Fury
Yevgeny Yevtushenko
Translated by Tina Tupikina-Glaessner, Geoffrey Dutton, and Igor Mezhakoff-Koriakin

They tell me,
shaking their heads:
“You should be kinder…
You are somehow—furious.”
I used to be kind.
It didn’t last long.
Life was breaking me
hitting me in the teeth.
I lived
like a silly puppy.
They would hit me—
and again I would turn the other cheek.
I’d wag my tail of complacency,
and then, to make me furious,
someone chopped it off with a single blow.
And now I will tell you
about fury,
about that fury
with which you go to a party
and make polite conversation
while dropping sugar into your tea with tongs.
And when you offer me more tea
I’m not bored—
I merely study you.
I submissively drink my tea from the saucer,
and, hiding my claws,
stretch out my hand.
And I’ll tell you something else about fury.
When before the meeting they whisper:
“Give it up…
You’re young,
better you write,
don’t jump into a fight
for a while…”
Like hell
I’ll give in!
To be furious at falsehood—
is real goodness!
I’m warning you—
that fury hasn’t left me yet.
And you ought to know—
I’ll stay infuriated for a long time.
There’s none of my former shyness left in me.
After all—
life is interesting
when you’re furious!