Voznesenskii's Anti-worlds

Andrei Voznesenskii, Anti-worlds. 1962

In “Anti-worlds,” Andrei Voznesenskii turned the language of the Thaw into a manifesto of sorts, built out of paradox, inversion, and playful provocation. The poem argued, indirectly but unmistakably, for a wider cultural space than the Soviet system normally allowed, one where imagination could test official certainties instead of repeating them. Its popularity at public readings hinted at why the new poetry mattered. It gave a young audience a vocabulary for skepticism and moral independence, even when it stopped short of open political dissent.

The clerk Bukashkin is our neighbor.
His face is gray as blotting paper.

But like balloons of blue or red,
Bright Antiworlds
float over his head!
On them reposes, prestidigitous,
Ruling the cosmos, demon-magician,
Anti-Bukashkin the Academician,
Lapped in the arms of Lollobrigidas.

But Anti-Bukashkin's dreams are the color
Of blotting paper, and couldn't be duller.

Long live Antiworlds ! They rebut
With dreams the rat race and the rut.
For some to be clever, some must be boring.
No deserts? No oases, then.

There are no women-
just anti-men.
In the forests, anti-machines are roaring.
There's the dirt of the earth, as well as the salt.
If the earth broke down, the sun would halt.

Ah, my critics; how I love them.
Upon the neck of the keenest of them,
Fragrant and bald as fresh-baked bread,
There shines a perfect anti-head...

...I sleep with windows open wide;
Somewhere a falling star invites,
And skyscrapers
like stalactites
Hang from the planet's underside.

There, upside down,
below me far,
Stuck like a fork into the earth,
Or perching like a carefree moth,
My little Antiworld,
there you are!

In the middle of the night, why is it
That Antiworlds are moved to visit?

Why do they sit together, gawking
At the television, and never talking?

Between them, not one word has passed.
Their first strange meeting is their last.

Neither can manage the least bon ton.
Oh, how they'll blush for it, later on !

Their ears are burning like a pair
Of crimson butterflies, hovering there...

A distinguished lecturer lately told me,
Antiworlds are a total loss.

Still, my apartment-cell won't hold me.
I thrash in my sleep, I turn and toss.

And, radio-like, my cat lies curled
With his green eye tuned in to the world.