(Homage to Arkady Gurovich)

Born when the land was a Soviet prison,

red boots suppressed each throat,

was a princely man with poetic vision

whose spirit redressed with pure notes —

Of musical tapestries woven with beauteous

words stemming deep in his soul,

the hammer led travesty whip of the dubious

hymns under Kremlin control.

But the woman who bore the minstrel was blind

to the lies deceiving the throng,

embracing the lore that big brother’s mind

was wise in conceiving each song.

With enraptured heart he defied opposition

daring to write what he felt,

having captured at start, the tried editions

of light, falling under their spell.

Poets preceding the age of the scourge,

whose writ enthralled and acquired him,

molded this sage as their spirit emerged

in a call to walk closely beside them.

Their undying lyrics, unfettered, enlarged

to bellowed command spurred him forward.

Beyond lying clerics, untethered, he charged

through their yellowed weak strands, moving onward.

Begged he the girl, whose paps had nourished

the suckling bard, to go with him,

away from a world where no map could flourish,

but iron curtained hearts know one rhythm.

Seventeen phases removed is he now,

still scripting with quill to advance

elegant phrases, like sweet wedding vows,

encrypting the thrill of the dance . . .

Copyright © 2007 Arley Owens, Jr. All Rights Reserved