Andrei Voznesensky Biography

I'm waiting for my friend. The gate's unlocked.
The banisters are lit so he can walk.
...

In my land and yours they do hit the hay
and sleep the whole night in a similar way.
...

My life, like a rocket, makes a parabola
flying in darkness, - no rainbow for traveler.

There once lived an artist, red-haired Gauguin,
he was a bohemian, a former tradesman.
To get to the Louvre
from the lanes of Montmartre
he circled around
as far as Sumatra!

He had to abandon the madness of money,
the filth of the scholars, the snarl of his honey.
The man overcame the terrestrial gravity,
The priests, drinking beer, would laugh at his 'vanity':
'A straight line is short, but it is much too simple,
He'd better depict beds of roses for people.'

And yet, like a rocket, he flew off with ease
through winds penetrating his coat and his ears.
He didn't fetch up to the Louvre through the door
but, like a parabola,
pierced the floor!

Each gets to the truth with his own parameter
a worm finds a crack, man makes a parabola.

There once lived a girl in the neighboring house.
We studied together, through books we would browse.
Why did I leave,
moved by devilish powers
amidst the equivocal
Georgian stars!

I'm sorry for making that silly parabola,
The shivering shoulders in darkness, why trouble her?...
Your rings in the dark Universe were dramatic,
and like an antenna, straight and elastic.

Meanwhile I'm flying
to land here because
I hear your earthly and shivering calls.

It doesn't come easy with a parabola!..
For wiping prediction, tradition, preamble off
Art, History, Love and ÑŽesthetics
Prefer
to take parabolical paths, as it were!

He leaves for Siberia now, on a visit.

.....................................
It isn't so long as parabola, is it?


Alec Vagapov's translation
...

There is Bukashkin, our neighbor,
in underpants of blotting paper,
and, like balloons, the Antiworlds
hang up above him in the vaults.

Up there, like a magic daemon,
he smartly rules the Universe,
Antibukashkin lies there giving
Lollobrigida a caress.

The Anti-great-academician
has got a blotting paper vision.

Long live creative Antiworlds,
great fantasy amidst daft words!
There are wise men and stupid peasants,
there are no trees without deserts.

There're Antimen and Antilorries,
Antimachines in woods and forests.
There's salt of earth, and there's a fake.
A falcon dies without a snake.

I like my dear critics best.
The greatest of them beats the rest
for on his shoulders there's no head,
he's got an Antihead instead.

At night I sleep with windows open
and hear the rings of falling stars,
From up above skyscrapers drop and,
like stalactites, look down on us.

High up above me upside down,
stuck like a fork into the ground,
my nice light-hearted butterfly,
my Antiworld, is getting by.

I wonder if it's wrong or right
that Antiworlds should date at night.
Why should they sit there side by side
watching TV all through the night?
They do not understand a word.
It's their last date in this world.
They sit and chat for hours, and
they will regret it in the end!
The two have burning ears and eyes,
resembling purple butterflies...

...A lecturer once said to me:
'An Antiworld? It's loonacy!'

I'm half asleep, and I would sooner
believe than doubt the man's word...
My green-eyed kitty, like a tuner,
receives the signals of the world.

Alec Vagapov's translation
...

In my land and yours they do hit the hay
and sleep the whole night in a similar way.

There's the golden Moon with a double shine.
It lightens your land and it lightens mine.

At the same low price, that is for free,
there's the sunrise for you and the sunset for me.

The wind is cool at the break of day,
it's neither your fault nor mine, anyway.

Behind your lies and behind my lies
there is pain and love for our Motherlands.

I wish in your land and mine some day
we'd put all idiots out of the way.

Alec Vagapov's translation
...