The Poems After Poems - Poem by Viktor Krivulin
The poems after poems, they look like poems
and not like poems
there is a smell of threadbare skin from them
of heated metal - well, so what,
not write anymore? You'll die of boredom!
They will put a stone with the inscription: "Passer-by,
stop at this grave,
it is all rotten, and for the appeal "O Lord"
there is no strong rhyme, neither skillful hand,
neither opened mouth - so at least close the eyes".
In the distance, Chechens and Aztecs rumble
and here it is white and quiet as in a chemistry —
one moment vials tinkle on the counter,
another, a coin slips and rolls
across the tiles - but where to?! It landed on head
in the corner where the glory where the victorious thunder
rattle in verses in season and out of season
Translated from Russian by Tatiana Bonch-Osmolovskaya
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You