Talking With The Taxman About Poetry - Vladimir Ma Lyrics

		[Translated from the Russian by Peter Tempest]
		----------------------------------------------

Sorry to bother you,
         	    Citizen taxman!
No thanks...
	    Don't worry...
			  I'd rather stand.
I've come to see you
		    on a delicate matter;
the place
         of the poet
		    in a worker's land.
Along with
	  storekeepers
		      and land users
I'm taxable too,
	        and am bound by the law.
Your demand
	   for the half-year
			    is 500 roubles,
and for not filling forms - 25 more.
My labour's
	   no different
		       from any other labour.
Examine these figures
		     of loss and gain,
the production
	      costs
		   I have been facing,
the raw material
		I had to obtain.
With the notion of "rhyme"
			  you're acquainted,										of course?
When a line of ours
	           ends with a word
				   like "plum"
in the next line but one
			we repeat
				 the syllable
with some other word
		    that goes
			     "tiddle-ti-tum".
A rhyme
       is an IOU,
		 as you'd put it.
"Pay two lines later"
        	     is the regulation.
So you seek
	   the small charge of inflexion,suffix
in the depleted till
		    of declensions,
				   conjugations.
You shove
	 a word
	       into a line of poetry
but it just won't go -
		       you push it and it snaps.
Upon my honour,
	       Citizen taxman,
words
     cost poets a pretty penny in cash.
As we poets see it,
		   a barrel
			   the rhyme is,
a barrel of dynamite,
   		     the fuse is
				each line.
The line starts smoking,
			exploding the line is,
and the stanza
	      blows
		   a city
			 sky-high.
Where to find rhymes,
	  	     in what tariff list,
that hit the bull's eye
		       with never a failure?
Maybe
     a handful of them
                      still exist
faraway somewhere
		 in Venezuela.
I have to scour
	       freezing
	               and tropical climes.
I flounder in debt,
		   I get advance payments.
My travel expenses
		  bear in mind.
Poetry -
	 all poetry -
	 	      is an exploration.
Poetry
      is just like mining radium.
To gain just a gram
		   you must labour a year.
Tons of lexicon ore
		   excavating
all for the sake of one precious word,
But
   how searing
	      the heat of this word is
alongside
	 the smouldering
			heap of waste.
There are the words
		   that go rousing,stirring
millions of hearts
		  from age to age.
Of course,
	  there are different brands of poet.
Famed for sleight of hand
			 are quite a few.
Verses they pull,
		 like a conjuror,
				 boldly
out of their own mouths -
			  and others' too.
What can one say
		of the poetry eunuchs?
They write
	  stolen lines in -
	 		    not turning a hair.
Thieving
	like that
		 is nothing unusual
in a country
	    where thieves are enough and to spare.
These
     contemporary
		 odes ans verses
which with rapt ovations
			audiences greet
will go down
    	    in history
	   	      as overhead charges
for the achievements
		    of a few of us -
				     two or three.
It takes
	quite a time,
		     to get to know people,
smoke many a packets of cigarettes
till you raise
	      that wonderful word
				 you're needing
from the deep artesian
		      folk wells.
straightaway
	    the rate of tax
			   grows less.
Knock
     that wheel-zero
		    of the total due.
I pay one rouble 90
		   for a hundred cigarettes
and one rouble 60
		 for the salt I consume.
I see your form
	       there's a host of questions:
"travelled abroad?
		  Or spent all the time here?"
What if
       I've run down
		    a dozen Pegasuses
in the course of
		these
		     fifteen years?!
You want to know
		how many servants
				 I'm keeping,
what houses?
	    My special casee please observe:
where
     do I stand
	       if I lead people
and simultaneously
		  the people serve?
The class
	 speaks
	       with the words we utter
and we
      proletarians
		  push the pen.
The soul-machine
		wears out,
			  begins to splutter.
They tell us:
	     "Your place
			now
			   is on the shelf."
There's ever less love,
		       less bold innovation,
time
    strikes my forhead
		      a running blow.
There comes
 	   the most terrifying depreciation,
the depreciation
		of heart and soul,
When
    one day this sun
		    shall like a fattened hog in
a land rid of beggars
		     and cripples
				 rise,
dead by the fence
		 I'll
		     have long
			      been rotting
along with
	  ten or so
		   colleagues of mine.
Drae up
       my posthumous balance-sheet!
I tell you -
	     upon this I'm ready to bet -
unlike
      all the dealers and climbers
				  you see
I'll be
       a unique case -
		       hopelessly in debt.
Our duty is
	   to roar
		  like brass-throated sirens
in philistine fog
		 and in stormy weather.
Paying
      fines in cash
		   and high interest
				    on sorrow,
the poet
	is always
		 the Universe's debtor.
And I
     owe a debt
	       to the lights of Broadway,
a debt to you also,
		   Bagadady skies,
to the Red Army
	       and to Japan's cherry blossom -
to all
      about which
		 I had no time to write.
Why
   did I undertake
		  this burden?
With rhyme to shoot,
		    with metre anger to spark?
Your resurrection
		 the poet's word is,
your immortality,
		 Citizen clerk.
Read any line
	     a hundred years after
and it brings back the past,
			    as fast as a wink,
all will come back -
		     this day
			     with the taxman
with a glint of magic
		     and the reek of ink.
Come,you smug dweller in the present era,
buy your rail ticket
		    to Eternity
			       here.
Calculate
 	 the impact of verse
			    and distribute
all that I earn
	       over three hundred years!
Not only in this
		lies the power of a poet,
that it's you
	     future generations
			       will think about.
Oh no!
      Today too
	       are the rhymes of a poet
a caress,
	 a slogan,
		  a bayonet,
			    a knout.
Five -
       not five hundred -
			  roubles I'll pay
you,Citizen taxman!
		   Delete every nought!
As of right
	   I'm
	      demanding a place
with workers
	    and peasants
			of the poorest sort.
But if
      you think
	       all I do is just press
words other people use
		      into my service
Comrades,
	 come here,
		   let me give you my pen
and you
       can yourselves
    		     write your own verses!

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 transcription:Rami Zakh    ([email protected])