by Shamshad Abdullaev|
translated by Alex Cigale

The distance — like a madman’s pupil.  Under the throat
a flower curls about rapidly and droops behind the shoulders —
a deep crimson Cesar rose on the dark heel of the hillside.  You are
wearing a corduroy jacket and a sweaty mask.  The automobile —
a tormented animal dreaming of a cage.  The road
emerges from under the wheels
splitting the sun’s vapors.  Where are we heading?
The air bangs at the side of your face; foreigners; the radio
announcer chatters affectedly — something
between a playboy and Mallarme and you snicker.  Even
speech — is no exit.  More like a foray into the depth
of a viscous aimlessness where the dull feeling attends:
the lightning, the gap, nothing; and a drop
of a delicious venom enlivens me,
it being dead.

by Shamshad Abdullaev
translated by Alex Cigale

A single season: and we arrive here
returning far too late to the north
from the south.  Beyond the window gate
smoke spurts, and the stone house
is occupied, like a straw-colored mirage, on the populous square,
by an honored
lull on the auspicious days.  Seen from the outer wall,
the bazar bric-a-brac consists of fewer coals than eyes,
swirling across the piles out of the Sunday throng,
where the ripening ears of Garm Sir wheat billow in the amber
air.
What flowed past, not a river
but that which was reflected in it without interruption,
and the hours and the clouds drifted against the direction of the
stream,
as if you were to set off toward the broad waters
among the park swarming with wasps and women, when
the bilious bristling of the grasses bowed to the bazar
conflagration, toward your
unchaste fatherly shadow.  The landscape
flooded back, into the thick
of the stilled emulsion.  Wind and waves

by Semyon Khanin
     translated by Kevin M. F. Platt

* * *

where’d that butt get to
smoke by the bed near the column; more from right under the bar

bullet holes precision drilled by mechanical woodpecker

who’s that a curtain or what, what’s that you’re up to
from the advance purchasers’ faces pressed against the windows
visibly, slowly
a wave of sorrow washes down

at least they’re no bottom-feeding perches, but nearly, quite
nearly
huddled mistakenly there, and if you fire, please miss the point

* * *

the bust of the Bacchante stands apart from it all

what’s with the runaround — it’s written all over her face
her gaze locked on the unmade bed in the corner

why this barrier always between me and reality
she would often ask (and thought, herself, she couldn’t pass
judgement
questioning out or signing off like that) fixing her hair with a
quick movement

the tenderhearted rabble-rouser with stinging iodine
the constant butt of her jokes
walks up, walks up, rubs it in, moves on

someday the only thing left here’ll be
unbearable safes
smoke trails along the floor, eats now at eyes of blue

by Semyon Khanin
     translated by Kevin M. F. Platt and Eugene Ostashevsky

let’s reschedule the hypnosis session for tuesday, when there’s
nothing going on ’til lunch
ok? everyone can make it?

I don’t see any hands.  One, two — rescheduling

for the homework, please practice: unfocused vision training
mesmerizing inanimate objects
falling reflexively into a rage

and let’s not forget the trust fall, people

next time, bring something warm to wear
and a rope, so you’ll have something to gnaw on