John Huey
January in Moscow
Displaced, Raskolnikov somehow has slipped
from the banks of the Neva to the embankment
just off the Kremlin wall wandering in the dark
early morning as a frozen glaze covers the forms
fast receding under the ice on the river below.
Other centuries, other time, he still is haunted by
icon and ax, poverty, senseless murder and a
convex self-reflection off the snow.
And we too here this morning in our land see the
darkness and threatening shapes, a poverty of
language and the lack of imagination and have
fallen victim to ourselves and the singing of
our own praises.
We deserve better we think but get exactly what
we have allowed, through neglect of truth and a
terrible laziness to rise from the dark pit burning,
hot with entitlement and ambition.
Terrible, pasty eyed vampire children fit only for
the fire sit at his right and left hands as the hideous
handmaidens and their own squalling spawn serve
the king with dead souls and the spoils of the earth
meant, by birth, to serve him.
And it was no coincidence when the calls from
Moscow to New York came in on the wheel of
history and wound down from the Urals through
the banks of London and Dubai and mixed the blood
of the innocents of Aleppo with the ignorance of
masses in Kansas and points north who could not
see a foul face in a crowd or understand even a
word of their Jesus.
And those few who see the face and feel the fire are
deemed extreme and are off on the side streets
disparaging the parade and are left with the good souls
of their youth and a deep sadness and a breakdown of
humanity they never thought to live to see much less
live with.
And Raskolnikov, he’s in America now, marveling
at the genius of his countrymen for IT and blackmail,
lost in the crowds today in Washington, moving and
unseasonably warm, his dublyonka, fine with bloody fur,
trailing in the mud of his new town as he sees the sun
and feels the heat of his new conundrum lost in a land
bereft of philosophy and even the concept of sin.
Editor’s Note: This poem was originally subtitled “On the Occasion of the Presidential Inauguration, January 20, 2017, For Donald Trump and Vladimir Putin.” Two years later, it feels just as fresh, and possibly even more political relevant.
John Huey is the author of The Moscow Poetry File (Finishing Line Press, 2017). His poems have appeared in Poetry Quarterly, Leannan Magazine, Sein und Werden, In Between Hangovers, Bourgeon, The Lost River Review, Red Wolf Journal, Poydras Review, Flatbush Review, Memoir Mixtapes, and Perfume River Poetry Review. His work has also appeared in the anthologies Temptation (Lost Tower Publications, 2016), edited by P.J. Reed; Unbelief (Local Gems Press, 2018), edited by Thomas Ragazzi and Marc Rosen; and Addiction & Recovery (Madness Muse Press, 2018), edited by Chani Zwibel. Visit his website at john-huey.com.
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