(no subject)

In translation, Russian poetry
reeks of mothballs and Shakespeare,
overblown nursery rhymes,
jingling with alliterations.

Under the gliding coils of English
there’s this wrongness, a tension,
a language being predicted,
a landslide waiting to happen.

In the original this force is held
by a rigid scheme of rhythm and rhyme,
else it’ll rush into the world,
upsetting every balance.

The verses twirl into a grid,
their rhymes interlocked,
so that music won’t drown the universe,
so it won’t lose itself in space.

While mellow English flows away
this fierce harmony’s still there,
still trying to contain the pulse
within the chalky limits of a rib cage.

It has not been told yet
that the center cannot hold.
Russian poetry, in translation…