RIP, Andrei Voznesensky (fwd)

[Heikki Raudaskoski]

Sorry, I forgot to include the publication year of the poem (1960)
and the translator (W.H. Auden, 1963). I notice that it has also
been translated by, e.g., the Fenno-Coloradoan Anselm Hollo:
http://karnikan.com/BalladParabolic.htm

Voznesensky died today at the age of 77. Btw, he and another
Andrei, Tarkovsky, were classmates.


Heikki

---------- Forwarded message ----------
Date: Tue, 1 Jun 2010 16:34:42 +0300 (EEST)
From: Heikki Raudaskoski <hraudask at cc.oulu.fi>
To: pynchon-l at waste.org
Subject: RIP, Andrei Voznesensky



 Parabolic Ballad

 Among a parabola life like a rocket flies,
 Mainly in darkness, now and then on a rainbow,
 Red-headed bohemian Gauguin the painter
 Started out life as a prosperous stockbroker.
 In order to get to the Louvre from Montmartre
 He made a detour all through Java, Sumatra,
 Tahiti, the Isles of Marquesas.

                                With levity
 He took off in flight from the madness of money,
 The cackle of women, the frowst of academies,
 Overpowered the force of terrestrial gravity.
 The high priests drank their porter and kept up their jabbering:
 'Straight lines are shorter, less steep than parabolas.
 It's more proper to copy the heavenly mansions.'

 He rose like a howling rocket, insulting them,
 With a gale that tore off the tails of their frock-coats.
 So he didn't steal into the Louvre by the front door
 But on a parabola smashed through the ceiling.
 In finding their truths lives vary in daring:
 Worms come through holes and bold men on parabolas.

 There was once a girl who lived in my neighbourhood.
 We went to school, took exams simultaneously.
 But I took off with a bang,

                                I went whizzing
 Through the prosperous double-faced stars of Tiflis.
 Forgive me for this idiotic parabola
 Cold shoulders in a pitch dark vestibule...
 Rigid, erect as a radio antenna-rod
 Sending its call-sign out through the freezing
 Dark of the universe, how you rang out to me,
 An undoubtable signal, an earthly stand-by
 From whom I might get my flight-bearings to land by
 The parabola does not come to us easily.

 Laughing at law with its warnings and paragraphs
 Art, love and history race along recklessly
 Over a parabolic trajectory.

 He is leaving tonight for Siberia.
                                    Perhaps
 A straight line after all is the shorter one actually.