TEXT ADDITIONS — Артикуляция

Transitions №6

Translated by Asya Stromberg, Andrew Burlutsky

TEXT ADDITIONS

― I’ll finish it― she said ―
and tomorrow I’ll send you
the additions to the text
because it doesn’t make sense without it
when will the text be published?

― I hope it will be published soon
I replied ―
but not right away:
we were blocked
on that side
and on this side
on almost every side

but there is still a way out ―
it’s always there.
you just have to move up
to where the blockers
don’t get there.

I’m hopeful.
that things will still work out
for us.

nothing came from her.
not the next day
or a week later.

and then I got a message
that she had disappeared:
gone or disappeared.
no one can say for sure.

and the additions to the text
have not been found under the rubble
and the search can no longer be continued
because time, too, has broken
it couldn’t stand
collapsed under the impact
and the charred parts
of the former hours and minutes lie everywhere.

I looked at what I had sent earlier
and suddenly I saw
additions to the text.

not everything in them was clear.
but it was her text
done by my hand.

She got it right.

I just hope…
that it works.
for me, too.

Translated by Asya Stromberg

+++

when you came back
you brought back your red hair from the war
we didn’t realize right away
it was a flame
we touched it
and burned our fingers

then the curtains
caught fire
and they burned quickly.
and we could see
what was behind them
but the whole house burst into flames
and is still burning

It is a lingering horror.

but we can’t tell you, darling:
it would be better if you didn’t come back from the war
we can’t tell you that…

Translated by Asya Stromberg

+++

…and the month bled out
and cheeks did not turn red
on the contrary, the pallor appeared more clearly on them.

the sky took on our shame
the wounds were overgrown with grass
and inside the tree trunks flowed the erythrocytic plasma
spilled earlier on the snow

Translated by Andrew Burlutsky

+++

how much, careful man, your speech says
when you are silent!

how much your song says
when you don’t sing!

your silence is for those who know how to receive
for those who have the gates of the second hearing open

but they already have
a lot of things within themselves

original author’s text in English

+++

…and we saw the infernal dance of the branches…
…fanciful poses…
a showy fossil
there is no wind in the underworld
or is there not?

The leaves have left the branches
now they’re on their own
but the leaves don’t fall
they hang in the air
they still choose a place for themselves
on the scorched earth

Translated by Andrew Burlutsky

+++

for now and every day
and especially on holidays
little boys and girls in military uniforms
are moving ahead of armored vehicles:
they are trampling future path for the tanks

Translated by Asya Stromberg

+++

— why is it so cold this spring?
— too many dead have accumulated
they have stopped giving warmth
to this earth

Translated by Asya Stromberg

A LARGE BARN FOR A PIG

they say that when Atlantis was bombed
the water was boiling
and the shores were shaking
then the message came:
an eruption began

lava flowed down the slopes
they say the volcano was wounded
by a stone from the throwing machine of the Romans
or I don’t know what

they say two peasants were standing
at one of the beautiful columns
and it swayed

— well, it’s going to collapse —
said one —
what’s the difference
who cares, we’ll take it apart for bricks
we’ll fill in the foundations of the hut
we’ll fill in the hole at the entrance
we’ll build
a large barn for a pig

Translated by Andrew Burlutsky

+++

at night the sleeping sun shudders
a high-precision blow
the glass in my chest is shattered
plaster creaking on my teeth

the dream has moved too far south
there is no more snow
the blood is hard to see on the black ground

do not read the news
before going to bed

Translated by Asya Stromberg

+++

…Ancient cavemen appear here and there.
…to carry heavy ancient stones…
to throw at the enemy

and the children of the ancient people come
to carry children’s ancient stones
to throw at the enemy.

Translated by Asya Stromberg

BOUNDARY OF SILENCE

― Where is the border of silence
and is it worth talking about
if we can’t talk about the main things?

we must mark the border of silence

and our silence will talk of the main things
instead of us

Translated by Andrew Burlutsky

+++ +++

Before you rejoice in the fact
that you are not working as a hangman’s axe
look ―
don’t you serve as a cutting board?

Translated by Andrew Burlutsky

+++

in the evenings, the murdered
record their observations on Facebook
I’m reading
and put a «we’re together» sign
as a «like»

original author’s text in English

DISCONNECTED

there are pieces of cables sticking out of his head
now they are useless
he mechanically goes over them
there is terror in his head
and regret
how could he not have had time
to move
to a place where no one is turned off

now he has no eyes
to see the world
no ears
to hear his voice.
no mouth
to speak to those
who are out there
no hands
to give or receive the gift.

all he sees now
are the walls of his home prison.
all he hears
the prison radio.
all he takes
is a bowl of lies
that they give him

Translated by Andrew Burlutsky

+++ ++

here it is already at an end ―
a time of primal terror
and the time of comprehending it

then there is usually a period of habituation…
evasiveness develops
an artificial inflammation of one’s own condition
trying to live
when there is no life around

a sense of futility follows
enjoying one’s own despondency
enjoying the scenery of ruin
dancing among the ruins of buildings and the ruins of yourself
that’s when the apocalyptic pictures appear
monstrous music
unbearable and beautiful poems will be born

death creates its own art
its main features
is the prematurity
the inevitability of catharsis
the magic of waiting for the end

but instead of the end
always a new enlightenment comes

Translated by Andrew Burlutsky

+++

…and now it’s getting warmer.
the air has warmed up.

a lot of hot blood
spilling over the black earth.

Translated by Andrew Burlutsky

+++

no, it’s not hard for me to be a bird and fly
I’m not tired
steel is hidden in my wing
and my essence is made of springs

no, it’s not hard for me to fly over the abyss
above it the air is the same
and hold the streets ascending up

no, I am not yet tired of life
I did not come to live for an hour

I was born when time was burning
and fire crews were falling from walls engulfed in flame.
and now time continues to burn
the bad times are burning the good times
they fanned the extinguished fire, blew on the embers
and the flame was rekindled
what burns never tires of burning
and when it burns out, I don’t know if I will stay in this world.
but I am not tired of flying, nor am I tired of becoming a bird
at the evenings

Translated by Andrew Burlutsky

AROUND THE POINT OF IMPACT

a vacuum forms around the impact site
sounds don’t go in
and don’t go out
a physical deafness
and a deafness of terror

around the point of impact, time is numb and wondering
where to wake up
where to make the breakthrough:
forward
or backward?
no, sideways
from the fact
what the arrows can’t display
from something that doesn’t involve numbers

and the viewer is late
his gaze first went to the side
and hid
he was obstructed by the blinds of the century
a layer of concrete
armor or lead
his own stone thoughts
a meter thick

and whoever ended up here
he’s no longer here
he is blind.
but before he could be blinded
he left himself
and the shadow of his gaze vanished with him.
his thought was too subtle

the survivor is made of rough stuff
he crawls around the crash site
in search of a passageway
to the former world.
to the former self.
groping the ground with his fingers

Translated by Andrew Burlutsky

+++

the occasional sigh of darkness opens for a moment
its own surface
from the invisible world:
it’s surface is horrible
it cannot be described

this surface remains on the retina.
is projected into the region of the brain
rewritten into the memory area
to slowly burn out the remnants
of what was stored there

here is the face of darkness
composed of giant wrinkles
mountain ridges
reflecting the misery of the bowels

what did the monster go through
swallowing worlds one by one?
the titan’s trauma is enormous
is the strangled groan of the flaming bowels

pleading for mercy is useless
Before the roar of the flames it’s like a barely audible squeak

Translated by Andrew Burlutsky

+++

the darkness separates from the darkness
the funnel separates from the funnel
the abyss divides itself in half
then in half again

the trauma of the star is endless
the spawn of hell
the autumn of cyanide dreams

do you see in a future
this mushroom cloud
his juicy flesh of discord
a paralysis as the fruit of knowledge?

a fresh cut of mycelium
the body of the mold blooms
visionaries wipe their glasses
and drink bitterish milk

Translated by Andrew Burlutsky

+++

the language of darkness licks off a speech
words die in the air
in the memory
and on the sheets

only smudges and irregularities remain
where the letters used to be
the echo of daytime meanings
that have left our bushes
faded away

today the oblivion has armed itself:
the ancient animal cry
from the universe of the body
of its predatory guts

the beast sensed the near death
and woke up
woke up in the daytime to hunt
ahead of time
went to the watering hole

rumble of pebbles
footprints in the sand
leaves turned into pipes
twilight
a new discourse:
roar and flowers closed in
an answering rustling and roar

Translated by Andrew Burlutsky

+++

our time has stopped.
shuddered
looked at his hands
and was horrified

now time moves to the past
retreats
walks backwards through the bloody bandages

Translated by Andrew Burlutsky

NOW LET OTHERS START TALKING ABOUT THE WAR

now let others start talking about the war
give voices to innocent victims
give voices to those who bled in the fields
and died in the hospital
give voices to severed heads
to torn out tongues
to amputated legs
give voices to them —
let them talk about the roads of war

let the ears of the deaf convey
what they hear now — one endless ringing

and let the eyes of the blind tell
about eternal darkness and the light that flashed for a moment

and the generals colonels political officers commissars
strategies and tactics
analysts and forecasters
and
the others
and
the others
let them keep quiet for now
let them listen to those who know
but could not tell
let them listen to those who saw
and who were not allowed to tell

Now let others start talking about the war

Translated by Asya Stromberg

+++

— every sun is born to rise
and then to fall into the lake and drown

the next sun will rise without me —
says the butterfly —
I live one day only
but I have time to know everything:
my own growth
my love
the falling
and the sunset

Translated by Asya Stromberg