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You say:
even though the temple is destroyed and there is no trace of it left,
above the altar
stands a patient angel
waiting for changes.
I say:
add to this angel with tidings,
dreams and errands
that crisscross the city
in every direction,
angels accompanying
our ridiculous chariots,
and angels
flying at everyoneโs shoulders…
It is a small world, and if you look closely,
it is crowded
with invisible wings and other iconography:
scrolls, staffs, white chitons,
caring hands,
now strong, now gentle.
* * *
If I could, I would drink this summer,
As they probably drank in the olden days,
With my head tilted back
And my greedy lips to the cup.
I would pass the cup around
As they used to do in the olden days,
From hand to hand at a friendly feast,
So all my friends might have theirs.
I’d drink, mingling sadness with merrymaking,
I’d listen to the songs and look at the stars,
And my thoughts would be a swarm
Of honey bees, their wings tinkling.
And one of them would sting me in my heart,
And my heart would choke with poetry…
If I could, I would drink this summer,
As they used to drink a farewell goblet
at a funeral feast โ
Without wiping tears from my cheeks,
On a long journey from which there is no return,
Seeing off a friend or a brother.
* * *
PETER AND PAUL
This Saul is angry beyond measure, they say!
A bookworm and a saint! Just a boy, but holier than holy patriarchs!
A Pharisaic seed! Dog! Bastard of vipers!
How to dodge his sting,
How to escape his evil claws?
It would be good to go north, home,
with my brothers to fish and pray…
But these – if you happen to run into them,
They’ll rip off your clothes and beat you, you won’t get up.
Help me somehow!
Only sunshine and white dust on the road.
So how to do this thing – to go and hug brother Paul?
* * *
don’t be sad
don’t be brokenhearted
the hand writes
words go west
roads head east
sultry skies
burning land
dusty convoy ahead
through the iron bars of days
no way back to the Bosphorus
no radiant eyes to see
don’t be sad
love is everywhere
and its golden threads
and the sun too
the same sun above us
at different ends of the earth
_________________________
* St. John Chrysostom “Letters to Olympiad”
Mikhail Kukin (born in 1962) started his studies at the Faculty of Cybernetics at MIFI but abruptly changed his life and joined the army. He served in the Western Ukraine near the town of Khotin. After the army, he studied at the Philological Faculty of Moscow State Pedagogical Institute. Currently, he gives lectures on the history of culture. His poems were published in many Russian literary journals.
Nina Kossmanโs nine books include three books of poems, two books of short stories, an anthology she edited for Oxford University Press, two volumes of translations of Marina Tsvetaevaโs poetry, and a novel. Her English-language work has appeared in over ninety magazines and anthologies and has been translated into many languages, including French, Italian, Greek, Hebrew, Spanish, Danish, Dutch, Persian, Chinese, and Japanese. Her plays have been produced in several countries. Her work in her first language, Russian, was published in Russian-language periodicals in and outside of Russia. She is a recipient of an NEA fellowship, UNESCO/PEN Short Story award, grants from the Onassis Foundation, the Foundation for Hellenic Culture, etc.
This collection includes poems written in 2020-2023.ย (Russian edition)
“The Lingering Twilight” (“ะกัะผะตัะบะธ”) 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.” โBooklist
“This unique book will serve to promote discussions of freedom.” โSchool 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)
