1
 
You were incarnated wingless and naked,

A child, a young monk,

A lithe stalk born from an aspen stake,

By the three orange trunks,

Breathless from birth, as hollow as a straw,

And as wet as paper,

A boot lieu angel, a Johnny raw,

A rookie, a puppy.

Neither charcoal nor oil, neither blood nor ink,

Unsexed and unsensed,

You were incarnated a silly prank,

A meme, a jest,

A mistletoe branch, abyss and distress,

A blind little furball,

What can you do for us, you so incongruous,

Awkward and feeble?

No pastor, no leader, not a covenant writ,

Not a word, not a sword,

What should we do with you, so nondescript

So untoward?

Neither man nor maiden, a suckling, a seedling,

What were you made for,

Who needs you down here, what use is your meaning,

What use is your metaphor,

While we are ready to crash and burn

In the battlefield hell,

What do you need, tell us, where do we turn,

And how can you help,

If all that you know,

Are these words from down low

(But who’s gonna heed them?):

It’s freedom,

it’s freedom,

it’s freedom,

it’s freedom,

it’s freedom.

it’s freedom.
 
Translated from Russian by Dmitri Manin
 
2
 
“WHETHER IT WAS…”
 
Whether it was too much wine that made him sick

Or too much news that made him sweat,

But Sergey was paid a midnight visit by his grandpa, a WW2 vet.

Grandpa sat down on the Ikea stool, so that his broad back would block

The view from the window. He said: Seryozha, we need to talk.

Can you please, my dearest grandson, whom I adore,

Not post anything about me on Facebook, never, no more?

Not in any context, whether with or without the letter “zed” or the letter “zee.”

Just don’t do it, says grandpa. Don’t post anything about me.

Don’t claim any victory in my name.

No victory.

I’d be happy, his grandpa continued, if I could persuade

You to stop showing me off at the parade.

I beg of you, dear (here, grandpa motions with his wrist),

I don’t want to be in a regiment.

Not the immortal one, not the mortal, Seryozha. I won’t enlist.

Let me rest in peace, Seryozha.

I earned my rest.
 
Yes, I know you’re smart, driven, liberal, you’re all of those.

This life is not what you chose.

But it’s also not what I chose!

We’ve lived our one and only life.

It was hard. Now, I implore:

Can we please stop serving you

As poster boys for war?

We’re done here, kids.

We’ve gone down into the ground.

Can you start from scratch without us

This time around?
 

We don’t need your pride.

We don’t need your secret shame.

I ask you to make sure the world

Forgets my name.
 

– But then, I’ll forget how we couldn’t find “The Ninth Wave”

In the Russian Museum – and I don’t want to forget,

Or how you changed my clothes

When I woke up sick, drenched in sweat,

How we looked for the poles in the atlas,

And how you’d explain

Why there was a white trail in the sky

Behind every plane,

How you gave me a book by Prishvin,

And a magnifying glass one day…
 

That’s fine, says his grandpa, vanishing.

None of that did you any good anyway.
 
Translated from Russian by Anna Krushelnitskaya
 
3
 
LOT
 
Hello.

Sorry to bother you.

My last name is Lot.

To keep it short,

last night things got hot,

so everyone ran,

and me and my wife

hightailed it from under the shells.

And we did understand

the main rule was – not to look back.

Except all around us it was such unbearable hell

that she must have gotten

spooked.

She forgot, and

she looked.

I myself find it hard to believe

that this is my woman,

and I’m not talking about her looks,

not about those damn body standards,

although her old body was killer,

she did used to model:

no smoking, no booze…

Age does change everyone,

but still, excuse me,

she was a model of a human,

not of a pillar.

Sorry for texting;

I had many sleepless nights in a row,

and I do know

it’s not a country that will ever help me,

but still, please tell me

if there are any inventions

to help me out a bit,

since now she can’t fit

into anything,

literally anything,

due to her new dimensions?

We don’t ask for a lot.

She’s just like a tree.

She doesn’t need food,

and I’ll do without,

not a big deal to me.

What choice do I have? Our love was fated.

And now together we’ll stand

stupidly stand

quietly stand

silently stand

endlessly stand

in any old stand of trees in a vigil…

It’s just that in Europe

pillar size is regulated,

while here,

we were told,

for now, the rules are less rigid.
 
Translated from Russian by Anna Krushelnitskaya