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ANDREI VOZNESENSKY
The Antiworlds
There is Bukashkin, our neighbor,
in underpants of blotting paper,
and, like balloons, the Antiworlds
hang up above him in the vaults.
Up there, like a magic daemon,
he smartly rules the Universe,
Antibukashkin lies there giving
Lollobrigida a caress.
The Anti-great-academician
has got a blotting paper vision.
Long live creative Antiworlds,
great fantasy amidst daft words!
There are wise men and stupid peasants,
there are no trees without deserts.
There're Antimen and Antilorries,
Antimachines in woods and forests.
There's salt of earth, and there's a fake.
A falcon dies without a snake.
I like my dear critics best.
The greatest of them beats the rest
for on his shoulders there's no head,
he's got an Antihead instead.
At night I sleep with windows open
and hear the rings of falling stars,
From up above skyscrapers drop and,
like stalactites, look down on us.
High up above me upside down,
stuck like a fork into the ground,
my nice light-hearted butterfly,
my Antiworld, is getting by.
I wonder if it's wrong or right
that Antiworlds should date at night.
Why should they sit there side by side
watching TV all through the night?
They do not understand a word.
It's their last date in this world.
They sit and chat for hours, and
they will regret it in the end!
The two have burning ears and eyes,
resembling purple butterflies...
...A lecturer once said to me:
"An Antiworld? It's loonacy!"
I'm half asleep, and I would sooner
believe than doubt the man's word...
My green-eyed kitty, like a tuner,
receives the signals of the world.
translated by Alec Vagapov
KAREL ERBEN
The Wild Dove
Time is flying, flying,
Nothing's as before;
What was not, is coming,
What was, is no more.
Time is flying, flying;
Hours, years, have their term;
One thing never changes:
Guilt alone stands firm.
Three years he's been lying,
The dead man, in his grave;
On the mound that marks it
Fresh green grasses wave.
On the mound, grasses;
At his head, a young oak grows;
On that young oak-tree sits
A small dove, white as snow.
There it sits,
there it sits
With its plaintive coo;
Everyone who hears it feels
His heart will break in two.
One woman, most of all,
Feels hers break this way;
From her head she tears the hair,
Calling in dismay:
'Do not hoot, do not call,
Dinning in my ears;
That cruel song of yours
Through my soul does pierce!
Do not hoot, don't accuse;
My head is spinning round:
Or hoot to make it fly
In pieces at a bound!'
Water's flowing, flowing,
Wave on wave is surging,
See there, among the waves,
A white dress emerging.
Here a foot goes floating by,
There a pale hand waves;
That woman, poor lost soul,
Goes to seek her grave!
They pulled her to the bank,
Secretly to lie
Buried where footpaths cross
In a field of rye.
She had no tomb at all
As her last abode;
Only a massive stone
Pressed her with its load.
Never, though, could any stone
Lie upon her frame,
Heavy as the curse whose weight
Rests upon her name!
This translation: Susan Reynolds 2002.
DON MARQUIS
Archy and Mehitabel
expression is the need of my soul
i was once a vers libre bard
but i died and my soul went into the body of a cockroach
it has given me a new outlook upon life
i see things from the under side now
thank you for the apple peelings in the wastepaper basket
but your paste is getting so stale i cant eat it
there is a cat here called mehitabel i wish you would have
removed she nearly ate me the other night why dont she
catch rats that is what she is supposed to be fore
there is a rat here she should get without delay
most of these rats here are just rats
but this rat is like me he has a human soul in him
he used to be a poet himself
night after night i have written poetry for you
on your typewriter
and this big brute of a rat who used to be a poet
comes out of his hole when it is done
and reads it and sniffs at it
he is jealous of my poetry
he used to make fun of it when we were both human
he was a punk poet himself
and after he has read it he sneers
and then he eats it
i wish you would have mehitabel kill that rat
or get a cat that is onto her job
and i will write you a series of poems showing how things look
to a cockroach
that rats name is freddy
the next time freddy dies i hope he wont be a rat
but something smaller i hope i will be a rat
in the next transmigration and freddy a cockroach
i will teach him to sneer at my poetry then
dont you ever eat any sandwiches in your office
i haven’t had a crumb of bread for i dont know how long
or a piece of ham or anything but apple parings
and paste and leave a piece of paper in your machine
every night you can call me archy
There is Bukashkin, our neighbor,
in underpants of blotting paper,
and, like balloons, the Antiworlds
hang up above him in the vaults.
Up there, like a magic daemon,
he smartly rules the Universe,
Antibukashkin lies there giving
Lollobrigida a caress.
The Anti-great-academician
has got a blotting paper vision.
Long live creative Antiworlds,
great fantasy amidst daft words!
There are wise men and stupid peasants,
there are no trees without deserts.
There're Antimen and Antilorries,
Antimachines in woods and forests.
There's salt of earth, and there's a fake.
A falcon dies without a snake.
I like my dear critics best.
The greatest of them beats the rest
for on his shoulders there's no head,
he's got an Antihead instead.
At night I sleep with windows open
and hear the rings of falling stars,
From up above skyscrapers drop and,
like stalactites, look down on us.
High up above me upside down,
stuck like a fork into the ground,
my nice light-hearted butterfly,
my Antiworld, is getting by.
I wonder if it's wrong or right
that Antiworlds should date at night.
Why should they sit there side by side
watching TV all through the night?
They do not understand a word.
It's their last date in this world.
They sit and chat for hours, and
they will regret it in the end!
The two have burning ears and eyes,
resembling purple butterflies...
...A lecturer once said to me:
"An Antiworld? It's loonacy!"
I'm half asleep, and I would sooner
believe than doubt the man's word...
My green-eyed kitty, like a tuner,
receives the signals of the world.
translated by Alec Vagapov
_________
TBP's notes: n/a
KAREL ERBEN
The Wild Dove
Time is flying, flying,
Nothing's as before;
What was not, is coming,
What was, is no more.
Time is flying, flying;
Hours, years, have their term;
One thing never changes:
Guilt alone stands firm.
Three years he's been lying,
The dead man, in his grave;
On the mound that marks it
Fresh green grasses wave.
On the mound, grasses;
At his head, a young oak grows;
On that young oak-tree sits
A small dove, white as snow.
There it sits,
there it sits
With its plaintive coo;
Everyone who hears it feels
His heart will break in two.
One woman, most of all,
Feels hers break this way;
From her head she tears the hair,
Calling in dismay:
'Do not hoot, do not call,
Dinning in my ears;
That cruel song of yours
Through my soul does pierce!
Do not hoot, don't accuse;
My head is spinning round:
Or hoot to make it fly
In pieces at a bound!'
Water's flowing, flowing,
Wave on wave is surging,
See there, among the waves,
A white dress emerging.
Here a foot goes floating by,
There a pale hand waves;
That woman, poor lost soul,
Goes to seek her grave!
They pulled her to the bank,
Secretly to lie
Buried where footpaths cross
In a field of rye.
She had no tomb at all
As her last abode;
Only a massive stone
Pressed her with its load.
Never, though, could any stone
Lie upon her frame,
Heavy as the curse whose weight
Rests upon her name!
This translation: Susan Reynolds 2002.
_________
TPB's notes: found, about this poem:
"It tells of a young woman, who at the beginning is following her husband's funeral procession, but gradually it becomes plain that there is something very sinister here. Another suitor comes along and they get married, but gradually it is revealed that her first husband's death was not accidental. In fact she poisoned him."
poem is from "Kytice" - "The Bouquet"
also:"Karel Jaromir Erben is considered one of the icons of 19th century Czech literature"
source for all of above: radio praha
DON MARQUIS
Archy and Mehitabel
expression is the need of my soul
i was once a vers libre bard
but i died and my soul went into the body of a cockroach
it has given me a new outlook upon life
i see things from the under side now
thank you for the apple peelings in the wastepaper basket
but your paste is getting so stale i cant eat it
there is a cat here called mehitabel i wish you would have
removed she nearly ate me the other night why dont she
catch rats that is what she is supposed to be fore
there is a rat here she should get without delay
most of these rats here are just rats
but this rat is like me he has a human soul in him
he used to be a poet himself
night after night i have written poetry for you
on your typewriter
and this big brute of a rat who used to be a poet
comes out of his hole when it is done
and reads it and sniffs at it
he is jealous of my poetry
he used to make fun of it when we were both human
he was a punk poet himself
and after he has read it he sneers
and then he eats it
i wish you would have mehitabel kill that rat
or get a cat that is onto her job
and i will write you a series of poems showing how things look
to a cockroach
that rats name is freddy
the next time freddy dies i hope he wont be a rat
but something smaller i hope i will be a rat
in the next transmigration and freddy a cockroach
i will teach him to sneer at my poetry then
dont you ever eat any sandwiches in your office
i haven’t had a crumb of bread for i dont know how long
or a piece of ham or anything but apple parings
and paste and leave a piece of paper in your machine
every night you can call me archy
__________
TPB's notes: this very well written light verse is typical of don marquis who is a champion at it. in our view here at TPB, there's a tragic element to his verses as well but the author cannot submit to it and he is in someway buried inside the roach.
don marquis was an illustrator and humorist and lived in new york.
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