Poem
Bakhyt Kenzjejev
. . . тем летом, потеряв работу, я
. . . that summer, having lost my job,almost with no regrets, I hoped I would
go back to writing: not unlike Count Tolstoy
in his country manor, at the desk, I hoped to spend
a year or two enjoying a quiet life, having smokes
out on the balcony with a view on my home town
with its low houses, with its backyards overgrown
with mint and jasmine. What vain hopes! Three days
went by, and out of the blue some bastards
showed up and started construction works nearby:
they hollered, drilled the rocky ground
from dawn till twilight, with all the ensuing dirt
and dust. Quite soon a solid wall of jaundice-yellow
brick was erected, and it blocked my view. Moreover,
they damaged the ancient maple tree that used to greet me
each morning, waving its broad branches. Tough luck,
my friends. Nonplussed, I flew to Moscow where I managed
to settle in my former flat encircled by a house
shaped like a horseshoe; several years back
a gang of thugs had set that house on fire, after a conflict
with another gang; the house had never been restored. I hoped
to find some peace and quiet there. Alas! By my arrival
the warring parties either had made peace or, one and all,
had been rubbed out. In short, the building now belonged
to some new owners. No more than three days later
a gigantic excavator crawled into the backyard; it would
roar and rattle from dawn to twilight, digging into
the stone foundation, tearing the rusty pluming,
demolishing half-rotted beams. To some this is a feast,
but I feel sad at seeing someone’s past destroyed
before my eyes, and I feel sorry for the former tenants
who must have cooked their soups in there, leafed through
comic strips, bickered with their neighbors . . .
My wife invited me to another capital, to take a flat
that even at night shook from the city racket. I thought
I could get used to that. Turned out I couldn’t:
here, too, construction works caught up with me again,
the buildings all around were in scaffoldings, concrete
mixers and pneumatic hammers whined and pounded.
Are there not too many coincidences for one man? Why does
the raucous process of demolition and construction pursue me,
like some bronze horseman, wherever I go? To make me doubt
the notion we all cherish from swaddling clothes: that life
is something that endures? The thunderous new world
keeps marching on, whereas the old world, just as I,
is doomed to demolition, and so are nowadays
those countless other worlds that either stand in ruins,
or can be found only on the brittle pages of old books
whose subject is the snows of yesteryears.
© Translation: 2011, Steven Seymour
Publisher: First published on PIW, , 2011
Publisher: First published on PIW, , 2011
. . . тем летом, потеряв работу, я
… die zomer raakte ik zonder werk, maar
ik zat er niet zo mee, omdat ik
mijn eigen werk al had: aan mijn bureau,
zoals die Tolstoj op zijn landgoed, om
desnoods een jaar te doden, twee misschien,
stil te genieten, rokend op een klein balkon
en starend naar mijn knusse stad –
vol huizen, één-, tweehoog, met achtererven,
beplant met munt en met jasmijn,
maar niks hoor! Al op de derde dag
begonnen gasten uit de buurt opeens
te bouwen, en te roepen en te schreeuwen,
de rotsgrond gelijk te maken, van ’s ochtends
zeven tot het donker.
Het vuil, het stof.
Een blinde muur van knalgeel silicone
benam het uitzicht en er sneuvelde
een esdoorn van een eeuw, die mij
des morgens met zijn wijdvertakte kruin
altijd zo welkom had geheten.
Een ramp, meneer.
Maar opgelucht vloog ik naar Moskou:
ik mocht gelukkig in mijn oude flat,
waar ooit een oud gebouw omheen stond,
hoefijzervormig; ruige jongelui
hadden een jaar of zes geleden het
bij een vergelding aangestoken, het
was niet meer opgebouwd. Ik droomde dat
er stilte heerste.
Maar bij mijn komst
had men de bonje bijgelegd, of waren
ze afgeschoten allemaal, kortom,
het huis had weer een eigenaar. De derde dag
kroop een enorme graafmachine het erf op
die vol lawaai vanaf zeven uur ’s morgens
zijn tanden zette in het stenen metselwerk,
verroeste leidingen omvertrok
en halfvergane balken knakte
tot aan de schemering.
Voor sommigen een feest,
maar ik had meelij met vervlogen jaren
van mensen uit dat oude flatgebouw
die soepjes kookten, de Krokodil doorkeken,
en ruziemaakten met de buren…
Mijn vrouw
ontbood mij, ginds, in onze andere hoofdstad,
een flatje dat zelfs ’s nachts nog bol stond
van alle herrie buiten. Het went wel,
geloofde ik. Maar had je gedacht – de bouwdrift
bereikte mij ook daar. Alle huizen in de buurt
staan in de steigers, vanaf zeven uur ’s morgens
wordt er beton gemalen in de molen
en gaat de drilboor als een gek tekeer.
Is dat niet wat toevallig allemaal?
Waarom jaagt telkens weer de herrie
van sloop en bouw gelijk een bronzen ruiter
door heel de wereld achter mij? Toch niet
opdat ik mij bekeerde tot de
onwrikbaarheid van alle leven
(wat wij al in de luiers wisten),
opnieuw?
De nieuwe wereld maakt kabaal,
de oude gaat, als ik, de schroothoop op,
als duizend werelden waarvan vandaag
alleen ruïnes resten, en wat broze
boekbladzijden over sneeuw van vorig jaar.
© Vertaling: 2011, Arie van der Ent
Publisher: 2011, First published on PIW,
Publisher: 2011, First published on PIW,
. . . тем летом, потеряв работу, я
Это он, повторю, это он, не я,
близорук и пристален был от века,
рьяно тщась в библиотеке бытия,
словно тот аргентинский библиотекарь,
обнаружить истину, из числа
тех, что спят в земле, и рудничной соли,
и любовной влаге. Она была.
И сияла, тая. Не оттого ли
многоженец, князь света, любитель небесных тел,
иногда хитрец, иногда сквалыга,
да и сам сочинитель книг, он всю жизнь хотел
написать совершенно другую книгу, –
где неровная падает ниц волна,
лазуритовый ветер кричит по-русски,
и песок взмывает с живого дна,
где слепые, напуганные моллюски
раскрывают створки, страшась понять,
что там, в мире, роза? озеро? розга? –
и глухой покорностью Богу льстят,
напрягая влажный зачаток мозга.
Вслед за ними, мил-человек, тверди:
уступило чернильному голубое,
лишь пустая раковина в груди
будто гонит блудную кровь прибоя.
. . . он ветшает медленно, не ропща,
машинально подняв воротник плаща,
под часами ветром промозглым дышит.
Под часами круглыми, под крестом,
достоверно зная: заветный том
не прочтет никто. Да и не напишет.
© 2007, Bakhyt Kenzjejev
From: Krepostnoi ostyvayushchikh mest
Publisher: Roebezj, Vladivostok
From: Krepostnoi ostyvayushchikh mest
Publisher: Roebezj, Vladivostok
Poems
Poems of Bakhyt Kenzjejev
Close
. . . тем летом, потеряв работу, я
. . . that summer, having lost my job,almost with no regrets, I hoped I would
go back to writing: not unlike Count Tolstoy
in his country manor, at the desk, I hoped to spend
a year or two enjoying a quiet life, having smokes
out on the balcony with a view on my home town
with its low houses, with its backyards overgrown
with mint and jasmine. What vain hopes! Three days
went by, and out of the blue some bastards
showed up and started construction works nearby:
they hollered, drilled the rocky ground
from dawn till twilight, with all the ensuing dirt
and dust. Quite soon a solid wall of jaundice-yellow
brick was erected, and it blocked my view. Moreover,
they damaged the ancient maple tree that used to greet me
each morning, waving its broad branches. Tough luck,
my friends. Nonplussed, I flew to Moscow where I managed
to settle in my former flat encircled by a house
shaped like a horseshoe; several years back
a gang of thugs had set that house on fire, after a conflict
with another gang; the house had never been restored. I hoped
to find some peace and quiet there. Alas! By my arrival
the warring parties either had made peace or, one and all,
had been rubbed out. In short, the building now belonged
to some new owners. No more than three days later
a gigantic excavator crawled into the backyard; it would
roar and rattle from dawn to twilight, digging into
the stone foundation, tearing the rusty pluming,
demolishing half-rotted beams. To some this is a feast,
but I feel sad at seeing someone’s past destroyed
before my eyes, and I feel sorry for the former tenants
who must have cooked their soups in there, leafed through
comic strips, bickered with their neighbors . . .
My wife invited me to another capital, to take a flat
that even at night shook from the city racket. I thought
I could get used to that. Turned out I couldn’t:
here, too, construction works caught up with me again,
the buildings all around were in scaffoldings, concrete
mixers and pneumatic hammers whined and pounded.
Are there not too many coincidences for one man? Why does
the raucous process of demolition and construction pursue me,
like some bronze horseman, wherever I go? To make me doubt
the notion we all cherish from swaddling clothes: that life
is something that endures? The thunderous new world
keeps marching on, whereas the old world, just as I,
is doomed to demolition, and so are nowadays
those countless other worlds that either stand in ruins,
or can be found only on the brittle pages of old books
whose subject is the snows of yesteryears.
© 2011, Steven Seymour
From: Krepostnoi ostyvayushchikh mest
Publisher: 2011, First published on PIW, Vladivostok
From: Krepostnoi ostyvayushchikh mest
Publisher: 2011, First published on PIW, Vladivostok
. . . тем летом, потеряв работу, я
. . . that summer, having lost my job,almost with no regrets, I hoped I would
go back to writing: not unlike Count Tolstoy
in his country manor, at the desk, I hoped to spend
a year or two enjoying a quiet life, having smokes
out on the balcony with a view on my home town
with its low houses, with its backyards overgrown
with mint and jasmine. What vain hopes! Three days
went by, and out of the blue some bastards
showed up and started construction works nearby:
they hollered, drilled the rocky ground
from dawn till twilight, with all the ensuing dirt
and dust. Quite soon a solid wall of jaundice-yellow
brick was erected, and it blocked my view. Moreover,
they damaged the ancient maple tree that used to greet me
each morning, waving its broad branches. Tough luck,
my friends. Nonplussed, I flew to Moscow where I managed
to settle in my former flat encircled by a house
shaped like a horseshoe; several years back
a gang of thugs had set that house on fire, after a conflict
with another gang; the house had never been restored. I hoped
to find some peace and quiet there. Alas! By my arrival
the warring parties either had made peace or, one and all,
had been rubbed out. In short, the building now belonged
to some new owners. No more than three days later
a gigantic excavator crawled into the backyard; it would
roar and rattle from dawn to twilight, digging into
the stone foundation, tearing the rusty pluming,
demolishing half-rotted beams. To some this is a feast,
but I feel sad at seeing someone’s past destroyed
before my eyes, and I feel sorry for the former tenants
who must have cooked their soups in there, leafed through
comic strips, bickered with their neighbors . . .
My wife invited me to another capital, to take a flat
that even at night shook from the city racket. I thought
I could get used to that. Turned out I couldn’t:
here, too, construction works caught up with me again,
the buildings all around were in scaffoldings, concrete
mixers and pneumatic hammers whined and pounded.
Are there not too many coincidences for one man? Why does
the raucous process of demolition and construction pursue me,
like some bronze horseman, wherever I go? To make me doubt
the notion we all cherish from swaddling clothes: that life
is something that endures? The thunderous new world
keeps marching on, whereas the old world, just as I,
is doomed to demolition, and so are nowadays
those countless other worlds that either stand in ruins,
or can be found only on the brittle pages of old books
whose subject is the snows of yesteryears.
© 2011, Steven Seymour
Publisher: 2011, First published on PIW,
Publisher: 2011, First published on PIW,
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