manager – The Poetry of Pavel Chichikov

THE SILENT CROSS

Petrus Christus, “The Madonna of the Dry Tree,” c. 1460
Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid
Courtesy Wikimedia Commons

The green tree dead, the dry one not
The green tree dead to the buried roots
The dry one lives in the silent soil.

In August now the poplar sheds
Leaves of summer, gold and red
Consumed by heat, consumed by drought

The new tree springs against the sky
A tree of thorns, a tree of blood
Five round branches never die

Inside the ring of leaves there stands
The Blessed Mary virginal
The fruit that lives held in her arms

The tree of beads surrounds them both
A tree of thorns that bears its leaves
Count them all, the fifty beads

In that ground there is a cross
Sown before in the silent earth
And from this root the soil gives birth

IT HAS TO LET UP SOME DAY

Thomas Dalziel (1823–1906), “Noah’s Ark”
Courtesy ThoughtCo; Getty Images/Fine Art Photographic

As Noah went up the gangplank,
As the sheets of the deluge came down
“It’s gotta let up,” said the neighbors
“Or the cows and the chickens will drown

“Drowning is not to be thought of
Floods never happen here
So the rain has gotta let up,” they said
“And there’s nothing at all to fear.”

Then as the creatures paraded
From the ground to the hold of the ark:
“Maybe I’m scared and seeing things
But isn’t it growing quite dark?”

Soon the big ark let go her ropes
And she floated away on the tide:
“Say isn’t that river that flowed past the town
Going faster and deeper and wide?”

They climbed to the top of their houses
There wasn’t an inch to spare
Then all of them jumped and the rain came down
And the town that had been wasn’t there

One of them said to the other
As they sputtered and paddled away:
“Isn’t this very unusual?
But it has to let up someday.”

ALI PASHA GONE TO WAR

Ignazio Danti ( –1585), “The Battle of Lepanto” (Fresco)
(After an Etching by Fernando Bertelli (c. 1525–?)
Courtesy Wikimedia Commons

In a small clean pond beneath a run
A great flotilla two oars each
That rows the galleys of Don Juan

Skaters, swimmers, water striders
Known to some as Jesus bugs
Because the creatures walk on water

In spring the instars stay embayed,
A nursery, but then they spread
Into the deeps where herons wade

They row with middle legs, aft steer,
Front legs grasp what food falls near
And with the claws on these they spear

Spiders drop into the eddy,
From these and insects, standing ready,
Make a meal on salt and gravy

The ripples of the falling prey
Alert the striders as they spring
So they can feast on blood today

Look below to see the fleet
As if Lepanto were not far
And Ali Pasha gone to war

As if the striders had divided
Into kingdoms to contest
Which fleet of striders fights the best

BRASS ASTARTE

Lovis Corinth (1858–1925), “The Blinded Samson”
Alte Nationalgalerie, Berlin
Courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Samson, pull down the temple of the Philistines,
Hurry, blind or sighted, do it quickly,
The pagans look for signs
And you are that, precisely

Blind and strong, and now vindictive, furious
Like fate, perhaps, and all the Furies,
There is nothing to discuss
When the verdict fetches in the juries

The columns not as solid as they look,
The stands are laced with straw
Because the pagan contractors were crooks
With no respect for any code or law

Pull them down and may the rabble tumble
Those cheering Philistines, the bankers’ trust,
Annihilate the gullible to rubble
And may their brass Astarte turn to rust

FRUIT OF POWER

Attack Doe; Photo by JRL Photographer
Courtesy Denver Gazette

To keep the dog from worrying the sheep
Lead a loop from ram’s horn to the mutt
And let them work it out—
The dog discovers manners butt by butt

As once my own dog scented up a fawn
Until the doe returning knelt and bit—
The dog flew by me running panic-fast,
The wild encounter sharpened up her wits

We who ate the fruit of good and evil
Have never severed contact from the tree,
Be it serpent or the very devil
The fruit is what entices gluttony

Bitter is the fruit and poisoned seed
But on such fruit of power do we feed

TUNNELS

When you crept inside the hill
The whistlepigs began to squeal,
A terrier to hunt and kill
By courage and by whisker-feel

Darkness in those tunnels, dens
And woodchucks have such chisel jaws
They will when cornered slash, defend
Their kits, creep slowly on those paws

Sightless scent, by feel, by sound
You felt the darkness for your prey,
Be one with us, you little one
I gave a thought to you today

We too are hunters in the night
Who search for something not by sight,
Dangerous perhaps to find
And how these tunnels turn and wind

2 KINGS 2: 6–14

Giuseppe Angeli ( –1798), “Elijah Taken Up in a Chariot of Fire”
National Gallery of Art, Washington DC
Courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Elijah slapped his mantle down, the river parted,
When they crossed it was not to the other side
But to some other place, outside of time—
The chasm between here and there is wide

Down came the chariot, crimson flame and ardor,
Burning horses, flashing reins and thunder,
This apparition of another place, triumphant power—
It was the world of common sense that tore asunder

We too then will cross, for when the river separates
We will cross over to another place, deliver us,
Come meet us when the flowing river parts—
Even now the currents that obstruct are tremulous