*** NEIGHBORHOOD 1996-1997 ***
Technos
2000-2001
*** Bagatelles
2002 *** Misprints
2003 *** Anti-Noah 2004 ***
СРОКИ ДАВНОСТИ Statute of limitations...(in
Russian)
1971-1984 ***
BAGATELLES
2002
Music
To
whom the Sonnets were addressed—
does it still matter?
The dirt roads of the past
have been paved with cobblestones.
The cracks on the modern macadam
are being patched up with bitumen.
The cell phones are silent, their batteries
in the white mold of thermodynamic death.
The radio beacons emit 911.
The taxicabs shuttle between Freude und Angst.
The chorus will never sound as one voice
Democracy have abolished the unison . . .
and so on, ad infinitum.
Offered
from the open palm
of single entendre,
Music comes
without allusions and
connotations,
Falling like rain
on split opinions
and
harsh
habits.
The Herbivores
Barefoot on grass.
Life
to
life, like body to body.
This
is why
the herbivores have hooves:
Not
to
caress what they kill.
Terzine
1. The Eyes
The delicate mismatch
between dead and dormant
nudges the dormant to hatch
into the daylight—
under the therapeutic patch
against palsy and blight—
and use the untested device
of the eyes
unpacked from the crate of the night.
2.
The Bears
In the den of my soul
a couple of bears
peacefully hibernate:
joy and disgust
mate,
wait
for the spring
and its
wrestling ring
3. Choices
Being selfish:
drawn to the bait
as
to a
magnet
Being unselfish:
casting a slashed
dragnet.
Being like shellfish:
with nothing to choose,
nothing to
lose.
4. Time-tables
One can nail times,
names, and other items
to slippery time-tables
Given a chance,
one can merrily dance
on bare time-tables.
One is quite able
to do anything, even burn,
but not to turn the tables.
The Truth
1
The
truth is the least valuable possession:
Does the truth matter if I love?
Does the truth matter if I die?
Coming
in thousands of shades and flavors,
It's just a candy. It's a grocery item.
Instead,
the number is of value:
Stern, stiff-necked,
it has no color, no flavor, no label,
but it comes as more
or less.
You
can't have more truth.
You can have less truth.
I
search for the truth, ergo…
Oh, come on!
Instead, the
lie of art is of value.
2
How
much does the truth weigh?
I’m dropping all my scrawny lies,
clanging like coins, one by one,
on the opposite pan of the balance.
I am
out of lies.
I add all my silly arguments,
doubts, and insinuations
against the elephantine truth.
My
last trick: I tie
a Happy Birthday balloon of hope
to the truth.
And it works!
Money
1
To conquer a land,
an
army was
needed.
Now you can make money alone
you
don't
need a crown
you
don't
need an army
you
don't
need anybody.
2
The nocturnal swamps of thought,
reflecting
the distant stars
in
the
spotty pools of darkness,
the
frothy
surf of lust,
popping its
ephemeral bubbles,
the
Styx of
the perennial crossroads
that
could
not be taken both ways—
none
of it
could be traversed
along the
stepping stones of money.
Instead, one can walk on the firm ground.
3
Rome died. Slavery ended.
The
Middle
Ages won
by
default.
Serfdom died.
Rome
was
cloned in new empires.
Generations felt the rumbling earth under the feet.
But
the
volcanoes died.
Parks grew
on bitter Epicurean ashes.
The
fight
for land ended.
We carry the sweet soil of motherland:
Money.
Dogs and children
1
My heart is sinking,
heavy with
empathy:
I
look in
the eyes of dogs and children.
The dogs will always be dogs.
The
children
will never be children again.
2
Dogs and children,
living by
today,
are
the only
true believers in the Almighty.
The rest are just opportunists.
Dogs cannot say what they think
Children
always say what they think
And
the rest
of us just plot and scheme.
3
Dogs and children bet on us.
They
mostly
win.
When
they
lose,
They
don't
know the gain from loss.
Memories
1
The man in the mirror
gives me his
left hand for a handshake.
He
combs his
hair from right to left .
He
writes
with his left hand.
I
can read
his scribble
with
another
Euclidean mirror.
He is my mirror image.
But in the time mirror
I
see no
change:
the
child is
still as curious as myself.
He
is as
timid, as reclusive.
He
makes
same mistakes.
He
fails. He
stumbles.
He
is easily
tired by trying,
but as stubborn.
At last, I find the difference:
He
cannot
write in English.
Life was ahead.
2
The smell of boxwood
Turns on the
memories
of
my best
years:
young wife,
little child,
blue
sea.
Now I grow boxwood.
I
cut some
twigs,
put
them
into water,
wait
for the
roots.
I want to make spare memories
to
last for
several lives.
Surface
1
Everything is under a surface:
The
surface
means nothing.
The
surface
is mean.
The
surface
lies.
It
is only
the surface.
The
substance is underneath.
But the surface is all we can see:
we
see only
the surface:
we
see the
face of the watch:
we
don't
care about its gears.
We trust the face
like
we
trust the watch.
We
shake
hands.
We
kiss. We
touch.
Face against face.
Surface
against surface.
2
"I don't want to dwell in the depths
where there
are no seasons,
no
rain, no
stars.
For I believe in no truth.
What
is deep
is as much high
and
out of
reach
like
the
sour grapes
too
high for
the fox.
I look at the surface:
There are
scores of things
To
touch and
turn and push
and
break
and throw away:
to
feel
important, a big shot."
Why?
Why would I worry
about the
world without myself?
Why
would I
care about it?
Why
would I
care
about
anything post-myselfish?
It is just a habit of life that is hard to change,
like to quit
smoking.
Thoughts
1
This is the time when the tired and sleepy mind
slides into
peace
as a
finger
into a wedding ring.
It is the time of conformity and magnanimity.
It
is the
right time for I'm sorry.
This is the time of peace
and
final
decisions.
Time of reconciliation
and
forgiveness.
This is the time of peace
and
final
words.
Time to agree
and
to say:
“That's it.”
2
On traffic nights,
from
the
coastal points,
my
thoughts
are driving to the heartland,
like
relatives to the funeral.
At the traffic lights,
my
hoarse,
croaky thoughts
are
waiting
for the eternal red,
but
the road
is open: carry on.
The traffic knives
split my
mind into halves:
one
to the
left,
the
other to
the right:
My map doubles its hemispheres.
3
The thoughts are black,
like the seed of papaya,
Or
white,
like the seed of cucumber.
Inedible, incredible, they should be discarded.
If sown, they bring up the same thoughts
Every year.
Distance
1
We should stand firm
on
the
ground,
take
sides,
and
never
doubt.
Well, yes and no can be confusing,
even
though
the instincts
can
always
break the tie.
Only life and death are set apart,
as
our eyes
and ears:
to
not err
with the distance
and
direction.
2
The world of book
and
the real
world
are
worlds
apart
connected by
the wormholes
of
bookworms.
Anti-symmetry
1
Young poets write about love
and
apples:
each
one is
the first.
Old poets write about apples
and
love:
each
one is
the last.
2
Ego cannot multiply:
as
if it
were the last animal on earth.
This is why we are mortal:
We
are
always alone.
No
mate.
A painting cannot multiply
but
it is
immortal.
So they say.
3
One comes to the new land
and
goes:
the
traveler
is the same,
the
land is
the same,
the
traveler
leaves no trace
of his sojourn.
One can visit a made-up place
and
return,
with
no
ticket as a proof,
and
no
postcard.
But the place will never be the same:
it
will be discovered
for
the
first time.
Fate
1
There is no fate:
only
events,
confused,
pushing each other:
the
cattle,
running
through a narrow passage into the corral.
There are no events,
only
the
fate: the shepherd,
the
builder
of the narrow passages.
2
The king sends his army to death,
while
imagining a victory.
There must be somebody,
Who
weighs
both outcomes.
3
The fate is invincible.
I
can defeat
it
only
if it
assaults me playfully,
but
backs me
up
with
her
other hand.
It can break me,
but
it can't
even break a twig,
nor
throw a
stone.
I can.
I am
afraid
of myself.
The Pendulum
I am full of energy:
I am
afraid
to move.
I am
afraid
of faux pas.
A
misstep—and I explode.
I am weak and languid
I
have no
energy:
I
have
nothing to fear
I
venture
into the world,
like
the
Spring bear.
The Millstones
1
The words: Life. Death. World.
What
is the
meaning
Of
every
such word
As
heavy as
a millstone?
Death is the last sack of corn
that
we drop
off
with
the
last sigh.
The world is what never stops
grinding
corn.
Life is the bread
that
goes
well
with
love,
which does
not belong here:
feathery,
volatile,
made
in the
vineyards.
2
The heavy old words,
from the slow old worlds,
are out of place
in the fast spinning world
of marquees and CDs.
Some quiet day off
we would go to a cemetery
and leave a stone on top
of a former millstone.
3
Rolling Millstones
on a
stone CD?
If
everything turns around,
why
not?
People want to live forever
not
because
of the expectations
but
because
of memories.
The Show
Enchanted by the fantastic shapes—
the torrents of human nature,
congealing
right before my eyes,
the genesis of a new world
from
old
humans and new Things,
the futility of hate,
the
hypocrisy of love,
the
putrefaction of envy—
I think about a man
dying on the
stage for real:
he
would see
only his poor life
in a flash.
Power
A crow flies by my window,
croaking,
"Power! Power!"
and tosses me
its quick shadow.
I have no
power over the crows.
The
blank sheet of paper:
I can fill it with unthinkable words and doodles.
Doodles—yes,
but I have no power over the unthinkable.
Behind
the Windows® bars,
I have awesome powers:
insert, delete, even save,
let alone doodle,
but I can't save the run-over squirrel,
and if I did, the crow would starve.
I can
paste my shadow
on the blank sheet of paper:
it looks like the crow
diving from the roof.
The Fruit
Most
of the world wants
the once tried sweet fruit,
even if dried.
Some
try and spit
the stone—the core, the heart—the pit.
What a few
want does not exist.
They don't know what it is
when they find it: it's not on the list.
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
Yuri Tarnopolsky POETRY
========================================================
NEIGHBORHOOD 1996-1997 Technos 2000-2001
Bagatelles 2002 Misprints 2003 Anti-Noah 2004
СРОКИ ДАВНОСТИ Statute of limitations...(in Russian) 1971-1984