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Poem

Bakhyt Kenzjejev

Как парашютные натянутые стропы

The roads of Western Europe hum
like parachute lines stretched taut:
there you see the patches of Central Europe –
a cup of poison, a few ravines with grapevine,
and here is Eastern Europe, a partly rotted watermelon . . .
Some put the blame on Tartars, some on Communism.

It was not long ago that bashful Franz,
a pariah with his earlocks shaved off,
wandered amidst the pines and churches
of Europe where you will never find
a mate for a one-night stand, a man to share
a drink of pure alcohol with. He should have fled
to our land of tolstoys and dostoyevskys, where
the red hag trots in the deathly foam of sweat,
where he would write and shine until the day
they would do him in . . .

Как парашютные натянутые стропы

Als strak gespannen parachutelijnen lopen
de wegen zoevend door het westen van Europa;
en daar het midden: bekers gif en dichte bossen,
ravijnen, opgesierd met wilde druiventrossen,
en ginds het oosten, meloen verrot door lage listen…
De schuld van de Tataren, of de communisten.

Wanneer zwierf stille Franz – de loser zonder peies
door pijnboombossen en in protestantse kerken,
met geen om mee te vrijen, of om mee te hijsen?
Was hij gevlucht naar ons, Tolstojs en Dostojevski’s,
waar knollen snellen met het schuimrood op de kaken,
hij had geschreven als de ziekte, tot ze hem braken.

Как парашютные натянутые стропы

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Как парашютные натянутые стропы

The roads of Western Europe hum
like parachute lines stretched taut:
there you see the patches of Central Europe –
a cup of poison, a few ravines with grapevine,
and here is Eastern Europe, a partly rotted watermelon . . .
Some put the blame on Tartars, some on Communism.

It was not long ago that bashful Franz,
a pariah with his earlocks shaved off,
wandered amidst the pines and churches
of Europe where you will never find
a mate for a one-night stand, a man to share
a drink of pure alcohol with. He should have fled
to our land of tolstoys and dostoyevskys, where
the red hag trots in the deathly foam of sweat,
where he would write and shine until the day
they would do him in . . .

Как парашютные натянутые стропы

The roads of Western Europe hum
like parachute lines stretched taut:
there you see the patches of Central Europe –
a cup of poison, a few ravines with grapevine,
and here is Eastern Europe, a partly rotted watermelon . . .
Some put the blame on Tartars, some on Communism.

It was not long ago that bashful Franz,
a pariah with his earlocks shaved off,
wandered amidst the pines and churches
of Europe where you will never find
a mate for a one-night stand, a man to share
a drink of pure alcohol with. He should have fled
to our land of tolstoys and dostoyevskys, where
the red hag trots in the deathly foam of sweat,
where he would write and shine until the day
they would do him in . . .
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère