This poem is a comment and my answer to Pushkin's attitude to the crowd (rabble, as he calls them) in his poem "The Poet and the crowd".
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You ate the bread that was brought by the rabble,
you didn't know the price of their whip's pain,
and you in Kronstadt from twenty to last days
have not confessed a sailor or a slave.
You did not know their aim and thirst for changes,
you did not know their fall and the Wake up,
the ax, that's left to us by Dostoevsky,
and Kronstadt galleys after the exile.
The twentieth century turned all this upside down:
a poet had to live among the crowd.
in Norenskaya for a better napping,
Rose of the world in prison took a shower.
In the end, who is black, who is like the Word?
Christ's words - the proclamation of the crowd.
but you - rebuke, turn them away, condemning,
and banish them for their call of love.
Against Pushkin s Answer
© Copyright: Елизавета Судьина, 2016
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