* * *
The sky was gone. I thought this wouldn’t last.
I left for home and once the year had passed
came back, to find the air turned water-dense.
I must have gotten lost somehow, I guess.
At home the sky was also gone, and there
I was trailed closely by the watery air,
which streamed along, just within sight,
until it up and tore away in fright
when, like a fish, I gasped till I could feel
the oxygen flow swiftly through my gills,
I sighed, got used to water, lost my fear…
But all the sky was missing. Everywhere.
The Passion of the Grapes
So passes time—comes May, then June,
And while we try our best to prune
The excess, August finally descends.
The city of the dead in summer can’t be beat,
The harvest of its grapes is clogging up the streets.
A house across the way sun-dries its tenants
Atop a roof that’s gently sloping down,
All but the redheads welcomed by the sun.
The days creep like a vine along the walls,
Spraying the ground below with grape juice.
There’s some breath still left within us,
But a deathly stare is trained upon us all.
A man with skin peeled off is pulp and blood.
The city of the dead—the sky flat with the road.
Gates of eternity stand shut with padlock on.
A grape without its pulp, flesh without flesh,
Who, what are we, in life’s mad dash?
One moment, born—next, shrivelled up and gone.
* * *
Are those clouds up high or cargo ships
Crossing the skies at a crawl?
How bright we bloomed in bygone days,
All year, and more in springtime, I recall.
People end up with all kinds of breaks…
In the sepulchers of leaves under the cherry,
No leaves are accidental—all are buried.
All will rot, whichever one you take.
Still, the loss appears too great, too cruel—
As if something broke that matters most,
And how precious little we have wanted—
Just that they should live… the leaves and all.
* * *
Здесь неба не было. Я думала, пройдёт.
Ушла домой, вернулась через год,
А воздух стал тяжелым, как вода.
Наверное, вернулась не туда.
И дома неба не было, и там
Ходил за мною воздух по пятам.
Не приближаясь, тёк себе и тёк,
От ужаса пустился наутёк,
Когда, как рыба, я открыла рот,
Сквозь жабры пропустила кислород,
Вздохнула, приспособилась к воде…
А неба больше не было. Нигде.
Страсти по винограду
Так проходит время – июнь за маем,
И пока мы лишнее отсекаем,
Наступает август в конце концов.
Город мертвых, летом неподражаем,
Виноградным давится урожаем,
Дом напротив вялит своих жильцов
На уютной с виду покатой крыше.
Почему-то солнце не любит рыжих.
Дни по стенам тянутся, как лоза,
Виноградным соком на землю брызжут…
Что-то в нас осталось ещё и дышит.
Неживое смотрит во все глаза.
Человек без кожицы – мякоть с кровью.
Город мёртвых – небо с асфальтом вровень.
На воротах в вечность – большой засов.
Виноград без мякоти – плоть без плоти,
Кто мы, что мы – в жизни круговороте?
Чуть родился, глянешь – уже засох.
* * *
Облака ли, с грузом корабли,
Ползают по небу еле-еле.
Прежде, помню, знатно мы цвели
Круглый год, особенно в апреле.
Всякое случается с людьми…
В лиственных могильниках под вишней
Ни случайных листьев нет, ни лишних.
Все сгниют, какого ни возьми.
Непосильным видится ущерб –
Словно что-то главное сломалось.
А такая требовалась малость –
Чтоб живые… листья и вообще.
Elena Mudrova, born in 1967, was a poet in Kharkiv. She made her living as an accountant. Her poems were published under a pen name Black Fox (Черная лиса). On March 20, 2024, she was killed by a Russian missile.
Maria Bloshteyn is a literary scholar, editor, translator, and essayist. She was born in Leningrad and she grew up and lives in Toronto. Maria studied Dostoevsky’s impact on American culture and is the author of The Creation of a Counter-culture Icon: Henry Miller’s Dostoevsky (2007). She is the translator of Alexander Galich’s Dress Rehearsal (2009) and Anton Chekhov’s The Prank (2015), as well as the editor and the main translator of Russia is Burning, a collection of Russоphone poems of World War II (Smokestack Books, 2020). Her poetry translations have appeared in a number of journals and anthologies, including The Penguin Book of Russian Poetry (Penguin Classics, 2015).
This collection includes poems written in 2020-2023. (Russian edition)
“The Lingering Twilight” (“Сумерки”) is Marina Eskin’s fifth book of poems. (Russian edition)
Launched in 2012, “Four Centuries” is an international electronic magazine of Russian poetry in translation.
A collection of moving, often funny vignettes about a childhood spent in the Soviet Union.
“Vivid picture of life behind the Iron Curtain.” —Booklist
“This unique book will serve to promote discussions of freedom.” —School Library Journal
A book of poems by Maria Galina, put together and completed exactly one day before the start of the Russian invasion of Ukraine. This is Galina’s seventh book of poems. With translations by Anna Halberstadt and Ainsley Morse.
A new collection of poems by Ian Probstein. (In Russian)