My Handwriting

My handwriting is not calligraphic. Not following the rules of beauty, words stagger about, reeling, as if clobbered on the jaw. But you, the descendant, my textual critic, following on the heels of the past, take stock of those gales your ancestor got caught in. He walked on a pugnacious coastal freighter, a bit arrogant, but you should see beyond the pitched handwriting not only the author’s traits. Your ancestor wrote while tossed about, not kept too warm by squalls, habitually, like having a pack of his usual cigarettes. Of course, far off we made our way courageously, but it’s hard to write a line, when your head is smashed with relish against the bulkhead. Risking skin and bones, it’s tough to sing acclaim, when what you see compels you not to praise, but only to throw up. When churning water strangles motors and a wave’s curl is aimed at your forehead, then smudges are better than flourishes. They’re black-but true. Here- fingers simply grew numb. Here- the swell slyly tormented. Here- the pen jerked with uncertainty away from some mean shoal. But if through all the clumsiness, through the clutches of awkwardness, an idea breaks through the way a freighter on the Lena breaks through to the arctic shore- then, descendant, be slow to curse the style, don’t judge an ancestor severely, and even in the handwriting of the poet find a solution to the enigma of time. 1967 Translated by Albert C. Todd