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3 poems by Lyudmila Knyazeva Translated from the Russian by Richard Coombes


1

 

In you come. You’ve been carting junk

All day; you dump it. Fire up the candles

With a glance. God what a slum.

You slip off your cloak.

 

You ache an ache as old as time.

Music! Put on whatever you choose.

And a bite to eat. Who cares it’s late.

Invite the muse.

 

Jesus. Her face is longer than yours.

She cadges a smoke. She’s black as night

and twice as quiet. Nuts. And you

On demi pointe.

 

You look at her; it seems like hours

Every tick and tock and chime. 

Her fog of fag smoke rips such a racket 

From her lungs—

 

She’s screaming. Softly, silently,

Deafening, desperate; you can’t (you know)

Exist without her. But here’s the rub:

You can’t be with her.

 

She’s off through the looking-glass, leaving a thin

Black trail; the whole sublunar sphere’s

Gone dark. And down the toilet go

Your brilliant ideas.

 

 

 

Вытряхивая старый хлам

И зажигая взглядом свечи

Ты входишь в брошенный бедлам

И обнажаешь плечи

 

Твоя тоска стара, как мир

Ты подбираешь музыку по вкусу

Ты затеваешь полуночный пир

И приглашаешь в гости музу

 

Она мрачна, как ты, и покурить не прочь

Она черна, как ночь, и так же молчалива

Она безумными глазами смотрит прочь

А ты, на полупальцах ходишь мимо

 

И затаив дыханье, смотришь на нее

Ты впитываешь каждый миг

Туманный сигаретный дым ее

Из легких вырывет дикий крик

 

Она кричит так тихо, так беззвучно

Так оглушительно, так безнадежно

Ты понимаешь, с ней ты неразлучна

Но быть с ней рядом невозможно.

 

Она уходит в зазеркальный мир

Оставив легкий черный шлейф

Окутав им подлунный мир

И между пальцев сыплющийся блеф

 

 

 


2

 

exactly how a leaf trembles up on high, 

inaccessible in its simplicity, 

we shall never grasp, nor catch, nor see, 

and nothing like it shall we ever be

 

but it may be that having left this world behind

we shall rise to the sky, and in the winter wind

flutter on a branch, as helpless pinned,

and dream, and dream

of once more being human

 

 

 

как трепещет листок в вышине, 

недоступен в своей простоте, 

никогда не постичь, не понять, не поймать 

никогда нам ничем подобным не стать

 

но вполне может быть, что упав в пустоту, 

мы поднимемся в небо, и на зимнем ветру 

будем так же метаться у ветки в плену 

и мечтать снова стать человеком

 

 

 


3

 

The artist discovers places on Earth

Where nature’s glorious creations

And works fashioned by human hands

Hold secret conversations

 

 

 

Художник находит места на Земле

Где тайный ведут диалог

Прекрасной природы творенья

И дела человеческих рук

 

 

 

 


Lyudmila Knyazeva is a writer who lives and works quietly and privately not far from the Russian city of Yekaterinburg. English translations of her work are starting to appear; she made her debut in ‘right hand pointing’ in April 2021, and a second work was published in ‘Steam Ticket’ in May 2021.

Richard Coombes has written music, songs and stories, and is a former international tax specialist who took early retirement from tax in order to pursue his passion for Russian. Recently published translations include several short stories by Elena Dolgopyat, poetry by Lyudmila Knyazeva, and a couple of his own short stories. Upcoming publications include a selection of Russian WWII poetry for a forthcoming anthology and a documentary-thriller-biography by Pavel Basinsky about the life and mysterious early death of the Russian diarist and feminist Liza Dyakonova. Richard has just signed a contract (subject to funding) to translate a recent winner of Russia’s National Bestseller book award.


18 January 2022



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