{"id":8899,"date":"2017-12-13T20:35:07","date_gmt":"2017-12-13T19:35:07","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=8899"},"modified":"2017-12-22T18:34:57","modified_gmt":"2017-12-22T17:34:57","slug":"three-poems-29","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=8899","title":{"rendered":"Three poems"},"content":{"rendered":"

The Russian Doll Cutter<\/h4>\n

Inside the Russian doll, as every child
\nknows, is another doll, which though smaller
\nis made from the same wood, and can be twisted at the waist, just above<\/p>\n

the doll\u2019s painted hands, to reveal another doll
\nwhich, though smaller, is made from the same wood
\nand has the same painted eyes, and can be twisted at the waist, just above<\/p>\n

the doll\u2019s painted hands, to reveal another
\ndoll, whose little hands beckon you to open
\nher too, very carefully, as one cracks a quail\u2019s egg<\/p>\n

within which you find another doll, whose hands are now
\nsmaller than small, barely hands, something like leaves
\nfrom a tiny oak, and you twist her open, the wood so<\/p>\n

soft and thin, to reveal another doll, whose tiny shape
\nnow fits between your thumbs, whose painted eyes
\nseem large because so small, of course <\/p>\n

you twist her open to reveal another doll, with tiny
\nlips and eyes like dots and a waist which twists to reveal
\nanother doll, which as every child knows, is the end <\/p>\n

of the dolls, not the infinite. Resolutely shut,
\nthe last doll is different, openly indifferent
\nthough she is also made of wood. <\/p>\n

Through this last doll, your mind goes
\njust to check there\u2019s no secret behind
\nthe secret, no doll of dolls, with her own tiny <\/p>\n

wooden soul, painted or un, wooded or sapped
\n-up, bluntly sawing, slicing, chopping
\nat her waist, tough as birch-bark, light as<\/p>\n

leaf-light, bluntly slicing, your mind
\nsawing through painted cheeks, hands,
\nthe bean of wood that can\u2019t be twisted<\/p>\n

to the un-cut, a chip on the table, a stump.
\nBig hands still sweating on the idea
\nof the doll, a singular doll<\/p>\n

with one name and seven faces, no
\nopening, no opening, no opening<\/p>\n

a smell of Pushkin\u2019s sweet oak, or
\nGogol\u2019s dirty overcoat, a thing
\nthat wants, that wants, that wants.<\/p>\n

You put her back, each doll inside the other. The stump
\nin her brittle skins, so fatally unhappy. She screams,
\nthrows swords, lays waste, you believe she <\/p>\n

challenges fate to step outside. Her fate. What is fate to her,
\nbut a rock, a stump, your knife. The dysha<\/em> in the Matryoshka!<\/em>
\nWhat a con, yet how she talks for such a cheap thing:<\/p>\n

what poems she wages, what ideals she torches, as she rattles
\nher seven faces against one well-loved wooden crack.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

A Hero of Our Time<\/h4>\n

after Lermontov<\/em><\/p>\n

A truck loaded with hay was going in the opposite direction.
\nMy window was open, and the hay smelled so nice. <\/p>\n

When I came level with the truck at a turn, I reached out
\nfor the hay. The vehicles were very close to each other, and <\/p>\n

then suddenly my steering wheel turned to one side. We were pulled
\ntoward the truck’s rear wheel. I turned the wheel sharply the other way. <\/p>\n

The unfortunate Zaporozhets<\/em>1<\/a><\/sup> charged on two wheels, and I
\npractically lost control. We were about to fly off into a ditch, <\/p>\n

but luckily we landed \u2013 on all four wheels. My coach sat there rooted
\nto the spot, he didn’t say a word. Only when we\u2019d pulled up at the hotel, <\/p>\n

he got out of the car, looked at me and said, \u2018you take risks.\u2019
\nThen he walked on without further comment. Sometimes <\/p>\n

one does these totally inexplicable things.
\nWhat drew me to that truck? <\/p>\n

It must have been
\nthat nice hay smell.2<\/a><\/sup> <\/p>\n

*<\/center><\/p>\n

1. A very cheap car common in the Soviet Union.
\n2. This poem is a quotation from Vladimir Putin, First Person<\/em>, 2000 (\u041e\u0442 \u043f\u0435\u0440\u0432\u043e\u0433\u043e \u043b\u0438\u0446\u0430. \u0420\u0430\u0437\u0433\u043e\u0432\u043e\u0440\u044b \u0441 \u0412\u043b\u0430\u0434\u0438\u043c\u0438\u0440\u043e\u043c \u041f\u0443\u0442\u0438\u043d\u044b\u043c<\/em>, \u041d.\u0413\u0435\u0432\u043e\u0440\u043a\u044f\u043d, \u041d.\u0422\u0438\u043c\u0430\u043a\u043e\u0432\u0430, \u0410.\u041a\u043e\u043b\u0435\u0441\u043d\u0438\u043a\u043e\u0432. \u0412\u0430\u0433\u0440\u0438\u0443\u0441, 2000). <\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Who speaks upon my Dress<\/h4>\n

after Robert Herrick<\/em><\/p>\n

The town will have me, will it what
\nfixed in my chi-chi chiffon dress
\nno matter which way I\u2019m seen<\/p>\n

I\u2019m not, my seams are seamless.
\nAin\u2019t she fit<\/em>, I\u2019ve heard them say,
\nwho knows what\u2019s skin, what\u2019s shine<\/p>\n

chi-chi, that liquefaction of her clothes<\/em>
\na top brand, I won\u2019t lie. Like me
\nit\u2019s passed through quite a few <\/p>\n

hands, but these will be its last.
\nI swear, I\u2019ll wear it to my grave
\nunless I get cremated \u2013 for<\/p>\n

humans burn hot, they say,
\nlike great wads of paper, O
\nHow that glittering taketh me.<\/em><\/p>\n

And they like the way
\nit blows up, chi-chi, as I walk,
\nlike feathers catched alight<\/p>\n

and this marbled stain that winds
\nits fat around around, as a belt
\nwhich has no end.<\/p>\n

They like the shade, the shades
\nchi-chi \u2013
\nis it black, is it white \u2013 this coy<\/p>\n

goodbye to light, I am fixed
\nfor the end of time tonight.
\nWhat some may call chi-chi<\/p>\n

chic<\/em>, I dub apocalyptic.
\nWhenas in silks my Julia goes<\/em>
\nThe poet sings.<\/p>\n

He\u2019s at a table in the back.
\nHis pen is stuck, and so he stops.
\nBut O I am thirsty, like a god<\/p>\n

whose thirst wants overtaking.
\nThat brave Vibration, each way free<\/em>
\nthat makes me but a blur<\/p>\n

and not just to myself,
\nI mean all the way to the aether
\nfor then I wouldn\u2019t have to<\/p>\n

chi-chi think, and all the mirrors
\nwould fall flat, and speak two ways:
\nof a delicate silk fledgling <\/p>\n

beneath which, a mortal\u2019s stuffed –
\ntoo plump thank god for wrinkles,
\ntoo tanned for actual sun<\/p>\n

with fat that folds its unread scrolls
\na quiver that blurs the walk
\n(who knows what\u2019s skin, what\u2019s shine)<\/p>\n

each stab at world perfection
\nas clear as mirror-smudge, yet
\nthe fledgling flits and flutters<\/p>\n

renders each part into dream.
\nThen then (he sings) how sweetly flowes
\nhow my Julia<\/p>\n

goes,<\/em>
\nand his eyes
\ncast out, or back.<\/p>\n

They say he\u2019s lost or dazed \u2013 like one of them
\ncaught up in myth, or on seeing one
\nhave nothing chi-chi to say.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Russian Doll Cutter Inside the Russian doll, as every child knows, is another doll, which though smaller is made from the same wood, and can be twisted at the waist, just above the doll\u2019s painted hands, to reveal another doll which, though smaller, is made from the same wood and has the same painted […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":224,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[346,349],"tags":[],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\nThree poems - The Manchester Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=8899\" \/>\n<link rel=\"next\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=8899&page=2\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Three poems - The Manchester Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"The Russian Doll Cutter Inside the Russian doll, as every child knows, is another doll, which though smaller is made from the same wood, and can be twisted at the waist, just above the doll\u2019s painted hands, to reveal another doll which, though smaller, is made from the same wood and has the same painted […]\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=8899\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"The Manchester Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2017-12-13T19:35:07+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2017-12-22T17:34:57+00:00\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"Helen Lambert\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"Helen Lambert\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"5 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\/\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=8899\",\"url\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=8899\",\"name\":\"Three poems - The Manchester Review\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#website\"},\"datePublished\":\"2017-12-13T19:35:07+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2017-12-22T17:34:57+00:00\",\"author\":{\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#\/schema\/person\/b7009a52da84bfeb4c112e861108f5f3\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=8899\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#website\",\"url\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/\",\"name\":\"The Manchester Review\",\"description\":\"The Manchester Review\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":\"required name=search_term_string\"}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#\/schema\/person\/b7009a52da84bfeb4c112e861108f5f3\",\"name\":\"Helen Lambert\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/wp-includes\/images\/blank.gif\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/wp-includes\/images\/blank.gif\",\"caption\":\"Helen Lambert\"},\"description\":\"Helen Lambert is a Australian poet and writer who lives in Moscow. 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