to Vasiliy Alexeyev
Weightlifting’s not a recent innovation.
Recall how, once, a Greek of some renown
Picked his opponent up, in desperation,
And held him for a while, then tossed him down.

Applause will come - for me, or for another?
As if a victim’s neck, I grip the bar.
I want to tear Antaeus from his mother,
Just like that first athletic superstar.

No graceful mustang, I! I’m hard as marble;
And all my movements are constrained and slow.
The barbell, the overloaded barbell,
Forever’s both my partner and my foe.

I wouldn’t wish a task this uninviting
On anybody else. There’s not much hope!
As I approach the heavy weight, I’m fighting
A heavy feeling: what if I can’t cope?

Both it and I look like we’re made of metal,
Though only it is metal to the core.
Once I walked up, and once the dust had settled,
I saw the dents my steps left in the floor.

I don’t have time to stand around and marvel.
Will I earn shame or glory? I don’t know.
Ultimately, that’s up to the barbell,
My only partner and my only foe.

It looks impressive when you knock your foe down.
But in my sport, it’s not so cut and dried.
Here’s what’s unfair about this final showdown:
I’m down below; the barbell is up high.

That sort of win’s much like a loss, I reckon.
Yet victory is very simply found:
I must hold on for three more painful seconds,
Then slam the barbell down onto the ground.

My ears are ringing, and my thoughts are garbled,
And everything is swaying to and fro.
As if by magnets drawn, down weighs the barbell,
My faithful partner and relentless foe.

Still, it creeps upwards, slowly losing power;
My muscles, though, near bursting as they swell.
While from their seats, as if from lofty towers,
Spectators scream: "Just drop it, what the hell!"

I ascertain the judges’ satisfaction;
My iron god goes down - I’ve done my work.
I was performing that habitual action
Sadistically called the "clean and jerk."