Nikolay Zabolotsky
Peoples house

Funfair, henhouse of pleasure,
Barn of beguiling life,
Holiday trough of passion,
Fiery furnace of existence!
Here, spiked Red Army helmets
Drift by in a pensive stream,
With them ladies of the world,
Untroubled by the city’s din!
Here pleasure crooks its finger,
Offering a good time to all,
Here every lad has fun:
One feeds his girlfriend nuts,
Another passes out over his beer.
Here are the roller-coaster mountain peaks,
And girls, ravishing goddesses,
Hide themselves in the speeding cars,
The cars roll on. These lovely, tender
creatures collapse, in floods of tears,
Upon their boyfriends’ shoulders...
And there is much else besides.

A sauntering girl is trailing
Her immaculate doggy on a lasso.
She herself is bathed in sweat
And her breasts are riding high.
And as for that most upright doggy,
Filled with the sap of spring,
He rustles awkwardly along
The path on mushroom legs.

A splendid muzhik orange vendor
Approaches this distinguished wench.
He holds a many-colored vessel,
In which neat oranges are laid,
Like circles, compass-drawn,
Rubbery and corrugated;
Like little suns, they roll
Freely about the tin container
And burble “Grab me, grab me!” to the fingers.
And the wench, munching fruit,
Bestows a ruble on the man,
Addresses him familiarly, but
It’s another that she wants, a handsome fellow
That her eyes seek here and there,
Then a swing whistles in front of her.

On it a sweet little girl is sitting —
Her dainty legs are whispering.
She is flying through the air,
Twirling a warm little foot and
Beckoning with a warm little hand.

Another, seeing his face reflected
In a distorting mirror,
Stands there mortified,
Tries unsuccessfully to laugh it off.
Wanting to find out how the thing deforms,
He turns himself into an infant,
Backing away on all fours,
A close-on-forty quadruped.

But this holiday excitement seems
Too much for others.
They get no satisfaction from
The barn of pleasure! They’ve seen it all before.
And now, tete-a-tete with a bottle,
Bidding impassioned youth farewell,
They gnaw at the glass,
Suck it dry with their lips,
Tell their friends all about
The wild times they have had.
The bottle is like a mother to them,
Honey-tongued gossip of the soul,
With kisses sweeter than any wench’s
And more refreshing than the Nevka.

They look through the window:
The morning is rising in it.
A lamp, bloodless as a worm,
Dangles like an arrow in the bushes.
Paradise sways along in the tramcars —
Here every lad wears a smile,
While his girl, contrarywise,
Opens her mouth and shuts her eyes
And lets a warm arm flop
Over her belly, slightly raised.

Swaying the tram creeps on its way.

Translated by Daniel Weissbort