Poetry Archives Bio
August 28, 2014
Love in the Time of War

11:41 PM

This is my translation of Любовь во время войны by Борис Гребенщиков [Boris Grebenshchikov]. This time, I have deviated from the original text less than before, still managing to maintain the rhythm of the song.

In addition, I also subtitled a recording of Grebenshchikov's performance using my translation.

I don't remember how I stepped out the door.
But here, the heaviest sky over a broken road,
At the end of which they lie about our promised rest from afar.

Above us unfurled a winter banner.
No faces against us, no faces beside us.
Don't dare approach until you tell us who you really are.


Out on the streets rage, the engine roars.
All rolled up into asphalt that same forest
Where was revealed to us that which you can't say in words.

I now hear the work of shovels,
We are the targets of sunset cannons,
But soon their bullets will start exploding right in their hands.


I feel with my spine the thickening shadows' haunting.
The river on fire, and the bridges raised from the shore.
In his kindness the good Lord grants us that which we wanted.
Grants us the love, the love, the love, in the time of war.


And I reach out my palms—my palm,
But it's all the same as putting out fire with napalm.
Hand in hand, abyss—I know this madness by heart.

And I don't know who I am, or recall whom I've been,
But my blood is now much stronger than steel,
They'll be shit out of luck when I'll finally wake up.


I know in my mind that around neither ice nor snowdrifts,
But I'm neck-deep in snow and can't see spring as before.
Lord, tell me who we are that we all so wished

So that the love, the love, the love,
The love, the love, the love,
Without fail in the time of war.

August 20, 2014
сик транзит

10:08 PM
To Olga Sviatchenko

куда ни приеду—шум в ушах
посадка-пересадка
в руках гладь шрама

в глазах темень
с останкино дым веет
останками стараго храма


не дадите на чай
или отчаянно замечай
златой век пробежал

пред глазами моими
штампы и вензеля
тяжко давят на веки


грифов кричат крылья
совершенно секретно
и всё известно

и по по  по по по
повторяется время
медленно и незаметно


бога смотри не убий
не меняй ярлыки
на рабочем столе

в субботу звякни
и не называй вслух
никогда страхи свои


подпевай оркестру
плати по счетам
и иди вперёд смело

і пам'ятай завжди
чорне залишається
чорним а біле білим

July 16, 2014
a hare can be anywhere

11:16 PM
To Olga Sviatchenko

a hare can nestle in your hair
a hare can stare from its dark lair

a hare is bigger than a pear
a hare is smaller than a bear

(I never thought that you could be
so more mercurial than me

beware the hare that's hiding there
you're guaranteed to find a hare

if— look, there! a hare!

May 17, 2014
Saturday

11:12 PM
To Rod Moody-Corbett

I smell ozone in the air.
The parking lot is full of cars.
The soccer players return from their game.
I have not written poetry for a long time.

Today was a strange day:
I went to the bank.
I had an argument with my future wife about nothing.
I helped you look for your keys and fed you tea that was too hot.

      Somewhere in between—

      I misremembered something from Gatsby;
      You half-recalled a line from "Prufrock";
      You spoke fondly and sadly of Cheever;
      I remembered Ginsberg in line at the bookstore.

I made a bad joke about your hair.
We drove.
The smooth and treacherous Crowchild ran.
It began to rain.

I dropped you off and went home
thinking of the fine filigree of your soul
and the last line of the poem
which is this.

April 12, 2014
A Good Day

6:15 PM
To Olga Sviatchenko

I am trying to have a good day,
but I am sad because you are sad.

I bought some books today.
I took a walk. I drove.

I bought some notebooks also
and thought of writing in them.

I am trying to have a bad day,
but I am good because you are good.

I read some poetry today.
I cared only for some of it.

I am going to dedicate so
many poems to you, remember.

I am trying to have a good day,
but I am happy because you are happy.

I tried to drink some coffee and go to sleep
but instead I sat down and wrote this.

March 22, 2014
Re: Re: Medicaments

12:54 PM

This piece was written in Signal Mosaic, in response to Morroque's "Re: Medicaments", for a score of 10,367.

Benny Benson begins browsing best burnished brown bros, burrows big, bushiest brows. Tired Tom Thompson tries trust, ten ton tent technologies. Driving, Dodd Doddson deletes deleterious dove droves. Len Lenson lends Lorrie Lonson less lonely-looking, loopy looky-loos. Rob Robson rides red robins; Ron rubs, robs ruddy Rose Ronson rudderwise: "Row, row." Frink fines fros. Inez Innisworth irks ill Ike. Ennis Eton ends eel egos. Kenneth Kenilworth kills krill.

March 20, 2014
dangerous times

2:04 AM

 adumbrated by twilight
    the words drip out
like garbage juice
   out of a torn bag

       decimator joe tells
   guillemet andropov
         end of process
      she retort

      i asked for homo milk
  but all they had was
       milk of
    human kindness


      ¿shop by gender
i always thought
   hand grenades went very well
 with my pantyhose

 tangible telepresence
   the philosophy of foreskin
hands & conscience dirty
   with ftlong hamburglar

      note to self: buy a hedgehog
          read vonnegut to it
   stay away from wild animals
      & animals acting strangely


     did you know
  if you find a dead bird
  you no longer need to call 
        public health

     using a shovel  double bag
        the bird & put it out
  with your garbage or bury it
      at least two ft deep in your yard

      then wash your hands
   thoroughly
        with water
     & soap

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