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Наши проекты

Теория сетературы



Наши авторы в переводах:
Евгений Горный
Eugene Gorny


Избранные стихотворения
из книги "Образ мира"


I dreamed you were dead
heart-crushed I awoke
the streets were as empty as fire
heart-beating - a tunnel, a voice
darkness was falling through unmerciful snow
on the black couch a pallor stretched out
your arm - a falling leaf. tell me why
the shadows of trees are everlasting in night?


Autumn has come
and all things are beginning to die
were falling
yellow red blue black
so unwilling to fall
and therefore
silently circling
silently circling
over the corpses


she has sick eyes
he has a sick imagination
they count the drops

dumb silence of muteness
envelops melting bodies
neither bare nor naked
simply purely bodily

she has sick eyes
he has a sick imagination
neither bare nor naked
crucified on the cross


I moved on the staircase beyond the space
through the fire hollows ice fields
across the bursts of submachine guns outside and within me
crushing the perfection of cylinder and tetrahedron
in this sleepless breathing sea
where life is only a form of nought
floods of letters and others emotions
pierce me through


Crossing the desert
where forwards and backwards are indistinguishable to sight,
with sand in his eyes and cloudless sky,
without any occurrence, only the sun
up and down, or, occasionally, a tushkan crawls out,
whistles and disappears behind sand-hills;
in this desert where the song of sand
is heard only by the ears of sand, and by the skin
of a lizard on the sand; where every thought
is embodied in the form of prickle or whistle,
where to see a cyclist means to see a mirage;
crossing the desert,
lifting and lowering his feet,
gazing in front of him,
lifting and lowering his feet,
the camel crosses the desert.


Summer has come. The woman has undressed
and, naked, walks out onto the balcony.
As usual, the street below was bustling,
the maple was green, its folifge rustling,
terrible heat. Shadows were running,
fluff flying. I walked out after her.
She gently bent her back and knees,
and now I copulate with her.


Deprived of everything
your last skin taken
beaten up and thrust with an awl
thrown onto the rubish, and left

you have nothing -
and had you anything ever? -
here you are, smeared with faeces,
naked, in the desert you stand

Translated by Mass and the author


How dry is my mouth, my sweet Lord!
Give me a sip, a drop of spittle.
In terror the word will die in Sahara,
In the pain the tongue will be moved in the sand-hill.
Or wilst Thou destroy these sounds of mine,
The song that I always address to Thee?

The wolves that howls in the wilderness
Are less wretched than I, for they have their song.
In fields, forests, seas and the cloudless sky
All things sign out their life with a voice.
Mute heavy stones rolling down from high mountains
Give birth to their song, or a likeness of song.

But I with my speech, my immortal soul,
Tortured by tongue-tie, die each minute.
I beseech Thee, deliver me from needless chatter,
From restless designs and useless desires.
For I long to behold more brightly and clearly
Than the dry hollow thing that litter the sand.
But my ears are shortsighted and sad is my heart.

In the desert light dazzles. The fateful sky
Falls like a stone and quenches me.
Is Thy truth in the traces that melt from my vision?
Is Thy voice in the singing of the sands of desert?
Then we vainly implored Thee to slake us with death,
Crying of pain, supposing it to be the essence of life,
If the sand is only the face of the sea,
If the sand is only a way into silence.

Translated by Clare Guest and the author

© Евгений Горный, 2001-2023.
© Сетевая Словесность, 2001-2023.


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