Poems of Ihor PAVLYUK Translation by Yurii LAZIRKO (English) A GIRL The doorway leads to Granny. A barefoot girl, she cries. Wraith-wristed, in its waning The fall is foiling eyes. A rooster’s crow stops pouring When coolness fills her soul. "For whom do you feel sorry?” The girl replies, "For all…" THE RIGHT TO BE A LONE WOLF The right to be a wolf, a lone one – costs me, Paid through the nose, As skies would pay with whitish silk and closely Watch how it glows. There was a paw, the front paw trapped and throbbing, Shots reached my back. The fall rain falls, my heart receives the sobbing Thought white-round cracks. From times of yore, presumably, black-listed In lefts and rights I am among den-brothers coexisting, No-picking-sides. Oh mother, you aren’t here to melt the curses, As well as toots… A cross that on my chest is thin as mercies And tall as flutes. The shadows come of legendary writers In waves and ranks. They are as out of space, as autumn-gliders, As Lethe’s banks. Their honest glory – posthumous and ceded, Partaken wealth. The right to be, the right to die as needed, As being Self. TO FLY AND FALL To fly – it’s easy, to fall – to slam well. Who is the scratcher of doors to trammel? Who is the beggar for fame or money? Here, all are givers – from fools to honeys.
The mix of water and blood – old vintage. You fell; the homeland takes up with drinking. It goes with songs out, returns are salty. Three deaths, one wedding – seems odd and faulty. The honey-moon is a footless fighter. Out of three hundred – three left, oh Mighty… This is a white dove, my father’s grayness. He is so lonely, his charms amaze me. To fly – it’s easy, to fall – to slam well, To break the doors and to feel the trammel. TOO LATE TO RALLY Too late to rally, The game – a battle… My song is sallied, The prayer settles. While snow gets sleepy Because the lute chants The past is leaping, As chasing future. The heart is savvy, Became a bell ring. Inertias – bevies. One crown to once-win, One empty pocket, One love – you must-mean. You sense how lucky Last moments have been. And honey’s darker, Less honest pain is For great the markers When silence reins us. The wind is endless, A star – a mortal. The shirt of candle Torn by black-portals. Too late to rally, The game – a battle… My song is sallied, The prayer settles. NOW IS FUMING This snow still fumes. It’s time to make a horse. A will looks really cheap without revolts. A stubble field Was shaved, and now it’s coarse that stabs, as Love once tamed but never sold. This life goes fast, much faster than the time. It hardly touches happiness and smiles. It leaves no traces, only bells to chime, to roam through native places and exiles. I’ll trample down the snow for "easy go”. Such way diseased are kissed and those with wings. I recognize myself among my woes As wines of pristine rivers do begin… Whatever’s funny – comes with bits of jolt, And what is broken – would be hart to bend. Perhaps, the time will catch us after all, Look straight in eyes, and leave for After-Land. The world is simply simple, such as snow, But its complexity – in every flake. So, therefore you’ll see a frosty brow Of roadside-flowers windows try to make. A tiny wick becomes a blood-streamed vein, a mystery… This snow still fumes, I hear an endless say – How in advance is written history. INVENTED The wind was invented As well as those waters and stars. Enjoyable paintings of crying, presented by cheeks. The joy is a river, The left arm embedded so far. I call it – a giver Of pure salty droplets, a shriek. More scars on the right one That loves holding crosses and pens. For being a knight once I know how to grip tight the hilt. The strings were invented, As tendons, so endless and tense. Bread pulp, slugs to enter And seal ruby entrance with guilt.
The hole from the bullet, The pulp can’t repair it or plug When grounds are truly Hot lavas that flow under feed. You destined to follow The steps of ancestors to snug. Return from the hollow As spring weeps of cranes, as a seed. And someone will greet you… And candles, as chorus, shall sing About how "I’m freed” used, About what you cherished the most. Create then the bloom-floor, Caress barkless maples and think Again you will die for What others would keep for a toast. A WOMAN Neither joy nor sorrow to restore, Dreamed about her as a crane to soar. Do you see the woman? She’s a sea And I love her as a song to sing. On the blue porch of a tale, on hay, On the right side of a tsar she lays. She’s the woman which received the grace Such as monastery icons face. Look – a fox sleeps on her pallid neck, And a sable plays with tresses – you can check. She is neither holy nor a slut For she’s blessed with children, in a rut. And when Fate was changing finger-rings, As a willow all its golden strings, Falling down – like bleeding heart in size, Going up – the Passion of the Christ. Who’s the one who should embrace her now? Angel binds the Satan as tree boughs. She’s the sea to wander and address, In a black-white sail she should be dressed. CHRIST The wind of subway – the tunnel smell, eternal ways for masqueraded souls to fly. When Christ stepped in, as to a desert from a dell, they sat and ate, they laughed at him but didn’t crucify. They blamed on rulers – the heavens’ ones and plain. Before the crowd calmed down, it was as tight as fists. Then someone slapped him gently on the shoulder, "Say, be honest only – who are the winners, losers on your list?" He, who was tired of endless revolutions, came and threw a branch into the ancient fire’s arms. He asked them, as Barabbas once, their names. He was a carpenter… And nails were blooming on his palms. MADE OF STONE OR SNOW It’s winter time. I see the rowan berries as drops of brilliant red. A bellowing of bullfinches – the harvesting on blood. I should expect a woman – mysterious and sad. She’ll brighten all my thoughtlessness, enlighten ways to spud. Then somewhere in a forest we’ll make a lady out of snow. She’ll look ridiculous, unlikely to abhor. She’ll bring the same rejoinders as that – with stony pout. But which of two is timeless more? …the one who’s poignant or… IN A GLASS PUB The North is flickering Like pupils in a fox. It’s autumn. I am sitting in a pub. Where are we going now? What is this pointless vox? The strata – Flawless sadness in a hub.
The smoke of modern songs contaminates the air. The livid Tunes come out in steady waves. But we are breaking codes Of secret signs and share The spirit And above-the-people Grace. The light is light and sad, The light is gloomy, chalks. Perfumes eat Crowded space and search for more. And someone says to me That trains go "West” and flocks Resume its Fall routine, the destined soar. A candle as the tears of old and ailing elks, It’s trickling Till the dawn when manners – gone For everyone who’s here, For those who buy and sell. Keep drinking, take your time to pull a gun. They wear their scars, tattoos. Their bitches bitch... and blue. I’m wordless. I am senseless to their pains For what they feel and do For poems, fatherlands, and flying cranes. Or maybe they still drink Because the sorrow shows as church is – women age that no one tells, Or hungry children who Forgot the touch of love And searching… Barrels with the blank-bang shells. The door’s a coffin lid, Wide-opened for sunrays. I welcome Plans the world possesses, brings Its Likeness to God’s soul. As mercury – dawn’s gray and stays calm. Choose to go by any means. | |
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