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

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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

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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.