THE   OLD   WOMEN                                                   

  

  That day I sat over a cup of tea

  amid the high society of grannies

  there reigned the atmosphere of courtesy

  something these days one doesn't often see, -

  intact and unaffected manners.

  

  The high-bred mischief in the playful eyes

  the subtle curiosity, well hidden,

  were telling me about the former times

  much more than what historians had written.

  

  

  

  To me whose mother tongue is scant

  as poor as a house, robbed and damaged,

  the pure Russian phrases were like cant

  and phrases borrowed from a foreign language.

  

  In fact, the grannies were famous just

  because of famous people's admiration.

  The sign of the invisible Masonic caste

  upon the feathered creatures cast

  a lofty shadow of participation.

  

  Somehow at cutting in I drew the line,

  at times a glance would really make me shudder.

  I felt out of place like home-made wine

  amid such nectars as 'amontillado'.

  

  It would have been a brutish thing to do

  to call them snobs, or highbrows, or whatever.

  They were superior to me, and yet I knew

  they didn't think they were too clever.

  

  I thought about the devastating wars

  they had gone through and still were waging -

  The two world wars and thousands of those

  they'd been perpetually engaged in.

  

  They had been forced to go so far!

  Behind the grinding sound of wires

  I saw such places as Karaganda

  at table over tea with cakes and pies.

  

  And yet the grannies hadn't grown profane

  like ladies, dressed in quilted jackets, really,

  they would cut short the swearer with disdain

  by looking down on him or her austerely.

  

  They'd dig the frozen ground for hours and days

  the stormy blizzard knocking down the diggers,

  they would disparage muttering the names

  of some distinguished outstanding figures.

  

  A super power of supersonic sound,

  of super- sciences and engineering,

  to me, my dear Russia, you're a land

  of grannies, p'rhaps too strict but all-forgiving.

  

  I noticed that the clothes they wore

  and their turn-down collars were quite old fashioned...

  I watched them and with gratitude I saw

  they were, actually, the embodiment of Russia.

  

  I listened to them pricking up my ears.

  What would I say getting a word in edgeways?

  I'd rather write for grannies such as these,

  let others write their poems for teenagers.

                                           Yevgeny         Yevtushenko
                                                           (  +  1 April 2017    )








     trans.     Alec Vagapov






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