by Sergey Stratanovsky
translated by J. Kates

A lifeless rain
fell on that day
when we gathered by command
in front of the house of God
and listened to Ezra, the lawyer,
the builder of a new life.

“Put aside,” he said,
“your wives from hostile tribes,
Heathen wives
shamelessly leading you to
admire their idols.
Let them be clear out
to their own Babylon, their own Edom.
And purify right away
the home of the descendants of Jacob.
So the Lord speaks through Ezra.”

A lifeless rain
fell on that day
and I came home completely drenched
And my Babylonian wife
met me at the door
Stripped my wet clothes from me
hung them by the fire
And had them dry by morning.

And then together
we set off on a far journey:
East to Babylon, to a tumultuous city
A predatory city,
that until recently
held my clawed people in its clutches.

A long journey through the hills when
My wife and I walked to Babylon . .

by Dmitry Kuzmin
translated by James McGavran, Katherine Tiernan O’Connor,  and Boris Wolfson, with Dmitry Kuzmin

“So then he says to me . . .”
for O.S., M.M.

“So then he says to me: I’m a messenger now, you’ll never guess
what they have me deliver —
butterflies!  Like for parties: you know, so they fly around!  And
he looks at me, the asshole,
as if I’m supposed to flip out: wow, a butterfly, that’s so
beautiful.  But for me, these butterflies
might as well be turds!  It’s like shit flying around!”
Do I turn, look at her, or to hell with her?  Gentrification
is what you have here, my dear Muscovites: the bars and pubs,
the red brick,
they tempt you with craft beer, good old England, no more
no less,
for fancy college kids on their way back from class,
and patrons from a theater whose director has been cast into jail.
Shall I lead you out of Kursk Station, madam?  Where’s my
magic pipe?
But how do I get the Kursk Station out of you?  Can I draw it out        with my
song?

Dmitry Kuzmin
translated by Julia Bloch, Yasha Klots, James McGavran, Kevin M. F. Platt, Leonid Schwab, and Michael Wachtel, with Dmitry Kuzmin

Kevin, don’t put your hand on his knee,
he lied when he said he was twenty-one,
he doesn’t love you, doesn’t want it, or even want to try it,
it’s just cool when a star singles you out,
when a star gets drunk just like us,
gets flustered and sweaty just like us,
moves in, tentative, just like us,
demeans himself just like us,
goes to take a piss like us — right on cue,
and now his American beauty will take off,
remembering how this scene can end
in a pool of blood and brains,
Kevin, tell him this isn’t Hollywood,
here you can even believe a bad actor, it’s your call.

by Tatiana Neshumova
translated by J. Kates

* * *

A esli vì krasivìe – znakomÝtesÝ na ulicah!

If you’re good-looking — let’s hook up together!
If you’re bad-looking — write a dissertation!
And if your dissertation isn’t accepted,
Then do something creative — say, take up baking!
And if what you bake needs butter or salt,
Then call me — I am sweet, good-looking, saintly,
I’ll come to you right away and bake it for you.
And, good-looking, if you don’t want to meet me,
And, doctor egghead, you don’t want my company,
And, candyman, you don’t want to feed your Tanya,
Tell me, what should I do?  What should I make of my life?

* * *

It’s still impossible for me to get a feeling for this space
Which after my life will stretch out eternally.
I’m just tired.  Nothing but nasty water
From the clouds, and empty talk with you.
Wrap it up and be quiet.  In this world of fathers and sisters
How easy it is for me simply to understand
The words of your speech, like an ember mixed in,
Fanning the fire . . .
Being in the kitchen and cooking a tasteless dinner.
Maybe I’ll write a manifesto of realism?
Talking to you or not to you or just to myself.
Or of surrealism?