By Yevgeny Yevtushenko
Fences careened in the storm;
we stole through the bitter shadows
like thieving children warmed
by shirtfuls of stolen apples.
The apples wanted to spill;
to bite them was scandalous.
But we loved one another
and that fact redeemed us.
Secluding the criminal twins
in a cosmos of dirty waves,
the snug cottage whispered,
“Be brave and love…be brave…”
And the yield of lunar light
whispered through dusty leaves:
“In stealing that which might
Be stolen by life--you’re not thieves…”*
The cottage’s owner, an ex-
soccer hero, from his photo
dim on the glimmering mantel,
urged, “Be bold…plunge through…”
so, pivoting and twisting,
we burst through the penalty zone,
slipped past the last defender,
and billowed the nets of the goal!
Rest period. Above us, dust
flickered; we seemed to dream,
Small soccer shoes vibrated
On an invisible field.
“Play,” each mote insisted,
“Play, but play earnestly.”
We played again; we kicked.
The game perhaps was stupid
but we did love one another
And that felt splendid.
Drugged by its roaring, the sea
mumbled of something profound
but then a golden fish, your bang,
splashed upon your brow,
And I was unconcerned to know
that once on the storms other side,
for all my bravura folly,
I’d sink back with the tide.
Let slander pursue me;
love isn’t for the feeble.
The odor of love is the scent
not of bought but of stolen apples.
Will we be happy? Not hardly…
but we’d curse the world’s events,
ff we’d stolen from ourselves
the chance to steal these moments.*
What matters the watchman’s shout
when, wrapped in the sea’s far hiss,
I can cushion my head between
two salty apples I’ve filched.
Yevtushenko, 1967, translated by John Updike with Anthony Kahn (originally appearing in Stolen Apples in 1971, revised with the addition of the two starred verses added in the Collected Poems, 1952-1990, and published in 1991)
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