Poems from the Gulag
A counterfeit conviction
There's little that I ever did that constitutes a crime
Though random things I didn't do might fit that paradigm
I hear of many friends and kin now disappeared or dead
And fear a portion of their charge might settle on my head
Then men with hats and Tokarevs all keen to make their numbers
Will break my door, invade my home and wake me from my slumbers
And in due course, they'll forge my name - a counterfeit confession
The upshot of a harsh and very lengthy torture session
Now everywhere the world is changed but what is there to do
What was right is become wrong and every lie is true
In time I'll see a bogus trial, conviction rubber-stamped
Then sent by train to exile in a terrible labour camp
Touch & go
It's almost palpable, this sense of trepidation
No-one understands what lies ahead
Lowered voices, anxious conversation
A telling blend of restlessness and dread
So someone tells a joke to quell the tension
Others smile but just to be polite
Rattled by a worn-out leaf suspension
The ancient bus they ride ploughs through the night
Diesel fumes suggest asphyxiation
Severe the cold it pierces their flesh
Windows thick with frozen condensation
A charabanc devoid of synchromesh
Will they all survive to see the sun rise
Can the bus negotiate the snow
This is the north with all the pain that implies
To make the journey could be touch and go
Great Expectorations
There's a tickle at the back of my throat
There's a rattle in my chest
I wear my warmest quilted coat
My special thermal vest
But still my head it pounds and throbs
My thorax feels so tight
I'll treat myself to goose fat
And a sweaty sock tonight
I've great expectorations
Of mucus, snot and phlegm
I can't stop spouting sputum
I just brought some up again
In bed I keep my hat on
Don't make me take it off
And my thickest wooly long-johns
Cos I've got a nasty cough
The Russian poets
So what's to be said of the Russian poets
Did Bunin block Blok
Did Mayakovsky know it's
Only chameleons that flex and change
Not the timorous word-smith
Conceited, deranged
And who was Akhmadullin fooling
When Pushkin came to shove
Did Mandelstam his feet and scream
That he didn't have enough
Be braver, don't cry
That sad Lermontov you hear
Is just a collection of words and notes
It's nothing you should fear
Akhmatova told of the mighty Yenesei
But Yesenin couldn't see so far
Tyutchev travelled home by train
He trusted neither horse nor car
Fine words buttered no-one's parsnips
Go tell that to Pasternak
Nekrasov perished, Brodsky retreated
Tvetaeva went to France and back
Words
So tell me now in your own words
Just how you plan to reach and touch the sun
Explain to me the methods you might use
To drain the seas and make the mountains run
If I could share your vision and your dreams
If you gave me the key to every door
And spoke to me the language of your thoughts
Then we might both be stronger than before
I know your mind conceals a secret place
So far and hid so well I'll never see
Please take me there and let me see your face
I beg you please reveal yourself to me
Touch me deeply and with your words
Make my soul cry out for its release
Make tears of sadness turn into tears of joy
Then hold me close so I can join the feast
You have the choice to let me fly or fall
To take me high or drop me to where I came
To speak a tongue I'll never understand
To make me yours or make me change my name
I'll tell you now in my own words
How sad it is to never see the day
I feel as if my senses have escaped
I feel as though my limbs are cut away
But still I wait to hear you speak your words
And trust some day I'll see you shine your light
That shows me how you plan to touch the sun
Or else I'll live forever in the night
How will I know your name
How will I send you flowers
When I don't know where you are
How will I tell you loving words
How will I heal your scars
How will I kiss your trembling lips
When I've never seen your face
How will I hold you in my arms
To feel your warm embrace
How will I stem your streaming tears
How will I ease your pain
How will I fill the empty years
How will I know your name
Scavengers rejoice
The blackened wooden barrack that lurks beyond the fence
Offers little hope of benediction
The fence so tall and wire-topped, belligerent, immense
In dull half-light it promises constriction
A moderate Siberian wind, so very cold the air
And snow that's piled high in each direction
Hopelessly I wrap myself in concepts of despair
My open sores exposed to all infection
And if I should elect to live at least for one more day
A week, a month or two and if then what
Perhaps I might decide to simply, slowly fade away
Or else I'll try to loose this Gordian knot
If hope checks-out and then departs the will to live leaves too
And at that point I'm left without a choice
A messy pile of bone and skin, my mortal residue
No-one to mourn - but scavengers rejoice