SONG OF A RUSSIAN

  POST-SOVIET ÉMIGRÉ

At last in that dawn of perestroika

we dreamed we could shun the hoi poloi

and, harnessing up the family troika,

return to the world of Lev Tolstoy.

On the frozen Neva we’d watch the whores ski

to bubbling rhythms of Schubert’s Trout

or, watching the pictures with wild Mussorgsky,

we’d tease the serfs with a playful knout.

Though the Communist effort really has lost

through popular demand and lack of red paint,

the pendulum’s not swinging back due to glasnost –

for us former princes a noble complaint.

While everything’s getting Disneyer and daffier

with Big M MacBorscht and Western roulette,

instead of to us, power has gone to the mafia;

for them we think vulgar’s the right epithet.

So we’ll stay on in France at the flat of young Guitry

with nothing to treasure but our ducal names –

Prince Yusupov mine, yours the Grand Duke Dmitry –

imbued with fun-loving, unserious aims.

Between pages of Pushkin and Po and Seferis,

we’ll play relaxed tennis or negligent bridge,

search Le Monde classifieds for a millionheiress

and fish for beluga deep down in our fridge.

DREAM CHILDREN  (from the music of Elgar)

by GINA RILEY

In Elgar’s visual music

dream children play on the shores

of Lethe for aeons

before they have existence and a name.

How many here are yours?

All are little darlings

and well behaved.  No sulks or scowls

to spoil the fun

for daydreams can’t conceive

of little monsters

blaming you for one small grasp of life

one twirl in designer clothes

that crying

for something called a toy

or was it love?

Their music has a childlike grace

creeping up on tip-toe

kicking tinsel balls

toning down the splash of skimming stones.

Dreamless children never ever boo you

for spawning them in sunshine

leaving them on deadly shores.

But those of yours

who do exist, who have grown

to reserve their judgement

on the game-park, its Higher Disneyland

or Lethe-look-alike, who question

the bearing of a name

have no part in Elgar’s music.

They have a dissonance all their own.

If need be

they will beat your heart

into a fluffy toy

emasculate your joy, for kicks.

For a laugh stamp on its pride.

Beware of them

for they are yours eternally

PATHOLOGIST'S REPORT

On Tuesday at Beachy Head the tide

brought in a right foot

sawn three centimetres above the malleoli.

Despite its pickling, the callus on the sole

was still intact, the digits barely chewed:

male, white, between seventeen and twenty-two,

he was almost certainly tall.

Early on Thursday a head rolled onto the sands

at Rottingdean: male, about twenty, white,

the eyes sea-blue and lips fish-green.

Pathology was settling a routine:

on Thursday afternoon, just before we knocked off,

police brought us a left foot still dripping from Hove -

a young white man who seemed to have walked much barefoot.     

On Friday we could hardly wait to get back to work.

What would be next? A sergeant was at the door,

a discreet package in his arms. 'Chest,' he confided.

Quite an impressive thorax too with a swimmer's pectorals.

Within minutes a right arm came up from Pevensey Bay;

we unwrapped it on tenterhooks; there on the wrist

tattooed post mortem were the words 'And if thy right hand

offend thee...', the rest of the quote being cut off.

All body parts, now carefully genotyped, match.

The police are treating the matter with suspicion.

LACK DAYSMAN.      His first appears on Page No 5 !

WHIT MONDAY