Happiness — Web Exclusive
By Polina Barskova
Translated by Boris Dralyuk and David Stromberg
My soul would like to be a pot,
Or rather, what will soon turn out
To be a pot—a lump, a clot
Of bloody-brownish clay. A rout
Of rabid fingers—nabs!—the clay
And—ho!—onto the wheel, the rack,
And starts to rip and mash away
At the unyielding, stubborn block.
But pitying, or grasping that
The carrot's better than the stick,
It daubs the proud clay with a sponge.
The turbid water seeps like juice
And the clay yields beneath it: "Yes . . .,"
Crawling into the palm, as meat
Into a mincer. Eyes are closed.
The pedal smacks. Beneath the hands
A living and warm woe that has
Surrendered to the force of flesh.
But I'm not doctor Bormenthal,
Nor am I even Mary Shelley.
Of executioners, OBs,
We do not speak. A potter—dash—
He is a potter. He's just hands.
He exists only in the wheel
That's ever twirling. In a primer
He doesn't get past boring B.
He's got no use for cutting C,
To say, of course, nothing of D.
He will impel, he'll breathe, he'll twirl
The wheel, obeying the inferior
Will of the treadle. And the potter,
As one unloved, but much in love,
Through use of primitive enchantments
Invades the tight, the secretive,
And also gently mocking ball,
And it, turn after turn, by fractions,
Having accepted his deception,
Transmogrifies into a pot.
The line moves—and the pot will soon
Be in the furnace, like a youth.
And will turn into—Space, a Thing
Useful to both the bad and good.