Nikolay Zabolotsky
The Ivanovs

The trees stand clerically straight,
So close their branches almost poke
Into each house, nomads of late,
Now behind bars and under padlock.
The narrow boulevard, close —
Bounded by tight-packed houses, roars.

But suddenly all doors jerk
Open, and the word goes round:
The Ivanov boys are off to work
Rigged out in boots and pants.
The tramcars standing sleek and empty
Offer them their vacant benches;
Our heroes climb aboard and buy
Brittle pasteboard tickets,
And sit holding on to them. They ride
Unmoved by the tram’s speed.

And there, where there are walls of stone
And honking of horns and swish of wheels,
Bewitching sirens stand
In clouds of orange hair.
Others dressed up like little idiots
Can’t sit around at home and fidget.
They walk, rattling castanets.
Where are they going? Whom is it
They’ll bring their blood-red mouths to?
By whose bed kick off their shoes,
And their blouse buttons undo?
Is there really nowhere to go?!

Oh world, my leaden idol, pound
Your vast and expansive waves,
Bring them repose, these wenches,
Upended at the crossroads!
The stern world sleeps today,
In the houses, peace and quiet hold sway.

And will I really find my place
Beside a bride who waits for me
Where chairs are set out in a row,
Where the cabinet, like Mount Ararat,
Has a most important air,
Where a table stands foursquare
And a three-tiered ironclad samovar
Huffs like a household general?

Oh world, roll up into a single city block,
Into one pitted stretch of road,
One muck-bespattered barn,
One solitary mouse hole,
But be ready to take up arms:
Ivanov is kissing his wench!

Translated by Daniel Weissbort