The Poets Poem by Emil Sharafutdinov

from Blok

Beyond the city a desolate block
Rose on the swampy land.
There lived poets — and each with a mock
Greeted an arrogant friend.

In vain a radiant day would climb
Above this sorrowful bog:
Its dweller gave up all his time
To wine and zealous work.

When they got drunk, their friendships were sworn,
Their talk was provoking and tart.
They vomited, having retired at dawn,
Worked dully and hard.

Then they crawled out from kennels like dogs,
Watched how the sea was burning.
And fell for the gold of every girl's locks
With a professional yearning.

Having reposed, they recalled golden age,
Cursed editors aloud
And bitterly wept at a bird in a cage
Or a little pearly cloud…

Thus lived the poets. Reader and friend!
You think, perhaps, — it was worse
Than your daily feeble exertions and
The philistine puddle of yours?

No, dear reader, my eyeless judge!
Leastways poets possess
And locks, and clouds, and golden age
To which you have no access! ..

You shall be pleased with yourself and the spouse,
With your constitution duff,
But there the poet has a universal carouse
Constitutions for him not enough!

So be it, from this world like a stray dog I go,
Let life trample me down, — yet I
Shall believe: that the god covered me with the snow,
That the blizzard kissed me goodbye!

July 24,1908 — November 6,2021