Classic Poem

Balieff's actors from The Bat
in Moscow seem as if from the
center of the onion — the vision
predominates. Removed from the intimate
it is all intimate, closely observed
to be deftly translated to the stage —

The swiftness, fullness, delicacy
of their compositions dance with
the imaginations of peasants and
musicians, philosophers, and
gipsies — The keen eyes of humor
look from tall women's faces
gently; the ensemble is felt
above the detail; the music goes
free of the fact; the satire puts
a varicolored bridle on the donkey —
the old and the young
engage in the same pastimes —

Pantomime and gesture
woman or man — a power suffuses everything
gathering it altogether
uniting without brushing even the bloom —
The free air
welcomes them to itself, the footlights
obey as if it were some lost master —
The Americans of the audience
crumble, sweetness escapes their lips,
their straining comedians feel
a lightness that bids them play —
They are relieved of their lot
Jolson is entranced

To what is this that everybody
comes with gifts as of old they used
to bring gifts to shrines or altars?

Russian skill of dancing? No.
Dadaistic scenery? No. Excellent
as these things are. The whole
reveals these things.
The quaintness of Russian types,
the depth, sweetness, gaiety, color
of the Russian character? No.
The symmetry, reserve, force, tallness
of the woman? The diverse simpleness
and open humor of the men?
The sheer skill as singers, the
ingenuity of the managers, the composers,
the depth of tradition? No.

All these things existed before
the performance. Is it Balieff?
There are other Balieffs. All these things
are essential — But it is not that
which makes men ashamed and tender and
wistful and submissive — ready to learn:

Katinka dances her polka
on the contracted stage of composition
Gaiety is formalized in her dress
and her make-up. Youth is in
the choice of the actress. Her father blinks
to the music
to show his joy in her dancing
The mother with severe face of renunciation
in a shawl —

It cannot be more than it is
without in a peasant's cottage
being mercenary to the landlord
who kills the splendor of national character
by his demands for rent, the filth of
stupidity which has no escape
— blend to make impossible
all that is not imagined by men who have
lived yet unsated
by life's endless profusion
and color
and rhythms, who seeing the brevity
of their transit through the spinning world
have resort to —
translation
Here life's exquisite diversity
its tenderness
ardor of spirits
find that in which they may move —

All enters — Katinka dances
The father blinks
The mother severely stares
— hey-la!
we all laugh together — Life has us
by the arm.

Katinka dies by bending
her body down in a crouch about her knees
there she stays panting from
the exertion of dancing —

The parents relent in alarm

Katinka rebegins to dance —