood
not easy to dispatch
it creeps up like a snowdrop
through the carbon patch
and what was pining, barely alive
shut away within its bony cage
now floods into the dark recesses
to happen again
new life emerges when hope is no more
and you stand there, empty-handed and unsure
*
they travelled a long time
longlongtime
dumbstruck stillstanding trees
not-earth and earth pressed close
builder’s yards morgues fly-tips
skyfail palewhite
bluehills skywarmed
up and down the road and the road
swallet
grim
droop
spinybroom
steep
stonecrop
cumb
the unbending river vodopr’
can’t swallow enough water –
its shame next to the
perfectly round hills
they call the hills ‘mounts’
and we walked on the mount
we strolled in ornamental gardens
reflected in the long shanks of birch
we gazed in the heavenly blue
we noticed that populousness is bluer:
roofs fences
cars
heavy colours like a waterproof tarp
no one from our family
has been in these lands
since nineteen sixteen
glare of white handkerchiefs
spread wide
on the uncharted waters
non op posing
non meta morph osing
non harvest table
non stop able
*
life, you are a gash in need of stitching
death, you are a crust that yearns for filling
*
those who carry in their mouths, at first with care, heads with seeing eyes
those who touched newspaper print in their heads, as mother said never to do, never, wash your hands
those who rip apart in flight, carrying from nest to nest, smearing on the glass
attempt to mount the blunt-snouted body on a set of wheels,
set it trundling, throat outstretched and spouting fire
yes, them and these, too
but actually more these
for them conscripts spread their green arms wide
like a tablecloth plentifully spread
lie heaped at their feet like birch logs
to please the valkyries
at the harpies’ hearts desire
to the bayan’s thrum
the accordion’s reveille
and o, those children’s voices, singing where once there was a dome
in the soiled field
surrounded by corn and scarecrows
*
not on the earth but above or below
war’s deep grunt
producing slimy rivers of sweat
its hand feels for the gut
and we stagger
carry ourselves through the darkness
and mother demeter mithering in the muck
and anguish of the fields
hears from below: mother fuck
yet the sky might be brightening, or so it feels
and mother hecate comes out for a smoke
from the back street
from the foul black streets from the pecking fowl
the puddles of spilt milk
the earth lying like a kitbag
behind enemy lines give it tongue
mother mary hurries
but hasn’t yet come
*
in a great and strong wind
a still small voice
she who cradles leviathan in her hands like the infant
and she who rises above the rye
all are present for this, as it happens
they watch, they steadily
unspeaking
as the ice in the ice house and the tear in the bottle come of age
as the soil tastes the first weight of the rain
as the ice-stoves send out blocks of
smoking death
in the big brother house a fight opens like a flower
women in flip-flops
fixated
shut the fuck up why don’t
spring in the recruiting office
knee jerk, stethoscope down the spine
picking out the shaggy the short-legged the sinewy
under matron’s watchful eye
how the thick plaits of herring stream away
the lines of tanks on bridges flash in the sun
a waiter’s flourish reveals a pitiful morsel
shivering, drizzled in salt, underdone
and over there is everything that I kiss from afar
that I love to smithereens
all of it still shouting alleluia
but no respite from the shameful dream
serpents and all deeps
tin soldiers at the city walls
all the ranks of angels
nanny lena digging vegetables
snow like wool and hoarfrost like ashes
throat like spindrift, legs like a foal
heart thrust through the noose
like a button through a button hole
save us from the right hand of falsehood
a memory
won’t save us
lies in the ashes
biting its own tail
he taketh not pleasure in the legs of a man
nor the strength of a horse
*
like the tailor who sews
not the straitjacket
(which from childhood has begged to sit up
woken from the canvas)
but the pattern
cuts on the bias
and the dress isn’t tight
just itchy
like a court proceeding
down the long hospital corridor
with a heavy trolley
handing out the tightly wrapped packages
the little living weights of verdicts
three per cord, ladies
like when in a moment’s confusion you spit out a barbed word
and it lodges in a treebody
or the body of a comrade
or a friendlip
and the line
goes taut
fish hooks a fish
like a mound
under a snowdrift
means nothing
writing on a tomb
sees no one
writing on a stone
nothing, we read
it not
but it is
2015