1.
The fallen angels of words stumble about among
the shelves for fast food. Unhurried, in the reflection from the shop window
they touch up their worm haloes.
They whisper slogans but the frightened store clerk,
a newcomer from Tomsk, silently gives change.
Hey, Madame Akhmatova, Mister Frost, you didn't properly know
each other there at the dacha, did you? Allow me, here and now,
to introduce you again: this is Anna, and this is Robert.
In a twinkling you will shake vowels,
sigh and set off for the parking lot
to look for spring in its green hairdo,
last seen in Vermont, still frozen through
from a headlong leap into the Neva.
You, my America, I cook myself in your pot,
bean by bean. My rind becomes brittle, even
my little fingers weave themselves into chitchat.
I cut the fibers of the hours against the grain,
I swim, a learner fish, into the promised future.
2.
I play, ceremonially, the little game of roots.
I try to grab each little atom of belongingness
when I involve myself in a conversation.
A little ball of genes hurled
down the two-lane bowling alley,
grandmas and grandpas just
falling on their backs.
After lunch, while each crunches
his fortune cookie, in haste
using my chopsticks I
weave myself a new portrait.
Do not look down on me like that, Anna,
tift r all you said "no heart is welded to another."
I do not know what you are doing there in the northern latitudes
with frayed tissue. Hereabouts things
are thrown away.
3.
In the parking lot a conspiracy of cars.
A sneaky vehicle is playing hide-and-seek.
To-and-fro and from side to side I grind
my soles so that my lungs burn.
Oh yes, Robert, I should have taken the road
less traveled. Whereas the pavement
clings to me like a pair of gloves. The thumb on the avenue,
the forefinger traveling to the ocean. Instead of a road map
they left for me on the passenger' s seat
a book. There in rhymes some
apples, blueberries are picked.
I take everything they offer me,
from tears to salted peanuts.
Good manners tied up like a bunch of flowers. Immediately
I spread good will over myself. Everyone who
comes in beneath the roof nods with enthusiasm
so that the prickles, the divas of Central European dramas,
stick in my throat.
4.
Hey, you two, for a moment look back at me
before I rush with my book
on my lap into the tunnel.
The words, a light over
the emergency exit.
You two there in the tempting other world
where they through their monocles stare
at us ants, and our will gets
singed: unlock an iambic stanza,
maybe even one with an inexact rhyme.
If I could only stretch my legs a little
into the unaccented syllable, in the middle of the line of verse.
After all, I feel sleepy here on this plastic
chair, arms full of merchandise,
waiting for the cashier,
who in some Indian language or other
is unceasingly mumbling into a telephone.
5.
Let's go to a symphony concert. Yup,
let' s go to a symphony concert, so that
Shostakovich, the tour de force, will surge
through our auditory canals, and nudge loose the layers
of canned laughter,
the cartridges from innumerable crime stories from our eardrums.
Yes, let' s play at little dramatics,
as though we were at the end of our rope,
as though we were a dark-skinned immigrant
clinging to his false documents
in the presence of every cop.
Oh, yeah, and then, my little fishies,
let's swim off for a quick drink.
Let's soften our foreign accents with loyalty
while there's some oxygen left. As a finale
like a crescendo someone is sure to add:
it's not so bad here, after all.
Translation: Tom Priestly
1.
Padli angeli besed tavajo med policami
za hitro hrano. Nespečni si v vitrinskem odsevu
popravljajo ponošeno gloriolo.
Šepetajo gesla, a prestrašen prodajalec,
svež iz Tomska, molče vrača drobiž.
Hej, gospa Ahmatova, gospod Frost, kako sta si bila
tuja tam na dači! Dajta, zdaj in tukaj,
znova vaju predstavim: to je Anna, to je Robert.
V hipu si bosta segla v vokale,
vzdihnila in se odpravila na parkirišče
iskat spomlad z zeleno pričesko,
zadnjič videno v Vermontu, še premraženo od
vrtoglavega skoka v Nevo.
Ti moja Amerika, v tvojem loncu se kuham,
bob ob bobu. Lupina postaja krhka, celo
mezinčka se zapletata v klepet.
Ure režem prečno na vlakna,
plavam, ribica začetnica, v obljubljeno bodočnost.
2.
Grem se, obredno, igrico korenin.
Hlastam za vsakim atomčkom pripadnosti,
ko se zapletam v pogovor.
Genski klobčič zalučan dol
po dvosteznem kegljišču,
stare mame in dedki kar
popadajo vznak.
Po kosilu, ko vsak hrusta svoj
biškot usode, si na hitrico
z lesenimi palčicami
spletem novo podobo.
Ne glej name tako zviška, Anna,
saj si rekla srce na srce ni prikovano.
Ne vem kaj počnete tam na severnih vzporednikih
z obrabljenim tkivom. Tukaj se stvari
mečejo stran.
3.
Na parkirišču avtomobilska zarota.
Potuhnjeno vozilo se igra skrivalnice.
Podolgem in počez brusim
podplate, da gorijo pljuča.
O ja, Robert, morala bi izbrati pot
manj potovano. Kaj ko se me asfalt
oprijema kot par rokavic. Palec na aveniji,
kazalec potuje k oceanu. Namesto cestne karte
so mi na sopotniškem sedežu
pustili knjigo. Tam se v rimah
pobirajo jabolka, borovnice.
Vzamem vse, kar mi ponudijo,
od solz do slanih arašidov.
Olika povezana v šopek. Takoj razpnem
dobro voljo nad seboj. Vsak, ki
pristopi pod streho, navdušeno kima,
da se mi bodice, dive srednjeevropskih dramoletov,
zataknejo v grlu.
4.
Hej, vidva, za trenutek se ozrita name,
preden zdrvim s knjigo
v naročju v tunel.
Besede, luč nad
zasilnim izhodom.
Vidva tam v mikavnem onstranstvu,
kjer se skozi monokle strmi na
nas, mravljice, in nam smodi
voljo, odprita jambsko kitico,
lahko tudi kakšno s šibko rimo.
Samo da se malo zleknem
v nenaglašen zlog, v sredini verza.
Kajti spi se mi tukaj na plastičnem
stolu, roke polne robe,
čakajoč blagajničarja,
ki v nekem indijskem jeziku
nepretrgoma momlja v telefon.
5.
Gremo v simfonijo. Ja,
pojdimo v simfonijo, da se
Šostakovič zapodi, tour de force,
skozi sluhovod, zbeza metre
konzerviranega smeha,
tulce neštetih kriminalk z bobniča.
Da, gremo se malce drame,
kakor da nam gre za nohte,
kakor da smo temnopolti priseljenec,
ki se ob vsakem stražniku
oklene ponarejenih dokumentov.
O ja, nato pa, ribice moje,
zaplavajmo na kozarček.
Tuje naglase mehčamo z lojalnostjo,
dokler je kaj kisika. Za finale
kakor crescendo bo gotovo kdo pristavil:
saj ni tako slabo tukaj.