Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Nicolae Coande

THE BRIDGE

The most beautiful Russian girl in the world lives in Germany
tucked in a safe with a Cyrillic cipher. The Germans still bang their heads
against a wall over it. Even so, her hands weave a bridge to me, her blue eyes
break the code that holds her hostage. The sapphire holds its breath
awhile. An epidemic of kisses.
Her mouth drinks in the white wine left in a glass on Böll’s veranda,
in forests where the bear cuts honey with a crosscut saw,
those hands still search for me, as on New Year’s Eve, 2004,
when I went through three endings and as many rebirths.
Solzhenitsyn regards us pensively from a photograph: our Russian comrades
remain the world’s most prodigious drinkers.
She is Rasputin’s woman, but can’t forget me. Her heart
is the grass in which reindeer’s graze
then eaten in the finest restaurants in Paris.
The art, of course, is to bind together three countries that can’t stand each other.
Her dancing lights up the hidden warheads in Siberia, but her hands
quickly choke everything. For her it’s winter, when the meteorites fell.
For an entire night I watched her smoking and singing
for two years. A Bundeskanzlerin with Romanian moving
in her hips,
her back the bow dropped from Rostropovich’s hand
in a room where the heart listens back turned hears how
the Baikal’s sphincter begets crises in Asia.
I sit in a cellar and write how I can miss
a bridge
the Volga beneath and a ship pulled downstream by two tiny breasts.

Podul

Podul

Cea mai frumoasă rusoaică din lume trăieşte în Germania
într-un seif cu cifru chirilic. Nemţii încă-şi sparg capul.
Chiar şi aşa mâinile-i ţes un pod până la mine, ochii ei albaştri
sparg codul care o ţine ostatecă. Safirul îşi ţine un timp
răsuflarea. Epidemie de săruturi.
Gura ei bea vinul alb uitat într-un pahar în veranda lui Böll,
în păduri unde ursul taie mierea cu joagărul,
mâinile mă mai caută, ca în noaptea Anului Nou 2004
când am trecut prin trei sfârşituri şi tot atâtea renaşteri.
Din fotografie ne privea îngândurat Soljeniţîn: kamarazii ruşi
sânt pretutindeni cei mai mari băutori din lume.
Ea este femeia lui Rasputin, dar nu mă poate uita. Inima ei
e iarba pe care o pasc renii
şi-apoi e mâncată în restaurantele scumpe din Paris.
Arta, desigur, e să ţii împreună trei ţări care nu se pot suferi.
Dansul ei aprinde focoasele pitulate-n Siberia, dar mâinile-i
sting repede totul. Pentru ea, iarna, a căzut meteoritul atunci.
O noapte întreagă am privit-o cum fumează şi cântă
timp de doi ani. Ea e Bundeskanzlerin cu mişcări de româncă
în şolduri,
spatele ei este arcuşul scăpat din mâna lui Rostropovici
într-o cameră unde inima întoarsă cu spatele ascultă cum
sfincterul Baikalului naşte crize în Asia.
Stau şi scriu într-o pivniţă despre cum poate să-mi fie dor
de un pod
pe sub care trec Volga şi un vapor tras de sâni mici.
Close

THE BRIDGE

The most beautiful Russian girl in the world lives in Germany
tucked in a safe with a Cyrillic cipher. The Germans still bang their heads
against a wall over it. Even so, her hands weave a bridge to me, her blue eyes
break the code that holds her hostage. The sapphire holds its breath
awhile. An epidemic of kisses.
Her mouth drinks in the white wine left in a glass on Böll’s veranda,
in forests where the bear cuts honey with a crosscut saw,
those hands still search for me, as on New Year’s Eve, 2004,
when I went through three endings and as many rebirths.
Solzhenitsyn regards us pensively from a photograph: our Russian comrades
remain the world’s most prodigious drinkers.
She is Rasputin’s woman, but can’t forget me. Her heart
is the grass in which reindeer’s graze
then eaten in the finest restaurants in Paris.
The art, of course, is to bind together three countries that can’t stand each other.
Her dancing lights up the hidden warheads in Siberia, but her hands
quickly choke everything. For her it’s winter, when the meteorites fell.
For an entire night I watched her smoking and singing
for two years. A Bundeskanzlerin with Romanian moving
in her hips,
her back the bow dropped from Rostropovich’s hand
in a room where the heart listens back turned hears how
the Baikal’s sphincter begets crises in Asia.
I sit in a cellar and write how I can miss
a bridge
the Volga beneath and a ship pulled downstream by two tiny breasts.

THE BRIDGE

The most beautiful Russian girl in the world lives in Germany
tucked in a safe with a Cyrillic cipher. The Germans still bang their heads
against a wall over it. Even so, her hands weave a bridge to me, her blue eyes
break the code that holds her hostage. The sapphire holds its breath
awhile. An epidemic of kisses.
Her mouth drinks in the white wine left in a glass on Böll’s veranda,
in forests where the bear cuts honey with a crosscut saw,
those hands still search for me, as on New Year’s Eve, 2004,
when I went through three endings and as many rebirths.
Solzhenitsyn regards us pensively from a photograph: our Russian comrades
remain the world’s most prodigious drinkers.
She is Rasputin’s woman, but can’t forget me. Her heart
is the grass in which reindeer’s graze
then eaten in the finest restaurants in Paris.
The art, of course, is to bind together three countries that can’t stand each other.
Her dancing lights up the hidden warheads in Siberia, but her hands
quickly choke everything. For her it’s winter, when the meteorites fell.
For an entire night I watched her smoking and singing
for two years. A Bundeskanzlerin with Romanian moving
in her hips,
her back the bow dropped from Rostropovich’s hand
in a room where the heart listens back turned hears how
the Baikal’s sphincter begets crises in Asia.
I sit in a cellar and write how I can miss
a bridge
the Volga beneath and a ship pulled downstream by two tiny breasts.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère