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(Message started by: Antrekot 10/23/03 15:48:51)

: English collection
Antrekot 10/23/03 15:48:51
In translation, Russian poetry
smells of mothballs and Shakespeare,
overblown nursery rhymes,
jingling with alliterations.

Under the gliding coils of English
theres a wrongness, a tension,
a tang of predestination,
a landslide waiting to happen.

In the original this force is held
by a rigid scheme of rhythm and rhyme,
else itll rush into the world,
upsetting every balance.

The verses twirl into spirals,
the rhymes are interlocked,
so music wont drown the universe,
so it wont lose itself in space.

While mellow English flows away
this fierce harmonys still there,
still trying to contain the pulse
within the chalky limits of a rib cage.

It has not been told yet
that the center cannot hold.
Russian poetry, in translation

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

A Harbour Bridge Rhyme

A heady premonition
encased in steel and stone.
A point of no return.
The instincts are subverted
converting fright to right
to flight.

Look, on the cape across the strait
theres a jacaranda blooming.
You do not stir
reading your book,
riding your train,
reining in chaos.

Otherwise
youd have to embrace
a net of empty spaces
a spine over your head.

Look across the strait

Where the angular head of a giraffe
mirrors Centerpoint,
across the strait,
where the monorail vine
twists among the rocks,
across the strait,
where its always teatime.

A bridge,
a perfect rhyme,
a life designed to funnel
the tensions of the day,
a way to conquer pain.

So
what do you think
coming home from work,
sliding down the globe,
tracing the path of a Cheshire moon
across the glimmering dome?

At that moment the train
enters the tunnel.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I speak both Russian and English,
I read in Polish and French,
and my Ukrainian might be called fair
if truth can survive such a stretch.
I revel in useless knowledge
and dabble at verbal chess.
So who am I?
Guess.

I come from a limestone city
on the post-deluvian beach
and my children wont master its jingling speech,
for its not a thing you can teach.
But I hear its lateral grammar
making offers I cant refuse.
So is that me?
Choose.

So what am I:
a tilt of a head,
a ricochet of a thought,
the force of entropy wants me dead
and harmony wants me not.

My bones change to the very marrow
every time someone says my name,
and whatever language I speak tomorrow
will probably be the same.

: English collection
Antrekot 10/23/03 15:49:26
January tune

From the melting glaciers the South wind comes
banging upon my door.
It doesnt even know if Im at home,
what is it knocking for?

Over the ridge the ochre reigns
and drought eats up land like a tide.
And the North wind neednt bother to knock
for the heat is already inside.

Hold fast.  Its January
on the edge of the sea,
on the edge of the desert,
in the place where the Earth is flat.

So the wind whistles down the winding streets
and the ocean riles at the beach,
and polysyllabic herbage slides
its roots into every breach.

And while chasing after a sneaky rhyme
through the suburbs of dark renown
you can walk the night in the molten light
of the moon that hangs upside-down.

Hold fast.  Its still January
by the alien sea,
on the alien land,
in the place where the Earth is flat.

And whatever present tomorrow brings
there is always a past to forge
with our thoughts and longings layering up
all the way from Olduvai Gorge.

So we fill empty spaces and flood the air
with our knowledge and love and strife,
so this city may answer the howling wind
with the subliminal roar of life.

Hold fast.  Its January
by the changing sea,
in whatever land,
in the place where the Earth is flat.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jinny Mae

What are you going to do, Jinny Mae?
What are you going to do now?
The wind is rising, my Jinny Mae,
dont you hear it howl?
Ill find myself a cloak so blue,
Ill wrap myself in that cloak.
Ill go out to meet my true love
and the Devil may take you all.

But theres no cloak or love, Jinny Mae,
and blue is a colour no more now.
The wind is here, my Jinny Mae,
its blowing the words away.
Then I shall pray to the Powers Above,
Ill give my life to that prayer.
Ill ask for this raging wind to abate
and never again hold sway.

But you have no will or voice, Jinny Mae,
you have no life of your own now.
Theres just the wind talking to itself
from the mountains to the sea.
Then Im free in my choice, my friend,
Then theres nothing but freedom.
And if I can be anything at all
I might just as well be me.

What are you going to do, Jinny Mae?
What are you going to do now?
The wind is rising, my Jinny Mae,
dont you hear the call?
Ill find myself a cloak so blue,
Ill wrap myself in that cloak.
Ill go out to meet my true love
and the Devil may take you all.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Counting raindrops, rolling along
down the gravity well.
Thoroughbred mongrels,
fallen from grace
to the shore
where time is a measure of space,
is there a notion we cant embrace
               and work into a song?

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The hardest stone can be described
in terms of pressure and life.
And the weed that once grew
on Gondwanas shores
hasnt gone anywhere.
So whatever coordinates you choose to believe
you live on a coral reef.

: Re: English collection
10/28/03 09:24:09
( )

, ? :)

: Re: English collection
10/29/03 01:40:16
, ? :)




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