The Poet Vozenesenski
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Transcript of The Poet Vozenesenski
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VoznezenskiПоэт
(The Poet Voznezenski)
by Mike Finley
KRAKEN PRESS
2013
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With less than a day's notice, the KGB gave Siberian poet Andrej Vosnesenski a visa to fly to Minnesota. There was no time to promote the event.
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A handful of writers and scholars and a few Soviet emigrés cluster in the front rows of the roped off-Northrop Auditorium, a mere 50 people dotting the 5,000 seats while, standing like a speck
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upon the giant stage, the poet groans and lifts his fist like a guillotine blade, poised to come down hard.
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He reads his famous poem about Goya, the Spanish painter of the post-Napoleonic years, regarded by many as the last of the old masters and the first of the moderns, assailing power for its crushing offenses.
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An English actor translates, but no one listens to that blow-dried fop.
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All eyes are on the pumping hand, all ears attuned to Vosnesenski's condemnation of tyrants.
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No one understands, and yet everyone understands.
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And as he moves into action, one word thunders through the auditorium –
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GOYA!
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Goya reanimates the frozen corpses of the field.
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Goya daubs you with the blood of your victims. The dashed, the dead, the unblinking eyes.
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Goya stands against the blistering fire, accosting you with your gruesome crimes.
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Goya wields the hammer that cracks the rock.
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Goya swings the scythe that mows down the grain.
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Even when all the words against you are shredded ...
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Even when the books have made a roaring fire ...
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The lies that murdered millions come back on you
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Goya is implacable in the face of every rifle
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Goya sees who you are
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Goya stabs and stabs with his truth
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Goya announces that the day is over
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The whited dead cry out for justice
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You mighty leaders have not prevailed
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You are vanquished by your deeds
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Your generations are sown with lime
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You have not won, you are dead and just don't know
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Goya!
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Afterward the reading breaks up and the poets and professors drive through the snow and ice to Chester Anderson's to boast and jostle and drink ...
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Voznesenski alone at the end of the couch with a shy, puzzled frown on his face.
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Several beers later, I take to the bathroom, where Chester's golden retriever lies on a pink poof rug.
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I step over the dog to pee. Behind me, Voznesenski creeps into the room And kneels by the dog on the pink poof rug,
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a foot from the stream splashing against the porcelain lip.
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He scratches the dogs ears and smiles seraphically
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His two eyes closed, his face held out,
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the dew alighting like communion from God
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on his face, as if finally, finally free.
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