Finding similarities in first line imagery puts me in mind of borrowing,
not stealing. Much as a poem written entirely in any particular poet's distinctive style has its own root cause, even if it that is tapped-in to what's come before, to be in that manner of delivery, of vocabulary, acknowledges what has come before.
In lyrics and in verse there is scope for an allowable,
a reasonable sort of plagiarism, particularly when successful imagery stands on experience recreated and shared, whether that experience is in real or in fact only, in some manner recognised.
Then, first images/opening stanzas shape the last. In the example below we find Lowell in Mandelstam, today’s The Friday Poem’s verse by Ian Harker whether knowingly or not drawing on both. And the last lines loop, return to the start, as is common
practice. It feels right musically, bar by bar, and as the concluding thought or verse echoes its own rationale by leading back to where it starts.
That comes off a bit pat. That is, as in any argument in speech we come full circle, addressing the starting point. Which does not mean opening lines show us so how far we can go but they suggest where we return to finish the verse. In this case, traffic in the
snow.
That might suggest my preference for Mandelstam's poem over Lowell's - i'd hesitate to go so far as to say that. My simple inference and conclusion is Dylan’s line:
If there’s an original idea out there I could use it right now.
Three poem tops, then tails follow.
Petersburg
Lines
Above the yellow of the government buildings
the murky snowstorm has whirled for a long time
and the jurist settles down again in his sleigh,
with a broad gesture drawing his overcoat tighter.
The ships are hibernating, In the heat of the sun
the thick cabin glass has caught fire.
Leviathan, a battleship in dock,
Russia heavily rests.
For the Union
Dead
The old South Boston Aquarium
stands in a Saraha of snow now, Its broken windows are boarded.
The bronze weathervane cod has lost half its scales.
The airy tanks are dry.
Snowday
The cars are falling with long sighs
down Monk Bridge Road, their tanks empty
and the beck grinding to a halt
beneath the tarmac. This is how it ends:
cars slide to a stop in snow that wasn’t forecast
or if it was, it wasn’t supposed to stick,
vehicle skids into vehicle, voices on speaker
slur with the cold…
And conclusions:
The file of motor traffic flies into the mist;
odd-man-out Evgeny, touchy,
mild pedestrian, ashamed of his poverty
breathes in petrol fumes and curses fate.
&
The Aquarium is gone. Everywhere
giant finned cars nose forward like fish;
a savage servility
slides by on grease.
&
...in the sliding, skittering cars
and there is beauty in the warning lights
but most of all there is beauty in how you fall.
