Speaking In Tongues
Guided by Voices

Anatoly Moskalinsky

Translated by Alec Vagapov

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THE LITTLE GIRL, THE SPRING
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Unhandy now and cumbersome, the winter couldnt help it:
Down the steps, a girlie from the cloud ascended.
Hopping pools and puddles, bare footed, live,
Freckle-faced, the Girlie strolled about the drive.
Colours of the rivers and the bright blue skies
Thought the band Shed put on was the proper size.
On Her little palm were golden specks of light,
Lilies of the valley looked like pees all right.
Smiling, joyous, humble, sounding like a ring,
Down the lane was strolling little Girl, the Spring.


IVAN THE TERRIBLE S VISIT TO A CHURCH
IN PSKOV REGION
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People gathered round, lead
By the church bells ringing.
The official paper read
What the day was bringing:
All, no matter who you are,
Dress up, dont look ugly.
Coming to us is the tsar
Terrible and angry.
All was white around the church
And the nearby places,
From the sandals, fibre shoes,
Kerchiefs, shirts and dresses.
No one dared say a word
Fearing his frown.
It was really hot and cold
Standing near the crown.
Stepping off the coach, His Grace
Walked onto the carpet
Wearing a falcons face,
And a velvet garment.
Bread and salt were there, but
He disdained to taste it
Taking off his sable hat
The holy place he entered.
...The priest, an aged man by far,
Stood there scared and humble
Realising that the tsar
Wouldnt have him stumble.
As the choir made a pause,
Deacon put a word in
prompted, lowering his voice,
God forbid the Sovereign
Looking up, he made a wish,
Then he looked around,
Put a cross into a niche,
And, lingering, went out.
Dressed in red, the bodyguard
Got the horses ready
Pressing on the stirrups hard,
Making saddles steady.
When the coachman went ahead
Tossing reins to cries:
Our tsar, the psalmist said,
Is terrible but pious.



THE WITCH
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Flying out of the chimney,
Dirty , all in soot and fume,
The witch started on her journey
Sitting grandly on a broom.
Taking wing she flew around
Over cities, woods and fields,
Relishing the winter shroud
Of the snow, and heavy winds.
On the snow-drifts here and there
Like a shadow she would slide,
And the moon would brush her hair
With the silver comb of light.
Now shed touch the roof, or ground,
Now ascend the Milky Way,
Though she wouldnt make a sound,
You could not sleep anyway.
Like a silent owl, high in
Starry heaven, in dismay,
Up above the witch is flying
On the Eve of Christmas Day.