shimamon

Шимамон

Когда народ или страна
совершают что-то очень запредельное,
то бог их не наказывает,
он просто поворачивается к ним спиной.
 
Так возникают на земле целые территории
покинутые богом,
где весной так же распускаются цветы, 
и дует теплый бриз - 
сразу и не скажешь, что шехины там нет.
 
Но будь осторожен - 
за цветущим лугом скрываются
пустоши (шимамон), 
где холодный ветер гнет пожухлую траву
кишащую клещами. 
 
Твой ангел-хранитель не сможет тебя защищать
в полную силу (хотя и будет стараться)
там, 
откуда бог отвернул свой взгляд.

07/12/21

den Sobek Sensor

Favourite Pieces of Poetry: ELISABETH WANDELER-DECK, den Sobek Sensor

As it is Sunday today I would like to present my favourite poetical text of this week: den Sobek Sensor by the Swiss author Elisabeth Wandeler-Deck. The text is in German and, to feel its rhythmic flow, I highly recommend to listen to the recorded recital of the text by the author.

In Petersburg

In Petersburg (aus “Der Sarkophag einer Frühling””)

Jaroslaw Woinow, 17.05.1920, Revel, Estland

Auf der Wassiljewski1 hab ich Spanien,
Die Zehnte Linie2 ist Grenada3.
Grammophone!  Strengt euch bis zum Krächzen an!
Heute brauch ich besonders viele Laute.

Dröhnt entlang dem Srednij4 hin,
Wie Gekrächze der Besoffener,
Mir, der ich der letzte Don Quixote bin,
Der einzige in Petersburg Spanier!

Ich allein erhöhe durch Ekstasen
Euren rauen Zank zur Serenata,
Eigne mir Wohllaut der Phrasen an
Meiner fernen, singenden Grenada.
1 Die Wassiljewski-Insel, ein Stadtteil von Sankt Petersburg.
2 Eine der Straßen auf der Wassiljewski-Insel.
3 Es hätte eigentlich Granada heißen sollen. In der russischen Standardsprache des 19. und, beschränkt, zu Beginn des 20.  Jahrhunderts wurde jedoch die spanische Region Granada normalerweise als Grenada bezeichnet.
4 Eine der Straßen auf der Wassiljewski-Insel.

Mushroom Town

Mushroom Town

I find myself irrelevant
in the town of the mushroom folk,
the town rumoured to be hidden in the hill
or, if the scouts are right, 
under a manhole covered by a layer of autumn leaves. 

Those townsfolk seem to be a weird lot:
they are said to look quite similar to us,
but you sense something off when they look at you,
perhaps it’s the radiance in their eyes
or the mushroom cap on their back.

I used to have a friend who,
curious as he was, 
had visited the place once and got so impressed that
he became one of them
(the transformation allegedly doesn’t take long).
When he returned I 
asked him how it felt
he looked at me strangely and 
mumbled that 
he just feels numb and hellishly wants to drink.

13/11/21 Madstack

A fleeting Tolstoy-esque dream morphing into the foreboding of a pogrom.

A fleeting Tolstoy-esque dream morphing into the foreboding of a pogrom.

Fresh, mildly damp autumn wind,
found my face to be but a slight nuisance.
Along a dirt road between the woods and the village brink,
barefoot - the loam was surprisingly warm and meek,
I half walked, half ran, wading through the slushy substance.
Fallen leaves clung to my ankles and feet.

Elated, I thought, “I’m at the pinnacle of my Russianness: 
to be more Russian one hardly ever achieves.”
On my left bristled the wall of pine and oak,
birch bespangled with stubborn yellow leaves,
remnants of autumn’s skilful handiwork,
offsetting the grim, moss-covered conifer trees.

To my right spread the village with its wooden façade;
its main street peeked through an alleyway.
I sensed something brewing down there:
stomping with heavy boots, swarming out of nowhere,
people started gathering. Suddenly a participant in a charade,

spotting over their heads dark banners 
I strained my eyes to read and felt myself recoil.
My Russianness first came to a halt, then took a steep fall,
morphing into a parabola, plummeting out of control,
levelling off along the axis of imaginary numbers.

06/20 , Madstack

Sivka Burka

Shimmelbrauner, das Zauberross, stell dich vor mich her wie ein Blatt aufs Moos!