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(For Russian Gulag poet Irina Ratushinskaya, whose books I came to love.)
I doubt you know this, (as if you could), but your
Portrait (black and white photocopy)holds a place of honor,
Framed in walnut, protected by glass, on my desk,
And your books are honored on my shelves.
Sometimes, I too get frightened, Ira*,
And I have no "Gray**" in which to bury my face.
I read that book, and the world still scares me,
But somehow, slowly, I begin to understand:
When kept apart from those we love,
When forced, kicking and screaming,
into solitude,
When beaten for the crime of writing our poems,
discovery that, indeed,
The pain is preferable to the loneliness.
Loved ones have been kept from me, too,
(sometimes for years at a stretch),
And the pain, yes, is sometimes like a boot in the gut,
Torn in pieces, laughed at in the Roman Coliseum,
left for dead at the lion's paw.
And I cry for those lost, Irisha*. I must.
I've been beaten, too, though not for poetry.
I've felt the agony of broken ribs and fractured fingers.
To cry out, and have no one to the rescue.
So you see, Ira*, I've come to know you. If just a little.
Still, like you, I can sing a little, now and then,
To ward off mad winter's chill--and I'm pretty good,
But Ira*, my legs ache more with every snowflake,
And nowadays I need a cane to walk.
-------
(*nicknames from her books)
(**book "The Color Gray")
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