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

Переводы

Lions
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.

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Cats
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

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Spider
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.

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Wrestlers
Translated by Wayne Chambliss

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

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Flight-3
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.

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La Naphte 2
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.

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Пустеля
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

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О, друзів моїх сад...
Translated by Григорий Брайнин

О, друзів моїх сад, де я із торохтілкою
сторчу, про людське око свищу тут навсібіч.
Посріблимо кишки орданською горілкою,
нехай живе нутро, що мерехтить нам ввіч!

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Мінус-корабель
Translated by Григорій Брайнін

Від морока я відокремився, наче кумкнула пакля,
позаду місто істериків чорніло в крейдяному спазмі,
було мляве сонце, положисте море пахло,
повертаючись в тіло, я втямив, що Боже спас мя.

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Glass Towers
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

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