Mchis' nad volnoi, smelyi...
Mikhail Scherbakov
Translated by Tanya Wolfson
* * * Fly over waves, hellbent, My little brave sailboat. On my face and your bow Mars casts a scarlet glow. Changing course, ready about! What if Mars is my abode? What if I'm on a quest here? An uninvited guest here? What if for me there's no death, And Milky Way is my path? What if this path of my travels Never completely unravels? Is that a reef, or an island With hostile warlike strangers, Or a welcoming smile and A hearth shielded from dangers? Could this be my true face, Or just a faint blue trace In the tree rustling's largo, In your own song, Virgo? Maybe the night is nervous And trying to force my sails? Maybe, deep under the surface These are a sea-devil's wails? He scrubs the ships' underbellies, He lifts them past an odd shoal, But at night the beast bellows, Begging me for my soul. I'll give men lands of rich soil, I'll give God skies of sweet air, I'll give this devil my soul: I have souls I can spare. And, symbol of bad tidings, My specter will dance, gliding, In the tree rustling's largo, In your own song, Virgo... Why promise me peace, Maiden? Why try to conceal your weeping? I know the secret you're hiding: You want my heart for the keeping. Very well, doors are open, But don't forget, I'm an alien. Here is a heart you can rope in-- But I have over a million. Each one special and precious, Each holds my powers and wishes, My will's flowing garments, My hell's growing torments. But this is not my true face, Only a faint blue trace In the tree rustling's largo, In your own song, Virgo... Top
A koe-kto po kostyam moim proiti...
Mikhail Scherbakov
Translated by Tanya Wolfson
* * * It seems that dancing on my grave Is the dream of a certain knave, God help his soul, God help his soul. He wants my skull to crack beneath His stomping feet; he wants no teeth, No bones left whole. And with this dream inside his head He takes his meals and goes to bed, And as he struts, he plots. Meanwhile the fact that I am quite A powerful mage in my own right Escapes his thoughts. And all of his clan and every friend Demand that he cause my dismal end, By grinding me into grout. But if things really become that grim, I have a much better chance at him, Without a doubt. And if it's to be or not to be, Surely he won't escape from me, My clever net, the traps I set! I'll burn him alive, crush him in ice, I'll find a way to cause his demise, Trust me on that! But carrying out this proud plan Is tough because of my loud clan (My very own, my kith and kin) Insisting that honor won't be defiled, Therefore I must use his own style To do him in! So to save my kin, that's twice fivescore, >From losing their haughty face before Whoever's not my clan, I have to act as honor declares, And publicly stomp, to the sound of fanfares, On his poor skeleton. And thus he and I dog each other's heels, Each wishes the other speedily keels Over, crushed and gored. And it won't take a rocket scientist To see that we're ruled by the iron fist Of the same lord. The battle tradition is our lord, The bloody way of bullet and sword, Habitual old ritual, And glory that taunts, beckons and begs, By a mere possession of powerful legs Made almost reachable. But happiness isn't here, it's there, Well maybe it's here, but it wouldn't be fair For us to pine and whine. And he who's not with us is against us, So we stand ready this very instance To kill the swine. And again the glory of our Homes, Will be announced by the crunch of bones, And similar happenings. And we will yet make the bastard scream For having the gall to come here and dream Of happiness. But happiness isn't here, it's there, Well maybe not there or anywhere, For yours and for mine there's none to spare, So where did it go, I want my share, Why can't it be found?!... Top
Lyubov' kak istina temna, i kak polyn'...
Mikhail Scherbakov
Translated by Tanya Wolfson
* * * But love is dark, like truth, and has the bitter bite Of wormwood, while the salt of sweat grows still more salty. Time for a change, you cannot live with all doors bolted, A diehard beast, ad finem, to the final rites. The mill of learned books has barely reached its youth. Clutching a textbook in a wasteland isn't canny. Blessed is he, whose will is strong, and who knows Truth, But truths are many, many... And sometimes Fortune stands before me in a dream. She smiles and I know her eyes see naught, as always. Each year more splendid, more luxurious in all ways, Her riches tease me with their luscious gleam. I steal - these days only the lazy do not steal. Forbidden fruit and golden coin are both my spoils. Fate doesn't care, I do my tricks--she cools her heels, But joy recoils, recoils... "Arise!", commands my guardian angel, "Life will soothe Your heart with cyclamens, that come as wormwood's sequel. Honey of love and bile of treachery are equal In molding him, whose will is strong and who knows Truth." I nod: Yes, treachery is nothing, you are right. And even love is hardly worth the fuss we're making. And thus my aspect is serene, my steps are light, But heart is aching, aching... Top
O chem molchish' ty snova..."
Mikhail Scherbakov
Translated by Tanya Wolfson
CHASTUSHKI
Now sweetheart, why so downcast? Don't keep staring at the ground. Won't you tell me something, fast, And I'll hang on to every sound: Words are so skilled and variable, Some beautiful, some terrible, Some very wrong, some very strong.. But here a cat got every tongue. Countless indeed are human words, They sneak up on you with admonishments, They're often posthumous rewards, And always lifelong punishments. But without them hearts dry up like chalk, Hearts crumble, hearts can't do without.. And once again we try to talk, And once again wrong words come out. No matter what I'm thinking, No matter why I part my lips, I get a default "thank you", And with it a generic "please". Meanwhile the eyes are growing wet, Meanwhile the heart is growing dry, No screams, no whispers.. You're upset, No wonder, is it, sweetiepie? Haven't you had it up to here With the yakking and the hollering? And all the world's a stage while we're Just watching from the peanut gallery. And already from that stage, some fool Made my own words go up the flue, How I love you, my priceless jewel, How I am mad with love for you... Top
"V beloi mgle ledyanykh vysot..."
Mikhail Scherbakov
Translated by Tanya Wolfson
* * * In the white mist where rocks pierce skies I searched for myself amid frozen glaze. But I found only mounds of ice, Rigid, heavy cold, like the heaven's gaze. I saw starlight return to a star, Bounced by the chilly diamond glare. I saw clouds, black and dense like tar, But I did not find myself anywhere. From the skies then I did alight - Dark waters took me and barely stirred. There, amazed, I observed the flight Of winged fish, spellbound ocean birds. I heard the laughter of blue nayades, Dulled by the ocean's enormous mass. I saw remnants of great armadas, But I still did not find myself, alas. To the depth, to the heart, into the core I descended then, and what met my sight Was just the wealth of colorful ore, Threadlike gleam of gold and molybdenite. I saw granite, clay and sandstone, But I myself was nowhere I went, As if my species were unknown, Not observed in any environment. And leaving the dreamworld to weave itself: Its fine, ornate, nonexistent lace, I reached blindly toward the shelf, And removed a heavy tome from its place. Unaware of the book's concerns, Its theme or plot or the points it raised, I combined first letters, to learn That in such joining they formed a phrase. The phrase revealed a command, and thus To you in my song it will now pass: "Find yourself in a looking glass, In a looking glass, in a looking glass..." Top
"Kariatidy"
Mikhail Scherbakov
Translated by Tanya Wolfson
CARYATIDS Everywhere life's cauldrons bubble, And it's their own business. Men raise high and turn to rubble Destinies and buildings. Loves like plaster busts abound, And fates go up like fences. Friend, that's also holy ground: One of Fine Art's fancies! (That's how it works for me, and you?) New construction keeps you busy, You will cut no corners: Columns, porticos and friezes, Architrave and cornice, Winding hallways right and left, Great views command attention, Pairs of caryatids heft The top part of the mansion. Each small detail a delight Of fine ornamentation. Still, one minor oversight - Didn't lay the foundation. Oh no, how could this have happened?! Then again, we're human. Tear it down at one fell swoop, and Start to build a new one. Polish all the skills you're wielding If this be your calling. Breaking's easier than building Fate as well as dwelling. Looks like only good work shows Itself as one comes closer, But the master builder knows Where all the fatal flaws are. If he has his craftsman's honor, Even mid ovation, Mid the crowd's astounded moan or Frenzied admiration, He'll ignore his ego's heaves, He'll tune out thrill and glamor, Plant his feet, roll up his sleeves And swing the old sledgehammer! If I were like that good master, I, too, would know better - I'd not hang on to my dumpster As if it could matter, I'd destroy it in a twinkling And build a new bungalow, But I guess I'm just a weakling, Just a spineless bungler. I've no torment, angst or grouse, Real or created, I'm just propping up a house Like a caryatid. Just my manly self-denial (And that'll be my best part) Keeps me wedded all this while To my work of messed art. Mouth agape I stand there brooding, Stuck mid falling plaster. If, say, you're a beast of burden, Know who is your master. Hoofed or winged, sleek or matted, Know your kind of bondage. If you are a caryatid, Know your wall and don't budge. Everywhere life's cauldrons bubble, And it's their own business. Men raise high and turn to rubble Destinies and buildings. What do you care for their heated Shouts and frantic hopping? If you are a caryatid, Just stick to your propping! (And that sums up my life, how's yours?..) Top
"Shkola Tantsev"
Mikhail Scherbakov
Translated by Tanya Wolfson
SCHOOL OF DANCE II I wouldn't really say that I prefer to sleep Inhaling strange miasmas to amaze bedbugs, But I breathe that stuff anyway, because I keep Nose to the wall, and the wall has rugs. While I sleep here, the folks below yell and scream, And hurl plates at each other and against the wall. Why do they live, I sometimes wonder in my dream, And find no reason for them at all. I also muse, while sleeping, that life is noise - But minor, and accordingly with death to match. Today is minimum, tomorrow the same or less, The day after - not even that much. Now death commands so many of my lines of thought, That when this figure (in my dream, naturally) Enters softly, I do not ask who is that, I know She has come for me. And I am terrified when she draws near, All sexy chic a la Paris, ready to pounce, And whispers seductively in my ear: Why the trembling, silly? Shall we dance? O beauty, beauty! No matter how you rile us Still we trail doggedly in your wake, Knowing full well that the fairest of reptiles Is a deadly coral snake. And I fear setting myself up for an ordeal, But tell me, how often do we get to harbor Hopes of this lady's visit with a cordial Invitation to the danse macabre! Yes we're a couple to end all couples. Showtime! She's George Sand and I am the Marquis de Sade! She is airborne like a blown kiss, and I'm Airborne like paratroopers in descent! I'll treat you to a dance, so out of my way! I'll smash your parquetry to smithereens! And the folks living underneath, why they Can go on living underneath! "Watch your limbs!" I shrill, a beastly screech, And break into a gallop, floors a-thud, Today's minimum tomorrow is out of reach, The day after - send down the flood! But as things reach a crescendo, my lovely guest And all her rouge and perfume, powder and gloss With a whistle of flying silks turn to dust And I am suddenly at a loss... Then I wake up, mouth sour and textured like peat, And in someone else's voice, hoarse with belief I swear to quit smoking, renounce red meat, And turn a new healthy leaf. Thereupon I heat pork chops and wolf them down, Spread noxious cigar smoke through my rooms, And back to bed, like a ghoul replete with my own Blood from the bleeding gums... Top
"Shanson"
Mikhail Scherbakov
Translated by Tanya Wolfson
Shanson. ("Vershit narod dela svoi...") A CHANSON The nation goes about its life: its scoundrels thirst for glory, Its prophets lie, its poets drink, its nobles reach and grasp. The Year of the Snake is in full swing, and venomous and leery Its subjects strain to trick and train their souls to be like asps. And I sit in a seaport pub, Two coppers left to pay for grub, Crumbs of tobacco on my lip, spellbound by a chanson. In it my fear, my hope, my tryst, My promised land in swirls of mist, My way, the one I haven't found and haven't made my own.. If only in my life I find that way Someday, oh Lord, someday, someday... Like you, my friends, I find these constant fights too much to swallow, And the sight of fangs and slavering jaws is making me upset. The Year of the Snake will soon wind down, the Year of the Dog will follow, With all the savage turf wars, barks and bites such years beget. Why is it always rage and fear? Why, this is just that sort of year. But though I try to tune my anger to the highest pitch, For reasons quite beyond my ken, You all love me, down to a man, And for reasons equally unknown I love you all so much! If only I could thank, before I'm done Someone, oh Lord, someone, someone.. Now I am not your son, nor kin, nor stepchild, just an idle gaper, And yet I've not the strength to push the pub door and begone. Dog years turn me into a whelp, Snake years - into a viper, And I have learned so well to seek compassion in no one. The singer stopped. End of chanson. Don't trust my I.O.U., garcon. Everyone leaves. I too should let sleeping dogs lie, and leave. Through brawls and howls, riots and raves, Through gore of wars, by will of waves, Across life's seas, along world's shores, my tracks are yet to weave... If only I could do, before I'm dead Some deed of worth, oh Lord, some deed... Top
Interlude I
Mikhail Scherbakov
Translated by Tanya Wolfson
Intermediya I ("Svoi vek, ne yarche krivykh stennykh...") AN INTERLUDE (I) Day after day, as measured and plain As posters registering the main Medical figures and healthy norms, He spends surrounded by ready forms, A pharmacist, a drudge to the shoes.. In his past life he was a mongoose, Many an evil snake's death he brought About, till a hunter avenged the lot, Ending his song. And sadly deceased This useful, courageous, diligent beast Stays silent on a museum shelf Stuffed by an expert.. Control yourself, Don't even dream of pulling its tail, In its past life it braved frozen trails - A polar exlorer. Mid ice and rock He whistled sofly "Ziganshin rock"(*) Hearing the tune, his waddling, tame Penguin would come out and bend its frame In a bow, funny short wings sticking up.. In its past life it had quite a job - A fireman, who lived life on the brink, Who rode on an ass-drawn water tank With the ass so slow, despite the lash That the quarter had time to burn to ash. When the whole city burned down to grass, The fire devoured even the ass, And not a trace was left of its hide. In its past life it was southern pride, A vibrant evergreen shrub. A boxtree Grown from the Black to the Caspian Sea. It symbolized, with each tangled coil The joining of the sun and the soil, It burgeoned, flourished, sang in the breeze, Its wood was made into furniture. Is That your new chair? Rumors are rife. It was Copernicus in a past life.. Top
From East a-walking
Mikhail Scherbakov
Translated by Tanya Wolfson
Peshkom s vostoka... * * * From East a-walking And Southward bound I can't help gawking As all around The sunset's burning Fires in the sky So truly stunning, You could just die. I hear sweet treble Deep in the woods, It's feathered rabble, Song-making broods, Small wings aflutter They squawk and chime, "Die, die", they chatter, "No better time." I'm further coaxed Along the way - By country folks Who smile and wave, And somewhat prone To simple speech "Die, die", they drone, "The time is reached." I walk the farmroads, I kick small rocks, While local goats, Chickens and ox All harp on dying, They've all gone mad! I am not lying, I'll stake my head. And slightly shaken I speak at last: "You are mistaken, My friends, alas. You are a riot. You are absurd. I'm dead and buried, Haven't you heard." They stand astounded, As in a trance, To this announcement They've no response, And with a crisply Gestured goodbye I walk off briskly, Back on my way. My gait is proud, I'm lord and king, I sneer aloud At everything, The skies are sparkling, Work's in full blast, The dogs are barking, Reach exceeds grasp... Now through the morrows, My soul, hail! From a brontosaurus To a nightingale, Nothing is new In your dungeon's sway, A word rings true And there's hell to pay, Your lips be sealed, My weary soul, Onward unhealed, My weary soul... Top
Landbound people
Mikhail Scherbakov
Translated by Tanya Wolfson
LANDBOUND PEOPLE In the sea there are languid jellyfish. Mid waves a little ship strains cordage. Her cargo will cater to every wish Of people living at the world's edge. Silver moonlines sweep black water's shifting mounds. The captain cannot sleep. But we - we are forever landbound. Staying is simpler than departing. Breaking is easier than bending. Forgetting - more difficult than parting. Perishing - easier than landing. Oh how she will wail (in your chest to muffle sound). Kind winds to your sail. But we - we are forever landbound. And we have heavy praying duties To help you survive the main's expanses. Perhaps you're seafaring Don Quixotes, That makes us landbound Sancho Panzas. And let the whim of fate keep you awash with joy or pain. We know how to wait, Unlike those out in the main. You cannot know what the future holds, Why must you try and embellish it, Why go to sea and leave the fold? Because the sea has lanquid jellyfish. So that tears may drip, I will sail the world around. Good luck, little ship. But we - we are forever landbound. How sad that we're forever landbound. Top
Epigraph
Mikhail Scherbakov
Translated by Tanya Wolfson
EPIGRAPH The head of an ox can take knocks. An elephant's mind is a find. But my head is no longer useful for functions of any kind. Rub it gently or squeeze it tight, it's in a hopeless state: Nothing but incoherent rustle: six times seven and three times eight. It ignores the passage of hours. Doesn't care if Christmas is white. Will not register things around it, except maybe food on a plate. Having eaten a slice or a chunk I project myself onto a bunk. And go down the tubes, my career. Close your quiver, you winged punk. So what if knowledge is hot. That work must be done, and soon. That nearby a player wails like a street organ. No words, no tune. With my bag I'll go through the snow, for a big loaf of raisin bread. I'll even consider a detour, to find something to help my head. Hey pharmacists. Knock-knock-knock. I want nineteen from your stock Of the roundest and whitest tablets. Or else one noose and one hook. Ride up to my bed on a steed, Santa Claus from a local store. Wake me up with a firecracker. Make this lethargy last no more. I will rise, and away I'll ride. For example, to Kalimantan Where I'll sing in a coffeehouse, pretending I'm Yves Montand. In the meantime the head is dead. Two times seven and all that crud. And the street organ croaks behind me, and every third fa is screwed. Top
Those eyes before me
Mikhail Scherbakov
Translated by Tanya Wolfson
THOSE EYES BEFORE ME Does anyone know what a splendid sight I am when I head for a late Audience with a certain dame, all swagger and bombastic claims: A dashing lover. I face the dame, a handsome rake, as though I've ordered her to quake, A sophisticated gentleman, a lion of the parliament, Mortals, keel over! Indeed it must be blood of kings surging through my veins as I bring Our present discourse To the theme of love and all its thrills, lay down a wallet stuffed with bills And wait for fireworks. But the young thing, herself no more than her sum of parts: a once before Worn necklace, an exotic face, a skimpy dress of silk and lace, Dark hair's luster, Needs only let one eyebrow rise, and the beaumonde will realize That this is merely a stunt, that I am a flake, a debutant, A cheap impostor. One look from the eyes of cool basalt, and my parade's ground to a halt, All splendor tarnished. One lowering of delicate lids and I am wilted, on the skids, In fact I've vanished. The space just now occupied by one borne on the wings of pride, A royal specimen, whose leers to the moans of nuptial fanfares Were irresistible, Somehow left in that space are dregs, a doppelganger with four legs, An effigy, which will release if split apart dark slime, and grease, And crawling viscera. While the resplendent former I, is a shadow now, a muted cry, The realm of losses; Not super-classy, hyper-smooth, but grand-grotesque, ultra-uncouth Mega-psychosis.. Still unaware of quite how deep the trouble runs I try to keep Some sort of a grip. I sneer at guests: I am no worse than all the rest (Just like them really). I still try, like those kings of lore, to keep from rising to the fore Some of the innermost black tide, except I have no more inside - I am all spilling. In fact it's high time to repair back to my cave, my cozy lair, Where hemlock beckons. To state the matter once again, it's time to perish, run, be gone This very second! Those who'd been through this will confirm: it almost kills one to be firm And scrape together the strength to rise, but to escape that pair of eyes Huge like the sundown, With an impressive show of force I smile politely, like a corpse, Then I get up, pick up my cash, and head out for a solo bash: A night on the town. * * * The night splits into dead end ways for me and shadow mine, which lays No claims to royalty. The two of us cross an empty square, without a living soul to dare Disturb our solitude... Top
Copyright © 1996, 1999 Tanya Jean Wolfson. All rights reserved,