This morning I have been enjoying the work of Varlam Shalamov, who spent a fair portion of his life in the Kolyma labor camp. It seems he often had to compose orally because he did not have access to a pencil and paper. Here he recounts what has been confirmed to be a true story:
Three Robinson Crusoes
in an abandoned shack,
we found a real find--
a single, battered book.
We three were friends
and we quickly agreed
to share out this treasure
as Solomon decreed.
The foreward for cigarette paper:
one friend was delighted
with a gift so unlikely
he feared he was dreaming.
The second made playing cards
from the notes at the back.
May his play bring him pleasure,
every page bring him luck.
As for my own cut--
those precious jottings,
the dreams of a poet
now long forgotten--
it was all I wanted.
How wisely we'd judged.
What a joy to set foot in
a forgotten hut.
__________________
Aaron Poochigian
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