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отредактировать англоязычные тексты, проявив при этом свойственные ему вдумчивость, остроумие, любовь к слову (а также пристрастие к точке с запятой).
Искренне благодарю Рашель Миневич, Эда Побужанского и Александра (Сашу) Казакова за полезные советы и ценные замечания.
Я рада, что Анастасия Шеперд стала моим партнёром в литературной игре, которую мы назвали «Странники в странном мире». Часть этой игры вошла в цикл The Age of discovery.
With love to my family: Ada and Zinovy Kane, Bruce Esrig and Ariel
With gratitude to my teachers:
Vyacheslav Leikin, Stella Verbitskaya, Professor Ellen Chances, Craig Keller, Master Cheng Hsiang Yu, Sensei Greg O’Connor, Robert Friedman,
to the communities of the Millburn Club, Beth Hatikvah synagogue, the Aikido Centers of New Jersey, Madison Studio Yoga, and the Arts by the People program.
Acknowledgements I am grateful to Bruce Esrig for editing the English language texts. He brought to this task his penchant for deep thought, his playful sense of humor and his love of words and of semicolons.
I want to thank Rashel Minevich, Ed Pobuzhansky and Aleksandr (Sasha) Kazakov for insightful comments and valuable suggestions.
I am glad that Anastasya Shepherd is my co-creator of the literary game we called “Travelers in a strange world”. This game is great fun to play, and it inspired “The Age of discovery”.
Now it has split open.
An old woman is slowly emerging.
She will wait patiently For her crumpled rags to unfurl, For the sun to harden them Into wings.
This fruit of knowledge Is still dim, still green. The ripening of dawn Remains unseen.
The soul does not yet trust The sense of sight, Still hides in terror From the kindling light.
It’s here, though each glimpse of it is brief, It’s here, the lambent glow of joy and grief.
I do not think that punctuation Had been invented When these words were first recorded. But judging from what follows, An exclamation mark Should cap that sentence.
But what about Indra’s net? What are the words That first emitted and still carry The light that knits it into one great whole? What punctuation should we use? A question mark seems most fitting.
You and I, like everybody else, Are both: Jewels linked into a net And reflections bouncing within a hall of mirrors.
But let us not get trapped.
We have the power to play it Like a game, a dance, A laugh-inducing tickle.
A dawn breeze is rising. You can glimpse the swaying masts, The white sails being hoisted. You can hear the seagulls laughing, The lines groaning, singing, Taut with force Ready to propel the ship.
Let us arise and cross the threshold, Let us run To where the land and the water Meet.
It is for us to name the vessel, To unfurl the flag, To set course Across an uncharted sea.
Now we are here, Calling out to each other: “Look!”, “Did you hear that?”, “This feels just like…” “Watch out!”, “Where does this…”, “Well done!” “What if?”
Now we are here, Exploring with all our senses: Humor, awe, dread, irony, appreciation, wonder.
When we gaze up Celestial bodies Flare into existence, Dance with each other.
Flocks wing across the sky, Swarms billow over bogs, The air comes alive With singing, buzzing, courting, hunting, pollinating.
Each step we take tells us What is underneath our feet: Grass, ice, rock, A swaying bridge above the mist That rises from the chasm To cling to our ankles.
I do not know how far We are destined to travel. But I trust this world To keep unfolding space and time For our journey of exploration, For as long as we are here.
Songs of adventure and of glory, Of giving names To new lands, to new creatures.
These songs promise freedom From the tedium Of familiar words, From the confines Of the cradle, the field, the hearth, From the gray stones of the graveyard, From the moss that steals over the names Of a long line of ancestors.
Songs of warmth, Of embracing arms and sheltering walls.
These songs promise to turn The terrors, the regrets Of past voyages, The uncharted vastness of the future Into words, into lusty tales That can be traded For a hearty tankard of ale A seat close to the fireplace, The eager gaze of a rapt listener.
Approach her with respect, with skill, For she may bite, kick or rear; She may leave the one who dares to touch her Broken, paralyzed, dead.
Yet she is capable of learning to accept a rider.
Balancing on the back of a nightmare, Riding a dark dream, We can leap much farther than is humanly possible. A nightmare can carry us across an abyss.
Between sleeping and waking I dream.
I piece together Stations, timetables, tickets To choose my own destination, To fashion a different self.
Search the floor of your perception, Feel for the hidden trapdoor, The moment of synaesthesia.
Pry it open, Heave it up on its rusty hinges. Plunge into the blue.
Roll up, solid, dull, Like a ball of lead. Sink through the water, Pass through the gradations Of the shimmering light Deepening into darkness, As the shadows thicken. Let go of all That has been visible.
Feel the weight of the ocean Press you to the bottom. Smell your own fear. Taste the bile of loss.
Rise, rise like an air bubble.
Push through the cool resistance Until you are released, Until you burst into nothingness.
Let the freedom of empty space Flood your senses with joy.
I am back where I started from. The path ahead is as unknown As it was before the journey.
But you, my friend, Who steadfastly stayed here At the origin, How did you find out?
Or was it clear? Was it clear all along?
Do they fear or worship the hand that feeds them, Removes their dead, repairs the stonework; The hand that brought their ancestors here From another world in a wooden bucket?
Can they see that the hand moves more slowly now, That the bony fingers have grown stiff with age?
The rocking chair Stretches forth its arm-rests, Ready to embrace, to lull, To enthrall with the stories Of a long life-time.
The mirror turns a blind eye To all that is happening here, Gazing intently Into its own distant dreams.
The hospital bed knows That it is seen as ugly, Unwanted in every room that it enters. Yet it goes about its work Reliably and with care, Keeping the patient As comfortable as it is able. It does its best to be unobtrusive.
The edge of the crystal vase Glitters hard in the corner. Being confined to a sick-room, Enduring the dusty monotony Of pathetic fake flowers — This is not what it’s made for!
The curtains hold back the darkness, Soften the mid-day light. Catching the slightest motion of the air, They stir like wings, Like the white sails of a ship, Sensing the wind, the space Of a great invisible world.
There are no
With love to my family: Ada and Zinovy Kane, Bruce Esrig and Ariel
With gratitude to my teachers:
Vyacheslav Leikin, Stella Verbitskaya, Professor Ellen Chances, Craig Keller, Master Cheng Hsiang Yu, Sensei Greg O’Connor, Robert Friedman,
to the communities of the Millburn Club, Beth Hatikvah synagogue, the Aikido Centers of New Jersey, Madison Studio Yoga, and the Arts by the People program.
Acknowledgements I am grateful to Bruce Esrig for editing the English language texts. He brought to this task his penchant for deep thought, his playful sense of humor and his love of words and of semicolons.
I want to thank Rashel Minevich, Ed Pobuzhansky and Aleksandr (Sasha) Kazakov for insightful comments and valuable suggestions.
I am glad that Anastasya Shepherd is my co-creator of the literary game we called “Travelers in a strange world”. This game is great fun to play, and it inspired “The Age of discovery”.
Metamorphosis English language poems
Metamorphosis
What I used to think of As myself Turned out to be A chrysalis.Now it has split open.
An old woman is slowly emerging.
She will wait patiently For her crumpled rags to unfurl, For the sun to harden them Into wings.
Ripening
My little daughter wakes in tears: She fancies that her bed is drawn into a dimness which appears to be the deep of all her fears but which, in point of fact, is dawn.Not life or death, Creation or its fall, Not good or evil, But the whole, the all —Vladimir Nabokov
This fruit of knowledge Is still dim, still green. The ripening of dawn Remains unseen.
The soul does not yet trust The sense of sight, Still hides in terror From the kindling light.
It’s here, though each glimpse of it is brief, It’s here, the lambent glow of joy and grief.
The Age of discovery
1. Indra’s net
Am I reflections of the world or the mirrors reflecting it?One story of this world Begins with “Let there be light”.Anastasya Shepherd
I do not think that punctuation Had been invented When these words were first recorded. But judging from what follows, An exclamation mark Should cap that sentence.
But what about Indra’s net? What are the words That first emitted and still carry The light that knits it into one great whole? What punctuation should we use? A question mark seems most fitting.
You and I, like everybody else, Are both: Jewels linked into a net And reflections bouncing within a hall of mirrors.
But let us not get trapped.
We have the power to play it Like a game, a dance, A laugh-inducing tickle.
2. Voyagers
Я список кораблей прочёл до серединыОсип Мадельштам
…The list Of soaring ships I’ve read up to the middle.Wake up! Wake up! There is a porthole, a port, a portal, A momentary gap Right here, Where the past Meets with the future.Osip Mandelstam (translated by Alex Sitnitsky)
A dawn breeze is rising. You can glimpse the swaying masts, The white sails being hoisted. You can hear the seagulls laughing, The lines groaning, singing, Taut with force Ready to propel the ship.
Let us arise and cross the threshold, Let us run To where the land and the water Meet.
It is for us to name the vessel, To unfurl the flag, To set course Across an uncharted sea.
3. Exploration
It's a strange world, made of echoing emptiness pulling itself together…To blossom into being A new world needs travelers.Anastasya Shepherd
Now we are here, Calling out to each other: “Look!”, “Did you hear that?”, “This feels just like…” “Watch out!”, “Where does this…”, “Well done!” “What if?”
Now we are here, Exploring with all our senses: Humor, awe, dread, irony, appreciation, wonder.
When we gaze up Celestial bodies Flare into existence, Dance with each other.
Flocks wing across the sky, Swarms billow over bogs, The air comes alive With singing, buzzing, courting, hunting, pollinating.
Each step we take tells us What is underneath our feet: Grass, ice, rock, A swaying bridge above the mist That rises from the chasm To cling to our ankles.
I do not know how far We are destined to travel. But I trust this world To keep unfolding space and time For our journey of exploration, For as long as we are here.
4. Siren song
…you will come to the Sirens who enchant all who come near them.Sirens have two kinds of songs To lure those who come near them, To bind the minds of travelers With snares of longing.Homer (translated by Samuel Butler)
Songs of adventure and of glory, Of giving names To new lands, to new creatures.
These songs promise freedom From the tedium Of familiar words, From the confines Of the cradle, the field, the hearth, From the gray stones of the graveyard, From the moss that steals over the names Of a long line of ancestors.
Songs of warmth, Of embracing arms and sheltering walls.
These songs promise to turn The terrors, the regrets Of past voyages, The uncharted vastness of the future Into words, into lusty tales That can be traded For a hearty tankard of ale A seat close to the fireplace, The eager gaze of a rapt listener.
5. Nightmares and their riders
I have nightmares now. I dream that something happened to you…A nightmare is a kind of horse: A powerful creature, wild and willful.Anastasya Shepherd
Approach her with respect, with skill, For she may bite, kick or rear; She may leave the one who dares to touch her Broken, paralyzed, dead.
Yet she is capable of learning to accept a rider.
Balancing on the back of a nightmare, Riding a dark dream, We can leap much farther than is humanly possible. A nightmare can carry us across an abyss.
6. Trains and their dreamers
The train stitches together images, like a demented alliterating seamstress…The distant clatter Of the predawn train Quilts the quiet air, Pulls the thread of the whistle Long, long, l-o-ong Through the mist.Anastasya Shepherd
Between sleeping and waking I dream.
I piece together Stations, timetables, tickets To choose my own destination, To fashion a different self.
7. Synaesthesia
There are times in life when synaesthesia becomes inescapable, when water smells like lead and feels blue…Escape is possible.Anastasya Shepherd
Search the floor of your perception, Feel for the hidden trapdoor, The moment of synaesthesia.
Pry it open, Heave it up on its rusty hinges. Plunge into the blue.
Roll up, solid, dull, Like a ball of lead. Sink through the water, Pass through the gradations Of the shimmering light Deepening into darkness, As the shadows thicken. Let go of all That has been visible.
Feel the weight of the ocean Press you to the bottom. Smell your own fear. Taste the bile of loss.
Rise, rise like an air bubble.
Push through the cool resistance Until you are released, Until you burst into nothingness.
Let the freedom of empty space Flood your senses with joy.
8. The Age of Discovery
You make choices. Those choices make you. Then you make choices. Always a spiral – upwards or downwards – it's your choice.Having circumnavigated our world, I realize that it is not a sphere, But a spiral.Anastasya Shepherd
I am back where I started from. The path ahead is as unknown As it was before the journey.
But you, my friend, Who steadfastly stayed here At the origin, How did you find out?
Or was it clear? Was it clear all along?
Theological Questions
Circling the pulsing center of their universe The fish are passing through sunlight and shadow. Their existence is framed, circumscribed, and protected By the carved marble rim of the fountain’s basin.Do they fear or worship the hand that feeds them, Removes their dead, repairs the stonework; The hand that brought their ancestors here From another world in a wooden bucket?
Can they see that the hand moves more slowly now, That the bony fingers have grown stiff with age?
Portrait of a room
Now, as a human life in this room Is ebbing, The attitudes of the objects Become apparent.The rocking chair Stretches forth its arm-rests, Ready to embrace, to lull, To enthrall with the stories Of a long life-time.
The mirror turns a blind eye To all that is happening here, Gazing intently Into its own distant dreams.
The hospital bed knows That it is seen as ugly, Unwanted in every room that it enters. Yet it goes about its work Reliably and with care, Keeping the patient As comfortable as it is able. It does its best to be unobtrusive.
The edge of the crystal vase Glitters hard in the corner. Being confined to a sick-room, Enduring the dusty monotony Of pathetic fake flowers — This is not what it’s made for!
The curtains hold back the darkness, Soften the mid-day light. Catching the slightest motion of the air, They stir like wings, Like the white sails of a ship, Sensing the wind, the space Of a great invisible world.
Orbit
The Earth falls towards the Sun.There are no
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