Louis Simpson

Troika, troika! The snow moon whirls through the forest. Where lamplight like a knife gleams through a door, I see two graybeards bending. They're playing chess, it seems. And then one rises and stands in silence. Does he hear me passing?

Troika, troika! In the moonlight his spirit hears my spirit passing.

I whip the horses on. The houses vanish. The moon looks over fields littered with debris. And there in trenches the guardsmen stand, wind fluttering their rags. And there were darker fields without a moon. I walk across a field, bound on an errand. The errand's forgotten — something depended on it. A nightmare! I have lost my father's horses!

And then a white bird rises and goes before me, hopping through the forest. I held the bird — it vanished with a cry, and on a branch a girl sat sideways, combing her long black hair. The dew shone on her lips; her breasts were white as roses.

Troika, troika! Three white horses, a whip of silver, and my father's sleigh . . . When morning breaks, the sea gleams through the branches, and the white bird, enchanted, is flying through the world, across the sea.

The chariots of silver and copper — The prows of steel and silver — Beat the foam — Tear at the roots of brambles.

The offshore currents, And the huge paths of the ebbing tide, Circle toward the east, Toward the pillars of the forest —

Toward the timbers of the pier Where it is bending wounded with whirlpools of light.

The storm broke, and it rained, And water rose in the pool, And frogs hopped into the gutter, With their skins of yellow and green, And just their eyes shining above the surface Of the warm solution of slime.

At night, when fireflies trace Light-lines between the trees and flowers Exhaling perfume, The frogs speak to each other In rhythm. The sound is monstrous, But their voices are filled with satisfaction.

In the city I pine for the country; In the country I long for conversation — Our happy croaking.

Whatever it is, it must have A stomach that can digest Rubber, coal, uranium, moons, poems. Like the shark, it contains a shoe. It must swim for miles through the desert Uttering cries that are almost human.

Leaves, what are you? Flowers feed on me.

On a hill in Rome There's my "Magnificent" with the red Petals and white spike. In Tuscany My "Passion." And in Paris The orchid, blue, called by the inhabitants "The Gendarme." I recall

The night I watered it with tears In a room that smelled like humus.

And the cactus flowers of Monaco On the violet-colored hill are unfolding Near three nuns in their enormous hats Poised on a rock like gulls or ships that sail To Africa.

There are whole blocks in New York Where no one lives — A district of small factories.

And there's a hotel; one morning When I was there with a girl We saw in the window opposite Men and women working at their machines. Now and then one looked up.

Toys, hardware — whatever they made, It's been worn out.

I'm fifteen years older myself — Bad years and good. So I have spoiled my chances. For what? Sheer laziness, The thrill of an assignation, My life that I hold in secret.

She sighs. What shall I say? For beauty seems to grow In silence, when the heart is faint and slow.

Sing, sing . . . How shall I sing? In silent eyes, where clouds and islands gaze, The waves bring Eros in.

I think the rustling of her clothes Is like the sea, and she A wild white bird, And love is like the sighing of the sand.

Birch tree, you remind me Of a room filled with breathing, The sway and whisper of love.

She slips off her shoes; Unzips her skirt; arms raised, Unclasps an earring, and the other.

Just so the sallow trunk Divides, and the branches Are pale and smooth.