The radiators in Hotel Bukarest
rattle their teeth when guests come to their rooms.
The same switch works them
and the television. Folk songs to begin,
followed by a string quartet, then
some acrobats. After that, a singer who extends
her arms as the orchestra behind her soars
in tune with the heating system
and to close the evening broadcast there’s a clown
reciting the weather forecast by heart.
It’s after the parade and people back
to being individuals. They have come from
distant wooden outposts
and the freewheeling elevators in apartment blocks.
In local parks
the chessboards come alive. The pieces
step from the boards and stand among the trees
while the players in their heavy coats
are suddenly small and take their places, waiting
patiently for wind to make
the next move.
Muscovites can tell
by the cut of our clothes that we’re here
just to see how they live. Want icons?
My apartment, it’s way up close
to the sky. An offer made: something centuries old
for a pair of blue jeans. The Transfiguration,
which becomes mysteriously invisible
on passing through the exit lines
at Sheremetyevo airport
during the searching through pyjamas and
western underwear for a clue
of what differences are made of.
Rain singing ancient hymns in the Byzantine style.
A church has opened its door
and inside it a body is floating on sound.
Hard to tell if it’s dead
or alive, somewhere in between it seems
when the choir joins the weather
and it feels much the same as waiting
at the ornate subway station for the train
to get here. Headscarved women busy
with rituals old and new; kissing saints , buying
a ticket ,fumbling in their pockets to be sure
they have matches enough for the candles.
The Rite of Spring at the Bolshoi.
Members of the audience have scraped the snow
from their hearts and turn to a row of foreigners
to ask if it’s cold where we live
and do we like the color red?
One by one they reach
into their pockets for souvenirs to give: badges
with hammer and sickle, an oak leaf,
and they whisper
This gift is what our leaders are trying to say.
Their caps make all the faces look alike
but the half-light of the hour
makes personality an unnecessary adornment.
Uniforms still at attention; it’s been
a long day but no slowing down a soldier
when the moon is high above Saint Basil’s
cathedral and it’s his duty to stay up
for as long as the wide square curves
to the edge of the Earth.
.
David Chorlton
.