Alexander Blok
The Poets

Beyond the town a sterile quarter grew
On swampy and unsteady ground.
Here lived the poets — and each one met
The others with a supercilious smile.

In vain upon this dismal swamp
The bright-eyed day arose:
The inmates devoted their time
Only to wine and heavy work.

When drunk, they swore friendship, and talked
Cynical and salacious talk.
Toward dawn they puked. Then, locked up,
Labored dully and zealously.

Later from their kennels they crawled like dogs
And watched the sea burn,
And smitten by each passerby’s
Gold hair, expertly raved.

Softening, they dreamed about the Golden Age,
Fondly cursed their publishers, and wept
Bitterly about a little flower,
And a little pearly storm cloud...

That’s how the poets lived. O reader, friend!
You think, perhaps — it’s worse
Than your own futile daily round,
Your own philistine mess?

But no, dear reader, blind critic!
The poet has at least the hair,
The cloud, the Age of Gold,
All inaccessible to you.

You rest content with self and wife,
With your bobtailed constitution.
While the poets’ universal drinking,
Leaves them little constitution!

Should I die like a dog against a fence,
Should life stamp me into the earth —
Still I’ll believe that God covered me with snow,
And that the blizzard kissed me!

Translated by Geoffrey Thurley