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Poem

Boris Rizhy

From a photo-album

The taiga in the centre, Kama river at the edge,
from the other edge, drunk in the smoke,
with a smashed mug, I am standing
by a hut with Gregory Dansky.
Under the figures 98
are the words: Sartasa Village.
We drank a lot that autumn:
agdam, light, dew.
The fifth bottle was dead.
Mosquitoes swarm over our heads.
A neglected saw-mill.
An almost new ‘Belarus’ tractor,
well come on let’s play,
crawl into the cabin and don’t play up,
roll up the slope steadily,
roll to the blue sky itself.
It rumbled. Snorted stinking fumes.
Mud fountained from under its wheels.
It was so carefree and joyful
that we couldn’t hold back the tears.
It was as though the battle was over
and we were burned but flying,
forcing our way through the surrounds,
to our own.
A crash. Face smashed.
But I’ll find the photo,
and repeat like a prayer
this sort of rubbish:
my soul, through fire and smoke,
on the sky-blue way,
my dear soul, fly to your loved
ones.

UIT EEN FOTOALBUM

Centraal – de tajga. Rechts – de Kama.
Links, bij het schuurtje, laveloos
en met een toegetakeld smoelwerk,
ikzelf. Mijn vriend Grigori naast me.
Onder het cijfer 98
staat Sartas – een dorp – vermeld.
We dronken stug, dat hele najaar:
smerige wijn, en licht en dauw.
Daar ligt de vijfde fles in scherven.
De walging zwermt om onze koppen.
Een zagerij, totaal vervallen.
Een bijna verse sigaret.
Kom op, ga aan de slag, joechei,
doe wat je doen moet, in de auto,
achter het stuur, de helling op,
tot in de donkerblauwe hemel.
Een knal, geronk, een rookwolk, stank.
De wielen spuiten modder op.
Zo’n sterk gevoel van vrijheid-blijheid
dat je gaat zwelgen in je tranen.
Alsof de strijd al is gestreden
en wij, gepokten en gemazelden,
de vijand aftroevend, ontkomen
naar de onzen.
Vol bloed en schrammen. Averij.
Maar toch zal ik de foto vinden
en steeds opnieuw als een gebed
dezelfde onzin willen zeggen:
mijn ziel, ontkom door vuur en rook
en langs de hemelsblauwe weg;
geliefde, vlucht naar je geliefden,
naar de onzen.

ИЗ ФОТОАЛЬБОМА

Тайга - по центру, Кама - с краю,
с другого края, пьяный в дым,
с разбитой харей, у сарая
стою с Григорием Данским.
Под цифрой 98
слова: деревня Сартасы.
Мы много пили в эту осень
агдама, света и росы.
Убита пятая бутылка.
Роится над башками гнусь.
Заброшенная лесопилка.
Почти что новый ‘Беларусь’.
Заброшенная лесопилка.
Почти что новый ‘Беларусь’.
А-ну, давай-ка, ай-люли,
в кабину лезь и не юли,
рули вдоль склона неуклонно,
до неба синего рули.
Затарахтел. Зафыркал смрадно.
Фонтаном грязь из-под колес.
И так вольготно и отрадно,
что деться некуда от слез.
Как будто кончено сраженье,
и мы, прожженные, летим,
прорвавшись через окруженье,
к своим.
Авария. Лицо разбито.
Но фотографию найду,
и повторяю как молитву
такую вот белиберду:
душа моя, огнем и дымом,
путем небесно-голубым,
любимая, лети к любимым
своим.
Poems
Poems of Boris Rizhy
Close

From a photo-album

The taiga in the centre, Kama river at the edge,
from the other edge, drunk in the smoke,
with a smashed mug, I am standing
by a hut with Gregory Dansky.
Under the figures 98
are the words: Sartasa Village.
We drank a lot that autumn:
agdam, light, dew.
The fifth bottle was dead.
Mosquitoes swarm over our heads.
A neglected saw-mill.
An almost new ‘Belarus’ tractor,
well come on let’s play,
crawl into the cabin and don’t play up,
roll up the slope steadily,
roll to the blue sky itself.
It rumbled. Snorted stinking fumes.
Mud fountained from under its wheels.
It was so carefree and joyful
that we couldn’t hold back the tears.
It was as though the battle was over
and we were burned but flying,
forcing our way through the surrounds,
to our own.
A crash. Face smashed.
But I’ll find the photo,
and repeat like a prayer
this sort of rubbish:
my soul, through fire and smoke,
on the sky-blue way,
my dear soul, fly to your loved
ones.

From a photo-album

The taiga in the centre, Kama river at the edge,
from the other edge, drunk in the smoke,
with a smashed mug, I am standing
by a hut with Gregory Dansky.
Under the figures 98
are the words: Sartasa Village.
We drank a lot that autumn:
agdam, light, dew.
The fifth bottle was dead.
Mosquitoes swarm over our heads.
A neglected saw-mill.
An almost new ‘Belarus’ tractor,
well come on let’s play,
crawl into the cabin and don’t play up,
roll up the slope steadily,
roll to the blue sky itself.
It rumbled. Snorted stinking fumes.
Mud fountained from under its wheels.
It was so carefree and joyful
that we couldn’t hold back the tears.
It was as though the battle was over
and we were burned but flying,
forcing our way through the surrounds,
to our own.
A crash. Face smashed.
But I’ll find the photo,
and repeat like a prayer
this sort of rubbish:
my soul, through fire and smoke,
on the sky-blue way,
my dear soul, fly to your loved
ones.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère