Sergei Tashevsky (Moscow)

Tashevsky

Poet, in the eighties was a publisher the underground literature anthologies ("Trying to live," "Dog Summer," "Nightmare," "Wax Years"). Since 1998 chief in edit of Internet project Russianpoems


/on this side/

Hey, howl,
Hail to Allen Ginsberg, up his!
Aloha to him—eaten up from inside and out,
Lost in his own guts,
Sold for pennies
By movie theater cashiers!
You forfeit liberty.
You are no longer a howl—just a fart.
That is your problem.
But looks like my problem
Is way more serious —
That is:
I’m not free,
Just on the other side of an ass.


/democracy, to set aside the rest/

Ass! This is ass!
On billboards,
On covers,
On price tags and TV,
On battlefield and encampment—ass!
Are we always in a crusade? No—
We are always underground.
What if
There is an ass above us?
You are fighting against ass, dude,
But you are under
And it’s silly to wonder
Why
You have been shit upon.
Ass! This is ass!
How indifferent is she!
You are asking: Why the shit is all over?
—Look above! Any questions? None? Then go your way
And don’t look at the sky.
You know everything about life.


/bonus track/

I sang love songs to her all night…
Four of them appeared in the morning.
First one showed master record of my song
And put a doodle in the contract.
Second one explained to me
Why the song is out of style.
Third one
Sued me for use of obscene language.
Forth one
Offered his legal aid to me.
Oh, God, take back my words!
So, here’s my tormented story
Caused by a quick blow-job
Earlier this morning.


/base instinct/


I don’t get it—
Why you are so interested.
Probably you read something about relay of generations.
About role models.
Breakthrough.
OK. There was one breakthrough. Of a cherry.
Of course,
Most of you—
Right now—
Will try to interpret these words as a metaphor
In order to save your flowers.


Translated by Aleksey Dayen (NY, 2010)

Danyla Davydov (Moscow)

Davydov

Poet, Literary critic, winner of the National Youth Award Debut (2000)


***
From the distance of 200 meters there is already nothing you can see.
Yet wonderful things are happening there
And probably cannibals are marching along triumphantly
But also some speck has probably blossomed meanwhile
Your blind vision substitutes your imagination.
That should be noted: herewith unimportant what is a substitute to what.
Far afield there is some life and movement.
However you can't see even from the distance of 100m what it is.


Andrei Filimonov (Tomsk)

Filimonov


Poet, novelist, tv journalist, president the moveable poetry festival PlaceNigde

***
Some things are both lovely and confusing,
like the Russian language and the German language,
the choral circles of the - damn it! - singing in the Recreation Centre,
and Kama Sutra for the herdsman and the goat...

The strange things are like old doors,
but the Oleg the Seer and the Proud Varyag
are ganging up to get them terminated
for the anniversary of the Great October.

Sponsors of samsara had a whip-round -
and bought for Lenin a sleeping beauty coffin.
Second-hand is the style of the whole generation
in the Empire, which the microbe has bitten to death.

And today in the Kremlin the aggressive clowns
start the choral - damn it! - singing again.
Goodbye, homo sapiens, you're under arrest!
You did not read through the list of the ships...


Parole

Voici la parole que je cherche.
Voici Dieu auprès de qui était la parole que je cherche.
Voici celui qu’on avait pris pour Dieu,
auprès de qui au commencement était
la parole que je cherche.
Voici un livre avec une croix qui parle de celui
qu'on avait pris pour Dieu.
Voici un prêtre qui lit le livre avec une croix qui parle du mec
qu'on avait pris pour Dieu
(et de tout ce qui en a resulté)
Voici une église, c'est là que travaille le prêtre.
Et voici mon travail.
Je suis journaliste,
J'écris pour de l'argent que j'apporte ensuite à ma femme et à mes enfants,
pour qu'ils me donnent du temps libre
pour chercher la parole,
qui au commencement était auprès de Dieu,
lequel fut confondu ensuite avec celui dont parle le livre avec une croix.
Me voici un jour à l'église
(venu pour des raisons professionnelles et non en ma qualité de paroissien)
pour demander au prêtre son avis sur l'expression
"chiasse de Dieu"
(c'est bien la mission qui m'a été confiée par ma rédaction)
Me regardant comme si j'étais idiot, le prêtre me répond:
"Je ne pense pas que ce soit ça la parole que vous cherchez."

Translated by Inga Vendelin

***
Nicht leicht in Holland Buddhist zu sein,
Und alles wegen den Schecken- sie kommen heraus gerannt
In Mengen aus den Gebüschen und unter die Räder des Fahrrades
Legen sie sich, wie A. Karenina
Und stören das Karma
Das auch so schon ordentlich
gestört ist
Und wenn du weiter so
Durchs Leben gehen wirst,
sozusagen -über Schnecken -
dann wird Buddha dich selbst als Schnecke zur Welt bringen
nackt auf einer holländischen Straße
und sich zum Biker wendend, dich richten

Ach, Kinder- keine Angst- Buddha gibt es nicht
Und dass sind keine Verse
Sondern bloßer Geist
Knirscht wie die Schale unterm Rad

Translated by Derry Dasha

ego mantra

I wish
you good
I wish
you to be
as I wish
Someone up there
wishes
me not to be
as you wish
And no one no one wishes
me to be
as I wish
you good


A man w/out place or dance of nowhere


Bagpack. Domodedovo. Airbaltick.
Air
Riga. Yura Fateev.Didjeridoo.
Air
Schiphol. Local train. Hostel.
Cofeshop. Cofeshop. Cofe...
Water
Klaas. Geidre. Hippy.
Bike. Mushrooms. Sea.
The Dunes.
Meeting with the British paratrooper of 1943
Earth
Pakistani guy. Cricetist. Blue mercedes.
German couple. Hardcore porno sites.

Frankfurt. Tolik, Ira, Sonya, Sarrah and others.
Especially, Ragu. Real brahman. Smart artist.
Video installation at the underground passage.
Russian bookstore. Total shit poetry.
Midnight. Tolik. Water. Panini.
Sleep.

Brussels.
Morning. Pierre. Rain.
Rain. Chocolate.Fry potato.
Magritte. More Magritte. A lot of Magritte

Den Haag.
Goose. Queen. Court. Freedom.
Arjen&Bonnie. Herring and ganja.
Vermeer? No Vermeer at all.
Schiphol. Riga. Moscow.

Brahman (non Ragu). Sveta. Dutch tobacco&bokma
Village in suburbs. Chelyuskin. Dacha.
Petanque. Volleyball. Water.
So much.
The underwater lovers.

Morning. Beer. Poems.
Juzvak. Davydov. Zima
Idle serve. Tashevsky the gentleman.
One high after another.
Brahman again. Our site (non porno)
Work, work.
Molten metal. Mind of poet.
Metallurgists. Love.

Yellow rainy Kiev.
M.Bulgakov, cats, phonographs.
Andriyivsky Descent. High point of mind.
From yellow-blue Kiev to sky-gold Almaty

Natasha. Children. One rastaman cap for everybody
Issyk-Kul lake. Kagy-sai village. Former uranium mine
Devouring as much water-melons as possible.
Canyon "Fairytale". Barberry. Love.
Almaty revisiting. Dance of nowhere.
Pasha, Vanya and others.
Fountain, another fountain.
Six wet poets in a taxi.
Total shit heavy metal. Ganja. Snore of God
Next year hear again.
After end of the world.
Amen.


Anastasia Romanova (Moscow)

Romanova

Poet, publicist, thrice-nominated literary prize "Debut"

***
Don't tear the sail
anger with it
Do not eat liver.
Unspeakable smoke flies
in the tandoor region of son.
The Euxine strand's roach thunders glandular
and charts, and whirls
homeless lace dreams in the joints

The spits of charms are blown by foam
It casts of the sneeze of the wind
The hearing listens and the heat sprinkles
in random and nobody's


***
pour aller jusqu'à Dieu, il y a une très bonne autoroute,
me dit maître Di un ami
des milliers de pistes
pas de limite de vitesse
comme dans certains coins d'Allemagne
des sorties confortables
des cafés, des motels...
dans ces motels il y a des concierges,
eux sont des véritables diables.

Translated by Inga Vendelin

Andrei Polonsky (Moscow)

Polonsky

Poet, novelist and historian. Founder of the Society of Free Kastopravs (2000). Author of several books of poetry, as well as books on Russian history and a collection of essays, Apology of Ivan the Fool (2012)

***
Amongst the signs of another era,
yearning and losses of grief,
where mangy dogs hysterically howled
and cornflowers in blossom were so impudent

There was enough to drink for those
who insatiably drink from dawn
The lane for bread was marking time
and cops were whistling into autumn

And - yet not fat and lame,
dressed in a ragged sweater -
I walked to scatter pamphlets,
to smoke with friends and get back home...

The hollow walls of churches sang their songs
the wild wind tore you
and the frost flogged
Yoke of the system was as light as thistledown
And my past was salty like my tears

The Saints cried menacingly
And divine light was so explicit
We dreamed of living in Russia,
which did not ever exist.


***
Je la lave et la relave,
du matin au soir,
mais ça ne la change pas: elle reste toujours de la vaisselle sale,
qui ne connaît pas la vérité, qui ne distingue pas le bien du mal.
Je me le suis dit maintes fois: je n'y toucherai plus,
et me revoilà devant une montagne
de vaisselle sale
qui ne connaît pas la vérité, qui ne distingue pas le bien du mal.
Qu'on soit non-conformiste, lèche-bottes,
flambeur, pute, ou même voleur,
cela ne change rien : on a tous de la vaisselle à laver,
de la vaisselle qui ne connaît pas la vérité, qui ne distingue pas le bien du mal.
Tant qu'elle n'aura pas appris à vivre en respectant la loi,
tant qu'elle n'aura pas saisi ce qui est faux,
tant qu'elle n'aura pas éprouvé le besoin d'en finir avec le mal,
il faudra bien la casser, la casser avec un grand bruit,
pour qu'elle se réveille et qu'elle comprenne enfin.

Translated by Inga Vendelin


Aleksey Yakovlev (Moscow)

Brahman

Poet, traveller, editor of the site The Society of Free Kastopravs, PlaceNigde, etc

***
Along the railway,
where angels are tender, where demons are wary,
Grigory Prochozhin, which declared as wanted,
walked under the iron bridge.

He was taxi driver in Simferopol,
learned foreign languages and had a sympathy to the Kurds.
Не shacked in Moscow with the slut
and slept with the princess of Sudan.
From Kiev till Magadan he was the well-known tramp.
There was a summer night with cherry odor along all streets.
This night he has turned out to be odd man out.
The Attorney’s daughter has wanted to go Paris with him.
God laughed and cried, and quietly whispered:
because of this love you would go to jail.
Tomorrow three man in mufti would take your taxi
and find a pot and heroin under the seat.

Next day shit happened as it was predicted.
Three huge apes have knocked at the windshield.
But something was moaning and beating inside his chest.
He, drunk for the air, has strangled the gas pedal.

Train banlieue

des piétons en dedans des ruelles
des voitures en dedans des routes
des sujets sont des papiers bonbon
le train perce lentement la banlieue
des gouttelettes d'éther s'évaporent de la peau de la rame
les conducteurs avec une tasse de thé chaud
tels d'anciens pionniers scrutant l'obscurité
suintante telle une figue trop mure,
des créatures bizarres
faites de la lumiére et la fumée des lanternes
des mystères électromagnétiques
et du plasma instable des mémoires
schéma du réseau ferroviaire des environs de Moscou
fleur suprématiste de mon coeur
sur les murs des carrés
la voix à la radio rappelle
prochaine station jjjjyyyychhhtchhhh...


Andrey Olear (Tomsk)

Olear

Poet, translator (Winner of the 7th INTERNATIONAL FESTIVAL OF RUSSIAN POETRY AND CULTURE 2009, LONDON), publisher the books of modern poetry and prose

(From “25 English Sonnets For the British Ambassador”)

The landscape is fuzzy. It is still pouring in Moscow.
For the third day in row, the brain, like a dachshund,
has been carefully sniffing around the room,
and finding that it is still, alas, square.
The nature is craving for an exit. Where it is,
even the good old Google will not tell you;
just nicotine, having found a fifth angle
in the square, goes out to the balcony.
The world has faded, like a wiped-out movie.
Every film in it has been turned into a sieve
by the lead of rain and time. Into the window,
you throw a glance, as if it were a dynamite stick.
And if the longing could have the power,
the troops would have been moving to
the Ambassador at five o'clock.


Natalia Nelubova (Tomsk)

Nelubova

Poet, singer, composer, released four alboms (Songs of the South provinces, Small ethnic dances, Somana Kukun, Inside of the cuckoo)

***
A river for you I am.
A snake for you I am.
A grass for you I am.

Ground for you.
Bad for you.

You’re inside of me
Like a snake in a shape of a snake.
My dreams have driven you to Somana Kukun.
The snake in my hair,
The snake far from me.
Sky surrounds me like a snake.
Night stands in front of me.
Somana Kukun follows me.
O, bright angel,

Are you an elk or you ain’t?
How did you live your life?
How did you float your life?
Chthon you’re or you ain’t?
There is a plankton in place
Of your thoughts.
And there is smoke in place of my heart.
But that’s
                 not what
I’m trying to tell.
River. I’m river for you.
Mountain. I’m a mountain for you.
I’m your bone, o Somana Kukun,
I’m your blood.
I promise you light
I promise you love
Promise you everything
O bright angel!

Who was the one,
who destroyed our home?
Home chthon blanket of dream,
Milk of moon?
We’ll be flying soon
We’ll be flying soon

You
and
me
Like
Somana Kukun
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Производство студия "Троянский конь" (Томск, 2012)


Идея: Андрей Филимонов. Камера: Олег Иванов, Андрей Юрченко. Монтаж: Светлана Мельник. Музыка: Наталья Нелюбова. Графика: Лариса Лавникович.
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