Poem
Bakhyt Kenzjejev
Зимой в Венеции туристы топ да топ, кто в чер
Venice in winter: tourists clump and stomp, some wearing dominos, some in soulful masks. O city,
the drowned maiden’s crystal casket. Passion is not much different from hate. Or is this wrong,
and you are mistaken, stranger? Your companion examines grilles, lingers on bridges. In highfalutin
lands, in lands that lie in valleys, in lands that never change, lies multiplied by lies are dusted over
with earth from graves. Behold our life: you take a sip of it, or spill it, or you roll it like a homemade
eight-millimeter film – moist chalk on pavement, not a single sound. It well may be that I have
misbehaved, played daredevil, lacked in derring-do, like those masked simpletons . . .
from this day on avoid complacency: pour nitric acid on copper plates, lament or sob, get drunk,
but do not be silent, do not debit love from time, nor tide from space. True, next to God
man is an arrogant and naked beast, his aqua fortis and dark countenance notwithstanding,
who will remember “Shrovetide” as a verb, past tense, in great despair, and who will inhale
the flour-sprinkled darkness found in a mirror’s oval, in the carnival’s untruth –
then someone wearing the mask of ibis
will pierce his artery with an engraver’s needle.
© Translation: 2011, Steven Seymour
Publisher: First published on PIW, , 2011
Publisher: First published on PIW, , 2011
Зимой в Венеции туристы топ да топ, кто в чер
’t Is winter in Venetië, toeristen stampen langs, in gitzwart domino, of met een fijn klein
toortslicht. O stad, o, glazen kist van een verdronken vrouw. De hartstocht niet van haat
te scheiden – of zit het anders allemaal en maak je een vergissing, reiziger? Je maat
bekijkt de traliewerken, blijft op bruggen staan. In hoger sferen en in lager streken,
bewegingloos, vermeêrt de leugen met de leugen zich, met aarde uit het graf bestrooid.
Ziedaar ons leven – en je nipt ervan, of klokt het weg, of draait het als een amateurfilm,
acht millimeter – maar het blijft het natte krijt op straat, geluiden als uit je herinnering.
Je hing de beest uit, had het lef, je durfde niet, als simpele vermomde mensen… maar van nu af aan
geen luxeleven meer, verdelg het koperbord met zoutzuur, ween, omhels de dronkenschap,
en zwijg maar niet, en trek de liefde van de tijd, de eb niet van de ruimte af.
Jawel, de mens staat naakt en schaamteloos voor God, met krachtig water, met verstoord gezicht,
hij denkt weer aan het woordje ‘vleesloos’, als een werkwoord – in de imperatief, in grote wanhoop,
zo ademt hij als meel de spikkels duister van de ovale spiegel, van de carnavalsonwaarheid –
en iemand met een ibismasker steekt een etsnaald in zijn kransslagader.
© Vertaling: 2011, Arie van der Ent
Publisher: 2011, First published on PIW,
Publisher: 2011, First published on PIW,
Зимой в Венеции туристы топ да топ, кто в чер
© 2005, Bakhyt Kenzjejev
From: Nazvaniya net
Publisher: Iskander, Almaty
From: Nazvaniya net
Publisher: Iskander, Almaty
Poems
Poems of Bakhyt Kenzjejev
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Зимой в Венеции туристы топ да топ, кто в чер
Venice in winter: tourists clump and stomp, some wearing dominos, some in soulful masks. O city,
the drowned maiden’s crystal casket. Passion is not much different from hate. Or is this wrong,
and you are mistaken, stranger? Your companion examines grilles, lingers on bridges. In highfalutin
lands, in lands that lie in valleys, in lands that never change, lies multiplied by lies are dusted over
with earth from graves. Behold our life: you take a sip of it, or spill it, or you roll it like a homemade
eight-millimeter film – moist chalk on pavement, not a single sound. It well may be that I have
misbehaved, played daredevil, lacked in derring-do, like those masked simpletons . . .
from this day on avoid complacency: pour nitric acid on copper plates, lament or sob, get drunk,
but do not be silent, do not debit love from time, nor tide from space. True, next to God
man is an arrogant and naked beast, his aqua fortis and dark countenance notwithstanding,
who will remember “Shrovetide” as a verb, past tense, in great despair, and who will inhale
the flour-sprinkled darkness found in a mirror’s oval, in the carnival’s untruth –
then someone wearing the mask of ibis
will pierce his artery with an engraver’s needle.
© 2011, Steven Seymour
From: Nazvaniya net
Publisher: 2011, First published on PIW, Almaty
From: Nazvaniya net
Publisher: 2011, First published on PIW, Almaty
Зимой в Венеции туристы топ да топ, кто в чер
Venice in winter: tourists clump and stomp, some wearing dominos, some in soulful masks. O city,
the drowned maiden’s crystal casket. Passion is not much different from hate. Or is this wrong,
and you are mistaken, stranger? Your companion examines grilles, lingers on bridges. In highfalutin
lands, in lands that lie in valleys, in lands that never change, lies multiplied by lies are dusted over
with earth from graves. Behold our life: you take a sip of it, or spill it, or you roll it like a homemade
eight-millimeter film – moist chalk on pavement, not a single sound. It well may be that I have
misbehaved, played daredevil, lacked in derring-do, like those masked simpletons . . .
from this day on avoid complacency: pour nitric acid on copper plates, lament or sob, get drunk,
but do not be silent, do not debit love from time, nor tide from space. True, next to God
man is an arrogant and naked beast, his aqua fortis and dark countenance notwithstanding,
who will remember “Shrovetide” as a verb, past tense, in great despair, and who will inhale
the flour-sprinkled darkness found in a mirror’s oval, in the carnival’s untruth –
then someone wearing the mask of ibis
will pierce his artery with an engraver’s needle.
© 2011, Steven Seymour
Publisher: 2011, First published on PIW,
Publisher: 2011, First published on PIW,
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