Alyona Rychkova-Zakablukovskaya is an author from Russia. She was born in Siberia in 1973. She studied Psychology at the Academy of Law, Economics and Management. Her first book of poetry, “In Bogorodsky Garden,” was published in Irkutsk in 2015. Her second book, “The Forty Winters Bird” was published in 2018.
The Baby Pochard
So many days have passed,
but I remember this.
The autumn glass of the chilly Angara.
A sleepy October day had lured us out, to the water beyond the Meget,
and gave us its gifts. We had expected silence,
but there was none: just the voices of birds and wind.
Wading across the rapids, fishing rod in hand,
you saw a moving blob.
An indistinct speck was crossing the river,
propelling itself forward, despite the waves.
At last, it stopped at the big man’s feet.
You picked it up and recognized it.
A duckling, baby pochard, in your hands
was trembling and jerking its legs.
Animated by a funny spirit of struggle,
it was still rushing through the water.
It swam, and swam, and swam.
But soon its eyes got dim – the god of birds
blew the duckling’s conscience out.
The shard of living universe on my bosom
Got warm and fell asleep.
I had already made peace with the idea
that I’d have to catch flies to feed it
and look for a foster family for it.
I was trying to remember someone
who could adopt a duckling,
but soon decided I would love it myself…
But suddenly the tiny thing returned to life and pulled itself together,
aware of the warmth of the hands it didn’t need.
The whole plan of its future captivity
flashed in the beads of its eyes.
An anger and fright started to build up in its body.
“Set me free! Set me free or I’ll die!”
The stubborn duckling, as quick as an athlete
was slipping out of my fingers, testing my strength.
“Set me free! Set me free. I’m feeling bad! Bad! Bad!”
Afraid to break the duckling’s neck,
we carried it to the river.
O, how proudly it swam! How happily it hurried,
splitting the waves like a torpedo!
It was so endlessly alive in this brief moment.
I’m sentimental. I am quick to tears.
Their tart smoke already stings my eyes.
I had no regrets at all,
only admiration and a quiet sorrow.
It was so brave, so certain of its way.
So what if it would probably be eaten by a bored burbot,
by hungry bird flying towards its cheeping.
Or killed by a two-legged beast
who wears a cross or doesn’t wear it…
You may ask me why I relive the past.
I think the truth is simple.
I think that each of us has our own way,
mysterious and strange. And each of us has our own time.
That’s why the baby pochard of my soul
still flies to the hazy river…
(translated by Sergey Gerasimov from Russian)