Free magazine about contemporary art & design.
| Лихорадит душу, Я обиды не прощаю. Я разрушу План твой, обещаю… | My soul is burning, torn apart, I don’t forgive — I guard my heart. I’ll break your scheme, just wait and see — Your plans will fall… because of me. |
Mikhail Gorshnev R.I.P. 1973 – 2013 (39 years old).
| Один мой друг подбирает бездомных кошек, Несёт их домой, отмывает, ласкает, кормит. Они у него в квартире пускают корни: Любой подходящий ящичек, коврик, ковшик, Конечно, уже оккупирован, не осталось Такого угла, где не жили бы эти черти. Мой друг говорит, они спасают от смерти. Я молча включаю скепсис, киваю, скалюсь. Он тратит все деньги на корм и лекарства кошкам, И я удивляюсь, как он ещё сам не съеден. Он дарит котят прохожим, друзьям, соседям. Мне тоже всучил какого-то хромоножку С ободранным ухом и золотыми глазами, Тогда ещё умещавшегося в ладони… Я, кстати, заботливый сын и почетный донор, Я честно тружусь, не пью, возвращаю займы. Но все эти ценные качества бесполезны, Они не идут в зачет, ничего не стоят, Когда по ночам за окнами кто-то стонет, И в пении проводов слышен посвист лезвий, Когда потолок опускается, тьмы бездонней, И смерть затекает в стоки, сочится в щели, Когда она садится на край постели И гладит меня по щеке ледяной ладонью, Всё тело сводит, к нёбу язык припаян, Смотрю ей в глаза, не могу отвести взгляда. Мой кот Хромоножка подходит, ложится рядом. Она отступает… | A friend of mine brings strays inside, Washes their fur, lets wounds subside, Feeds them, holds them, calls them dear— They grow their roots and settle near. Each box, each mat, each bowl or bed Is claimed. No space is free, he said. He swears they keep him from the grave. I shrug, half-smile, pretend I’m brave. He spends his money on their care, On vet’s bills, meds, and food to spare. He gives away the ones that grow— To friends, to strangers that he knows. He even gave me one, a wreck: A limping scrap with ragged neck, One golden eye, a tattered ear— He fit into my palm that year. And I, by all accounts, do well: A faithful son, a donor still. I work, don’t drink, repay my dues— Yet none of that can help me choose What’s real when night begins to moan, And power lines begin to groan. When ceilings sink and shadows press, And death begins to coalesce— It leaks from drains, through every crack, Then settles softly at my back. It strokes my cheek with fingers numb. I cannot scream. My tongue is dumb. I meet its eyes, can’t look away— Then Limping Paw climbs up and stays. He curls against me, faint and warm. And death retreats… Dana Sideros |
I’ve been running on a track,
Overrunning pain and woes
And my grief with feet I crack.
Though with callus on my toes,
I shall jog in cheerful hope,
This sweet sport helps get things done
Years keep flying, but I cope:
Though no medal had I won,
Yet my final hour of life
Flees away for years, for long:
Those not slacking, those who strive
Here for more time shall belong.
© Dmitriy Belyanin, 2021
Beyond the window, it’s still bright,
Through cloud gaps, the Sun there glitters.
Wings in the sand shake in delight:
A sparrow, wallowing, now flitters.
Onto the ground, down from the skies,
A pall is moving with a tremble
Beyond, the forest margin lies
As if in gold dust, rich and ample.
Two droplets splashed onto the glass,
And linden trees smell like sweet honey,
And something came to leaves at last:
Its clanks have made the garden runny.
Translated by Dmitriy Belyanin, 2018
It's so sweet at home to cling
To the brightest, deepest thoughts,
Sense abstracted joys life brought
When you've got some food and drink.
May the folks below tread somewhere
In a hurry, lots of them:
Faceless weekdays, once again.
Folks swarm fast from dawn till sunset.
How I lurve to view this grandness
From my window, glance below.
Corner boots wait till I go.
I'll obey my lot with gladness.
Overtopping for a moment,
I abandon fuss and crowds:
Hours and days to plan my routes,
I reap heaps from this postponement.
I may be too weak or grumpy,
Need relaxing, whacked by swerves.
I'll atone misdeeds to nerves:
Roads I walked on, wild and bumpy.
May I pause and seize the day,
Spend grand time within four walls?
Here, my childhood I'll recall,
Being a needle in the hay.
Then I'll tread steep rocks with speed,
Leave my yard, won't ask for permits,
Not a monk and not a hermit,
Just a tired man on the street.
© Dmitriy Belyanin, 2022
Do not stand
By my grave, and weep.
I am not there,
I do not sleep—
I am the thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints in snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle, autumn rain.
As you awake with morning’s hush,
I am the swift, up-flinging rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight,
I am the day transcending night.
Do not stand
By my grave, and cry—
I am not there,
I did not die.
Clare Harner, The Gypsy, December 1934
Simple symbols seize new space
On the monitor of mine.
A new phase of life I face.
Seas of words surround my mind:
Lots of letters, dark as coal,
Small like atoms, on a page,
Small are steps towards a goal.
It will take another age
To create a tale of sense;
And the tail of my past,
Which once made my life too tense,
Having passed, is light at last.
Days of writing lost their looks -
Bits of sands, and now a lens
I must use to read my book,
Since the writing is too dense,
Since my weary eyes are weak,
Like my memories of youth,
Others’ help I have to seek
Just to magnify the truth
Of the days I’ve spent in writing
When my health still held aloof:
When my mind still was mighty,
I could climb any roof.
Dmitry Belyanin, 2015
You’re the owner of a jagged heart
Anything you touch gets hurt
You scowl at everything in the world.
If you can’t say it, hold my hand tight and don’t let go
I want you to know that you’re not alone anymore
No one realizes
The weird one is me
I’ll hold your shaking hand
Everything’s okay
If you’re sad, cry until you have no tears left to cry
Because I hope that in the end, you’ll be able to smile without fail
