в моём углу — бревенчатом, глухом — / [in my corner — built of logs, muffled — ]

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в моём углу — бревенчатом, глухом —
такая тишина, что слышны крови
толкание по тесным капиллярам
да мерная работа древоточцев —
ни шеи, ни руки не разгибая,
в моём углу я словно гулливер —
то с этой стороны трубы подзорной
смотрю вокруг, то с этой
(меняя мир по прихоти моей),
но слышу только равномерный скрежет,
— пройдёт ещё каких-нибудь полвека,
изъеденный, дырявый — угол мой
обрушится под тяжестью себя
и только скобы новый гулливер —
изогнутые временем, стальные —
поднимет из травы на свет и скажет:
умели строить


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English Translation

in my corner — built of logs, muffled —
so silent blood can be heard
pulsing through capillaries,
the rhythmic work of wood borers —
necks and arms that never let up —
in my corner I am like Gulliver,
peering around the side with my
spyglass, and then from here
(shifting worlds on a whim),
but the only thing I hear is a uniform grinding,
— it will be another half-century,
corroded, leaking — my corner
collapsing under the weight,
and only a new Gulliver’s brackets —
bent by time, steel —
rise up from the grass and say to the world:
they were able craftsmen

This is my “Exegi monumentum,” where “corner” literally is a small apartment; a dim and tiny place to live. A recurring theme in the work is the decay of life and memory. In this poem, the human body is destroyed equally by wood borers and time, so that the brackets — poems, words, memories — eventually become the only remaining objects in each corner. I want these poems to be read by a new generation of Gullivers, and in so doing so it is vital that we pay our respects to those who paved the way — (not WE! But “they,” the older generation, the “craftsmen”).

Printed from Cerise Press: http://www.cerisepress.com

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