Chichikov

THE CAMP 

By Pavel Chichikov

Encampment of the atheists

A well-known slum and shambles

Outside the gates of Paradise

Hovels made of black-tarred paper

Smokey fires fed with rubber

And old electric wire

Those who camp there dress like hoboes

Huddle near the bilious fires

Draped in sacking and old clothes

On the mountain overhead

A sound of lutes and joyful singing

Flights of dancers moving, angel-led

Some abandon camp and climb

But others will not leave for now

Who think they live in passing time

Who think that they are still alive

And huddle near the smoky flames

Afraid to move until the world arrives

What is the music that we hear?

Ask the few courageous dead

But others claim there is none, out of fear

There are many who complain

About the peace-disturbing noise

                        But while they camp here heaven will remain 

TWISTING FUNNELS 

By Pavel Chichikov

Missouri spring, I-70

Near the town of Mexico,

Lurid sunlight on the highway

Above the fields rise two black clouds

Great dignities, the crowns of ogres

Speak through channels in the air,

Articulate by thunderbolt

Words of ions modulate

While from the local radio

Warnings of impending twisters,

Cars go forward towards the west

Complacently through streams of sunlight

Back and forth the dialogue

Between the pregnant ogre clouds,

But nothing like a funnel falls

Across the waiting helpless fields

So are we now awaiting storms

That spit their lightning overhead

But never seem to burst and spin

But rise and dissipate instead

Scatter, but the storms return,

Perhaps someday they will touch down

To blow the world to kingdom come,

                        Twisting funnels going round

The Poetry of Pavel Chichikov