Poetry: Eugenia Ritz (tr. by Peter Golub)

Author’s Bio
Translator’s Bio

***

How the late entrants drone in the night school,
Proletariat paradise, thick blue time.
Indeed, perhaps, how long,
Are we to recollect with them and others, in one language?
Triangular milk, lids and medals,
It is better to live cramped up, knees to chin.
Those, who tap danced on our ceiling,
In places also were and at times became.

***

The historian reads the latest time,
Trembling glass in the hardening frame.
You’ll go into the street. Exhale. Time
Will remain. You will not. And underfoot
October, the ninety-fourth and fifth.
Moaning “mmmm” rattling M & M’s;
Already it is not the sweet smoke of the nation
And wet leaves fall from their dark places.

***

The snow fell in March, as it had not the three months prior,
Not an avalanche, no, but a heap like falling leaves,
White grass, strait fields,
Slopping roofs, twisted yards.
I live at the edge of city and nature,
Water flows from the tap, factory on top of factory,
And such faces, as if the people were already in a platoon
As if they were people…
On the way home I go down to the subway,
He has half a dry branch
With still living roots, musing women,
Who don’t come to the phone.
Death pays a child’s fare and enters
Everybody mistakes her for a cheerleader.

***

He swings in a pair of arms
He still has not seen spring or summer.
This is your person, this is his fear,
And his new light body.
There will never be this much water
But there will probably be lots of snow.
Trace the line in the palm
To the third century.
From the window an inverted light floats to the bed,
But can we know how it is turned,
Or perhaps it is just a comet’s shard
Crowding the pupil like a grain of grass.

***

They say that Arbidol is good for everything.
It can heal ulcers and bandage eyes,
Life will bear its illnesses, and
Like the Silk Road,
Pass under the skin.
We went to the left, came to a bus stop
The wind
Blew thin paper skin after us, bright as a new dress.
Girls with thin long legs carried bags from Oscar de le Renta
And Mont Blanc
And all of life, patient like paper
Turned and grew still.

***

Who is my love? Nobody, nobody.
My love is sand and powder, and so there is no justice.
Over the eastern cities rises that
Which in essence is another eastern city.
As when you rise above the ground
With the ancient tower, and round domes,
Only this and you’ll remember in the winter,
And how you lived before.
We could also be here,
Gradually, as the eastern cities.
You go beyond the edge of it, as if beyond the edge of Earth,
The space is scent and water.

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