Яна Кане - Зимородок

Leikin 'Freedom from all desires…'

This is happiness! These are rights…

Alexander Pushkin

* * *

Freedom from all desires, from passions and regrets;

From saccharine Christmas pills, from serving and from service,

From trysts and from farewells recurring like a dream,

From sympathy to god, from joys amidst the rushing.

From soil and seed and root, from rudder and from oars,

From the lackluster craft that never earned a penny,

From ignorance and spite, from counting and accounts,

Freedom from everything that goads and ties us down.

She's haughty as a saint and jealous as a wife,

Honest as communists killed in the year of purges.

Can we find out at last, what do we need her for,

And what the hell she wants when she herself is freedom?

Why when she speaks, her words are always curt and harsh,

Why with her sightless eyes she gazes so intently,

Why she ties into knots our sinews and our veins,

Forcing us to submit our fortunes to her guidance…

You shook the iron cage, you rammed the fortress walls,

Your vigilant mistrust could not be fooled by cunning,

And yet you did not see how you became a slave,

A sick and dreary slave driven by your own freedom.

Shuffling the ragged deck of doubtful old taboos,

You're straining to create beauty from warped reflections,

And thus, your own life echoes your country's fate

Rattling its heavy chains, dragging the shackles of freedom.

Vyacheslav Leikin 'No, I will not depart, nor cut the branch…'

* * *

No, I will not depart, nor cut the branch,

Nor hope that Rome and Paris are still waiting.

I fear that there I'll feel a bitter love

For all of this that here I relish hating.

I fear I will not manage to forget

The acrid taste of Fatherland's smoky air.

I fear, because to feel a love for this

Is not impossible, but more than I can bear.

Vyacheslav Leikin 'Lately far too many live all out of kilter…'

* * *

Lately far too many live all out of kilter,

Spitting, picking, grabbing where it's not allowed.

In the man-made thickets, the communal Edens,

There are far too many destitute and screaming.

Magic does not charm them, thrillers bore them silly

Jigsaw puzzle pieces do not fit together.

Driven by the devil, they crave revelation:

Serve up all the truth now, from the past and present.

Let the chasms yawn open, bring to life the pictures

Where the knaves pass judgement and the fools enlighten,

Where the whores and robbers, murderers and stoolies

Roam in packs and solo, slavering and baying.

That's the truth stripped naked, filthy, vicious-tempered,

Brewed of dust and ashes, rabid snarls and screeches,

Petty alms for beggars, pitiful repentance,

More debased than vileness, viler than debasement,

With its loathsome tributes, monstrous celebrations,

With each window serving as the new Golgotha.

That's the truth whose venom seeped into the Lethe.

And, forgive me, never was there any other.

Vyacheslav Leikin 'Not this one, not the truth-wit who, inspired…'

Let us honor the madman

Jean-Pierre Beranger

* * *

Not this one, not the truth-wit who, inspired,

Pontificates and makes his careless way

Up to the gallows, who is always trying

To put it to you straight and to your face.

Not this self-swallowing snake, this wingless dodo —

But that one, he who lied and covered up,

Who peered into the chasm and understood

That there, within those depths, is not the past,

But our tomorrow, whose assault is yet to come,

Whose stench is yet to rise up to our nostrils.

Anna Akhmatova 'True tenderness can’t be mistaken…'

* * *

True tenderness can’t be mistaken

For anything. Quietly it stirs.

In vain you envelop caressingly

My shoulders and breast in furs.

In vain you speak to me softly,

Your humble first love confess.

How well do I know your glances

That insatiably rove and press.

Anna Akhmatova 'Madness has now spread his wing…'

* * *

(from Requiem)

Madness has now spread his wing

And half my soul is in its shadow.

He pours me fiery wine to drink,

He beckons me to his dark meadow.

I understand I must surrender,

That victory belongs to him;

As my own raving fills my hearing —

A stranger’s voice, confused and dim.

I know that pleading would be wasted,

It’s useless to implore and weep.

All that I cling to will be taken,

There’s nothing that is mine to keep.

Not the remembrance of my son,

His gaze engulfed in horror, frozen;

Nor the arrival of the storm,

Nor the brief meeting in the prison,

Nor the dear hands, cool to the touch,

Nor the lime trees astir with birds,

Nor the ethereal, far away

Sound of the last consoling words.

Anna Akhmatova Crucifixion

Weep not for me, Mother,

Seeing me in the coffin.

(from Requiem)

The choir of angels praised the hour of glory,

The firmament became a molten sea.

He asked His Father: «Why did you forsake me?»,

Then, to His Mother: «Oh, weep not for me.»

Magdalene collapsed, convulsed with weeping;

The beloved disciple stood frozen, dazed.

Yet to where the Mother stood in silence

Not a one would dare to lift his gaze.

Anna Akhmatova The owner

To E. S. Bulgakova

In the chamber where I’m dwelling

Lived a sorceress before:

When the moon is new her shadow

Yet appears beside the door.

By the threshold stands her shadow,

In its customary place,

As elusively and sternly

It is gazing at my face.

I myself am not of those

Whom another's charms can sway.

I myself… But no, my secrets

I don't freely give away.

Hava Broha Korzakova 'A winter thaw is almost bare of beauty…'

* * *

A winter thaw is almost bare of beauty —

A soupy mix of sand and salt and sod.

A world made up of icicles and bleakness

Does not reveal the master plan of God.

In order to discern it, gaze intently,

But not at faces, nor the many books

Held close to faces. Not a page within them

Says anything, no matter how you look.

Perhaps the branch that spreads its patterns over

The human mass that hurries through the rain,

May sketch a pictogram in otherworldly language,

Make the preliminary outline plain.

Hava Broha Korzakova 'Between two languages…'

There is one thing I'd like to tell the poets:

Learn to be silent till the poems come.

Maria Petrovykh

* * *

Between two languages my words have lost their way.

My mouth is numb to either tongue today.

Hour after hour drop down and are absorbed

By CNN, report after report.

I wanted poetry to glue and hold together

This shredded day. But it unravels further.

I'm sinking. Yet a hundred years from now

What will it matter? Who will even know?

Silence is wisdom's path to glory (so they say).

The bitch of poetry is not in heat today,

For all the males are dead or far away.

So let the Internet and wine help keep me warm.

My hopes lie in my tongues. Though now --">