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Çàãîëîâîê: English collection Ïðèñëàíî ïîëüçîâàòåëåì Antrekot íà 10/23/03 â 15:48:51 In translation, Russian poetry smells of mothballs and Shakespeare, overblown nursery rhymes, jingling with alliterations. Under the gliding coils of English there’s a wrongness, a tension, a tang of predestination, a landslide waiting to happen. In the original this force is held by a rigid scheme of rhythm and rhyme, else it’ll rush into the world, upsetting every balance. The verses twirl into spirals, the rhymes are interlocked, so music won’t drown the universe, so it won’t lose itself in space. While mellow English flows away this fierce harmony’s still there, still trying to contain the pulse within the chalky limits of a rib cage. It has not been told yet that the center cannot hold. Russian poetry, in translation… ----------------------------------------------------------------------- A Harbour Bridge Rhyme A heady premonition encased in steel and stone. A point of no return. The instincts are subverted converting “fright” to “right” to “flight”. Look, on the cape across the strait there’s a jacaranda blooming. You do not stir reading your book, riding your train, reining in chaos. Otherwise you’d have to embrace a net of empty spaces a spine over your head. Look across the strait… Where the angular head of a giraffe mirrors Centerpoint, across the strait, where the monorail vine twists among the rocks, across the strait, where it’s always teatime. A bridge, a perfect rhyme, a life designed to funnel the tensions of the day, a way to conquer pain. So what do you think coming home from work, sliding down the globe, tracing the path of a Cheshire moon across the glimmering dome? At that moment the train enters the tunnel. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I speak both Russian and English, I read in Polish and French, and my Ukrainian might be called fair if truth can survive such a stretch. I revel in useless knowledge and dabble at verbal chess. So who am I? Guess. I come from a limestone city on the post-deluvian beach and my children won’t master its jingling speech, for it’s not a thing you can teach. But I hear its lateral grammar making offers I can’t refuse. So is that me? Choose. So what am I: a tilt of a head, a ricochet of a thought, the force of entropy wants me dead and harmony wants me not. My bones change to the very marrow every time someone says my name, and whatever language I speak tomorrow will probably be the same. |
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Çàãîëîâîê: English collection Ïðèñëàíî ïîëüçîâàòåëåì Antrekot íà 10/23/03 â 15:49:26 January tune From the melting glaciers the South wind comes banging upon my door. It doesn’t even know if I’m at home, what is it knocking for? Over the ridge the ochre reigns and drought eats up land like a tide. And the North wind needn’t bother to knock for the heat is already inside. Hold fast. It’s January on the edge of the sea, on the edge of the desert, in the place where the Earth is flat. So the wind whistles down the winding streets and the ocean riles at the beach, and polysyllabic herbage slides its roots into every breach. And while chasing after a sneaky rhyme through the suburbs of dark renown you can walk the night in the molten light of the moon that hangs upside-down. Hold fast. It’s still January by the alien sea, on the alien land, in the place where the Earth is flat. And whatever present tomorrow brings there is always a past to forge with our thoughts and longings layering up all the way from Olduvai Gorge. So we fill empty spaces and flood the air with our knowledge and love and strife, so this city may answer the howling wind with the subliminal roar of life. Hold fast. It’s January by the changing sea, in whatever land, in the place where the Earth is flat. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Jinny Mae What are you going to do, Jinny Mae? What are you going to do now? The wind is rising, my Jinny Mae, don’t you hear it howl? I’ll find myself a cloak so blue, I’ll wrap myself in that cloak. I’ll go out to meet my true love and the Devil may take you all. But there’s no “cloak” or “love”, Jinny Mae, and “blue” is a colour no more now. The wind is here, my Jinny Mae, it’s blowing the words away. Then I shall pray to the Powers Above, I’ll give my life to that prayer. I’ll ask for this raging wind to abate and never again hold sway. But you have no will or voice, Jinny Mae, you have no life of your own now. There’s just the wind talking to itself from the mountains to the sea. Then I’m free in my choice, my friend, Then there’s nothing but freedom. And if I can be anything at all I might just as well be me. What are you going to do, Jinny Mae? What are you going to do now? The wind is rising, my Jinny Mae, don’t you hear the call? I’ll find myself a cloak so blue, I’ll wrap myself in that cloak. I’ll go out to meet my true love and the Devil may take you all. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Counting raindrops, rolling along down the gravity well. Thoroughbred mongrels, fallen from grace to the shore where time is a measure of space, is there a notion we can’t embrace and work into a song? ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The hardest stone can be described in terms of pressure and life. And the weed that once grew on Gondwana’s shores hasn’t gone anywhere. So whatever coordinates you choose to believe you live on a coral reef. |
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Çàãîëîâîê: Re: English collection Ïðèñëàíî ïîëüçîâàòåëåì Öèïîð íà 10/28/03 â 09:24:09 Íàêîíåö ïðî÷èòàâ (ðàíüøå ðóêè íå äîõîäèëè) Àíòðåêîò, à åùå ìîæíî? :) |
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Çàãîëîâîê: Re: English collection Ïðèñëàíî ïîëüçîâàòåëåì Ëàïî÷êà íà 10/29/03 â 01:40:16 Âîò èìåííî, åù¸ ìîæíî? :) |
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