Those towns along the Volga
thronged with petit-bourgeoisie,
their beaten women seeking
grace in acts of piety;
roughshod, bearded muzhiks
who ran factories, bazaars and stalls,
their barrels crammed with caviar
and pickled herrings, eels;
dye works where exploited hirelings
sacrificed their sight to fumes;
street urchins and priests, barge-
haulers, shy young wives
who dealt in shawls:
I once breathed that atmosphere,
recognised the Tsarist spies,
the market smells, potato stills,
incense from the martyrs' shrines;
the rowdiness at Shrovetide,
Nizhni Novgorod's Great Fair,
the brawls - a child the river
made its own, from old Kazan
to Astrakhan I rode the paddle
steamers to the Caspian.
Who was this man called Gorki,
bitter son of an iron-fisted clan,
who cared so deeply for his race,
despairing of its brutal ways,
and wrote, 'a scratch embellishes
an empty face...'
Gorki s Childhood
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2010
Свидетельство о публикации №110051902898
Свидетельство о публикации №110051902898
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