Elena Fanailova
from Survey of Literature
Translated by Stephanie Sandler
Watercolor of a Matador
Spring, adrenaline, we walk as kings, We follow the departing heavenly ship, And, in expectation of heavenly catastrophes, Stale expressions, clammy embraces, Even honest relationships are unbearable. What do we talk about? Society gossip, About the city built on blood, the laying down of bones, About money earned from glossy magazines And, remembering that we walk as kings, About the poor and the ill, the downtrodden and the tired And opening our eyes in the morning, Like every foolish bit of evil in Gogol, We curse our own fates And the good fortune of red death in the world, Frowning, we take stock of what we can, For we have plowed up the roots and torn back the bark: There's nothing left to subtract from us.
(The Italics Are Mine)
1 Having walked the pathways of faceted glass, She was a companion, someone to write poems to In the era when poetry flowed From human shortcoming, When poetry was waiting For dry remainders, It did its best, I beg your pardon, Like a hysterical bitch, In that era when poetry bore Responsibility for the paroxysm deep Enough to kill you: as if to say, I warned you, In other words, trashed and thrashed Like the swirling contents of a decanter. Tequila and beer ran through the veins, Or rather absinthe and morphine derivatives. She was the only one it left untouched, It preserved her brilliant mind And cut her off, kept her out Of the land of holy madness 2 Khodasevich is dying in a clinic, And Poplavsky sticks himself and gets drunk Alcoholics, cripples, and cynics Departing on a midnight flight The sun boarded shut The sick-wards-bilious hells The Russian god and Yiddish luck, The flesh, the host, the marmalade jam, all melt Make a date under the sycamores. Combine the wings of a dragonfly With fibulas--the kind Youngsters use to keep the score