by Dmitri Prigov
     translated by Sibelan Forrester 

I got a kilo of fish salad
As I went through the kitchen
There’s nothing to offend in that—
I procured, so I procured it
Ate a little bit myself
My son from the same womb
I fed with a bit of this
And we sat there by the window
Beside the transparent glass
As if we were two male kittens
To let the life below flow past.

Here, I’ll fry up a chicken
It’s a sin to complain
But really I’m really not complaining
What am I—better than everyone?
I even feel guilty, no strength
There, off you go—here
The country ruined a whole
Chicken for me

The whisk is broken, doesn’t work
I have nothing to sweep the floor
Yet think, dammit, how I used to
Sweep the floor, in old times
There, I used to, I would sweep
Everything light around, now I—
Everything’s broken, doesn’t work
Don’t feel like living

I struggle with the household entropy
As a source of energie divine
Blind unnoticeable powers
I conquer in unelevated struggle

I’ll wash the dishes thrice a day
I’ll wash and wipe the floor ubiquitously
I’ll erect a sense and structure of the world
On a place, see, that would seem empty

To burn it all away to the last bird
And to run away into your lair—
That there’s the partisan principle
And higher—the partisan logos
Not to say that everyone here is occupied
With the likes, but we are partisans
In part
All
In part Except for those rare ones, who are entirely

by Dmitri Prigov
     translated by Sibelan Forrester 

Late Soviet and Post-Soviet Literature: A Reader.The Thaw and Stagnation.Edited by Mark Lipovetsky and Lisa Ryoko Wakamiya. Boston: Academic Studies Press, Vol. 2,2015, 582–585.

We all face the threat of freedom
Freedom without end
With no way out, with no way in
Without mother or father

In the very middle of Rus’
For the whole past century
And I am terrified of it
As a decent man.

by Elena Shvarts
     translated by Julia Trubikhina (Kunina) & Betsy Hulick 

two fragments from
Horror Eroticus (Carnal Love Does Not Prefigure Bliss)

2. Dream

I flee down the street from him
his eye is like a coiled snake’s,
his coat conceals an automatic.
O scarlet tram, hurry, take me up,
carry me away; I look behind
and he is there, blocking the doors,
as the car clatters, jerks, and rattles.
O God, save me, save me! spare me!
A church.  I collapse before an icon.
A bullet whines, glass shatters.
A black hole pits the virgin’s forehead.
I dash behind the altar, up the bell tower
he follows me, inexorable as sin,
presses me to a wall, yanks up my skirt,
crushes me in a quick, greedy embrace
with ravenous paws fondles my breasts,
(I am made marble from terror).
He bends over, kisses my navel,
then, with a tender, twisted smile,
presses the automatic to my groin,
and pulls on the trigger.

10.

From my living body, I would extract
my own slender rib, carve it from me,
if You would only create for me from it
a small white friend, devoted to me,
not husband, not wife, not a mix of the two,
but an angel, clothed in an eggshell,
to sing to me soft songs of solace,

and perch on the light bulb at night,
thrumming spider-thin strings.
I am not Adam, but even more lonely.
Would it be so hard if You really tried?
Do it!
Think how happy I would be,
Oh my! with this small, shining, delicate friend
created from a drop of blood and friable bone.

by Elena Shvarts
     translated by Julia Trubikhina (Kunina) & Betsy Hulick

View of New York from the Night Sky
     to Julia Kunina

Like the pulverized gold of Mycenae,
New York lies sprawled on its islands below
And the bird circling overhead
thinks a dragon breathes under the glow.
Like gold bars sprinkled with gold dust,
gold shavings and glittering carmine,
worms appear crawling everywhere
pressing the gold like grapes into wine,
and a moan ascends the sky in a cloud.
Spitting sparks, one by one, they crowd
into the depths of the dark surround.
The brazier—radiantly heated belowground—
slides away, shimmering, as wistfully I watch.
The barefoot plane tucks bellyward its heels
The city spins, drowning in a motionless wheel
And this live flame, this mortuary light
rises under the tilting plane, instilling horror
as if we’d been told that down underneath
the dragon’s mouth was gaping in a yawn.
The pilot, outpacing his hot breath,
flies the plane over the ocean to the right.