Ilya Selvinsky
At a dance in the cafe

She comes out on the stage. The dance does not
Spring up immediately. The mademoiselle
First makes a detailed walk like a gazelle
And then falls down, pulling up to her neck
The angle of her knee. Then — like a shot —
She arcs a semi-circle, a release
Which moves like one depicted by Matisse —
Collapsing in an absolute abstraction
Where there’s
                       no face
                                   no legs
                                               no arms
                                                             but action:
Only splashes of fire. And then a pause.
She’s stopped! She seems to tremble and to whine
As her caught public storms her with applause.
One character screamed out with special verve:
‘How beautiful! What shoulders! What divine
Arms, thighs! And like a fairy’s — every curve!’

And I, a son of Russia, thought: — horrible!
What is immodest can’t be beautiful.

Translated by Merrill Sparks and Vladimir Markov