Стихи и поэмы. Проза. Переводы. Письма. О поэте. Фото и видео.


Translated by Christine Zeytounian-Belous

Chacal et corneille : pas de sang extérieur ni interne
entre eux. Au loin se dessine une dynamite fumante.
Leurs contours, qui ne tiennent qu’à un fil, déjà prêts
à quitter le noyau de noirceur, revêtir un aspect provisoire.

Au-dessus d’eux des bulles de discours qui dérivent, bande dessinée
qu’on feuillète sur la plage piquante et venteuse. Et la grotte moderne est fermée.
Le temps se dégage. On comprend que le photographe enfoui
jusqu’à la ceinture est fait de bronze et ne cadre personne.

read today: 2
Translated by Eugene Ostashevsky

Maybe you do draw
but not now, alas! Lines
form a grill,
and behind it—lions.

Lions. Their life is a diplomat’s,
they pose on their paws, their heads double.
With celerity of computer chess,
lions occupy cells with each cell.

Translated by Eugene Ostashevsky

since morning the street was lined with
glass towers chiming like salami
dangled from vacuum

from any vantage transpicuous
intersections of buzz and breeze
          (nerves) as
if all’s about these: contacts and contracts
ring and if anything sting

Translated by Eugene Ostashevsky

In a factory where they make chloramphenicol
          cats          loiter

          like a woodblock: waterlogged, barnacled
another—thin with an elongated tongue—
          a fireman’s hook
and the third—huge like a calm
          in the Persian Gulf

Translated by Eugene Ostashevsky

A betty’s mouth rotates. The wind’s proof doubles.
Mesmerizing Boeings. The cyclopic reveries
of stadiums. And America doubles
over and b/pounces—all are pleased

Translated by Eugene Ostashevsky

Navigating on roller-skates in the dark, I understand:
the country around me vibrates.
The spider’s mute web
reflects an equilateral slumber. Both Satan
and a cobra next to him would seem pusillanimous, two schlimazels.
On the other side of the glass, the spider is quieter
          than my phone in Basel.

comments: 1
Translated by Wayne Chambliss

A jackal and a crow. Blood neither shed nor shared
between them. The dynamite, nearby, is armed.
They are barely contours, prepared
to escape the kernel of blackness and assume a rudimentary form.

Above them, thought balloons are floating. The cartoon repaginates
the seashore, windy, dry as bone.
When the rain falls, it becomes clear the photographer, buried to his waist,
was welded of bronze and focused on no one.

Translated by Wayne Chambliss

Flaring in epithelial darkness, as if bitten
by a rabid, magnetic gesture—
all at once—body, converted to hydrogen
all at once—hydrogen under pressure.

Magnetic pressures, within and without,
the bear hibernates in a lush’s cranium.
When the room starts to spin, the bear rushes out
and deposits itself for a glass of uranium.

Translated by Wayne Chambliss

Converging, they vanish, one in front of the other—
the bear and the fish—
In belts of barnacles
Each one
shifts his weight from foot to foot
as if having lost
a contact.

Translated by Wayne Chambliss

A Jugendstil tower. Myself quite new.
I heard the underbell flowers uncurl.

You were sitting on the little staircase. By all accounts, a pearl.
I stiffened. Limits were measured.

You were the sum of all you encountered,
become what you could not deter.

We were joined by the ladies’ confessor (and connoisseur),
self-absorbed as a Klein jug.

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