Five satires

A poet was describing a lady. I cite:
I thought my corset as I walked did not feel right."
The "I" should not of course be taken literally, 
nor does the lady hide the poet from the light. 
The poet is in fact, if truth you would be steer'd to, 
a man – and further, he even has a beard too!

My tomcat's looking at my calendar 
and all of a sudden he starts meowing "Golly!"
His tail just stands straight up, and all his fur; 
he jumps upstairs and wails out bacchanally:
  "The mating season's here you know!  
  Hey girls, hey cats, come on, let's go!"

And then my cactus, what a wonder this! – 
though tea and coffee stain its prickly torso, 
it's risen from the dead, like Lazarus, 
and ev'ry day is growing ever more so. 
  The forest's sounds have me in thrall. 
  How many mem'ries they recall!

The workmen hack the dirt to pieces since
It still is frozen, though it's falling from the molding, 
And now my neighbor struts in like a prince. 
He takes the skis and all the winter clothing. 
  "It's spring," he sings with voice so clear, 
  "Let's get this garbage out of here!"

The spring has scared off all the smoke and all the soot. 
Now ev'rything seems right – the dear old sun is shining. 
The frost no longer bites you head to foot, 
though there are people still who don't have much for dining...
  The trees await... the water rots. 
  The world is full of drunken sots. 

I thank you god for letting spring come back!
But let me go seek the forest's quiet
Away from all the noise and yack-yack-yack, 
the capital, and cholera and riot!
  The wind of spring now gently blows...
  Whom shall I love?  The devil knows!  

Our predecessors, rattling 
in their cages, often said:
"Truly, brothers, our children 
will be freer when we're dead."

And their children grew, and lived 
in cages still more terrible.
And they whispered: "To our children, 
sunlight will be visible."

Now for our children there's one 
consolation that must do: 
They will surely get to Mecca, 
though we shall not get there too. 

Length of days now seems predestined:  
Two hundred, five hundred years, 
Who will bellow like a fool, 
and who will melt away in tears. 

Everything will soon be combed 
and cleaned.  The time is not too far. 
Maybe just two hundred years?  
Like hell!  Am I Methuselah?

Like an owl, I stand among 
the idols broken long ago. 
In descendants not yet born 
I have no brother, friend or foe. 

I would like a little light 
just for myself, while I'm still here. 
From the tailor to the poet – 
let them hear me, loud and clear. 

Ah, descendants!  Let them come 
and meet the fate that comes to all. 
Let them learn to curse the dark, 
and beat their heads against a wall!

She was a famous writer, 
And a poet of a certain age,
While he was only a playboy
With hair that was all the rage.

Inhaling the perfume of twilight, 
The rake to the poetess goes.
Like the solemnest mass, on the sofa,
She sits, and declaims through her nose:

"Let your fi'ry caresses embrace me
And awaken my passions from sleep.
Do not hold back your lips, but come kiss me.
Loose my thighs from their garter so deep!

I am fresh as a breath of white lilies.
Let us criscross our bodies in bed!"
In this manner her verses continue
'Til the playboy is blushing bright red.

Yes, he blushes, but quickly recovers,
And reflects: "Now or never, it seems.
It's not time for officialese discourse
But for action – fulfillment of dreams!"

With unrestrain'd pow'r like a centaur's
To the poet the playboy's unspool'd,
But a shrill cry for help screeches: "Mavra! Mavra! Mavra! Mavra!"
And the rake's boiling ardor is cool'd.

"I'm sorry!"  He jumps up.  "But I thought..."
In her eyes there is nothing but cold.
"Sir, I'm a respectable lady.
You boor!  How could you be so bold!?"

And now here comes Mavra.  The guest is
So scared, he won't be back again.
Confused, he retreats to the lobby, 
A long while he looks for his cane.

His face now white as magnesium, 
Descending the stairs in a rage, 
He just doesn't understand poetry, 
Or at least not of a certain age.
He does not, he cannot, understand....

There's a lodger seated on a suitcase
And he's thoughtfully examining the floor:
The same chairs, a table and a bed.
The upholstery's the same upon the sofa
And the borscht for lunch is just as red. 
But now there's new light one can't ignore...   Ah!

The full calves of Fyokla – she's the laundress –
Shine as she leans over in the yard.
And the glasses squeal, they're scrubbed so hard,
Singing out of tune just like a chorus.
Patches of blue sky that's over us
Fill with promises miraculous.

Lodger! Lodger!

The same lodger's sitting on his suitcase. 
Glasses washed, and once again now all is still.
Fyokla, Fyokla, why are you so quiet?
At the least, be strong and be resilient. 
Come and take him.  Grab him by the forelock
And then burn him with your lips.  Come, try it!   Ah!

Fyokla and the lodger on the sofa.
O, how solemn is this moment.  How!
"I'm intelligentsia; you're a peasant."
That's his words, 'mid kisses rather pleasant.
"But we understand each other well, 
For we are together here and now!
Yes, we understand each other 
For we are together here and now!"