Still Life with Potato Field
by Anzhelina Polonskaya
Tell me, why is there war
if not to leave buckles in lumps of clay ?
The potato field sleeps. At night you can’t imagine
who’ll be lying down in the blue beet tops by morning.
A cold year. The train cars smell
of rubber boots, bodies, and exhalation.
A distant port wanders with ships
and in the crowd it’s easy to seem a refugee.
Time marches on. The clockface strides
with metal arrows, like a crane in the lagoon.
The bazaars are filled with traders,
while cigarette smoke reddens the moon like a sabre.
The house is like a white fish diving into the mist.
It’s been a long time since there was light in the window.
At the edge of the field a female figure freezes,
hiding potatoes in the folds of her skirt.
In the leaden air, where there’s no place for lungs
you hear only the clang of a gate’s hasp.
For an instant the face looks out into the night,
then hides its grief behind sticky fingers.
Translated by Andrew Wachtel.
Alone in my room to Mother
by Anzhelina Polonskaya
I’m in my room.
Alone.
Remnants of sleep
stick to my eyelids,
like flies.
Window wells
heave
with cold snow —
a trilogy of dawn,
day, and night.
You told me:
“sooner or later
time will hang black locks
on our doors.
We’ll go
to other
midday shadows
and rustling leaves.
That’s how mothers go, but
children remain.”
And during the nights, when
insomniac snows
pile onto the roof,
I etch that truth
with a knife.
Translated by Andrew Wachtel.
(in the middle of a conversation)
by Alexander Mironov
. . . Hello, hello, I only hear you badly!
— Goodness! I can’t see anything,
though I’m glad to see and hear you.
Change phones.
I’m looking for . . . Where are my glasses ? Are you waiting ?
(The guests have arrived and I have as many concerns
as an apple tree has apples) — Yes, I’m waiting.
— Oh, I’m sorry for all the noise and bustle . . .
— Hello, hello, I can hear you badly . . .
Fix your phone . . . (I can’t see
a way to fix it.
And what for ? I need another heart to install.)
Translated from Russian by Aleksey Porvin and Tony Brinkley
BOA
by Alexander Mironov
Horror, after many years,
Will turn out to be less bitter,
Like the boa constrictor embracing
Your neck but feeling only itself
In the funeral movement of the body —
Consciousness — body — . . .
Horror, after many years,
Will be hollow and will embrace you,
deceive you with some “pas,”
And finish with some “arabesque”:
There life is left — just for fun . . ..
Hang oneself ? — but there is nobody to hang with.
Translated from Russian by Aleksey Porvin and Tony Brinkley.