Samuel Washington Allen Prize Co-Winner, selected by Robert Pinsky
The (Dis)enchanted Desna
—after Alexander Dovzhenko (1894-1956)1
in a time of Putin
1. Desolate
He had no soul, only steam,
no eyes, only two frying pans,
no mouth, only a daub of red,
no throat, only a chimney
that choked him,
no God, only a candle
placed upside down.
He had no voice, only a whip handle,
no skin, only a sheepskin turned
inside out, no feet, only puddles
in which dirt swirled,
no conscience, only pigeons
spying from above.
He had no will, only a cracked
watermelon—seeds
instead of memories—
no woods, only withered grass,
no roar, only labored horses
and buckling calves,
no bread, only one bowed fruitless tree.
He had no angels, only the din of buzzing bees.
He had no road to cross.
no country, only a stinging nettle,
no sins, only a thunder of artillery,
no soldiers, only tongues over fires,
no children, only an insurrection of flowers,
no legs, though at times, they ran
like rivers of blood.
2. Right Hand2
He held in his right hand
tender calves and dipped horses,
a devil escaped from a circus,
prowling on the river bank.
With his right hand, he shut all dusky
windows and wind-blown doors,
commanded, with a vigorous gesture,
that his first son be born,
seventh after seven, while spinsters
swept their houses clean.
He forbid his left hand from interfering
with its menial work.
When he raised his right hand,
chickens burst out of their coops
only to collapse, their feathers
scattered among straw—
rabbits disappeared into tiny holes.
The orange sunset tore itself on black branches
but worshippers called it beautiful,
considered themselves saved.
3. Measuring Grief
First, unravel yards of sunlight
so that they reach stone corners
of darkest winter cottages.
Listen for snow’s slow dripping
from thatched roofs. It’ll sound
like intermittent tears—
a broken circle, a drumming,
bird song pause. It’ll urge you,
head down, slope-shouldered,
to open the door. Cut the last
threads of light before you enter.
Let the air, instead,
carry the smell of dung,
the ashy dust of lamp black rising,
whitewashing its soul.
4. Those Dogs Could Tell a Story
Assessing everything around them,
gut fires burning, their masters
devoured by dreams,
each dog offered a different story—
some of great heroics, nipping at a soldier’s
feet; others added a note of despair:
fleas bouncing to the tips of their tails,
water freezing in puddles—small
broken mirrors, omens of bad luck.
What about a little salt in our bowls?
What about hiring a guard for our food?
they growled among themselves.
Often they’d wait until midnight
on the Feast of the Epiphany, the wisest
among them, elderly and large,
narrowing his eyes, lost in thought.
Who would dare break the focus
of a dog scenting the wind
for a catchy opening line? How about,
they agreed, starting with a master’s praise:
good boy Valentyn, lovely lady Sophia,
clipped into surnames:
willow whip, splinter storm—
a morsel of dinner offered near the back door.
And never upon us, a drunken hand!
This made even the mice reel,
eavesdropping under the cupping boards.
5. Nightingales
Slipped into silence
neither their once highly regarded
melancholic songs nor tattered bags
filled with brown feathers
could be swapped back
for once-upon-a time wisdom—
Lacking purpose and star quality,
no one cared anymore if, trapped
in cages, they could sing
single sonorous notes
or if scorched, at dawn,
be served on toast.
Who is crying now? Who
is beating the horse?
Worrying too much,
they turned into flycatchers.
6. So Saints Can See
Cut yourself with a dull razor. Blood flows
like a tzar’s crimson goatee, his flimsy physique.
Burn your thoughts in the pearly smoke of clouds. Words
hiss in oak struck by lightening.
Admit you gave up praying in exchange for thicker smoke.
A pope’s chasuble flares luscious tobacco leaves.
Hour to hour shadows dart low. Meadow birds
predict foul weather.
Ask for nothing more, get nothing less—
pike and pillows stuffed to the gills with straw.
Loudly strum a bandura without a plectrum. Offer-up
fledgling flies, your pilfered breadcrumbs.
7. Measuring for a Coffin
Inside, find your great-grandmother
laid out on a bench, her head
pointed toward icons, her curses—
may your knees break—slipped
into silence. She will appear shorter
than you remember her.
Give her six feet. She’ll take with her
a second helping of the last road
that stretched before her,
the early cock’s crow—
just so you and your family won’t
have it all.
Go the full 18 inches deep.
Remember her pelvis,
an emptied water trough,
her shoulders, heavy as two geese
struck by lightning,
her head, a bulbous melon.
All these will have to fit.
And while you are working, whistle,
as if life were a song—
You’ll want God to hear
that you are good, kind—charitable
with an extra inch or foot.
You’ll want your pigs to think
they’ll be fed well for the slaughter,
blind beggars to think you’re rich.
8. Scythes
No more sweeping sounds
reaping crops,
the heavy pendulum swing of bodies,
railroad tracks of shuffling feet.
No more field stubble,
prickly childhood steps—
Grandfather’s unwinding songs
like long narrow strips of grass.
No more scythes
breaking into evening,
clouds bulking
against the sky—
hammered blades fading.
Listen and sleep.
Campfires release
their sluggish gunfire,
finches swap calls
for brambly thorns.
__________________
1 Alexander Dovzhenko was a Ukrainian film director and literary stylist. The Enchanted Desna, produced posthumously in 1964, is an autobiographical fantasy film story directed by his wife, actor and director, Yuliya Solntseva.
2 Desna is a major left tributary of the Dnieper River running through Russia and Ukraine. In Old East Slavic language, it means “right hand.”
Pushcart prize poet, translator, and a founding editor of Four Way Books, Dzvinia Orlowsky is the author of six poetry collections published by Carnegie Mellon University Press, including A Handful of Bees, reprinted in 2009 as part of the Carnegie Mellon University Classic Contemporary Series, Convertible Night, Flurry of Stone, winner of an NEPC 2010 Sheila Motton Book Award, and Bad Harvest, recently named a 2019 Massachusetts Book Awards “Must Read” in Poetry.