Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Myroslav Laiuk

AERIS

1. male shower

male shower room bursts into gales of laughter

they joke crudely and turn the air blue
they run like shameless teens on a river
hit one another with honeycomb towels
spit the coal dust from their nasopharynxes
and suffocate from the steam:
it always replaces air

then after this hot water
never spared here in this enterprise
they’ll drink a few more shots of horilka
they’ll come home and pet a cat
smash their wives and fall asleep
they’ll forget that tomorrow
they should get up again
they’ll forget about it
until they see rat tsar in their sleep

but one day they may not have time to wash
for as soon as they get out of their mine
black as mice
rat tsar will come out of the peat in the faraway bogs
and they’ll be given assault rifles
and they will ask: may we first wash ourselves
but the male shower room will be destroyed
like a half-eaten mare under a spoil tip
and the market where pigs’ and calves’ flesh was torn
will be clear
and the flying temple of some unknown confession
will be stripped of its roof
no one will be able to recall the name of the homeless man
depicted on every wall of that temple
and they simply won’t be allowed to breathe
and to wash (even in puddles)
and then—they’ll be given rejoicing encouragement:
very soon you won’t want that

…the day before—they washed off the coal dust from their skin
ran through the shower room dirty and roared with laughter
no one made fun of their homely bellies
or looked under their nails
so they soaped themselves meticulously—
to become clean at last
they rubbed themselves until scars appeared

but today—even if there is water—
it’ll be like this:
why should we wash off the coal
if our own blood has clotted on our own skin
when blood is yours—why should you wash it off?


2. rat tsar

he gets out of the peatbog
tearing holes in the soil with his right hand
while holding his groin with his left one
then he runs to the mill
into the fireplace inside it
people are hidden there
and he brings terror in a striped red sack
he tugs at little girls’ braids and licks their freckles
he hits old men in their kidneys
and they howl madly
poets grovel

rat tsar has one hundred bodies of mice
whose tails backbones and spinal cords have grown together
all of them feed him
those bodies eat anything—
even air and language

and petals of roses fall from the sky
there are so many of them that a single rose
won’t bloom next year

he jumps into the river to bathe himself
but the river red river is hot and viscous—
and rat tsar rejoices
laughing the same way as the only prostitute
who remains in the bar of the occupied town
he guffaws and then hushes—

and something goes off in the sky
something whole


3. donetsk

what a charming city!
such a fine view

the city blooms with these people
who walk smiling
and carry fresh bread
baked on the most beautiful coal

pointed buds of red roses whizz
trees and walls are crammed with roses
and people adorned with blooms
lie all around—
old men in ditches and little girls on the stairs in schools
ruby-colored petals are scattered around their bodies
but their black faces are grinning
and their lost arms regenerate
their broken hearts curl into small fists
while the flesh cut through by the roses—heals
blood comes back from the earth
petals form into buds
and people get up and continue to walk

however the bread in their bags
has turned into coal

I can’t take my eyes off you
stunning city
you are so beautiful
that it hurts


4. bog people

and then peat turns into coal
blood turns into coal

it’s a separate nation
even though they belong to different times and peoples
bodies in the peat are preserved almost whole:
men who were unfaithful to their wives
women who wrote a diary
children who lied about their innocence
a king’s head has rolled here accidentally
you can find them all under a layer of grass
beautifully displayed
where the roots of grass don’t reach
simply don’t reach

all of them got stuck in the quag
at some point in the past
they were swallowed up and formed the population of the bog
today people dig them out and transport them to museums
to turn them into most valuable exhibits
and only the imperishable body of a bog man remains
 
…your mouth always gets dry
when you talk about museums
you speak thickly
your boots leak
you try to seize someone by the hand
and you choke on duckweed-filled water

you become a na…
…ome a na…
…m…


5. to kiss girls

don’t believe ovid: he wrote about transformation
but remained unchanged or even became worse
don’t believe herodotus
his vision of time’s passage is incomplete
a school history teacher knows so much more
don’t believe avicenna
what does he know about penicillin?—

kiss girls
red as roses are their lips
roses red red red roses
and lay butterflies on your lips
black with coal
their bellies to your mouth
such a view will appear more beautiful
to those who come to look at you sideways
don’t betray your disgust—
there’s no way you’ll ever wash yourselves clean

…but …but! you shout: of all women
there’s only the wife of the king in this war!

then you can kiss war—this most beautiful lady
you’ll have to share her but that doesn’t matter
her lips are red as roses
roses red red red roses
kiss her—and she’ll forgive you your hatred of her
she’ll forgive you even love—which was not love

after all—you don’t have any other choice
when the wife of the king is the only woman


6. aeris (vozdukh)

I know a wonderful word: “vozdukh”
they want to take it away from us
because—they say—it was ours so long ago
that it’s already foreign:
its initial part “voz”
was last uttered by a man
who was swallowed up by the bog
and sank together with “dukh”

but there are so many people—
you won’t believe how many—
all are of blood—
so many of us both here and there
above—in these incredible landscapes
and 4000 feet below ground
where we stay forgotten and dirty
where there’s no wood and no peal
since long ago
no coal and no lignite
only pure anthracite

petals of red roses fall from above
with coal dust
roses are red red red
there’s not enough vozdukh for us
we can easily climb into daylight
and wash ourselves carefully
or descend even deeper
to hide in the deepest hole

but we don’t have any air anymore
neither above nor below

…they’ve just turned off the light here
we’re counting aloud in order not to think…

…we’re inhaling words and parts of words
“voz”… “voz”… “voz” …
it transforms into letters

…please don’t cling to me
I don’t know the way out

воздух

воздух

1.чоловічий душ

чоловіча душова заходиться реготом

вони грубо жартують матюкаються
бігають як безсоромні хлопчаки на ріці
б’ють один одного вафельними рушниками
вихаркують вугільний пил із носоглотки
і ще – від пари задихаються:
вона завжди витісняє повітря

потім після цієї гарячої води
котрої тут на підприємстві ніколи не жаліли
вони вип’ють ще кілька раз по сто
прийдуть додому погладять котика
виграють дружину і заснуть
і забудуть що завтра треба знову вставати
аж поки вночі не присниться щурячий цар

але одного дня можуть не встигнути помитися:
бо щойно вилізуть із шахти чорні як миші –
з торфу на далеких болотах вилізе щурячий цар
і їм дадуть у руки автомати
а вони скажуть: чи можна спочатку помитися
але чоловіча душова буде рознесена
як недоїдена кобила під териконом
і ринок на якому розривали плоть телят і свиней –
буде чистий
і летючий храм якоїсь невідомої конфесії – бездахий
і не згадають імені бездомного чоловіка
зображеного на всіх стінах того храму
і митися їм просто не дозволять
(навіть у калюжах) і дихати
а потім підбадьорять: скоро самі не хотітимете

…вони відмивали вчора вугілля зі своїх шкір
бігали по душу замурзані реготали
там ніхто не сміявся з їхніх некрасивих животів
і не заглядав під нігті
вони намилювалися ретельно –
щоб нарешті стати чистими
терли до шрамів

а сьогодні – хоч би й була вода –
сьогодні буде так:
для чого відмивати вугілля коли запеклася кров
коли кров – своя – для чого її відмивати?


2.щурячий цар

він вилазить із землі
продирає правицею землю торфовища
а лівицею тримається за пах
потім залазить у камін на млині –
там сховані люди
і він приносить жах у червоному смугастому мішечку
смикає дівчаток за коси облизує їхні веснянки
б’є дідів у нирки
а діди божевільно виють
поети плазують

у щурячого царя сто мишачих тіл
зрослих хвостами хребтами спинними мозками
усі вони годують його
вони їдять усе –
навіть повітря і мову

і падають із неба пелюстки троянд
їх так багато що наступного року не зацвіте ні одна

він стрибає у ріку аби обмитися
а ріка червона ріка гаряча і в’язка –
і щурячий цар радіє
він сміється як повія
котра єдина залишилася у барі окупованого міста
він регоче а потім затихає –

і в небі щось розривається
щось суцільне


3.донецьк

яке чарівне місто!
воно таке прекрасне

воно цвіте цими людьми
котрі ідуть усміхнені
хліб несуть свіжий
випечений на найкрасивішому вугіллі

тут зі свистом летять гострі бутони червоних троянд
дерева і стіни забиті трояндами
і люди прикрашені квітами
вони лежать повсюди –
дідусі у канавах і дівчатка на сходах шкіл
біля їхніх тіл розсипані рубінові пелюстки
але на чорних обличчях усмішки
і їхні втрачені руки відростають
розбиті серця згортаються у кулачки
плоть де троянди пройшли наскрізь – затягується
кров із землі назад повертається
пелюстки складаються у бутони
і люди встають ідуть далі

тільки хліб у їхніх сумках
перетворився на вугілля

дивишся на тебе
і не знаєш як відвести очі
ти такий красивий що аж боляче


4.болотний народ

а потім торф стає вугіллям кров стає вугіллям

то цілий народ
хоч і належать різному часові і націям
вони зберігають тіла у торфі майже цілими:
чоловіки які зраджували своїх дружин
жінки які писали щоденники
діти які брехали що вони невинні
голова короля – випадково закотилася
усі вони під шаром трави у землі красиво викладені
там куди коріння трави не дотягує
просто не дотягує

усі вони колись застрягли в болоті
їх засмоктало і вони стали населенням торфовища
тепер їх відкопують і передають у музеї
роблять найціннішими експонатами
і залишається лише нетлінне тіло болотяної людини

…сухо стає в роті
так завжди відбувається коли говориш про музеї
і язик заплітається
і чоботи протікають
і намагаєшся когось зловити за руку
і захлинаєшся болотною ряскою

стаєш наро...
…єш наро...
ста...


5.цілувати дівчат

не вірте поетові овідію: він писав про перетворення
а сам залишився таким як був навіть став гіршим
не вірте історикові геродотові
його уявлення про тяглість часу неповні
шкільний історик знає набагато більше
не вірте лікареві авіценні
що йому відомо про пеніцилін? –

цілуйте дівчат
їхні губи червоні як троянди
троянди червоні червоні червоні троянди
кладіть метеликів на свої чорні від вугілля губи
черевцями до рота
щоб тим хто дивитиметься збоку
виглядало красиво
не видавайте огиди –
ви все одно ніколи не відмиєтеся

…але ж… але ж! ви кричите:
на війні з жінок лише дружина короля!

цілуйте тоді війну – цю найкрасивішу жінку
і нічого що одна на всіх
її губи червоні як троянди
троянди червоні червоні червоні троянди
поцілуй її – вона простить тобі ненависть до неї
вона простить тобі навіть любов яка не була любов'ю

зрештою – тобі більше нічого не залишається
коли на війні з жінок лише дружина короля!


6.воздух

я знаю прекрасне слово «воздух»
його хочуть у нас забрати
сказати ніби воно було нашим так давно
що вже зробилося чужим
що першу його частину «воз»
востаннє виговорив один чоловік
якого затягло болото разом із частиною «дух»

але чи тут зверху у цих неймовірних пейзажах
чи там –
де нас забули немитих на 1200-метровій глибині
де вже давно не дерева не торф
не буре і не кам’яне вугілля
а чистий антрацит
тут нас стільки людей
ви не повірите – тут стільки людей із крові

пелюстки червоних троянд летять згори
разом із вугільним пилом
троянди червоні червоні червоні
і всім нам не вистачає воздуху

і ми можемо легко вибратися наверх ретельно помитися
чи спуститися вниз
ще нижче
заховатися у найглибшу нору

але ні нагорі ні внизу немає більше воздуху

…а тут щойно вимкнули світло
рахуємо вголос щоб не думати…

…вдихаємо слова частини слів «воз»… «воз»… «воз»…  –
він стає буквами

…не тримайтеся за мене
я вас нікуди не виведу
Close

AERIS

1. male shower

male shower room bursts into gales of laughter

they joke crudely and turn the air blue
they run like shameless teens on a river
hit one another with honeycomb towels
spit the coal dust from their nasopharynxes
and suffocate from the steam:
it always replaces air

then after this hot water
never spared here in this enterprise
they’ll drink a few more shots of horilka
they’ll come home and pet a cat
smash their wives and fall asleep
they’ll forget that tomorrow
they should get up again
they’ll forget about it
until they see rat tsar in their sleep

but one day they may not have time to wash
for as soon as they get out of their mine
black as mice
rat tsar will come out of the peat in the faraway bogs
and they’ll be given assault rifles
and they will ask: may we first wash ourselves
but the male shower room will be destroyed
like a half-eaten mare under a spoil tip
and the market where pigs’ and calves’ flesh was torn
will be clear
and the flying temple of some unknown confession
will be stripped of its roof
no one will be able to recall the name of the homeless man
depicted on every wall of that temple
and they simply won’t be allowed to breathe
and to wash (even in puddles)
and then—they’ll be given rejoicing encouragement:
very soon you won’t want that

…the day before—they washed off the coal dust from their skin
ran through the shower room dirty and roared with laughter
no one made fun of their homely bellies
or looked under their nails
so they soaped themselves meticulously—
to become clean at last
they rubbed themselves until scars appeared

but today—even if there is water—
it’ll be like this:
why should we wash off the coal
if our own blood has clotted on our own skin
when blood is yours—why should you wash it off?


2. rat tsar

he gets out of the peatbog
tearing holes in the soil with his right hand
while holding his groin with his left one
then he runs to the mill
into the fireplace inside it
people are hidden there
and he brings terror in a striped red sack
he tugs at little girls’ braids and licks their freckles
he hits old men in their kidneys
and they howl madly
poets grovel

rat tsar has one hundred bodies of mice
whose tails backbones and spinal cords have grown together
all of them feed him
those bodies eat anything—
even air and language

and petals of roses fall from the sky
there are so many of them that a single rose
won’t bloom next year

he jumps into the river to bathe himself
but the river red river is hot and viscous—
and rat tsar rejoices
laughing the same way as the only prostitute
who remains in the bar of the occupied town
he guffaws and then hushes—

and something goes off in the sky
something whole


3. donetsk

what a charming city!
such a fine view

the city blooms with these people
who walk smiling
and carry fresh bread
baked on the most beautiful coal

pointed buds of red roses whizz
trees and walls are crammed with roses
and people adorned with blooms
lie all around—
old men in ditches and little girls on the stairs in schools
ruby-colored petals are scattered around their bodies
but their black faces are grinning
and their lost arms regenerate
their broken hearts curl into small fists
while the flesh cut through by the roses—heals
blood comes back from the earth
petals form into buds
and people get up and continue to walk

however the bread in their bags
has turned into coal

I can’t take my eyes off you
stunning city
you are so beautiful
that it hurts


4. bog people

and then peat turns into coal
blood turns into coal

it’s a separate nation
even though they belong to different times and peoples
bodies in the peat are preserved almost whole:
men who were unfaithful to their wives
women who wrote a diary
children who lied about their innocence
a king’s head has rolled here accidentally
you can find them all under a layer of grass
beautifully displayed
where the roots of grass don’t reach
simply don’t reach

all of them got stuck in the quag
at some point in the past
they were swallowed up and formed the population of the bog
today people dig them out and transport them to museums
to turn them into most valuable exhibits
and only the imperishable body of a bog man remains
 
…your mouth always gets dry
when you talk about museums
you speak thickly
your boots leak
you try to seize someone by the hand
and you choke on duckweed-filled water

you become a na…
…ome a na…
…m…


5. to kiss girls

don’t believe ovid: he wrote about transformation
but remained unchanged or even became worse
don’t believe herodotus
his vision of time’s passage is incomplete
a school history teacher knows so much more
don’t believe avicenna
what does he know about penicillin?—

kiss girls
red as roses are their lips
roses red red red roses
and lay butterflies on your lips
black with coal
their bellies to your mouth
such a view will appear more beautiful
to those who come to look at you sideways
don’t betray your disgust—
there’s no way you’ll ever wash yourselves clean

…but …but! you shout: of all women
there’s only the wife of the king in this war!

then you can kiss war—this most beautiful lady
you’ll have to share her but that doesn’t matter
her lips are red as roses
roses red red red roses
kiss her—and she’ll forgive you your hatred of her
she’ll forgive you even love—which was not love

after all—you don’t have any other choice
when the wife of the king is the only woman


6. aeris (vozdukh)

I know a wonderful word: “vozdukh”
they want to take it away from us
because—they say—it was ours so long ago
that it’s already foreign:
its initial part “voz”
was last uttered by a man
who was swallowed up by the bog
and sank together with “dukh”

but there are so many people—
you won’t believe how many—
all are of blood—
so many of us both here and there
above—in these incredible landscapes
and 4000 feet below ground
where we stay forgotten and dirty
where there’s no wood and no peal
since long ago
no coal and no lignite
only pure anthracite

petals of red roses fall from above
with coal dust
roses are red red red
there’s not enough vozdukh for us
we can easily climb into daylight
and wash ourselves carefully
or descend even deeper
to hide in the deepest hole

but we don’t have any air anymore
neither above nor below

…they’ve just turned off the light here
we’re counting aloud in order not to think…

…we’re inhaling words and parts of words
“voz”… “voz”… “voz” …
it transforms into letters

…please don’t cling to me
I don’t know the way out

AERIS

1. male shower

male shower room bursts into gales of laughter

they joke crudely and turn the air blue
they run like shameless teens on a river
hit one another with honeycomb towels
spit the coal dust from their nasopharynxes
and suffocate from the steam:
it always replaces air

then after this hot water
never spared here in this enterprise
they’ll drink a few more shots of horilka
they’ll come home and pet a cat
smash their wives and fall asleep
they’ll forget that tomorrow
they should get up again
they’ll forget about it
until they see rat tsar in their sleep

but one day they may not have time to wash
for as soon as they get out of their mine
black as mice
rat tsar will come out of the peat in the faraway bogs
and they’ll be given assault rifles
and they will ask: may we first wash ourselves
but the male shower room will be destroyed
like a half-eaten mare under a spoil tip
and the market where pigs’ and calves’ flesh was torn
will be clear
and the flying temple of some unknown confession
will be stripped of its roof
no one will be able to recall the name of the homeless man
depicted on every wall of that temple
and they simply won’t be allowed to breathe
and to wash (even in puddles)
and then—they’ll be given rejoicing encouragement:
very soon you won’t want that

…the day before—they washed off the coal dust from their skin
ran through the shower room dirty and roared with laughter
no one made fun of their homely bellies
or looked under their nails
so they soaped themselves meticulously—
to become clean at last
they rubbed themselves until scars appeared

but today—even if there is water—
it’ll be like this:
why should we wash off the coal
if our own blood has clotted on our own skin
when blood is yours—why should you wash it off?


2. rat tsar

he gets out of the peatbog
tearing holes in the soil with his right hand
while holding his groin with his left one
then he runs to the mill
into the fireplace inside it
people are hidden there
and he brings terror in a striped red sack
he tugs at little girls’ braids and licks their freckles
he hits old men in their kidneys
and they howl madly
poets grovel

rat tsar has one hundred bodies of mice
whose tails backbones and spinal cords have grown together
all of them feed him
those bodies eat anything—
even air and language

and petals of roses fall from the sky
there are so many of them that a single rose
won’t bloom next year

he jumps into the river to bathe himself
but the river red river is hot and viscous—
and rat tsar rejoices
laughing the same way as the only prostitute
who remains in the bar of the occupied town
he guffaws and then hushes—

and something goes off in the sky
something whole


3. donetsk

what a charming city!
such a fine view

the city blooms with these people
who walk smiling
and carry fresh bread
baked on the most beautiful coal

pointed buds of red roses whizz
trees and walls are crammed with roses
and people adorned with blooms
lie all around—
old men in ditches and little girls on the stairs in schools
ruby-colored petals are scattered around their bodies
but their black faces are grinning
and their lost arms regenerate
their broken hearts curl into small fists
while the flesh cut through by the roses—heals
blood comes back from the earth
petals form into buds
and people get up and continue to walk

however the bread in their bags
has turned into coal

I can’t take my eyes off you
stunning city
you are so beautiful
that it hurts


4. bog people

and then peat turns into coal
blood turns into coal

it’s a separate nation
even though they belong to different times and peoples
bodies in the peat are preserved almost whole:
men who were unfaithful to their wives
women who wrote a diary
children who lied about their innocence
a king’s head has rolled here accidentally
you can find them all under a layer of grass
beautifully displayed
where the roots of grass don’t reach
simply don’t reach

all of them got stuck in the quag
at some point in the past
they were swallowed up and formed the population of the bog
today people dig them out and transport them to museums
to turn them into most valuable exhibits
and only the imperishable body of a bog man remains
 
…your mouth always gets dry
when you talk about museums
you speak thickly
your boots leak
you try to seize someone by the hand
and you choke on duckweed-filled water

you become a na…
…ome a na…
…m…


5. to kiss girls

don’t believe ovid: he wrote about transformation
but remained unchanged or even became worse
don’t believe herodotus
his vision of time’s passage is incomplete
a school history teacher knows so much more
don’t believe avicenna
what does he know about penicillin?—

kiss girls
red as roses are their lips
roses red red red roses
and lay butterflies on your lips
black with coal
their bellies to your mouth
such a view will appear more beautiful
to those who come to look at you sideways
don’t betray your disgust—
there’s no way you’ll ever wash yourselves clean

…but …but! you shout: of all women
there’s only the wife of the king in this war!

then you can kiss war—this most beautiful lady
you’ll have to share her but that doesn’t matter
her lips are red as roses
roses red red red roses
kiss her—and she’ll forgive you your hatred of her
she’ll forgive you even love—which was not love

after all—you don’t have any other choice
when the wife of the king is the only woman


6. aeris (vozdukh)

I know a wonderful word: “vozdukh”
they want to take it away from us
because—they say—it was ours so long ago
that it’s already foreign:
its initial part “voz”
was last uttered by a man
who was swallowed up by the bog
and sank together with “dukh”

but there are so many people—
you won’t believe how many—
all are of blood—
so many of us both here and there
above—in these incredible landscapes
and 4000 feet below ground
where we stay forgotten and dirty
where there’s no wood and no peal
since long ago
no coal and no lignite
only pure anthracite

petals of red roses fall from above
with coal dust
roses are red red red
there’s not enough vozdukh for us
we can easily climb into daylight
and wash ourselves carefully
or descend even deeper
to hide in the deepest hole

but we don’t have any air anymore
neither above nor below

…they’ve just turned off the light here
we’re counting aloud in order not to think…

…we’re inhaling words and parts of words
“voz”… “voz”… “voz” …
it transforms into letters

…please don’t cling to me
I don’t know the way out

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