The Scribe

At the mouth of the Dneiper, a blustery day.

A fat old man in a pink caftan
with a wonderful
rat's tail mustache,
– Taras Bulba – 
stands at one end of a raw plank table
head flung back and laughing so hard 
he has to clasp his sides
to keep his ribs from cracking
and his heart from galloping away.

	Sultan Mehmed,
	Master of all that exists and will be,
	Beloved of all people, beloved of Allah,

His buddies thronging round him,
happily drunken happily angry,
sinister, sarcastic, wildly,
happily everything:
the one, with a wisp of hair
rising like a geyser from his shaven head,
the gap-tooth Tatar, blotto beyond words, 
howling for attention, pointing
away and gone

	Says to the Christian barbarians,
	Uncouth nomads of the steppes,
	Rebellious thugs: I am merciful.

behind the ugly man in a black ushanka
leaning across the table with a homicidal stare
at something close at hand we can't see,

	Throw down your weapons,
	Bend to your knees, beg pardon,
	And return to mild obedience,

the one with a sly, beseeching look
cozying up to his generalissimo
and one with a smile of utter content
on his handsome brown face,

	Or defy me and fall
	to my cavalry's curved scimitars
	Like wheat before the harvester's scythe.

	The Sublime Porte, 1087 Shawal on űç

Such a motley uproarious crowd
you almost miss entirely
dead-center of the canvas,
the tidy little man 
seated at the table,
a feather pen in his hand
quiet amusement on his lips.
Semi-profile,
dark brown sweater, a white shirt collar 
hatless, almost modern.
The puckish smile may also say,
they love me today.

	Whereas and hereas and thereas and wherefore:
	We
	mighty and free
	Cossacks of the steppes reply
	to you
	the donkey Sultan Mehmed 
	buffoon of the world and the netherworld,
	Turkish Satan, piece of shit!
	we aren't afraid of you 
	or your army 
	or your fleet.

A shirtless man with a shaved head
leans across the table
watching the wild dance of the nib,
everyone having his say,
eager as hounds at their prey.

	Babylonian busboy
	Jerusalem brewer,
	Armenian pig, 
	Macedonian mechanic,
	you are not fit to command the sons of Christians you
	swine snout
	unbaptized gob of spit,
	may the devil breathe fire up your ass

He writes what they tell him
but the coda is  his very own:

	We don't know the date 
	because we don't have a calendar.  

	The moon is in the sky, 
	the year is in a book, 

	and the day is the same with us 
	as it is with you.


This painting, 
The Reply of the Zaporozian Cossacks by Ilya Repin
has been hanging over my writing table
god knows how long
with mixed success 
to put it mildly.