New English and Spanish Translations of Russian Prose Poetry by Julia Idlis

Untitled

And there were no living, nor dead along the banks of the river, only the ancient fishermen growing stone-faced; each with his magic wand in an outstretched hand, watching the sun melt in the distance.

And each one silent and crude; below a mass of feathered fish, and each one wept, the hand closed tight, and said:

Old man, who looks upon us from the heavens, you handed us willow branches, ox sinews, he who disdains us, what will you do, when we stop living? Therefore, we hold two-ended sticks, and on each end – death; they crack and bend, the yokes, are almost scale; by them we measure, whose death is heavier and closer to the earth – theirs or ours, - and because the son dies daily, he drowns on the cross in words of forgiveness in an astral emptiness.

He says: father, father, I was swimming well enough, but you took me into your hands, away from the river’s breast, and now I do not know who I am, take pity on me, have mercy, I am still two-thirds holy water.

The father replies: don’t thrash in my arms, I love you, won’t let anyone have you; you will have water salted with fine down, hot unction, a sand frying-pan. Those who hear me will be full of your spirit, with worn-out shoes, washed-out names; but you won’t remember a single one of them, because we all wear the same face, not one of us is without sin, and I with them. Since there is nothing to feed my children, except your flesh.

And there were no living, nor dead in the river, and the feathered fish beat at the end of the golden hook; the rods whined, bending, almost touching the water; the river stood naked, recognizing its plight. And only one, who saw, the vermillion sun melt away, and there, he dug himself into the soft or wet sand, heard a fin idlely beat the air, he lay down quietly, and thought about the cesarean river, watched, hiding in the empty rush, how the spring gave birth to water.

Translated by Peter Golub

Sin Titulo

Y no había ni vivos ni muertos por la ribera del río, sólo los ancianos pescadores convertiendose en caras petreas; cada uno con su varita mágica en una mano extendida, mirando el sol fundirse en la distancia.

Y cada uno silencioso y brutal; bajo una masa de peces emplumados, y cada uno lloró, la mano en un puño apretado y dijeron:

Viejo, que nos observa desde el cielo, qu nos pasaste las ramas del sauce, los tendones del buey, él que nos desdeña; ¿qué harás cuando ya no estemos vivos? Entonces, sujetamos los palos de bífidos – y en cada extremo: la muerte. Ellos crujen y se tuercen, los yugos estan casi a escala; por ellos medimos quién tiene la muerte más pesada y mas cercana a la tierra – ellos o nosotros – y porque el hijo muere cada día, se ahoga sobre la cruz en palabras de perdón en un vacío astral.

Dice: padre, padre, estaba nadando bastante bien, pero me tomaste en tus manos – lejos de los pechos del agua, y ahora no sé quien soy, compadecéme, ten piedad de mi, aun soy dos tercios de agua bendita.

El padre resonde: no te retobes en mis brazos. Yo te amo, no dejaré que nadie te posea; vas a tener agua salpicado con finas plumas, caliente unción, una sartén de arena. Aquellos que me escuchan se llenarán de tu espiritu (con zapatos gastados y nombres desteñidos), pero no recordarás ni a uno solo de ellos, porque todos vestimos la misma cara – ninguno de nosotros es sin pecado, y yo estoy entre estos. Como ya no queda nada con qué alimentar a mis hijos – exepto tu carne.

Y no había ni vivos ni muertos en el río, y el pez emplumado pelea en el extremo del anzuelo dorado: las cañas silbaron, doblandose, casi tocando la agua; el río se quedó desnudo, reconociendo su vulnerabilidad.

Y hubo sólo uno, que vió el sol bermellón fundirse, y allí, se enterró en la arena blanda y mojada; escuchó el sonido de una aleta mientras batía el aire, se recostó tranquilamente; pensó en el río cesáreo, y, ocultandose entre los juncos vacíos, miró como la primavera parió el agua.

Traducido por Roger McDonough y Mariana Calandra

Julia Idlis was born in 1981 in Kaliningrad, Russia (former Koenigsberg). When she was young her family moved to Moscow, where she now lives. She received a B.A. in philology from Moscow State University. She has stayed at MSU to work on her Ph.D. Her candidate thesis deals with screenplay adaptations of literary works by Harold Pinter. She is also a journalist working for polit.ru, with a range of publications on topics such as literature, film, and fashion. She has published two collections of poems: Fairy tales for... (St. Petersburg: A.B.K., 2003) and Air, Water (Moscow: ARGO-RISK 2005); her third collection is due out at the end of 2006.

Tres Poemas de Viktor Ivaniv

La Guardia de los Hermanos

Él caminó, una llama delante de él,
Pareció haberse aparecido detrás de un hombro, despues del otro
No había mucha gente, no había sol, antes de la demolición
De la casa, ellos se quedaron todo el día delante de Pokrov
Enviaron círculos
Y salieron de la tierra
Frente a los que se quedaban ni un techo

La última vez que ellos cruzaban por senderos hechos de humo
De casa en casa para sentarse en las ventanas de los altillos
Hasta la rodilla en mierda, alrededor de las esquinas inaccesible de tierra,
Sentir con el propio culo el enfriamiento de los techos
Y ver las lámparas incandescentes en los cuartos pálidos
Escupiendo desde arriba en sus propios vecinos.

La última vez estirándose metódicamente enfrente de la ventana
Mirando el desfile abajo—mirando el patio, la flota—
Quizás alguien este mordiendo, embestiendo a la cutícula rota la campana
Donde como un espantapájaros el barco fue atrapado
Contando--Cuántos pasos, Contando las medidas con su cabeza
Mientras que el cambio fluye de la bolsa, cae

Lápiz de labio, espejo, gomita, forrós, medalla
Y todo meticulosamente catalogado; cuando el inodoro sea abierto,
Soltando el grito distante del tranvía
De repente el efecto de algún moho mortífero
Y un hombre atónito yace en su cama
Cuando el reloj es cambiado a la hora de Moscú—
Parecen como unos pescados secos—
Él querría partir a la vida de ultratumba.

Tu amigo se sienta sobre un montón de cosas
Como si una estrella amarilla fuera cosida a su pecho
¿Ha llegado alguien? O algúna noticia
Como si esperara la orden: ¡dispérsense!
Como zapatos en pies distintos entre
La plaza desierta, la luces encendidas
Sobre sus cabezas y ahora entendemos todo lenguaje
Sea tan amable de encender un fósforo, dénos alguna luz
Primero "huellas," "una mancha no lavada," "tu empleo?"—
Pero en la casa una brisa empieza,
Los relojes miran, sus gargueros no se pueden ver
Un par de idiotas con caras redondas

De abajo del vidrio la fatiga crece
Estando de pie sobre el estomago
Hay dos preocupaciones: se necesita un jabot, el corte no pega
Y el techo podría caer como una ola;
Ellos miran…

Pronto envejeceremos, y caminamos sin nuestras cosas
¿Cómo dividir la herencia entre los gemelos?
¿Dónde busca la gente con tiroides enfermas?
¿Dónde deben poner su mirada?
Arriba de las barreras y los escudos enchapados
A lo largo de las calles empapeladas y las fronteras de la vereda
Es imposible de no estar pasmada la última vez—
Debajo de la mirada constante, como un crucifijo alrededor del cuello
En público, o en nuestros cuartos privados
Un asesinato, cometido en el Último Día

Traducido por Andrew Haley


Quimera

El canto dulce puede oirse en el bosque iluminado
La voz de Lemeshev rodó desde algún lugar lejano
Una ráfaga de viento llevó y transformó las palabras, el canario
se hizó eco de sí mismo, como si fuera de abajo de una tumba
El repiqueteo rítmico de una bola rebotando
Mezclada con un canto como si…
Como si fuera de una garganta singular
Estos fueron los hijos de las aves corriendo hacia adelante sin mirar
Regresando al posted, retirando sus regimientos
Cada uno de ellos, no solamente Volodya Pinigin
Desconociendo que él estaba puesto encima del terreno uliginoso
Una serpiente de repente se deslizó a travez de la tropa de niños abatidos
Podría haber aparecido como esto
Si alguien los hubiera mirado por el ojo de una cerradura
El repiqueteo de la bola hubiese parado inmediatamente, un cuco
La llamada durante los días de cuentos fatigosos
Aquellos sólo van a entenderme, cuando hayan
Visto y escuchado el llanto del canario ansioso en fuga
Con ojos desviados hacia el suelo los hijos agrupados apretadamente
Abajo, aflijido por horribles hipos Volodya
Anduvo gateando de la tierra
La mañana siguiente yo me atreví a la colección de miradas crudas
Cuando Volodya y Vladyka1, los dos nombres que se me ocurrió
Yo participaba en el desfile y miraba a los pioneros
Mientras ellos llevaban narcisos para su líder en un cuadro funeral

Traducido por Meghan Bolden


Casa. Desde Debajo de la Mesa.

Como un arbol dulce
Pasando sobre un trineo
Todo parece estar en puntillas
Y viandas para cerditos
O huele a alcanfor
O rasgan las almohadas abiertas
Las ventanas al reves
Sol cayendo en estomago

Me siento mal abrieron el vinagre
Las voces mudas en el ruido
Que es mas embarazoso que una picadura
Donde salta la pulga una puntada se muda
Estan jalando
Este trineo y pinta algo
Que Dios bendiga el sueño mientras pela la piel
Una balena por un tabernáculo de mierda

El cura gordo está en su kiosko
Huele a miel pescado cera
Y la nariz de botón de la chica gira
Gira en su cara pecosa
Hay una pipa inglesa abajo de la mesa
Y los angeles vaguean por los cielos
Charlando, pero no son maleducados
Esperando la muerte obedientamente

Papa y yo nos levantamos nuestras cabezas
Esta es nuestra escuela
Corremos a casa bajando la escalera...
Y de la sangre
Nuestros ojos grandes abiertos, soy grande
Pero somos tímidos
Despues de que toda nuestra sangre gotea sobre las tablas
Acá estamos con un labio roto
Sacar un cigarillo
Aun podemos sonreir
Ojos bien cerrados como el oro

Traducido por Andrew Haley y Mariana Calandra


Viktor Ivaniv (b. 1977) is a poet, essayist, and prose writer. He received his Candidate of Science degree in Humanities from Novosibirsk State University. He is the author of Gorod Vinograd (ARGO-RISK: Tver, 2003). His work has been included in: Nine Measurements (Moscow: Novoe Literaturnoe Obozrenie, 2004) and Brother's Cradle (Moscow: Mezhdunarony Fond "Pokolenie", 2004). His short fiction was nominated for the Debut Prize in 2002. He now lives in Novosibirsk where he helps edit the online journal Dragoman Petrov .

Peter Golub Reading in Buenos Aires 14.12

Pablo Neruda's Los Enemigos in a New English Translation by Roger McDonough

The Enemies

Here, they brought their guns filled

With powder and ordered callous extermination,

Here, they found a people singing, a people reunited

By necessity and love,

And the skinny girl fell with her flag,

And the once-smiling boy rolled wounded to his side

And the dazed town watched the dead fall

In fury and pain.

Then, there

Where the dead fell, murdered,

They lowered their flags and soaked them in blood

To raise them again in the face of their murderers.

For these our dead, I ask for punishment.

For those who spilled blood in our country,

I ask for punishment.

For the executioner who sent us murder,

I ask for punishment.

For those who prospered from our slaughter,

I ask for punishment.

For he who gave the order that caused our agony,

I ask for punishment.

For those that defended this crime,

I ask for punishment.

I don't want them to offer us

Their hands - soaked in our own

Blood: I want them punished.

I don't want them as ambassadors,

Or living comfortably in their homes:

I want to see them tried

here in this plaza, here in this place.

I demand punishment.

Los Enemigos

Ellos aquí trajeron los fusiles repletos

De pólvora, ellos mandaron el acerbo exterminio,

Ellos aquí encontraron un pueblo que cantaba,

Un pueblo por deber y por amor reunido,

Y la delgada niña cayó con su bandera,

Y el joven sonriente rodó a su lado herido,

Y el estupor del pueblo vio caer a los muertos

Con furia y con dolor.

Entonces, en el sitio

Donde cayeron asesinados,

Bajaron las banderas a empaparse de sangre

Para alzarse de nuevo frente a los asesinos.

Por estos muertos, nuestros muertos,

Pido castigo.

Para los que de sangre salpicaron la patria,

Pido castigo.

Para el verdugo que mandó esta muerte,

Pido castigo,

Para el traidor que ascendió sobre el crimen,

Pido castigo.

Para él que dio la orden de agonía,

Pido castigo.

Para los que defendieron este crimen,

Pido castigo.

No quiero que me den la mano

Empapada con nuestra sangre.

Pido castigo.

No los quiero de embajadores,

Tampoco en su casa tranquilos,

Los quiero ver juzgados,

En esta plaza, en este sitio.

Quiero castigo.

Chilean poet Pablo Neruda’s poem “The Enemies” appears in his 1950 Canto General – which Neruda intended as a poetic encyclopedia of Latin American history. Neruda died 12 days after the September 11, 1973 military coup led by General Augusto Pinochet. A communist all his life, Neruda served as Chile’s ambassador to France during the short-lived presidency of Salvador Allende.

Roger McDonough is a freelance journalist and graduate student in Buenos Aires, Argentina. He was present at the October 6 reading of the above poem at a mass demonstration in the Plaza de Mayo to demand the safe return of Jorge Julio López, a key witness in the first trial against perpetrators of state violence during Argentina's so-called Dirty War. López's testimony helped secure a life-sentence for former Buenos Aires Police Commissioner Miguel Etchecolatz, who was ultimately convicted of "genocide." López was kidnapped and tortured under the Argentine military dictatorship. One day before the sentencing of Etchecolatz, 77-year-old López disappeared once again. He remains missing.

El poema “Los Enemigos,” del poeta Chileno Pablo Neruda, aparece en su Canto General, de 1950. El libro intenta ser una crónica o enciclopedia de toda Hispanoamérica. Neruda murió 12 días después del golpe militar encabezado por el General Augusto Pinochet del 11 de Septiembre, 1973. Neruda, que fue un militante comunista durante toda su vida, sirvió como embajador de Chile en Francia durante la breve periodo presidencial de Salvador Allende.

Roger McDonough es periodista independiente y estudiante de postgrado. Actualmente, vive en Buenos Aires, Argentina. Presenció en el acto del 6 de Octubre, en la Plaza de Mayo – donde se leyó este poema como cierre de la manifestación por la aparición con vida de Jorge Julio López. Lopéz fue testigo clave en el juicio al represor Miguel Etchecolatz, ex-director de Investigaciones de la Policía de la Provincia de Buenos Aires. El testimonio de López, un albañil de 77 años, fue fundamental para condenar a reclusión perpetua a Etchecolatz el 19 de septiembre de 2006. López fue secuestrado y torturado durante la última dictadura militar. Un día antes de la condena de Etchecolatz, López desapareció nuevamente. Actualmente sigue desaparecido.

New Poetry from Annunziata Zoiti-Licastro

The Da Vinci Cod

This is a true story. Only the facts have been changed.
Baccala, pesce storko, what confusion
both stinky fish English call haddock or cod.
The da Vinci code on the Catholic God
neglects Leonardo was celibate, painting urges out al fresco.
Is it Mary Magdalene by St Peter or to the sex binary a [sexual] protest?

If Magdalene was Jesus' wife then why sit close to the Rock
who was married elsewhere, so keeping 1st century distance?
The facts in that fiction are codswallop the facts in this poem
are all fiction but the fiction is fact to the millions of tourists now
searching for the Knights Templar treasure in Europe.
Don't be scared of Leviticus in Rome the emperors
were doing as they liked: baccanalia, baccala, baccanico.

Magdalene was called a prostitute so how many?
Were the disciples included? Were men indicted for breaking
moral codes, did they hide behind 5 loaves and 2 cod?
Where's her progeny or did she have a collapsed uterus
Too many abortions, eating parsley till she vomited?
Did Jesus' mother Mary outcast Magdalene
What of Mary's cousin Elizabeth or mother Sarah?
Did Mary's father Joachim let her hang around a…?

IVF can make virgins mothers what's not to believe
they were making yoghurt and cheese before us
when was the last time we built a a Stonehenge or pyramid
who knows what was lost in the dark ages.

Annunziata Zoiti-Licastro is an Italian-Australian interested in documenting the dialect from her Calabrian heritage through prose, poetry and film. She has a BA in Professional Writing and Literature and a Graduate Diploma in Media Studies (Film) from Deakin University and a Postgraduate Diploma in Creative Arts (Creative Writing) from the University of Melbourne.

Un Nuevo Poema de Andrew Haley

Súplica

Estoy laso de estaciones

Los enmendados

El amputado

Bajando del metro zoo de apariciones

Hacia la Visión asido por ti

Jehová de procesos

Jehová del pozo de sangre sin fondo

Jehová que cancela Jehová

Jehová de dados abortado Jehová

Jehová cuyas cuerdas no tiemblan

Ni para Princeton ni para Jehová

Jehová que borra el principio antrópico

Del pizarrón con un maremoto

& lleva los trastos y el pizarrón

En la garganta de Jehová

Jehová la gorgona

Jehová que traga

Jehová nueve vidas

Jehová clavado a la calavera de monja

Jehová ignorante de Jehová

Jehová que gira el mismo colmillo ciego

Hacia Papa o Legión

Jehová cuyo rostro es la conjetura de un cirujano

Jehová quemado irreconocible

Jehová doblando con vergüenza

Esconder cara quemada horrenda en el teléfono

Jehová un horror con ojos que se asoman

Jehová nunca ser resucitado

Jehová con ojos como instrumentos apuntados

Jehová calavera lisa menos cola de caballo

Jehová nene de cualquiera crecida hasta el fuego

En el cristal aleatorio de la tridimensional por Tiempo

Jehová reconocible en el torcimiento

De boca y ojoshuecos hacia la vergüenza atroz

Tu cicatriz de mi vida

Herida exaltable

Gotera de amor de mi corazón

Máxima brecha de piedad

Para corazón para humano

Desagüe del albedrío de estar pesado

Dejar el universo dar fin

Dejar las heridas dar fin

Dejar el punto final la bala desdén

Estoy alargando incapaz yo ––

Jehová que hizo un mundo de dolor y tierno

Estoy laso de encontrar en todas las vueltas

Las bajas de vivir

No puede haber en el mundo

Un espacio tranquilo

Donde lo tierno puede demorarse mientras

Las rabias continúan

Un lugar en el corazón de la aglomeración

O afuera en el cimarrón

Un lugar como la ternura

O un lugar así común



Andrew Haley es escritor nacido en el oeste de los Estados Unidos. Actualmente, vive en Buenos Aires, donde está escribiendo su quarta novela. Es autor de Octopus, Liar y Transference. Sus poemas aparecieron en Quarterly West, Good Foot, Wavelength y Western Humanities Review.


Andrew Haley is a writer born in the western United States. He lives currently in Buenos Aires, where he is writing his fourth novel. He is the author of Octopus, Liar and Transference. His poems appeared in Quarterly West, Good Foot, Wavelength and Western Humanities Review.

New Poetry From Peter Golub

Latin Parataxis

1.

The day the dictator

was sentenced

to death

I noticed a lot of musicians in the street

they weren’t out because of the sentence

the musicians in this country are typically apolitical

I’m sure most of them didn’t know about the sentence

I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them didn’t even know about the trial

our dictator was captured by another country when he was visiting

his mother

nobody really complained

it was bound to happen

this morning as I walked through the cement square of my urban village

I felt a little sad for our dictator

sure he’d made a travesty of television,

persecuted doctors, writers, thieves, clerics, etc.

but death by hanging?

is a hanging supposed to make us feel better?

I am sure there are those who oppose it

I am sure there are those who praise it

I for one think it’s a little excessive

but only a little

I must meet Codford and finish the piece

I have other things on my mind

maintaining the formal categories of the language

in it

while keeping true to the process

trying to balance the extrinsic and intrinsic qualities of the thing

a double helix of honky tonk blues and Handel

I take a cigarette out of my pocket

and find:

lately I’ve been feeling a stranger in my own mind
walking here and there
up to an attic with growing levels
ladders
I open a box
I funny picture of a dictator in his underwear

2.

I feel my remember God language children

green

green

green

I am the happy genius of my contented universe

The curious child at your door with a bag full of insects

You know that guy over there, yeah, that’s me too

when you crawled into my bed

gene asked me to take you out, and close the door

so I picked you up, recited some Pushkin, played a song on the guitar

when I got back into bed

gene was asleep

I dreamed of a manatee on the beach

a little suspended off the ground like in Ben’s paintings

it’s eating comfort food, covered by a net

I’d like to cut it out

but I’m afraid of slicing her skin

3.

человек с пивом

мальчик с мороженом

обсуждают женщину

-я тебе одолжил 200 р.

(ты мне одарила поцелуй –по щеке.

пошел пешком дамой долго шел.

простудился. подслушивал.)

-ты плохой, но любимой.

-я все понимаю.

я уранил корзинку с грибами.

-ну и что?

уранил так уранил.

они не кому особенно не нужны.

-THE QUESTION OF LIFE AFTER DEATH

HAS INTERESTING… ALTHOUGH

MOST PEOPLE SEEM TO CONSIDER THIS A

QUESTION OF WHETHER DEATH EXISTS.

WHEREAS I HAVE ALWAYS THOUGHT

THIS A QUESTION OF LIFE. THAT IS

DOES LIFE EXIST? ALSO, THIS QUESTION

MAKES ME THINK OF HOW WAR

SELECTS FOR CERTAIN GENES

AND GENRES. HOW DID WWII

SELECT FOR PARTICULAR

ALELLES?

4. Africa Mina

Brazil

my death awaits me in Brazil

dancing his skinny hips in your direction

he grabs a martini, nods to the man in the white suit

you’re turning thirty-thirty-three

spinning spinning spinning

creating ice age molecules

a library of paleontology

5.

the bad thing about the English department

is that

it doesn’t reward failure

in all fields?

at least in science

failure is seen as an important

piece of the puzzle.

6.

where is the poetry?

where did it go?

do you know any poets?

I certainly don’t.

the universal grammar though

has an old career

you needn’t fear

the language instinct

the maternal bee string

driving the piano up the hill

dropping it down the stairs

burning your feet on the hot pavement

ringingringingringing

Dave please don’t say that

your lover’s doorbell

hell she might not

not be your prince

6.

Dvorak my queen

what signals are you radiating?

who has picked them up?

how many friends do you have?

what women do you have beneath your tongue?

I am a rather lonely rabbit

I find my situations lacking

my images do not comfort me

at first I was flattered

I am still curious

but who knew that curiosity

like beauty

is an attribute?

or that the old poets listend to

such terrible music?

7.

the dictator shakes his fists

the judge faces another lonely night

starring at the TV screen

watching himself in the dark

his kids play German techno in the other room

he is in love with his daughter’s best friend

his wife is on her second affair

he hasn’t had an orgasm in three months

his friends say he is an effigy of virtue

pan-paniscus: shoa-ecology

pan-paniscus

as always you are the last or first to know

the law of the excluded middle child

I saw this almost phenomenologically

I listen to my friend

it smells like pasta he says

it doesn’t smell like tuna

it’s not stupid

I like tuna

if people don’t laugh at my poetry there is something wrong with them

or me

it’s always a little bit of both

never this or that

like porn

what kind of laughter do I want

like what kind of love do I want

isn’t it odd that most homosexual men are also pedophiles

our country dressed in homosexuals

I really like children

do you like homosexuals

I don’t mean like to tolerate

or appreciate

or respect

or whatever

but do you lovvve homosexuals in the same way you love americanos

or americans

or buenos aires

is your relationship as complex and as interesting

as when my roommate was home and I didn’t know he was home

so when I… and he walked out of his room… I jumped

in the shower I oftentimes study

plato’s republic in my mind

I sing in greek then latin then german

I sing the national anthem of luxemburg

I I I I

it’s all about me isn’t it

well what about you

what about you and me

what about us

we together us together we together break

the wives of the world have foiled the swastika cookie cutters

remember we re-memeber remember

forget the time the phone rang

and you a childish paladin running with your horse head full of sushi

catching the tin drum by the little screaming brat’s pabst

shoa-ecology

10

100

100,000,000,000,000,000,000

when you get lots of people into the same place the thing (at its best)

engineering is always the same

the better it is the more it is the same thing

the organizing principles

what it looks like after the organizing

you have no friends just mates

just in it together

in line

in many respects

lots of things

fucked up

but we don’t boycott mom

for fucking up by buying us crayons instead of a tank

or america for bombing the chinese embassy

where was it

or my friend because he fucked my girlfriend

sorry I mean our friend

my girlfriend

our girlfriend

or my girlfriend’s girlfriend

las vegas is a place of second chances

second comings

and one day

fuel air bombs

fucking up is what good ecosystems do best

they do it in abandon

don’t abandon the bonobo

if it eats too many echidnas

rips them limb from probiscus

with its teeth

with its culture

with its tools

don’t abandon the little nazi in your son’s video game

it’s like puberty

don’t abandon puberty

or prepubescence

or rape

or jabbing wires through the mammilian body

it’s about all of us sea cows

don’t toss billy into the toilet

after you’ve carried him around

under your arm for over 72 hours

when he is six he will fill his foster dad’s

beer cooler with night crawlers

and we’ll all have a good chuckle

like TV audiences

the message being the massage

the massage is the message

you don’t know a goddamn thing

but you don’t need too

if you can enjoy a massage

about what you are talking about

your mother

who is the castrated shell of her father

who was a fat golden retriever who smoked cigars and stank of scotch

who was the effigy of a sea lion or was a manatee

made of $20 bills

the waiter being the waiter

the man who waits

at the oxygen bar looking for air

tired after a long day at the plasma clinic

living off and after and before

pre-Stroika in the bag

living off catholic boloney sandwiches

Contemporary Analytic Philosophy in 5 Acts

I would like to ban the words: machine, fountain, and snow

metallic drinking fountain

truth has an accent

like gook-jews

midget-luchador

redneck-niggers

and some machines drop radios made of microwave parts

lovingly

metallic water

tumbling from a communal bathhouse

bassquiet stands up

Gregor Gregorovich (a favorite character of: 0 users)

pours the last of the gin over the computer

-that fucking does it, he says, and suddently cries, I’m jewish! I can’t

feel my eyes!

-come on you two, says Yassen Gregorovich.

-what are you, the gestapo?

-come on fellas.

-jeez just let us finish our drinks.

-you’re finished; lets go.

-look, says bassquiet, it’s peter.

-what’s it doing up there? asks Gregor Gregorovich.

-maybe he has something to say about a memoir, says bassquiet,

and leaves through the back door.

(Peter, dribbling briskly into position in front of his goal, squaring up to encompass his own destruction.)

When I missed your flight

sitting in a new way

-don’t shoot, cries Gregor Gregorovich.

-don’t jump, says Yassen Gregorovich.

-give him air, says the violinist in bar light.

(peter continues, a transcription without notes.)

not anything about love or poetry or st. leningrad

or hymenoptera models

of roots and branches

standing in oppisition to themselves

-It’s Sibelius’ Violin Concerto in D minor, says the violinist.

(peter sways and takes a drink of water.)

the airport smells like an old couch

the old woman asks you to watch her bag

I think about the impact this act will have on the U.S. economy

the female asks the male

sit on the floor

she puts her head in his lap

he watches the escalator

meat being moved into its places

-I can’t stand it, cries Gregor Gregorovich.

-Oh, the horror, the horror, says Yassen Gregorovich.

-The horror, the horror, repeats the violinist.

(peter continues)

I am hiding

in the imagined thoughts of others

in the fat woman’s conversation with her bags about security

the old woman in the bathroom

siting on the toilet

the ghost of my death

the light of my hour

(peter puts a hand to his brow and falls to the floor)

a gathering crowd:

-there are of course limits

we wait peacefully

like something from a haiku

just like the plane was never invented, mummbles peter coming

tWo…

-somebody give him a bank card, says the violinist.

when I left

when I was scheduled to leave

-take the mean and multiply it by the square root of (t)1, suggests

Gregor Gregorovich.

-are the people on the converyer belt transplanted into sausages?

asks Yassen Gregorovich.

packed into planes

packed into planes

taken back to Africa

fed to my grandmother’s dictator

cluching his nappies

hemorraging –bleeding from the ass

asleep

dreaming of a yellow meadow from a movie

(peter gets up, wobbly on his feet. Mandy Potemkin walks through

the small doors in the back, takes him under the arm, smiles weakly

toward Gregor Gregorovich and the violinist. Yassen Gregorovich

takes him by the other arm.)

Exit

Peter Golub was born in Moscow in 1982. At the age of seven, he emigrated with his family to the United States. He studied Russian and philosophy at the University of Utah. He currently studies poetry in the Master of Fine Arts program at the University of Nevada in Las Vegas, where he also teaches. A frequent visitor to his native Russia, Golub spent the summer of 2006 in Moscow and St Petersburg translating contemporary Russian poetry. Some of those translations appear in Caketrain Issue 04.

Peter Golub nació en Moscou en 1982. Cuando tenía siete anos, se mudó con su familia a los Estados Unidos. Estudió ruso y filosofía en la Universidad de Utah. Corrientemente, estudia poesía en la programa de Master of Fine Arts en la Universidad de Nevada, en Las Vegas, donde también es profesor. Un visitor con frecuencia a su Rusia nativa, Golub pasó el verano de 2006 en Moscou y San Petersburgo, traduciendo la poesía Rusa contemporánea. Algunas de estas traducciones aparecen en Caketrain Issue 04.