I am Goya

 

I am Goya

In Memory of Andrei Andreyevich Vosnesensky (1933~2010)

Steven Willett

 

Note: I heard Vosnesensky recite his poetry in 1967 at the University of Oregon and the experience has never left me. The title of my poem is perhaps his most famous and fiercely unforgettable poem.

 

 

His booming voice consumed my sight

that day in Oregon’s summer light

when “I am Goya” struck my ear

with ravage Homer couldn’t write.

We came to hear him without fear

immeasurable death was near,

but in his grating consonants the tide

of blood grew measurably clear.

The gnashing walls of houses pried

across his face and embers sighed

to hunger him now that he’d come

among the snows of genocide.

The poet’s eyes began to strum

the bell whose cleft cannot succumb

unless the voice of Goya pose

to free the woman’s gullet tomb.

I heard the Grapes of Wrath impose

a westward hurl of ashen flows

on dying guests and hammered blows

of star nails heaven can’t oppose.

Comments

[Diana L Croissant]

Thank you for posting this. I will have to do some research and reading to understand it more clearly.

At our small teaching college/university we did not get much in the way of famous or important speakers. I envy your memory of hearing this.

[fredw]

I heard him in the early 1970s. Every bit as unforgettable as you say. "Booming voice" absolutely undersells the power of his presentation. I guess that is the Russian style for poetry, but it caught me completely by surprise.

[mcohen]

the germans,the greeks,the Russians.wjat about the Australians.

A Pub With No Beer / Slim Dusky
Oh it's-a lonesome away from your kindred and all
By the campfire at night we'll hear the wild dingoes call
But there's-a nothing so lonesome, morbid or drear
Than to stand in the bar of a pub with no beer

Now the publican's anxious for the quota to come
And there's a far away look on the face of the bum
The maid's gone all cranky and the cook's acting queer
Oh what a terrible place is a pub with no beer

Then the stockman rides up with his dry dusty throat
He breasts up to the bar and pulls a wad from his coat
But the smile on his face quickly turns to a sneer
As the barman says sadly the pub's got no beer

Then the swaggie comes in smothered in dust and flies
He throws down his roll and rubs the sweat from his eyes
But when he is told, he says what's this I hear
I've trudged fifty flamin' miles to a pub with no beer

Now there's a dog on the v'randa, for his master he waits
But the boss is inside drinking wine with his mates
He hurries for cover and he cringes in fear
It's no place for a dog 'round a pub with no beer

And old Billy the blacksmith, the first time in his life
Why he's gone home cold sober to his darling wife
He walks in the kitchen, she says you're early Bill dear
But then he breaks down and tells her the pub's got no beer

Oh it's hard to believe that there's customers still
But the money's still tinkling in the old ancient till
The wine buffs are happy and I know they're sincere
When they say they don't care if the pub's got no beer

So it's-a lonesome away from your kindred and all
By the campfire at night we'll hear the wild dingoes call
But there's-a nothing so lonesome, morbid or drear-a

by the great slim dusty