A Gust of Wind
Curtains are being blown in:
asailing boat has crushed into our room,
it filled the air with the sea,
with blue salt. Parquet on the deck.
Salty splashes on the papered walls…
Wind with a rose in its teeth,
like with a naval boarding sword,
had toppled the vase over
and is climbing up the carpet.
A split second – and the blue world
splashes an incarnation into our faces,
a phantom of another epoch.
The ashes of manuscripts resist,
come back to life, gets filled with cellulose,
and words arise on the white pages.
And the ventlights fight, swing,
thrash each other like one-armed boxers.
.
занавески вдуваются внутрь:
парусник врезался в нашу квартиру,
наполнил комнатный воздух морем,
голубой солью, на палубе – паркет.
соленые брызги на обоях,
и ветер с розой в зубах, как с абордажной саблей –
опрокинул вазу, ползет по ковру;
один миг – и синий мир швырнул нам в лицо
инкарнацию, фантом иной эпохи,
мокрые брызги.
так пепел рукописей сопротивляется,
наливается плотью, целлюлозой,
и на белых листках – проявляются слова,
и форточки дерутся, лупят друг дружку,
как однорукие боксеры.
.
Windows Washed by Rains
Windows washed by rains
are still empty
like newborn babies’ eyes.
There’s no soul yet,
and life hasn’t left
the scum of rust,
of pain and glory,
or sketches of depth
on the inner walls of the eyes.
The dark ribbon of the highway
runs unto the forest like a tapeworm
into a flatfish’s stomach.
A cyclist rustles softly
as if the very earth breathes through his wheels.
The soft flickering of the spokes –
rotating mechanical lungs –
and my head fills with the understanding of the world
like a bathyscaphe that gets filled with a mysterious fluid…
.
окна, омытые дождями –
как глаза младенцев, еще пусты.
еще нет души, жизнь ещё не оставила на стенках зрачков
накипь ржавчины, боли и радости.
зарисовки глубины.
темная лента шоссе убегает в лес, как солитер,
в желудок камбалы,
мягко шуршит велосипедист, точно сама земля дышит
сквозь его колеса,
и мягкое мелькание спиц –
вращающиеся механически легкие;
голова наполняется пониманием мира,
как батискаф – таинственной жидкостью…
Poet’s Bio
Dmitry Blizniuk is an author from Ukraine. His most recent poems have appeared in Poet Lore, The Pinch, Salamander, Willow Springs, Grub Street, Magma Poetry and many others. A Pushcart Prize nominee, he is also the author of “The Red Fоrest” (Fowlpox Press, 2018). He lives in Kharkov, Ukraine. Member of PEN America.
Translator’s Bio
Sergey Gerasimov is a Ukraine-based writer, poet, and translator of poetry. Among other things, he has studied psychology. He is the author of several academic articles on cognitive activity. When he is not writing, he leads a simple life of teaching, playing tennis, and kayaking down beautiful Ukrainian rivers. The largest book publishing companies in Russia, such as AST, Eksmo, and others have published his books. His stories and poems written in English have appeared in Adbusters, Clarkesworld Magazine, Strange Horizons, J Journal, The Bitter Oleander, and Acumen, among many others. His last book is “Oasis” published by Gypsy Shadow. The poetry he translated has been nominated for several Pushcart Prizes.
