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

Переводы

Translated by Григорій Брайнін та Веніамін Білявський

Зходячись, зникають один перед одним
терпляче —
через ведмедя і рибу — до ракоподібних,
які обліпили душу свою.
Тупцюють. Мружаться, наче змінюючи лінзи,
обом вочевидь пояси на куртках.

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Translated by Григорій Брайнін та Веніамін Білявський

З ранку вони йшли вулицею в безладді
скляні вежі схожі на зв'язані баранки
що підвішені до порожнечі

продивляючись звідусіль
наскрізні бджоли, які уникають себе наче
це і є контакти контакти
дзвін і в разі чого оборона

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Translated by Григорій Брайнін та Веніамін Білявський

Я ніколи не мешкав у пустелі,
яка нагадує край воронки
з діркою, що кочує. Прості ретельні
види, їх вагомі перевороти

read today: 1
Translated by Eugene Ostashevsky

Maybe you do draw
                seriously,
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

one—gnarled
          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

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 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.

Translated by Wayne Chambliss

Who led me across the city that morning?
Behind the railway station, he sat me down at a low
wooden table and produced a bottle. We cracked it like a watermelon.
My Adam's apple bobbing, as though I and the rails had shared the swallow.

On the fence was a pumpkin. I used to think the elixir of debility
was in the potato. But no! It's in the pumpkin,
an octave below. From the instability
of its inner glow, fingers of pulp emerge as if counting.

comments: 1

Oil

Translated by Sergey Levchin

Halfway into the journey – just puncture me with a compass.
Zero-kilometer, where fabled rivers converge, reversing polarity: drain.
Suppose it a tunnel, at once the air is set tight as a lattice.
Hurray! You are launched from the maw of a soil-based yawn.

Hangnail, dangled all the way down to the switchflow entrails,
there to consult the register: vapors, extralarge rock, and the coiled bands.
You unfasten your jaw at the plywood façade like a conscript,
oil, the armed, double-barreled ram turns the corner: en garde!

comments: 2
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