Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Anzhelina Polonskaya

A Voice

A voice bouncing off boarded-up windows, a quivering voice
within walls like well-driven nails.
A throaty voice, as if of a caged dove
groping through deaf darkness into bunches of hanging fingers. 

Through them, through the air heated by snow,
torn apart like fabric, like flesh that has known the scalpel.
How silent it is! Either a hot flash on the cheek
or simply snowflakes melting and rolling down like tears.

That voice! Free, unmaimed by wheels, not pursued,
edgy, floating beneath the damp stone vaults,
remarked only by the lightning glances of parishioners
who will remain in this blue twilight, today or tomorrow.

Голос

Голос

Голос, бьющийся о слепые окна, дрожащий голос,
в эти стены, словно и не случайно набиты гвозди.
Голос из горла, как будто из неволи голубь,
натыкаясь в тесноте на глухих, на пальцев свисающих гроздья.

Между ними, между, в калёный снегами воздух,
вспоротый, как ткань, как плоть, узнавшая скальпель.
Тишина какая! То ли горячее по щеке, то ли просто
хлопья с неба тают и скатываются по ней в виде капель.

Голос! Не пойман, колёсами не покалечен, не загнан,
нервный, летящий под сыреющий камень сводов.
Вслед – только взгляды-молнии прихожан, сегодня, завтра,
остающихся в синих сумерках своего прихода.
Close

A Voice

A voice bouncing off boarded-up windows, a quivering voice
within walls like well-driven nails.
A throaty voice, as if of a caged dove
groping through deaf darkness into bunches of hanging fingers. 

Through them, through the air heated by snow,
torn apart like fabric, like flesh that has known the scalpel.
How silent it is! Either a hot flash on the cheek
or simply snowflakes melting and rolling down like tears.

That voice! Free, unmaimed by wheels, not pursued,
edgy, floating beneath the damp stone vaults,
remarked only by the lightning glances of parishioners
who will remain in this blue twilight, today or tomorrow.

A Voice

A voice bouncing off boarded-up windows, a quivering voice
within walls like well-driven nails.
A throaty voice, as if of a caged dove
groping through deaf darkness into bunches of hanging fingers. 

Through them, through the air heated by snow,
torn apart like fabric, like flesh that has known the scalpel.
How silent it is! Either a hot flash on the cheek
or simply snowflakes melting and rolling down like tears.

That voice! Free, unmaimed by wheels, not pursued,
edgy, floating beneath the damp stone vaults,
remarked only by the lightning glances of parishioners
who will remain in this blue twilight, today or tomorrow.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Literature Translation Institute of Korea
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère