Anya Logvinova Sept 17, 2008 13:00:37 GMT 2
Post by moira on Sept 17, 2008 13:00:37 GMT 2
I wanted to share a young Russian voice, who has a page on the Russian equivalent of MySpace, and also has crushes, an aesthetic, and some wisdom. Here is the 27-year-old Anya Logvinova on relationships, beauty, and Jeremy Irons. (See attachment.)
I am the translator and credit is due too, to the anthology Contemporary Russian Poetry (Dalkey Archive Press).
So, hiena. I have returned to our town.
I am comical in this leather topgoat.
From beneath my legs jump buckyards
and cardinalleys flutter.
We live in Moscow, therefore we’re mosquitos,
used to drinking at the Red Mare.
I leave my doormice open
and my windoes also.
I don’t write my credo on crossfox
or on hary leaves of cabbage.
We cockle every Wednesday
so therefore on Thursdays we’re mouserable
Once the allitator wanted anarchy
but now boardom makes him squint.
Tell me about my minxoft cheeks
in the language of kangorussian.
The old ladies sighed — what is going to happen.
The old ladies sighed — how’s it all going to end.
And I understood: They’re grooming me for slaughter
By some feeling with a monstrous impact.
But now, I am astonishingly old,
And that feeling never, never comes.
And I know — there are women who, to the last,
Will unilaterally rise
And say, well, “We like our husbands
Better than Jeremy Irons!”
But I never saw their husbands,
Never took off their ties, never kissed their necks.
And that’s why it’s possible that
I don’t like anyone.
Except, of course, Jeremy,
And I say: This is the soul of a relationship.
And they tell me: Nonsense, it isn’t.
And I say: No, no, no, it’s really a relationship.
And they tell me: That’s crazy, it isn’t.
And I say: No way, it is a relationship.
And they say: It’s larceny then, isn’t it?
And I say: So how should I feel in a relationship?
And they say: Hold on, it’ll pass with a diet.
And I say: I can not, can’t be without a relationship.
And they say: Yes, yes, yes, a Moscow township,
a Moscow township, a Moscow township, a Moscow township,
a Moscow township, still two days to Christmas
I checked out all the steps
I begrudged all the mistakes,
That if I had to reach, then I’d only try
For a McDonald’s dryer.
But he took me to a meeting, then
down to the metro, and under a small umbrella
Neither saying excuse me,
Nor, of course, permit me.
And I laughed very nervously,
And he laughed so attractively,
He laughed so, looking at the sky,
That a bird flew up and by.
It was a day so long, a path so tough,
That the soap fell behind the bath,
I suddenly decided: let be what will be
And really, it was that at that.
The best poems, I swear to God,
aren’t about unfaithful husbands, unfaithful wives.
They remind you of a list of things for the road,
essential, beautiful, permitted.
Usually they’re about autumn, about white ovens
about how homes are built, how butter is churned.
They are rarely about the fact that everything could be lovely;
they are more often about what we shouldn’t mention.
Translated by Larissa Shmailo__