Сердце, St. Petersburg The young woman has had too much to drink. She’s sitting alone at the bar, next to the husband of the woman who’s also had too much to drink. We’ve all been drinking – too much, except the husband – he’s driving. She asks me about our President, which stirs bile in the husband and me. I ask about her President. The husband perks up. She says he’s the President of the old he’s old, stupid male ego; both of them (meaning our president and their president both volleying in the land of dictators). Stupid old male ego. She’s friendly and talkative. I’m an English teacher she says. I teach oil rig workers English; they’re all men. She needs to vent. I don’t get paid enough. I need to live. I want politicians to go – all of them go far far away. I don’t want war I want a decent wage. Her unobstructed, smooth cleavage shimmers a shiny gold cross dangles, catches my eye like multiple exclamation marks. Speaking for the husband and myself (his hearing waning from the music blasting, booming obliterating), I say We want the same things. The husband’s wife stands at the foot of the stage soaking in the Russian band’s allure. It’s as if she’s receiving a transfusion. I take lots of pictures of the musicians with my iPhone: tattoos, piercings, leather boots instruments. Their look is loud cacophonous as their music, powerful as their songs, singular as the hour. It’s exactly what we want for our lives I assure the teacher, who’s ordered another. I’m not sure she understands at this point but know we three agree on one thing: we feel powerless at the moment – but the moment will shift.
Jane’s Cats Surrounded by canvases, frames, books kitty litter pans, and wild cats – Jane lives behind an iron studio door. The cats trust her they don’t trust me. Seeing me – they leap from her shoulders, scatter like marbles across the floor, behind bureaus, desks trash cans, into open walls. And, if the door is open, down long narrow halls. Like Jane, they don’t understand English, and they don’t meow meow into the translate app. Our accidental meeting has blossomed into a friendship of understanding between Jane my translate app, and me. We are on a roll. Speak as if old friends, old habits in place leaning into translate Russian to English English to Russian. Patiently we wait for the tiny microphone to instruct: speak. Our conversation is engaged and focused on art, collage, colors, books, painting, writing and all the years we have behind us entwined by time, history, by imagination. She shows me her bold artwork hanging on the walls secreted between the covers of finely bound books hidden between large canvases. Her renderings are fine. Her pen and ink, her persistence – inspiring. Despite our different alphabets, we speak with heart become the magic of serendipity.
Sunday With Akhmatova Standing in your dark study, the floors creak echo your unfathomable ache the years. The ceiling light flickers beneath frosted glass desk, chair, pens – pieces of your heart – remain. Here, above the street, I look beyond the window at the fresh snow. It’s quiet – like quiet that hints something to come – like hunger or war the loss of a child muffled words. But you can’t quell the wind, redirect the rain. I want to know how you persisted? What thoughts ravaged your mind? Didn’t make it to paper? Disappeared like red leaves in autumn as if they never were.
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Your long, slender fingers Modigliani painted, the sex and sweat that filled these rooms permeate the halls, the walls – plastered with newspaper, headlines – as if the voices, cries could emerge from print. Sepia framed photographs on your desk or hung with twine around this sad place stare back stopped in time. The silence is strong – like song each caesura a promise.
Madeleine Beckman SPAR, 2018
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