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Poetry

To the Palace of Bakhchisarai

I journey to Ukraine,
a history book
for westerners
once discovered.

Kiev; from ancient gate
of Russian empire,
to orange revolution,
one long story
of survival.

III

I arrive on plane,
join with boat
to take me on the Dneiper,
drowned in golden domes.

Sailing south,
the river flows
through wheat fields once defended
by the Cossacks;
days later
I would wonder
if Pushkin came this way.
The Russian poet
white-water rafting
the Zaporizhian rapids,
writing about
vodka with the hetman.

The Black Sea beckons,
Odessa shows its sparkle,
the steps of revolution
suppressed but not forgotten
in this port of ideas.
A night’s rest
then the sea itself,
calm, but dark indeed,
alter ego
of the translucent
Mediterranean.

Sevastopol, the delicate lady
used to hiding navies
under her skirts,
now shows at last
a more subtle allure.
Crimea spreads behind her;
the moment is nearly here,
I am still unaware.

VII

I pass
through the Valley of Death
now growing vines
on the bones
of Cardigan’s brigade.
Strange allies
lie here, not forgotten,
but buried all the same.
Broad plains give way
to smaller fields,
rocks poke through
rough grassed hills
concealing caves.

VIII

Then suddenly a town,
cutting a thin line
in the landscape;
a small river runs
by the road,
small houses shine white
in intermittent sunlight,
and then, so unexpectedly,
a minaret stands tall
above decorated walls
and gates.

For the first time
I walk
into an ancient domain
of Islam.

A courtyard, trees, flowers,
a palace to my right,
a mosque to my left.
Allowed to wander,
I explore the rooms
that once were home to Khans,
see where they luxuriated
after battles.

In a courtyard
the waiting story
is at last revealed;
a bust of Pushkin
on a plinth
next to a fountain
that still cries.

XII

Khan Krim Gerei,
with all the women
of his harem to choose,
fell in love
with a captured Polish girl,
the one who would not submit.
Homesick,
she took her own life,
denying him for ever.

XIII

He, so heartbroken,
ordered a fountain to be built
from stones that wept,
a challenge for an architect.
But it was built,
and weep it does,
or so appears.

XIV

On his visit
Pushkin,
so moved
by the fountain’s story,
placed two roses at its head,
one red, for the desperate Khan,
one yellow for the girl’s lost life,
immortalized the story
in a poem,
The Fountain of Bakhchisarai.

I looked around
at streaming sun
through multi-coloured
stained-glass windows,
the fountain, tears,
and Pushkin’s head.
The peace, the beauty
mulled with sadness,
the inscription on the stone
I couldn’t read,
but tried to understand.

XVI

Standing
in the Palace of Bakhchisarai,
Europe to my left,
Asia to my right,
I wished this human story
could travel,
west and east;
or west and east
could somehow meet
here, at the foot
of this small fountain
and realize,
when hurt is great enough,
that stones, indeed, do weep.

Bare Nibs

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Poetry