A Russian Diary 

For Andrei, Elena, Ivan, Lika and Tanya

‘We’ve all received an education
In something, somehow, have we not?’
(Pushkin)


Friday 16 April

Newcastle airport, early morning,
A sleepy flight to Amsterdam
Then on to Moscow where, still yawning,
We hit the all-day traffic jam,
And inch our way towards the city
Through traffic lights run by committee,
Past billboards in Cyrillic code,
T-34s beside the road,
Past fast-food outlets selling pizza, 
Vast scaffold-building sites that rise
Like Tatlin’s tower towards the skies,
Until we reach our gostinitsa.
So many miles at such a crawl,
It hardly seems we’ve moved at all.


Saturday 17 

The morning’s spent on tourist duty -
The bright red toy-town Kremlin walls, 
The monuments to Work and Beauty
In Moscow’s stunning Metro halls,
The Lenin hats, the sunlit dazzle
Of onion domes on weird St Basil,	 
Old beggar-women squat as trolls,
Like rows of cheap Matryoshka dolls.	 
And then the flight from Domadyeva, 		 
A bumpy ride through violent skies
(Our lives spin past before our eyes)
To exit feeling somewhat braver	
But hoping for some Russian beer
To toast the fact we’re in Sibir.

Sunday 18

Our first glad morning in Siberia!
The sky is such a brilliant blue
That everyone is feeling cheerier.
First thing today we’re off to view
A writing-class taught by Yevgeny
On Sundays mornings for the many	
Young writers who must learn to take 
Their critics with a piece of cake.
Jet-lag kicks in ; our eyes start closing;
We wake-up in the opera-bar
With beer and crisps and caviar.				
If this lot does not get us dozing
Then Iolanthe surely will.			 
On TV Spartak win 6-0.

Monday 19

Gymnasium 1, our first school-visit:
The school of which all teachers dream,
The kids’ behaviour is exquisite 
(No problem here with self-esteem!)					
These children are so keen and eager,
Their English better than the meagre
And blunt expression we expect
In schools back home. We can’t connect. 
Meanwhile, alas, it seems Elena
Finds my poor Russian quite unkempt, 
My every mispronounced attempt
To speak it seems to entertain her.
A bitter cup from which to sup.
At least it serves to shut me up. 					

Tuesday 20

The frozen morning’s bright and shiny,
As snowbound as an unread text;
The Children’s Book Museum is tiny	
As all its little users. Next 
We give the hottest poetry reading
In Russia - no, but that’s misleading - 			
In History ! We are so hot  
Our sweaty poems begin to blot 
Upon the page. Between the speeches,
The stories, poems and epic toasts
The melting audience slowly roasts.
Today’s experience clearly teaches
The rule that writers everywhere
Will always generate hot air.
Wednesday 21

Through silver miles of slender birches
Like naked women in the snow,
To persevere with our researches 
In Akademgorodok. So:				
Gymnasium 6, nick-named the ‘Ermine’,  
Whose pupils are, we soon determine,
So educated and so bright
They do not think that they can write!
In perfect English, if old-fashioned,
‘We are not Pushkin!’ they protest,
As if one poet is only blessed	
And creativity is rationed  
And art is someone else’s job, 
Like fishing through the ice-bound Ob.

Thursday 22							

We cancel our 7.30 meeting, 
A consequence of too much wine,
Too many speeches, too much eating,
(We’re still inquorate well past nine).
More visits - first a private college 
Where creativity and knowledge
Are mixed like eggs and left to set
(Two nations in one omelette 
Require new kinds of table manners).				
It’s Lenin’s birthday; in the square 		
Old comrades huddle in despair 		
Beneath their hopeless, ragged banners; 			
‘Sad fucks,’ says Andrei with a stare, 		
As if this means he doesn’t care.

Friday 23

Our Tanya steps out like a model,
Siberian dress-codes left behind.
For spouting (off mike) racist twaddle 
Ron Atkinson has just resigned.
We’re at the British Council, reading,
But truth to tell, we’re not succeeding;
Although the audience is polite
We have not set the place alight. 			
Which English version of the Bible
Do we prefer? What do you think
Of noble poets? (We need a drink!)		 
Would you describe your poets as tribal?
Which Pushkin poem’s the most sublime?
Why don’t you English poets rhyme? 
Saturday 24							

Our fellow-travellers leave this morning
And now they’ve gone we’ve got the blues,
To purge the homesick feelings dawning
We’re taken on a river cruise 
After another massive dinner
That doesn’t leave us any thinner; 
Eventually we disembark
Down river from ‘Not Boring Park’.
Tonight it’s Serbian Chumba-Wumba -					
They play a wild, sad Balkan-punk
And seem to get more mournful drunk
(Or is that us?) with every number;			 			
Bill’s now acquired non-smoker’s cough.
Perhaps it’s time that we were off.

Sunday 25							

Ismailovo, where Tsars once hunted,
And Peter messed about in boats, 
And avant-garde art once confronted
The power of men in long white coats, 
Is now a heaven for bargain-hunters,	
(And hell for all unwary punters), 
A car-boot-Disney paradise 	
Where History will find its price
As long as somebody is willing 				
To haggle for these toy Salyuts, 
Those Soviet Army surplus boots,	
And someone somewhere makes a killing
To serve that brave and noble cause,
Flea-market-economic laws.

Monday 26						

Today’s the first lie in for ages.			
Outside someone is sweeping snow. 
We turn the pavement’s virgin pages				 
To slush and mud. Today we go
To Mayakovsky’s house, all bloody		
With art and history; the study
Where he committed suicide
And something more than one man died.
Tonight we sit at separate tables
To keep the schools of poets apart;
We separate the world from art,
Mistaking one another’s labels;
When one describes his work is ‘stuff!’
Turns out he meant to say, ‘it’s tough!
Tuesday 27

Some kindergarten kids are playing
At statues in the freezing rain					
Among the fallen heads decaying 
Outside the Tretyakov; a lane  
Of ten-pin Easter Island skittles
(No Gorbachov!) Thus time belittles			 
All those who fall like dominoes
(One Stalin’s missing half his nose.)
We argue later on the Metro
About which leader-cult’s more kitsch -
Derzhinsky or Abramovich?
Or black-belt Putin-Stalin-retro?
At Bookberri we’re asked to scrawl
Our signatures upon the wall.


Wednesday 28

At Sheremetyova our pent up
Desire to purchase Russian tat’s
Soon satisfied until we’ve spent up
On duty-free and furry hats;
Although it’s not the stuff for purists, 
We’re going home dressed up as tourists!
This time we’re flying wrong way round, 
Against the clock, but homeward bound,
And feel the tug of Anglophilia
When drifts of snow-clouds part to show
The planet turning green below;
A strange and welcome sight, familiar 
As any well-loved, clichιd poem	
Whose last line always rhymes with home.