Ojo Caliente Cemetery, New Mexico
—Photo by Cynthia Linville, Sacramento
THE RUSSIAN GOD
—Prince P.A. Vyazemsky,
1792-1878
Do you need an explanation
what the Russian God can
be?
Here’s a rough
approximation
as the thing appears to
me.
God of snowstorms, God of
potholes,
every wretched road you’ve
trod,
coach inns, cockroach haunts,
and ratholes—
that’s him, that’s your
Russian God.
God of frostbite, God of
famine,
beggars, cripples by the
yard,
farms with no crops to
examine—
that’s him, that’s your
Russian God.
God of breasts and . . .
all sagging,
swollen legs in bast shoes
shod,
curds gone curdled, faces
dragging—
that’s him, that’s your
Russian God.
God of brandy, pickle
vendors,
those who pawn what serfs
they’ve got,
of old women of both
genders—
that’s him, that’s your
Russian God.
God of medals and of
millions,
God of yard sweepers
unshod,
lords in sleighs with two
postilions—
that’s him, that’s your
Russian God.
Fools win grace, wise men
be wary,
there he never spares the
rod,
God of everything
contrary—
that’s him, that’s your
Russian God.
God of all that gets shipped
in here,
unbecoming, senseless,
odd,
God of mustard on your
dinner—
that’s him, that’s your
Russian God.
God of foreigners,
whenever
they set foot on Russian
sod,
God of Germans, now and
ever—
that’s him, that’s your
Russian God.
(trans. from the Russian
by Alan Meyers)
_______________
—Medusa
