Vladimir Burliuk      Portrait of the Poet Benedict Livshits      1911 Hooves in the air, and the arch Of a scarletstoned throat, And the fatal firepool Of buildings drugged on sunset: Foreigners expelled From the kingdom of crimson Must burst from the flame of the palace Like black solar flares. Not the color of a jellyfish But a heart gushing blood Lies on the circular plaza: Let no one judge the widow’s fate. And what Russian wouldn’t understand What heart lies in the grey body, When the column’s sovereign flight Is but the axle of a cruel carousel? Your murmurs alone, Neva, Like a splashing that pleases her little, The proud widow cherishes Under the bloodless dome of Headquarters: By morning the herald will dash into The marine lilac, the grey break, And the golden iris of the Admiralty Will bloom at last. — Benedikt Livshits, “Palace Square”

Vladimir Burliuk      Portrait of the Poet Benedict Livshits      1911

Hooves in the air, and the arch

Of a scarletstoned throat,

And the fatal firepool

Of buildings drugged on sunset:

Foreigners expelled

From the kingdom of crimson

Must burst from the flame of the palace

Like black solar flares.

Not the color of a jellyfish

But a heart gushing blood

Lies on the circular plaza:

Let no one judge the widow’s fate.

And what Russian wouldn’t understand

What heart lies in the grey body,

When the column’s sovereign flight

Is but the axle of a cruel carousel?

Your murmurs alone, Neva,

Like a splashing that pleases her little,

The proud widow cherishes

Under the bloodless dome of Headquarters:

By morning the herald will dash into

The marine lilac, the grey break,

And the golden iris of the Admiralty

Will bloom at last. —

Benedikt Livshits, “Palace Square”

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