Poem by Inna Khodorkovsky.

I enter. You don’t see me but I feel you here.
Everything’s wrecked, alien yet familiar. Strange.
These people, all their voices, quarrels, feelings, fear.
Grotesque art! Yet they’re still here together. Strange.

The action’s started. They seem to know their parts,
Yet something’s lacking –the will to see it through,
Contrivance, or simply fear, has gripped their hearts.
Devil help them they’re weak, and missing every cue.

A director, angry and gloomy, would strike a pose:
‘Why did I choose you lot? You’re disgracing me!
I’m looking for just a spark of talent, God knows!
Can’t even one of you play Shakespearean tragedy?’

But alas, no one invited a director to come.
The actors had to improvise, in delirium.
Some surrendered and some fled, dodging, weaving.
And I am alone, our of the game, sitting and observing.

There’s no one to shout ‘Camera! Lights on… Take five…’
Or ‘Let’s start from the beginning, sort out this mess.’
There are no takes, no actors, no more words. It’s live,
And it’s your fate. There’s no ford to cross, and no justice.

Transl. D. M. Thomas
(Donald Michael Thomas)
Novelist, Poet, Translator, Teacher