Nikolay Zabolotsky
The Ivanovs

Trees like government clerks
trying to enter every house,
you may have been gypsies once —
that was a long time ago,
now there are wire fences around you.
And you make a lot of noise,
narrow streets,
closed in by rooftops.

Suddenly doors open,
a whispering —
the Ivanovs
in their shoes and trousers
have gone out to work.

The fast empty streetcars
give up their benches to the Ivanovs
and our heroes climb aboard
buying fragile tickets,
sitting with the cardboard
held in front of their eyes.
They are not excited
by the speed or the smooth ride.

A world with flat houses
running up its sides
rushes past them like a sea.
Waves on the road
chop and splash
and sirens flow under the cars,
their orange hair spinning
on the water wheels.

And country girls
who won’t sit inside
follow along making ballet figures
with their white legs.
“Where shall I go? Who wants my blood-red mouth?
Who wants to hear me say ‘darling‘ today?
Where’s the bed I can put my little shoes under,
and who will unsnap my blouse?
Is there really nowhere to go?”

O world,
my leaden idol,
pour out solace
with your heavy waves
for these girls at the crossroads
standing on their heads,
legs in the air!
Yet my terrible world doesn't threaten me today,
and there are normal houses somewhere.

Will I really find that place
where my betrothed waits for me?
Chairs lined up in a row,
the tall sideboard like Mount Ararat
and trimmed with lace paper,
there is a table
and an iron armor three storeys high
that is a samovar
grumbling like a general
who orders the house.

O world
fold up your buildings into one block,
one rutted street,
one storeroom with spit and dirt on the floor,
one mousehole —
but get ready for an explosion
when Ivanov
kisses his girl!

Translated by Barbara Guest