Poetry by
from:
in the wet tongue of water
we are the uppermost of fish
we are a splash
as if of a stone
we are a form
fickle as a cloud
we are flesh
we are warmth
we are thirst
...
in the
far-off lexicon of stars
we are still being counted
in the class
of interjections
...
in the
heavenly tongue of space
we are the feelers of earth
we feel ourselves
we twine with each other
before
we stretch up
towards
the stars
...
resin
is eternity
in the tongue of trees
trees
are minutes
in the tongue of resin
we are seconds
with the axes
of cutting questions
at the feet
of omniscient
minutes
Translated from Russian by Francis R.
Jones. An excerpt from: In Anyone's Tongue, Forest Books, London &
Boston, 1992, bilingual edition: Russian-English. © Vyacheslav Kupriyanov.
The terrible attraction
to strangers
The fear like a burden
of how to be
with your loved ones
O the solemn certainty
of plants!
Their love
they have entrusted
to the insects
the birds
and the wind
The Egyptian pyramids
those bunkers for state mummies
raised up against cataclysm
poor boys
they don't realise
that their curious descendants
long ago made them exhibits
in defenceless museums
All thruogh my
long life
the darkness of the night
has not altered
But it seemed to me
that the stars
grew more attentive
one to another
One night it swims up
to the top of your bed
and stretches wide its jaws:
your army-issue iron bedstead
is what saves you
Before dawn half asleep
you think how good that
you're still a soldier
and can sleep on a bedstead
that is iron and reliable
Come the morning a different iron
is what waits for you
Translated from Russian by Steve Holland.
© Vyacheslav Kupriyanov.
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