by Igor Bulatovsky
translated by Polina Barskova and Ainsley Morse

* * *

Of all of them
I still pity Schubert the most
Schubert who said caww!  To January
Schubert, whose snowbank of a mouth
sang along with the dictionary

He has a sign hanging around his neck
“I sheltered partisans”
His feisty gray little face
Is buried in blue steam.

And this sky here is a fully legal
suppression of underdog rights.
And this forest, dressed in crude canvas,
Is coming apart at the seams

* * *

the grass is always
the grass is always sweeter at the edge of the ravine
And the catcher knows the rye grows thickest at cliff ’s edge
Sweet boy chew that sugary gristle
Attempting to open that box of papa’s chest
To unlock, to break it with your knife

When the truth is revealed, when animals
Pick up the wet scent
Then martens enter through the open doors
The flutes weep and the grouse goes deaf
The box opens and there is a gun inside

by Tatiana Shcherbina
translated by J. Kates

I’m in shock.  And I don’t like to be in shock.
In France, frost blighted the artichokes.
Instead of a legitimate plus, an intolerable minus.
Not the artichoke matter, in that those were covered.
The Concordia — meaning agreement — foundered
a black colonel who looted the treasury goes to the firing squad.
Syntagma aka Constitution burns Athens,
it seems there’s an end  to endorphins, forever.
Forever — to life, yours, mine, and the kids’,
a start-up — as a minus — finish-line of the world.

If the Earth is burning in a higher fire,
and a chill batters our globe, our little home-sphere —
a Guy Fawkes smile is a “useful resistance” —
a mask of purgatory.  V for victory — disinformation.
Anonymity deservedly gets it in the teeth
and the Russian hamster squared his shoulders to the heap,
to clamber out of the last — the very last command of strength,
hallucinates elements, reason gone into storage.

by Tatiana Shcherbina
translated by J. Kates

Bougainvillea, too scarlet too, too pink,
stones the color of hummus, half-circles of hills.
Thick trunks of olive trees stand on the ramparts of Gethsemane,
leaves quivering like sensors.
In the maze of the bazaar bright colors and cries
as if parrots had flocked here for breakfast.
Mea Shearim is an anthill of officious bustling,
identical black hats and black bodies
weighted down with a ton of packages:
a conveyor-belt for children — of food, clothing, toys,
and soon enough books, although it’s always the same Book.
The stalls of religious objects are empty, elegant,
like expensive European boutiques —
mezuzot, spinning tops, tallit and silver candlesticks
something for everyone, but we can’t afford fur hats.
Jaffa, David HaMeleh — ordinary streets,
only the houses are the color of hummus — Jerusalem stone
in its old age it is young, like tawny fudge.
In the Muslim Quarter of the Old City,
a row of shops — this is the Via Dolorosa,
in the concentrated circles of Jerusalem
there is no room to chase after life as after beauty,
There is no gate marked “exit,”
and the gate marked “entrance” is bricked up.
Here life is the expectation of a miracle, and the miracle is that life is possible

by Tatiana Shcherbina
translated by J. Kates

* * *

A 3D film, but a flat-screen viewer.
The world accessible, but not for wear.
Narcissus having achieved Power
is no an angel, but a Nazi.
Russia shakes like a little boot
beat in the laundry, a butt
pinches the bloodstream
but not a steamroller.

A Star of Captivating Happiness,
on the ruins of despotism —
a bolide of stone no longer warms
it drops bombs!
There are ways to keep from breakage,
like over there? — “Lights on the airfield,
some hope, learning to wait,” without
the condescension of blessing.

Flattened by the roller to 2D, in the photo
you breathe briefly, the quota
chosen to be ars longa, the labor
tenaciously endures.