June 25, 1939
It's
frightening to die, and such a shame to leave
This
captivating riffraff that enchants me;
The
stuff so dear to poets, so very lovely,
I
never celebrated; it somehow wasn't to be.
I
loved to come back home at the break of dawn
And
shift my things around in half an hour.
I
loved the white windowsill, and also the flower,
The
carved faceted glass, and also the water,
And
the heavens, greenish-azure in their color—
And
that I was a poet and a wicked man.
And
when every June came with my birthday again
I'd
idolize that holiday, bustling
With
verses by friends and congratulations from women,
With
crystal laughter, and gay glasses clinking
And
the lock of that hair, unique, individual
And
that kiss, so entirely inevitable.
But
now at home it’s all set up differently;
It's
June and I no longer have that homesickness.
In
this way, life is teaching me patience,
And
turbid, my blood now is stirring this birthday,
And
a secret anxiety is tormenting me—
What
have I done with my great destiny,
Oh
my God, what have I done with me!
Arseny
Tarkovsky
©
Translation by Larissa Shmailo
*
* *
it's
like a rain wall
or
a wall of news
when
you crumble like chalk
as
if the world lurched
and
it could still be saved
only
in this way
crumbling
but
the world is precisely this wall of news
into
which your chalk is embedded
*
* *
speech
stones flow around the dictionary of nothing
you
have seven of them in your sinus
mouth,
nine
aporia
accompanies lyusis
<unleashing
decision>
when
you decide to untie
the
node of life
say
*
* *
the
grammarian distributes the semes
a
fraction of seeds
sacrificial
miniscule
a
name is a gravestone
circumcision
and
shiva's wool is dipped in a boiling column
of
dancing flames
but
the heart
heart
in vain
©
Alexandr Skidan
Translated
by Larissa Shmailo and the author
