<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Before today, the last open smile in Russia was in a Yevtushenko Poem<\/strong><\/p>\n In Russia, a smile is like an invitation, for murder, or worse. After a New Year\u2019s party, with vodka and all the trimmings, This afternoon I boarded a bus, city centre to suburb. I thought it would be awkward. Such a proud woman, She looked like paper: her face and hands creased <\/p>\n Before today, the last open smile in Russia was in a Yevtushenko Poem In Russia, a smile is like an invitation, for murder, or worse. Waiting for the bus with one hand in pocket, like some mobster; Like the men on the stairs of the hospital in The Godfather. The curl of […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-8300","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8300","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=8300"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8300\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":8303,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8300\/revisions\/8303"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=8300"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=8300"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=8300"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nWaiting for the bus with one hand in pocket, like some mobster;
\nLike the men on the stairs of the hospital in The Godfather.
\nThe curl of an end of a lip spells a break in composure:
\nYou\u2019ve let your guard down, and the men, those black bomber jacket men
\nWho swarm like flies to shit, will pick you off. And you\u2019ll be gone.
\nIn broad daylight, they, will do whatever those men do.<\/p>\n
\nWe danced and sang. We smiled. The cameras flashed, mine included.
\nAll uploaded – I receive a message: those pictures \u2013
\nThey show us smiling. Please remove them.
\nPeople we know might see them and think we were enjoying ourselves.
\nI removed the smiles, leaving only conversation and bottle shots.<\/p>\n
\nThere, sat diagonally from me, was my poor Baba Luda.
\nShe sat in military boots, and worn black and grey bits.
\nHow funny she looked: 70 year old match stick legs
\nIn boots heavy enough to sink her. Ticket reel in hand,
\nShe came right up to me before recognising my face.<\/p>\n
\nWho only ever took taxis, or begged lifts, was reduced
\nTo such labouring: the 15 hour day of traipsing and collecting
\nNineteen roubles off each and every person, on a two door
\nNorth Korean 1950\u2019s bus that shook and rattled like a window
\nOn its last hinge in a Siberian snow storm in December.<\/p>\n
\nLike laundry wrung out before it\u2019s been washed.
\nHer eyes shone first: the creases of so many Siberian winters
\nBegan curling upward around her eyes and mouth;
\nI couldn\u2019t help myself. We were disarmed though we were not vulnerable.
\nI carried her smile to the supermarket and showed it to the shop assistant.
\nShe returned it and shared it with the woman standing next to her.<\/p>\n
\nMichael Oliver-Semenov<\/strong> was born in Cardiff, Wales but now resides in central Siberia. Since ditching his career as a banking clerk in 1997 he has published words and poetry in a plethora of magazines, anthologies and journals worldwide, including Blown, The Morning Star, Orbis, Ten of the Best, Wales Arts Review, Mandala Review<\/em> and Ink Sweat and Tears.<\/em> He divides his time between growing vegetables at his family dacha, teaching English and reading whatever he can in between lessons.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"