Poetry by Dmitry Blizniuk.
Translated, from Russian, by Sergey Gerasimov
A boy on a tricycle hurried to me.
The sun smiled over the avenue.
But I woke up in tears like a clear bag in dew
amid heavy morning grass.
I breathed out, “God, forgive me…”
Is there life after me?
Homunculi, aborted fetuses
stare at me from above with reproach.
Waxen spiders with child faces don’t blink,
just silently purse their thin lips\mandibles.
What can I tell you? I was so lucky.
I might as well have not been born.
It was an improbable coincidence: I bit into the ovum --
excuse me, mom --
like into a sweet biscuit,
and hung onto the silty edge of existence.
What a fine ghostly thing is
that line between to be and not to be,
between Hamlet and the ghetto.
Now I blindly thread the black needle of the universe
with a luminous filament of poems,
while the creator, like a drunk war hero,
shoots a machine gun at random at the twelve zodiac signs,
and the night sky is on fire from one end to the other.
The nature alone is always happy to see us --
the way a fridge is happy to see food.
God sees you in his dream, but after he has woken up
it’s unlikely he’ll remember what his dream was about.
The jug eared boy with the eyes of a deer.
Who are you?
Who are you?
The last hope of the world
that has acquired a fantastic dimension.
A small boy, standing atop a tower made of elephants.
Standing on the shoulders
of millions of lives reduced to dust.
You reach out to the window in a star
and knock timidly:
Is God at home?
Will he come out today?
Will he see me?
Look, the whole world
got on its tiptoes,
rising from fire and darkness.
It gives you its paw
and a rose with a thorn
Let’s be friends