Andrei
(To Andrei Bogoslovsky)
By Tatiana Pahlen

In the hub of Moscow —
best of friends we dwelled —
minds pining for each other.
Never kissed or caressed hands,
we kept it pure, learned to balance
growing closer hearts...

Tiptoeing an intellectual dance,
you snatched the intricate, smooth steps
from your illustrious father.

The little old man was at large
before and after World War II.
Famous for his thespian pranks
with footprints shining in soundtracks
in the somber cinemas,
Conceived in the glorious Soviet time.

Nikita spawned three hundred songs,
composing scores for hundreds of movies;
most dogs crooned his “Dark Is The Night” tune.

Once, the art critic played a trick,
praising him highly in the news
for fetching the second prize award
In a Scrabble game for infants.

In response, bemused Maestro
dispatched loads of “War and Peace”
that emerged before the critic,
sent by trucks, sleds and horses,
made in segments for the blind.

Andre, his only child,
took fair tresses from his mother,
but wit and brilliance from his dad.

We pictured dreams
in similar sentences,
bared a literary dependence
That fed our souls to full extent.
Tossing verbs into conjured sound,
We molded magic as we trekked.

Breaking boundaries and raising the bar,
Andre created the first rock opera, "Scarlet Sails".
It turned him at once into a Superstar!
I recall queues along the playhouses
with the countrymen hailing his name,
With the senior nowhere near.
His dad took a fancy in wooing me,
turning the Rock into a Soap Opera.
Saying no more, I was not thrilled.

As Andre’s “Scarlet Sails” stormed the Seas,
no love lost between son and father;
Maestro fell prey to make music with me,
yet stayed determined in doomed effort;
there was no humor far and between.

Andre faithfully penned lyrics and prose
but failed to please a clueless audience.

One evening, out of the blue,
after hosting two joint parties,
You whispered, “Ya tebya lublu”
and asked me firmly to marry you.
I was in a daze. In fact, you knew,
my new romance was in full bloom

Wine might have gone to your head,
as you dialed your rival and challenged:
“Hey, listen, pal, are you for real?
You don’t love her like I do!”

Living a dream of a perfect groom
You pledged to take charge of laundry, dishes,
to groom my dog and rub my feet,
treat me for life like solid gold.

Someone may say,
it’s a fairytale
with a flawless ending;
I was smitten, suddenly,
and sailed away,
parting with birches, fields and lakes
in my motherland.
And lived happily ever after,
except, not with Andre.

I never said adieu — I dread send-offs,
yet missed him dearly.
His life, I learned, took turns and downfalls;
Maestro passed in ripened age,
but not before disowning his own blood.

In the will he made his final laugh,
leaving it all to a newlywed —
a large estate to waste or spare;
sadly, no one disputed that.

My heart is crushed and forever torn.
Was I to blame of all,
when dire rumors arrived from home?
The unclaimed body of a vagrant at a mall
identified — It was Andre’s.

In the hub of Moscow —
best of friends we dwelled —
minds pining for each other.
Never kissed or caressed hands,
we kept it pure, learned to balance
growing closer hearts...

Tiptoeing an intellectual dance,
you snatched the intricate, smooth steps
from your illustrious father.

The little old man was at large
before and after World War II.
Famous for his thespian pranks
with footprints shining in soundtracks
in the somber cinemas,
Conceived in the glorious Soviet time.

Nikita spawned three hundred songs,
composing scores for hundreds of movies;
most dogs crooned his “Dark Is The Night” tune.

Once, the art critic played a trick,
praising him highly in the news
for fetching the second prize award
In a Scrabble game for infants.

In response, bemused Maestro
dispatched loads of “War and Peace”
that emerged before the critic,
sent by trucks, sleds and horses,
made in segments for the blind.

Andre, his only child,
took fair tresses from his mother,
but wit and brilliance from his dad.

We pictured dreams
in similar sentences,
bared a literary dependence
That fed our souls to full extent.
Tossing verbs into conjured sound,
We molded magic as we trekked.

Breaking boundaries and raising the bar,
Andre created the first rock opera, "Scarlet Sails".
It turned him at once into a Superstar!
I recall queues along the playhouses
with the countrymen hailing his name,
With the senior nowhere near.
His dad took a fancy in wooing me,
turning the Rock into a Soap Opera.
Saying no more, I was not thrilled.

As Andre’s “Scarlet Sails” stormed the Seas,
no love lost between son and father;
Maestro fell prey to make music with me,
yet stayed determined in doomed effort;
there was no humor far and between.

Andre faithfully penned lyrics and prose
but failed to please a clueless audience.

One evening, out of the blue,
after hosting two joint parties,
You whispered, “Ya tebya lublu”
and asked me firmly to marry you.
I was in a daze. In fact, you knew,
my new romance was in full bloom

Wine might have gone to your head,
as you dialed your rival and challenged:
“Hey, listen, pal, are you for real?
You don’t love her like I do!”

Living a dream of a perfect groom
You pledged to take charge of laundry, dishes,
to groom my dog and rub my feet,
treat me for life like solid gold.

Someone may say,
it’s a fairytale
with a flawless ending;
I was smitten, suddenly,
and sailed away,
parting with birches, fields and lakes
in my motherland.
And lived happily ever after,
except, not with Andre.

I never said adieu — I dread send-offs,
yet missed him dearly.
His life, I learned, took turns and downfalls;
Maestro passed in ripened age,
but not before disowning his own blood.

In the will he made his final laugh,
leaving it all to a newlywed —
a large estate to waste or spare;
sadly, no one disputed that.

My heart is crushed and forever torn.
Was I to blame of all,
when dire rumors arrived from home?
The unclaimed body of a vagrant at a mall
identified — It was Andre’s.

July 10, 2008

Copyright © 2008 Tatianyc. All Rights Reserved.

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