Poem
Gali-Dana Singer
First letter to Ona
You don’t even know what it is: to remember a river,approach, force yourself to think: River.
What did you see?
A Greek from a creek in a children’s song and many names of bridges,
your hand in perpetual motion
streams like chaos or unconscious fear,
strains to fill the fingers of a glove
while touching the railing.
And you in a puddle of course in a skirt shrunk by time,
you and Petya trapped in embroidery, in satin stitch, in a crooked frame,
like a faded sampler of Lenin with children.
I try to mend as I am told, like an obedient wife,
but the misprints and your endless cold
one way or another will make you sad. So
leave the gloves alone,
stop rubbing them, and I’ll leave
the river, the air and our loves in peace. Don’t touch the air with your hand
and I’ll stop being didactic. Then
force yourself to think: River. Don’t think: Water.
Don’t think of streams of ink or rescue boats
or drinking.
You don’t even know what it is: to remember a river
that’s not an extended scream
that can’t be rolled up like a rug.
You can’t say: look how it twists and turns,
look how duck crumbs spill from trouser pockets
and signals of longing are caught by short waves --
remember the river that doesn’t stop, not for granite dust,
for gray hairs, for the petty battle
between lathered cheek and razor,
not read aloud syllable by syllable
like an item about war in the newspaper,
not lined in brocade like a coffin,
not decorated with silver like the soldiers’ uniforms, not eyes
widening, not in magnifying glasses, not in waves
of boulders and flounces, not in voile, not in lace,
which is really silly,
to remember a river that’s not typed in italics, not scattered in composition.
Give my regards to Boris the turtle if you see him.
In any case you don’t know what it means
to look out of Titus’ city past the hills of Moab,
trying to remember, not the islands of dung piling up by the river,
carrying it toward the bay,
not the olive trees or the weeds, not the two river banks
at the same time, left and right,
not creased, not pleated, --
to remember the river not with a shiny oil spill
around the meatball sailing from the direction of Kirov’s factory.
Approach the river, force yourself to think: River,
when you splash in the puddle without noticing the old man
fishing with the pair of silver arms
from his eyeglasses. Nota bene: Love old men for they are our future,
old women too. A pair of silver arms – that’s all I have left
to remind me of your husband, while trying to remember the river
as I look at the hills of Moab from the city of Titus
and of many others, left and righteous,
and mine, among them for the first time.
An Arab on a donkey passes below and I try
to remember not the donkey’s ass and not the olive trees
but rather the river:
not stopping, not long,
not dependent on words.
The Arab riding the donkey
moves through the scorched valley.
© Translation: 2000, Lisa Katz
From a Hebrew version, by Miriam Neiger and Peter Kriksonov, of the original Russian.
1-е письмо к Оне
1-е письмо к Оне
ты ведь даже не знаешь что это: вспомнить реку
подойди к ней заставь себя думать: река.
что ты увидела? греку
и много названий мостов, рука
твоя беспорядочно шевелясь в перчатке
как хаос или какой-нибудь бессознательный ужас
старается заполнить каждый из перчаточных пальцев
лежа при этом на парапете, ты же стоишь непременно в луже
в юбке ставшей со временем уже. пяльцы
на которых гладью ты с петей как ленин и дети
хрестоматийно и хрестиком хроматически искажены.
я стараюсь исправить их с видом покорной жены
но хронический насморк и хромота опечатки
все равно опечалят тебя оставь в покое перчатки
перестань теребить их а я оставлю в покое
реку и воздух, не трогай воздух рукою
а я оставлю свой менторский тон и тогда
заставь себя думать: река. не думай: вода.
хотя ты ведь ты даже не знаешь что это: вспомнить реку
которая не была бы растяжением крика
которую нельзя рулоном свернуть как асфальтирование трека
о которой не скажешь: смотри как она дает крюка
смотри: как брюки небрежно повешенные на крюк
когда вз карманов брюк
высыпаются крошки табачной кряквы
и мелкою брюквой букв уловляются УКВ.
вспомнить реку не смирной в пыли гранитной
не в седой щетине не в малой битве
меж щекою в мыле и опасной бритвой
не прочитанной по слогам и слитно
как известие о войне в газете
не в глазете не в галунах
и не в лупоглазых
в глазах и в лупах
не в волнах валунах воланах
не в газе не в маркизете
что в общем глупо
вспомнить реку не набранную петитом
не рассыпанную в наборе.
передай привет если ты увидишь черепаху борю.
все равно ты не знаешь что значит
глядя из города тита
на горы моава
пытаться вспомнить реку
не кучу дрека
несомую ею к заливу
и не оливы
не донные травы
не оба берега сразу
левый и правый
не морщинистой не плоеной
вспомнить реку
не с нефтяным разводом
от плывущего с кировского завода
чебурека.
подойди к реке все же заставь себя думать: река
переступая с ноги на ногу стоя в луже
не обращая внимания на старика
удящего на пару серебряных дужек
от очков
Nota bene: любить старичков
потому что они наше завтра а также старушек.
пара серебряных дужек
это все что осталось на память от мужа
твоего
пока я пыталась вспомнить реку
глядя на горы моава из города тита
и многих прочих иных
левых и правых
и моего впервые в оном числе.
внизу проезжает араб на осле
я же пытаюсь вспомнить не зад ослиный
и не маслины
а реку
не долгой не длинной
не краденой не крапленой
араб на осле проезжает паленой
долиной.
© 2000, Gali-Dana Singer
From: To think: a river/Lakhshov: nahar
Publisher: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, Tel Aviv
The original Russian version.
From: To think: a river/Lakhshov: nahar
Publisher: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, Tel Aviv
Poems
Poems of Gali-Dana Singer
Close
First letter to Ona
You don’t even know what it is: to remember a river,approach, force yourself to think: River.
What did you see?
A Greek from a creek in a children’s song and many names of bridges,
your hand in perpetual motion
streams like chaos or unconscious fear,
strains to fill the fingers of a glove
while touching the railing.
And you in a puddle of course in a skirt shrunk by time,
you and Petya trapped in embroidery, in satin stitch, in a crooked frame,
like a faded sampler of Lenin with children.
I try to mend as I am told, like an obedient wife,
but the misprints and your endless cold
one way or another will make you sad. So
leave the gloves alone,
stop rubbing them, and I’ll leave
the river, the air and our loves in peace. Don’t touch the air with your hand
and I’ll stop being didactic. Then
force yourself to think: River. Don’t think: Water.
Don’t think of streams of ink or rescue boats
or drinking.
You don’t even know what it is: to remember a river
that’s not an extended scream
that can’t be rolled up like a rug.
You can’t say: look how it twists and turns,
look how duck crumbs spill from trouser pockets
and signals of longing are caught by short waves --
remember the river that doesn’t stop, not for granite dust,
for gray hairs, for the petty battle
between lathered cheek and razor,
not read aloud syllable by syllable
like an item about war in the newspaper,
not lined in brocade like a coffin,
not decorated with silver like the soldiers’ uniforms, not eyes
widening, not in magnifying glasses, not in waves
of boulders and flounces, not in voile, not in lace,
which is really silly,
to remember a river that’s not typed in italics, not scattered in composition.
Give my regards to Boris the turtle if you see him.
In any case you don’t know what it means
to look out of Titus’ city past the hills of Moab,
trying to remember, not the islands of dung piling up by the river,
carrying it toward the bay,
not the olive trees or the weeds, not the two river banks
at the same time, left and right,
not creased, not pleated, --
to remember the river not with a shiny oil spill
around the meatball sailing from the direction of Kirov’s factory.
Approach the river, force yourself to think: River,
when you splash in the puddle without noticing the old man
fishing with the pair of silver arms
from his eyeglasses. Nota bene: Love old men for they are our future,
old women too. A pair of silver arms – that’s all I have left
to remind me of your husband, while trying to remember the river
as I look at the hills of Moab from the city of Titus
and of many others, left and righteous,
and mine, among them for the first time.
An Arab on a donkey passes below and I try
to remember not the donkey’s ass and not the olive trees
but rather the river:
not stopping, not long,
not dependent on words.
The Arab riding the donkey
moves through the scorched valley.
© 2000, Lisa Katz
From: To think: a river/Lakhshov: nahar
The original Russian version.
From: To think: a river/Lakhshov: nahar
First letter to Ona
You don’t even know what it is: to remember a river,approach, force yourself to think: River.
What did you see?
A Greek from a creek in a children’s song and many names of bridges,
your hand in perpetual motion
streams like chaos or unconscious fear,
strains to fill the fingers of a glove
while touching the railing.
And you in a puddle of course in a skirt shrunk by time,
you and Petya trapped in embroidery, in satin stitch, in a crooked frame,
like a faded sampler of Lenin with children.
I try to mend as I am told, like an obedient wife,
but the misprints and your endless cold
one way or another will make you sad. So
leave the gloves alone,
stop rubbing them, and I’ll leave
the river, the air and our loves in peace. Don’t touch the air with your hand
and I’ll stop being didactic. Then
force yourself to think: River. Don’t think: Water.
Don’t think of streams of ink or rescue boats
or drinking.
You don’t even know what it is: to remember a river
that’s not an extended scream
that can’t be rolled up like a rug.
You can’t say: look how it twists and turns,
look how duck crumbs spill from trouser pockets
and signals of longing are caught by short waves --
remember the river that doesn’t stop, not for granite dust,
for gray hairs, for the petty battle
between lathered cheek and razor,
not read aloud syllable by syllable
like an item about war in the newspaper,
not lined in brocade like a coffin,
not decorated with silver like the soldiers’ uniforms, not eyes
widening, not in magnifying glasses, not in waves
of boulders and flounces, not in voile, not in lace,
which is really silly,
to remember a river that’s not typed in italics, not scattered in composition.
Give my regards to Boris the turtle if you see him.
In any case you don’t know what it means
to look out of Titus’ city past the hills of Moab,
trying to remember, not the islands of dung piling up by the river,
carrying it toward the bay,
not the olive trees or the weeds, not the two river banks
at the same time, left and right,
not creased, not pleated, --
to remember the river not with a shiny oil spill
around the meatball sailing from the direction of Kirov’s factory.
Approach the river, force yourself to think: River,
when you splash in the puddle without noticing the old man
fishing with the pair of silver arms
from his eyeglasses. Nota bene: Love old men for they are our future,
old women too. A pair of silver arms – that’s all I have left
to remind me of your husband, while trying to remember the river
as I look at the hills of Moab from the city of Titus
and of many others, left and righteous,
and mine, among them for the first time.
An Arab on a donkey passes below and I try
to remember not the donkey’s ass and not the olive trees
but rather the river:
not stopping, not long,
not dependent on words.
The Arab riding the donkey
moves through the scorched valley.
© 2000, Lisa Katz
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