Yuri Andreievich, I’ve whispered your
poems from Hamlet to Gethsemane,
seeing you seated in candlelight—cure
for war’s reality—gloved hand guiding
old pen across cracked parchment, ebony
script freezing before it can dry, gliding
nib dancing in graceful adagio,
altering to sudden ballon rushes,
leaping while Lara and sweet Katya sleep.
What if I tell you how, not long ago,
I sat in Greenwich Village, vast hushes
swirling the packed hall, faithful legion deep
in adoring Brodsky’s spent voice and eyes,
honoring his courage, his Nobel Prize.
Roger Armbrust
October 4, 2009
