Sin

In the treetops the dew

is beating its wings,

the breathing greenery

lowers its face,

the blackness of wet

berries lightly drowses —

rains have rocked them

to sleep in their cradle.

In the reflection through eyelids

cracked open, half waking,

there was a mist; and the earth,

and damp berries,

and the grass underfoot,

pockmarked from cold,

caressed me, pretending

to be the Homeland.

I’ve already lived more than once,

but I dare not live any longer.

Either sensual passion

or a foolish idea

to live it out hindered me

from gathering up the rest of the crumbs.

And sweet snow fondled

the roads of fir.

Forgive me, father, that

I had no desire

to catch with my hot mouth

the last breath.

The gift of fate, alas,

I did not preserve, or show it affection,

and did not hold life

by its slippery wrists.

Without lamentation or rage,

I fell to earth unripe.

The soul yet once more

easily said farewell to the body.

Speech cannot contain

the time and distance

from such short meetings

and frequent partings.

I’ve lived so often, that

I forgot places and dates.

And to recall all that

makes no sense here.

In the world wars

I didn’t manage to age —

I perished in two of them

And I will be there for the third.

As fingernails grow after death,

so my feeling for you,

with all the undernail dirt

when life’s time span runs out

will not stop its motion.

Do not fear — if the autumn is long,

it will not be eternal;

in fact,

this is just what you have to fear.

December with disfigured face,

and I with icy hands,

And you mixed up in the scent of lilacs,

and with hair the color of wet cherries,

and with other trash,

other junk,

other lies.

I wanted a cure — too late:

the cough and the cold disappeared.

I’ll call my puppy Bismark,

and pour champagne on the asters.

The path to madness lies close

in January’s dry midday.

The snows on the fir trees have ripened.

Shall we knock them down tonight?

It’s so inexpressibly charming

to look at your legs,

that if one looks past them,

one loses the meaning of vision.

You must have got better,

I don’t remember you this way.

If I couldn’t know at all, but it’s too late.

And if you press your palms

to your eyes, and removing them, look

at the stars — they are like chandeliers.

I mixed all the lines up — what for.

You might just as well

tangle your shoelaces up.

Can’t sleep. In the nooks of the brain

it’s all you; and, counting the minutes,

I lose the count only toward morning…

You walked round.

I walked through.

Whispering of feelings,

I hurt my jaw.

I fired shots (here’s the rhyme: without aiming).

You walked in the middle.

I turned the corner.

All feelings are simple:

pencil or charcoal.

Sporadic simplicity —

I was scaring off pride.

But is there a point weaving

speeches about this!

When your hands touched my neck

less often in autumn than my scarf,

from where came the hope

that the rivers would freeze in the winter?

All feelings are simple.

Only poses are complex.

We lived through autumn

to the white payoff.

And the frosts have a scent — of frost.

And the color of rain was terribly rainy.

I have still lost

the value of my words

so often admitting

dead

made-up

stillborn feelings —

lost them

for which I was punished

by solitude

in another icy january

by salt

by an empty horizon

by snow

by the husky voice

of solitude

depression’s unkempt goblin

misery’s green corner

words are all quite

worthless

never mind

tomorrow morning

a girl with a lazy smile

will look at me in the tram

she won’t like me

but something will interest her

before she leaves the tram

she’ll turn around again

and our eyes will meet

outside

catching up with her

I’ll say

in my home there are many boring books

I also have handcuffs

and some money for a bottle of beer

I’m a poet and also I can

play Vertinsky on the guitar

(your fingers smell of incense)

I can play something about your fingers

I still hope: like a child

who breaks a vase and freezes in horror

wishing it would come together

by itself and go back to the sideboard.

Reading books, I still dream

and still believe that life

and death will sort things out

and I — alone — will be left innocent.

I still hope. And hope

does not soothe me,

but slightly embitters me.

and at the slave market in Ancient Rome

where the smell makes you sick

at the noisy, savage market

the son of a patrician

eccentric and conceited

I wander with my slave boy

and you are there

in the crowd of slaves for sale

dirty and angry

you turn away and close your eyes

but I saw you two thousand years later

I recognized you at once

and bought by me

you are the only one who has the right

to come to me in the mornings

when I am still asleep

you bring me berries and juices

and of all imaginable grief on earth

I am only tormented by one

when a cherry stone

gets caught in my front teeth

July was swarthy,

but August was white,

and dreams were white.

The whole earth turned pale or grey,

as though it had eaten henbane.

And we felt uneasy

because of all this whiteness.

White as a ghost,

covered with a sheet,

you slept, curled up like a cat,

and waking up, charmingly angry,

sent curses to mosquitoes,

amusing and obscene.

In sleep your head was spinning

and so was something older.

You barely breathed,

thrashing the bed without mercy,

blowing away yesterday’s narcosis

with your breath.

Your hand called out for mine,

like a bird looks for food,

like dried-out grass craves rain,

I gave my hand, although you slept,

you intertwined your palm in mine

tenderly and lightly.

Burnt by you into ashes

I got used to the quivering of eyes.

In love with you — in a swampy mire,

in your love — in the heavenly heights.

And in the lines of fate and life

our sweat trickled down.

From the wind the censer smoke

entered the open window.

And birds walked on the tables

and drank our wine.

I lost my matches.

I lost the box, I say.

I lost the feeling of frailty,

the fatality of being.

Insolent as a weed,

I stand in the wet wind.

Happiness, how huge you are.

Where can I hide you?

I have no sense of cold or slush.

The shroud of the wind,

the mist and snow don’t reach me.

Something crumbles in my hands.

It seems to be winter:

it rages, but cannot be heard,

like a silent film.

I don’t take it to heart.

I will not learn to do so.

I want so to accept it,

but my heart, like that puppy,

sits foolishly in the corner,

in the puddle on the floor.

It licks its belly or scratches

its cheekbone.

Heart, where are you, what are you?

Are you nowhere?

I don’t know your beating,

I don’t feel your heaviness.

Lord, stern God,

how did you not guess,

That I stand here, smiling.

Even that I simply stand.

There is no feeling of time.

Warm, mad, alive,

I see nothing but happiness.

Why do I need so much of it.

Cold, I know, it’s cold.

I know this and cannot

let even an atom

of the black azure into me —

the evening reeking of smoke —

the city in dirty snow —

the deadliness of this heart —

the sound of this wind.

I no longer know

how to pardon or reprove.

What should I ask God for?

Nothing more than a smoke.

If, on the train,

sitting opposite each other,

we press our cheeks

to the frozen glass,

and

we try to join our lips,

a butterfly will be left

on the glass,

and

on our cheeks the pattern

of fingers of everyone

who wanted to know

where we’re going.

I know not what I do,

I talk of love to you.

Red blinking from each traffic light.

Upon this foul and evil night

Continents sink into the deep

How am I supposed to sleep…

Each traffic light is flashing.

I ignore an obstacle to the right,

I ignore entire chapters.

And this book has no end.

In a daze, I drive into the ditch…

There is blinking red… scarlet…

dark pink… fiery…

Like a heart, the cars stop moving.

A pale moon, like a sentry,

the scorched shadow of a willow…

Let them know that I’m alive.

I know not what I do,

I talk of love to you.

You are my dear, my only one,

You’ve been my wife a thousand years.

Robins in scarlet clothes.

Mowers in white shirts.

Pain in work-worn joints.

Burning in maddened arms.

The mowers have taken off their clothes,

their bodies are blue with cold.

Sails have grown upon

the masts of pines and aspens.

I drink the salty juice of fatigue,

I feel no sickness, and no ease.

Groggy, half-asleep I walk

barefoot across the sunset.

If you are barefoot, go and dance,

until your heels are burning.

The mowers, naked to the waist,

burn robins in the sunset.

Stenka Razin

lazily watched the bustle of the bees

bees swarmed around his head

with burnt eyelashes

and honey juice on his skin

the bees swarmed

around his head mounted on a stake

so much like a flower

like a flower on a stem

Boys to the right — to hell with them.

Girls to the left — where the heart is.

The squadron roars to tear an aorta,

the mother brings drink to the hall.

The roasted rooster pecked

where childhood

played, and beat its wings.

We cannot get away from the dead.

Who’s last in line to heaven —

I’m after you.

Sky full of drizzle, thoughts full

of heresy, in a day

or two the mass will be held here

Your eye-socket or jaw

will be preserved

by river slime, a nasty father,

the last refuge.

With every beat of the rooster’s wings

the unknown darkness is revealed.

Mother brings us something to drink,

The pitcher beats, as in a fever,

against the teeth.

woozy

on tired horses

in the scents of uneasy July sun

damp cloth and sweat

we enter the village

the frightened peasants

bring us food

knowing already

that their baron is now

to be hanged

(who yesterday cried:

to the stables! —

and today: wasn’t I like

a father to you!)

hanged by the rib

hanged on the gates

and the uncomprehending peasants

cross themselves and hide

the girls in the haylofts

not knowing that the freedom

given to them

cannot be bought with hospitality

and they do not guess that by evening

the girls will come running in terror

from the haylofts that we set alight

and we will cool them

with buckets of water from the well

and from the heat and the screaming

our timid horses will shudder

and the chief will dress us down

tomorrow for our debauchery

but the blaze will be seen

from as far away as Astrakhan

Plunging their nails in blood,

the entire dense army howls.

Butchery until night

or fighting since morning.

The heavy mist, like a monster,

looks greedily into our eyes.

And the desert does not heed.

What can it say anyway.

Dazed friends draw off

tremulous mead.

From the beauties in the district

only death takes it in the mouth.

You cannot find a ram, or new gates.

It’s too early to retreat.

And no one wants to advance.

We sit here. Scratch our ribs.

Twist our mouths. Wait

for an order.

Golden trash! Guys!

God remembers us!

Here’s our angel in the sky.

But he is squint-eyed.

The sun shines so brightly…

like a fool without pants.

Will we make it or is it doubtful?

Hey, toss a coin.

From the cloudy blue a white scarf waves.

…You know what’s her name

how we wandered barefoot

and swum naked

we were caught in the rapids…

I know it all, brother.

sometimes I think:

perhaps everything happened

otherwise and what is happening now

is just tatters of post-traumatic delirium

a spatter of ruptured memory

idle running of suspended reason

maybe that spring

lying with a machine gun

in the frozen and revolting mud

covered with cartridge shells

maybe then — three hours later —

when the shots died down

and everyone wandered

over to the column

torn apart like a bag

of Christmas presents

I did not get up and remained

lying, already freezing

and twisted, they dragged me

into the vehicle

and to tear the gun out

of my hands they braced their leg

against my hard stomach

but I didn’t care

or maybe

in that winter accident

I did not look indifferently

at the intricate patterns

of the windscreen

and remained sitting

with the driver who had

driven into my ribcage

with stupidly open mouth

and staring eyes

but most likely in the village

where I was born and

where I haven’t been

for so long —

if I can get in there unnoticed

and end up there somehow as a spy

hiding behind the trees by a yellow

ridiculous building —

in that village I will see

a fair-haired boy

with skinny arms

looking at baby chicks

who of course is not me

and cannot be me

I’ll buy myself a portrait of Stalin

three by three

in the storeroom of a museum

closed for repairs forever

from the janitor,

who remembers nothing.

Doesn’t even remember Stalin.

I’ll buy a portrait of Stalin. — Pipe, coat, cunning squint. — A cheap whore will buy Rublyov. — Bow to the ground and weep. — All sluts can be bought with dope. — They will all stuff their cheeks with pity. — Baddies, your mama, turncoats. — I’ll gouge out your eyes, tyrants. — These are dying, these are frozen. — Are these the lands you inhabit.

Impenitent in the ruins. — Ancestor of my lost grandchildren. — From the fires of the holy Russian camp. — I’ll buy myself a portrait of Stalin. — Even a tyrant, even a devil. — I’ll exchange it for a cross and an amulet. — I’ll be a scum, you’ll dream of me. — Hello, motherland! We are your herd.

We are your cattle and your flock. — We will cook a dish for you. — From two thousand years of fearlessness. — Eat it, dog! paid for with blood! — Our granary is looted. — A grey roof slides sideways. — Our gates are unassailable. — They were torn like a mouth by a yawn. Your lover ogles-Gogols you. — My Dostoevsky homeland — the cornea of the deer’s eye. — Fierce dogs have torn your guts out.

Hey, icon-painting sluts! Raise your shamelessness, your crimson skirts. — Your eyes, tired as God. — Your foolish ginger heads. — Hey, My Rublyov poets, how much heresy there is in you. — My down-to-earth girls, my reckless boys.

Pavel Vasiliev

Artyom Vesyoly

Ivan Pribludny

Boris Kornilov

Come to me, my friends. — We’ll eat black berries together. — I ask you for understanding. — I bring you a request for mercy from my heavenly district. — Your names are in my name. — Our motherland is our protectress. — Eyes up and keep the music quieter — the day of commemoration begins.

I’ll buy myself a portrait of Stalin…

the sound of a bell

the scent of flowers

you

dancing a waltz alone

on a hill

your legs are so alluring

I dreamt the most radiant dream

in a rickety truck

where I was lost among

the corpses of people

who were shot along with me

In the midnight heat at a café

by the Jordan

everything was mixed.

The cocktail did not cool.

Faces were touched

with inspired heat:

the explosive wave was

as soft as sour cream.

The head trembles.

Where do we attack?

The East is scattered.

Borders are everywhere.

Everything was mixed.

And the machine gun is pitiful.

The brain is squashed with terror,

like a tomato.

O, spine of mine,

I cannot flee from you!

Above the ocean troubles have begun,

their step rattles like a happy skeleton.

Here midnight is beaten by exquisite rockets,

their crimson gullet raised to the Almighty.

But He does not grant a cry nor a sigh.

The infantry tears ribcages in a roar,

and lets hearts go free, enraged.

And the funeral songs of the East.

And the thin throats of rockets in the dawn.

Stay away from the flash of cigarettes:

here snipers don’t believe in glowworms.

Where’s that Semite who asked us a question?

The answer’s ready, please come in after three

glasses. Boy, give us a pomegranate.

And a knife — to cut it into pieces,

and a dish to gather the crimson juice.

Allah Aqbar, O my little counterpart!

Let us break this vulgar omnipotence.

Sunrise. The East is losing its boundaries.

Ripping off the skin, it is sweet to discover

the rye meat. Here the fat is layered.

I stamp my foot: East, reveal your soul to me!

Can it really be a pathetic gap?

Inside Saddam the wind seeks its echo.

Inside Adam it is muffled, like in the earth.

But at Sodom a blunder appears

in a hat with earflaps, and shows a tipsy face.

Be afraid then, haggard neurotic,

the quiet heel will squash you.

And there will be peace.

And blossoming will come into the world.

We will see crooked caterpillars in the flowers.

The gloom of trousers will impassively arise,

without distinguishing the guilty

and the innocent.

Meanwhile we are still a little tipsy.

The East hangs like a curtain in Israeli cafes.

We listen to a recording from Palestine.

Meat concert in the café by the Jordan…

…better to make a hole in the snowy

crust with rusty spit,

to whisper with your face in the snow:

“well, you’ve fired your shots, soldier…”,

not to call the ones who have gone

to the height, where our

piece of land was taken and appropriated,

and better, squinting, to see a furious flag,

softening like honey in the sky,

and hear the step of unseen phalanxes,

the phalanx of the finger touching the trigger,

and better to fondle and caress your trouble,

your troublesome, but proper victory,

feeding on nasty anger, and in delirium

to carry into Thursday what repelled

you on Wednesday —

there, Father, there is the Fatherland, that’s all;

there is no more meaning here, no answer,

fallen leaves, weeds of the steppe,

misery baked from age to age.

For you the Empire stinks, and we are the serfs

Of the Empire, we are its dust and smoke,

We are its salt, and every two meters

We sanctify her Highness with ourselves.

There is a salty taste here, here at dawn

rye blood rises up to the heavens,

earthly forgetfulness dances with us

from “so far” to “urgently,”

here the heavens are big-bellied,

their undercoat

is slimy and musty, it does not warm,

but steams,

here every unrepentant teenager

is nastily tongue-tied.

Here our tongues are frozen,

our stomachs, each

eyelash, each hair,

we are all nameless, but every fallen one

sits among us at the gloomy table.

So, it is better — better, as we are,

as we were, and as we will be,

here are the ribs — to protect the heart,

here is the cross,

here are the painful crossroads

of the homeland,

and I would rather have its vastness

than your bending, calculating,

gossip, budgets,

your smirks, nasty lies,

futile words and false victories…

Forgetfulness. I don’t remember childhood,

the order of numbers, the writing of words…

My softened heart

has outgrown me for good.

I searched for you, looked out for news,

I followed you into the wilderness, and there

the branches that you pushed aside

hit me so sweetly in the eyes.