Poetry Archives Bio
August 14, 2015
my wife is not crazy

9:32 PM

With apologies to Vladimir Nabokov.

I used to be together with this chick
Who happened to be Asian; she was thick
In both (or every) senses of the word,
And our relationship was quite absurd.
She thought herself a poet-bard and fucked
About/around on me behind my back,
And now she is a politician/hack
By way of Boston, or perhaps of Yale.

The second Asian chick was, without fail,
Quite oftentimes wordsmith extraordinaire,
And though she often was a willing sport
(Of which, I am quite sure, you know the sort)
She indicated gently, by and by,
That our relationship would stultify
Her love towards the dragon eye
Belonging to her mighty matriarch.

The third inamorata was at heart
A cook; she'd swoon at gilded ladles, spoons
Hanging face-down from gilded metal hooks.
She never loved to read and had few books
Except Williams-Sonoma catalogues,
And now (all jest aside) I often think
She saw me as: a pot, a colander, perhaps a sink
Cheerfully clothed in shiny stainless steel.

I truth, I think less often than I feel
That (all good times with certainty apart)
This isn't even matter for the heart
But a quite lucid thing in logic's vein.
To put it simply, my wife's not insane:
She won't a raven for a writing desk mistake,
For her, a pain is a pedestrian ache,
A play of light is but an optic trick.

July 24, 2015

12:04 PM

die steward
   dances on the head
  of a pin

       leaving no doubt
          of his theatrical as

  by th flick
        of his wrist

July 3, 2015

8:46 PM

ад тих и холоден
рай лют
          ¿что есть

                            в жертву
                     обмене валют

              на бок (бог переложит
                       ножей подложите
                       про пере принесите

голову сельди
перьев птиц

                               тени падают
                            от вековечной лени

        лицо режет
        решётка линий

                                      почём гений

за что отдашь
 ¿по колено

                         за что




June 25, 2015
To The Ex Next

10:19 AM

This is my anagrammatic translation of Christian Bök's "The Xenotext".

Fealty is felony
imp sir

If so arty heresy
go flow

June 3, 2015
About What You Can Write

8:20 PM

This is my translation of «О чём можно писать» by Владимир Трофимов [Vladimir Trofimov].

You cannot write: about the bureaucratic,
Of officers, soldats fanatic,
Of strikes, or any modern movements,
Of clergy, social improvements,
Of the muzhik, ministre seditious,
Of executions, Cossacks vicious,
Of the gendarmes, detentions presto,
Of robberies, of manifestos!
But all the rest—print simply must
Denounce with apposite disgust!
And when you write it—check, prithee,
             "128" and "103". . .

May 24, 2015
Appearances' insane assortments...

1:26 AM

This is my translation of an excerpt from «Евгений Онегин Пушкина» by Дмитрий Пригов [Dmitrii Prigov] (which, in turn, is an intralingual translation of «Евгений Онегин» by Александр Пушкин [Aleksandr Pushkin] that rewrites the classic poem in Mikhail Lermontov’s "romantic" style while substituting all adjectives and epithets with only two Lermontovian adjectives bezumnyi [insane] and nezemnoi [unearthly]). I reproduce the original excerpt below.

Appearances' insane assortments
His insane tenderness of eyes
With Olga his insane deportment
In his insanity’s full guise
She in insanity’s unable,
To worry not, insane, unstable
She is by an insane ache grand
As if it is an insane hand
Insanely heart like chasm spacious
Insane under her rushes, peaks
Insanely then our Tania speaks
Insanity for him quite gracious
Insanity! Why to complain?
Insanity he can obtain!

Его безумным появленьем
Безумной нежностью очей
Безумным с Ольгой поведеньем
Во всей безумности своей
Она безумная не может
Безумная понять, тревожит
Ее безумная тоска
Словно безумная рука
Безумно сердце жмет, как бездна
Безумная под ней шумит
Безумно Таня говорит
Безумье для него любезно
Безумие! Зачем роптать!
Безумие он может дать!

May 23, 2015
Transsiberian Ozymandias

6:52 PM

This is my translation of „Transsibirischer Ozymandias“ by Durs Grünbein (which, in turn, is a translation of "Ozymandias" by Percy Bysshe Shelley). I reproduce Grünbein's translation below.

"I met a tourist from his antique land
He says: There in the desert ever stand paired
Huge and hollow trunks of stone. What more, there near them
Half in sand a sunken ruined mug lies still. Its grin
Speaks volumes of all cold command and narrow lip is ice
Showing so well the artist with all zeal acquainted
That it remains now, printed in dead matter yet,
How hand here changed and how the heart here painted;
And on the pedestal the sentence stays in stone:
'My name is Ozymandias, Tsar of Tsars:
See all my works now, all you mighty, then despair!'
There's nothing else around. To the decay
From the colossal wreck, all desolate and bare,
Stretches the flat and lonely sand far there."

Transsibirischer Ozymandias

»Traf ich ein Tourist aus sein antik Land
Der sagt: In der Wüste steht ein Paar gewaltige
Rumpflose Bein aus Stein. Daneben, halb in Sand
Versunken liegt Visage, ruiniert. Ihr Grinsen
Kalte Befehlsgewalt und die gefrorne schmale Lipp
Zeigen wie gut sich Künstler Leidenschaft studierte
Daß sie erhalten bleibt, geprägt in tote Stoff,
Wie Hand hier tauschte und wie Herz staffierte;
Und auf dem Sockel steht geschrieben diese Spruch:
›Mein Name Ozymandias, Zar der Zaren:
Seht meine Werke, Mächtige, und dann verzweifelt!‹
Nichts sonst was ringsum ist. Um den Zerfall
Von kolossale Wrack, grenzenlos öd und leer,
Dehnt flache Sand sich einsam weit dahin.«

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