Time and love. The novel in verse. George Pospelow

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      Oh, Calcutta!

      The rain

      is a chronic

      phenomenon:

      splash-gargle of the drops,

      squelch-squish of sandals.

      What if it pours heavily!

      At once, a babbling current

      will wash off the sidewalk folks.

      As so often is the case,

      it’s bucketing down

      or raining days and nights.

      Be careful then!

      Inundation!

      A car is half sunk

      in the middle of the flood.

      A man,

      an idiot in looks,

      strikes the trunk

      with a hammer —

      Bang! Bang! Bang! —

      what a jubilant revelry

      of the elements

      and raving madness!

      Earthquakes happen.

      One was from Burma-Myanmar.

      A perambulator on the balcony

      started to roll by itself,

      ooh! It beats the left wall,

      plonk! It beats the right one.

      Oh, Calcutta!

      Natural disasters. However

      social calamities also

      take place, say, “bandh” —

      an all-out strike —

      everybody must close

      everything:

      you don’t close your store,

      it is broken to pieces,

      or if you drive,

      your car is toppled over.

      A million-strong meeting.

      Loudspeakers deafen:

      “Long live the revolution!”

      The Leftists are powerful.

      Yelping-yapping of the dogs

      brought to the dog show.

      The Leftists prohibited it – “bourgeois.”

      Oh, Calcutta!

      Life resumes its normal

      course:

      stir of the trade

      at the markets,

      whistle

      of the ships at the port,

      knocking tapping

      of the cranes,

      muffled crackle

      of burning corpses

      near the Hoogly river.

      Botanical Garden.

      Wild horses could not

      drag you away

      from there.

      You’ll be all ears:

      not abating bird melodies,

      chime, tapping, whistling,

      parts, tunes, tones.

      Different quarters of the city

      have their accent:

      Armenian,

      Sikh…

      Some streets are unique:

      contraband —

      smuggled goods

      are from everywhere —

      no ifs or buts about it:

      monkey – noisy – where

      impudent cadgers live,

      book —

      with the rapture of finding —

      amid cultural centers.

      Anywhere,

      high and low

      on the walls

      are slogans,

      slogans.

      Oh, Calcutta!

      Temples, mosques, churches.

      Ting-a-ling

      of the bell

      and the bleat

      of the goat being

      sacrificed to the gods

      in the Hindu temple,

      recitation of muezzin

      from the minaret.

      choir singing

      at the Cathedral,

      water splashes

      and the rustle of flowers

      falling

      on the stone phallus

      in the Shiva temple

      from the hands

      of girls and women

      seeking advice and blessing.

      Mother Teresa —

      in the halo of only

      local glory —

      loudly gives orders

      to the sisters of Divine Love

      who sell wicker baskets

      and embroidery

      in the shop of the Mission.

      In the Kali Temple is a feast

      of the light and, sure, of the sound.

      In honor of the bellicose goddess

      is a clatter of fireworks

      and machine-gun-like firecrackers,

      skyrockets fly up,

      bombs blow up,

      a drummer beats feverishly.

      A war

      loved by everyone

      goes on and on.

      No one vanishes in the battle.

      Oh, Calcutta!

      They speak

      nothing and never

      change in Calcutta.

      Well, partly true.

      Beggars are not few

      after Mother Teresa

      has reached the world glory

      and deification.

      Decades of the Leftists rule

      passed through without

      revolutions of any kind.

      Subway hasn’t СКАЧАТЬ