I have no use for odic legions,
Or for the charm of elegiac play.
For me, all verse should be off kilter
Not the usual way.
If only you knew what trash gives rise
To verse, without a tinge of shame,
Like bright dandelions by a fence,
Like burdock and like cocklebur.
An angry shout, the bracing smell of tar,
Mysterious mildew on the wall...
And out comes a poem, light-hearted, tender,
To your delight and mine.
21 January 1940
Listen to the poem in Russian here.
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