The torches of Florence

ANDREI VOZNESENSKY

The American poet William Jay Smith has translated The Torches of Florence,' in col- laboration with Max Hayward, for a collection of Voznesensky's poetry in English translation, Antiworlds, edited by Patricia Blake and Max Hayward, which is to be published by the Oxford University Press in June.

Patricia Blake writes: This poem is one of a number the thirty-three-year-old Russian Florence, phosphorescent, looms, Opening, like a guardian who twists Keys in the locks of ancient rooms, Its palazzos and its heavy mists.

The palazzos I know. I had no aversion To aping—for bathhouses—their detail; The Baptistery's a slightly better version Of my blueprint for a local jail.

Socialist Realism's offspring wafted, Wayward, to these lamplit squares, Florence, plan that my youth drafted, Past great facades, through giant doors I wander on into my past; Through tracing paper there appears, In full outline, the Moscow cast Of comrades launched on their careers.

Here at my back they all are bending, Goggle-eyed at my interviews, Angels, flunkeys, here attending, Drinking in my later' news.

The lamps above the Arno's black Are somewhat more than I can stand, Like automobiles wheeling back, Sidelights blazing on each hand. poet has written in response to his travels in Italy in the 1960s. Here, Voznesensky, who was trained as an architect, ironically contrasts the poor student he once was with what he has be- come—a successful public figure who gives press conferences when abroad. In the second stanza, he mocks his own early designs, conceived in the spirit of the wild eclecticism of Stalinist architecture.

'Hey, you—architect!' my vows indict Me now, along with my drawing board, Matches, cigarettes piled up at night.

`You there!' the palazzos roar As they come crowding in.

`The young should not be paid in advance, You bad boy.'

Among them stands, with vacant look, A fellow, new to the platform, whose Face is the blank page of a notebook, String dangling from his gaping shoes.

`You're way out in front,' says he, 'right? Behaving properly, doing well? Salesgirls know you now by sight; Even abroad your poems sell.

Then why just now did I see you crying? To whom do the torches say farewell— There above the palazzos flying, So fresh and so funereal?'

I've a 10.30 date. I cut him off.

The reporters are waiting—I must be off.

I climb into my car. The doors are wet; Backward-speeding, Florence sways. Card castles with bright hearts inset, Torch-studded, the palazzos blaze.