Sunday, November 25, 2012


By Pavel Chichikov

V. M. Blokhin
Has he descendants?
The one with the leather apron
And the leather hat
And the leather gloves to the shoulders
With the Walther pistol
With which he killed
300 Polish prisoners in one night
7,000 in four weeks

A monster, you might say
“A being, not a human being”
But to me he looks like someone’s uncle
He looks like one of us
Gazing from the surface of a mirror
Well shaved, indeed
With a straight razor

But now not needed
Not necessary
Not in this modern era
Because there will be machines
To do Stalin’s black work
Chyornaya rabota
And they need not be intelligent
But only diligent

Easy for machines to kill
With great dispatch
No vodka needed afterwards
And no remorse
No bothered sleep
No dreams
To cause the sleeper to sit upright
Shout and pull the phantom trigger

But who was Blokhin killing on those nights?
Whose blood hosed out on the sloping floor?
Whose neck was bared for the bullet?
Whom did he see as he killed?
Over and over again
Three minutes by three minutes
A resurrected body
That would not die—
                        Did he ever tell?

By Pavel Chichikov

There is no Temple yet to see
Nor open wide the twelve-fold gates,
But I will change the maple tree
Into a ruby lit by light

Through your vision enter in,
The temple glows with joyful red,
A moment’s glimpse of labor’s end
Where light can resurrect the dead

This is foretelling and a sign
This dying into peace that glows,
A gate of ruby that is Mine
                        A jeweled way that you may go 

The Poetry of Pavel Chichikov

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