Poetry Archives Bio
September 17, 2014
an evening in fukuoka

2:50 AM

This is my translation of «вечер в фукуоке».

three white guys wait in line patiently
I am taken aside
put at a table

what have you brought  point and choose
in broken english ask me the screws
and I in broken japanese reply

clothing shampoo appareil photo
suddenly the mongrel muzzle official
my books in the backpack comes by


blankly stares the sentinel at cummings's verses
and espying a stroke of a woman's breast
tells me whoa boy ain't this what I think
what kind of filth have you stuffed with the rest

my packed away world is turned upside downwards
(empty pill bottles give them the vapours
I—an a priori recidivist
(why a russian with canadian papers

but no marijuana or cocaine
can be found no criminal evidence
putting away my earthly possessions
to the bitches in blue I insist—innocent


boku wa ii hito desu I say
kao wa warui desu ka I ask
and he to me with surprise jobbu desu
as if the shine of his boots to mask

if for you cocksucker it's just a job
you wouldn't only the gaijins shake down
now I've got no time for your slimy small talk
of the pisswater beer in your one-horse town

dura lex what to say but all proof at a loss
I went out (in my thoughts giving the fascists sieg heil
and out on the street a line of cabs
and the city and a long dark mile

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.

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