#ExperimentationsInSelfTranslation. Volume One

Transitions №7

Author: Ilya Ash


there is no sense
nor courage

time is frozen still and the person

isn't breathing: looking at you and
doesn't dare

and the murky mirror
doesn't dare

the anxious inane snow of april
the clueless people swirling down
then fall asleep

not giving away
they're waiting for something to happen



in the rips separating the words
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍ ‍‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍rain is falling
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍ ‍‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍like the credits
‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍ ‍‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍of an old motion picture

there‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍where the memory won't let you
‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍ ‍‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ say a word —
black dashes of birds

feel these goosebumps
flicker beneath the fingertips

rehearsal of pilgrimage

anxious silence
of an attempt



degrees of control

masha's slumber
in a wicker box

reckless winter

of them who fell asleep
on the side of the road
in one shoe



the spot of light
if you open wide
your eyes without a preparation

so the tenderness does with an anxious



it is impossible to comprehend
what the palm tries to convey
is it I know you
or I don't recognize you
come closer

is it a big road inside you
unfolding as a scroll of your making
or is it just ~ wander around hugging around
seeking up and down the rural lanes

and it is always, you know, so embarrassing
so disconcerting
for the cold infantry of your
words that guiding the blind

twilight is just a continuation of sorrow
— twilight meant something to us
— what?
— twilight meant — something

the key to that little door
from the teeth of these lost who'd been loved

we were always foreseeing
some vague possibilities
some wyrd cryptics

to the noise

you can reach out your hand
but it is important not to turn around

at the shout that calls you



what goes around
what clings close
observes in silence
barely perceptible


at the fingertips
of outstretched hand

a fait accompli
at the distance of a voice

not quite grasping
can't pick the right card
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍ ‍‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍the orphanhood

wandering aimlessly
tracing the quarantine street
as a finger down the spine



mame oh mame
may I walk about with a gun shooting peeps

mame oh mame
where are we going why is hell whispering into our ears

mame oh mame
we are very soon gonna die

mame oh mame
we'll be over the golden peaks, gardens of green and beyond the sky

mame oh mame
we'll shrink to the size of a fig, pocketed tight

mame oh mame
we'll be meek and slumbering with all our might

oh mame-mame we'll be there mournful
full of grieve in hindsight

but if we mame
won't die easily by tremendous chance

no sweat
we'll find our misery even there without a fuss



"the words are a crystal tomb
that squash into the womb of a tongue
like into fire"

one's knocking the ashes into a half-empty shot glass

the elongated human bodies
flicker spark ascend to the ceiling
then drift and fade away

"the tongue was given us to contort the pain
to charm the silence
and also to give names —

but it escapes instead into a kiss"



like being woven out of thin air
but actually more subtle
was absent absent
spoke and spoke again
but did not say the most important thing:

was absent

and at this point we walk out of the room
asking what's going on
but there is just breathing in and out
nothing more

the giant is crowded by his chaffy stuff (he stands alone)
the girl in turn cares scar under her breast
exempli gratia just once forget yourself and wake up as vasily borodin, the poet
or wake up in the year two thousand and thirteen

there's nothing here and nothing happens there
the glass ball holds another ball of glass
the alphabet has myriad of feathers

these funny words
are couching twisted up
portraying words



speaking of disappearance
the search for words spins
in the fog of experience
of tender memory

cut in pieces and reassembled
left behind and (un)waited
(un)willing to be

on a rough thread of a touch