NO!LOVE

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ALSO BY ALEKSEY DAYEN

Poetry in Russian

Бестиарий (1993, Москва)

Город Вертикальный. Стихи: 1994-2002 (2003, Нью-Йорк)

Джазовая Панихида

(Bilingual edition, translated into English by Mindy Rinkewich. 2005, New York)

2-е апреля в Квинсе (2007, Москва)

Треска Печени (2008, Москва)

Poetry in English

Nor (2004, New York)

Absinthe Then Love (2006, New York)

Fiction

Город Вертикальный (2003, Новокузнецк)

Poetry in Translation

(Bilingual)

M. L Liebler: The Fragrant Benediction of Life (2004, New York)

A. D. Winans: The Wrong Side of Town (2005, New York)

Stanley H. Barkan: Crossings (2008, New York)

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NO!LOVE

Aleksey Dayen

[LOGO]

Cross-Cultural Communications

Merrick, New York

2008

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Poetry Copyright © 2008 by Aleksey Dayen

Russian translations Copyright © 2008 by Aleksey Dayen

Cover design Copyright © 2008 by Mark Polyakov

Photograph Copyright © 2008 by Pavel Antonov

Art Copyright © 2004 by Alexander Valdman

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Some of the poems in this edition, some in slightly different form,

were first published by

Lips, Orbis, and The Brownstone Poets 2007 Anthology.

Grateful acknowledgment is accorded to the editors and publishers.

ISBN 978-0-89304-224-0

ISBN 978-0-89304-225-7 (pbk.)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2000000000

Sponsored in part by Stiftung Stutzpunkt

Editor-Publisher: Stanley H. Barkan

Published by

Cross-Cultural Communications

239 Wynsum Avenue

Merrick, NY 11566-4725/USA

Tel: (011 516) 868-5635 / Fax: (011 516) 379-1901

E-mail: cccpoetry@aol.com

www.cross-culturalcommunications.com

Russian Poets #1

First Edition

Printed by AngoBoy

Tel: (00359 2) 981 06 12

E-mail: angoboy@abv.bg

Designed by Tchouki

Printed in Sofia, Bulgaria, 2008

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With gratitude to my dear friends:

John Dotson

Eckhart Holzboog

Anna Salomone

Aldo Tambellini

A. D. Winans

As well as:

Ex-wives &

U. S. Army

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CONTENTS

9 No!Love

10 Long Island Waves

11 Pine Cones

12 Jailbird Blues

13 Being

14 Price

15 E-4

16 Unbroken Mirror

17 Неразбитое зеркало

18 Ice Queen

19 Снежная Королева

20 Pills

21 Таблетки

22 Sad

23 Грусть

24 A Strange Call

25 Liars

26 No Ideas

27 A Little Victory

28 Another Slut

29 Очередная шлюха

30 Maybe

31 Может

34 What?

35 Transformations

36 Lefortovo

37 Koons, Warhol, etc..

38 Coffee Cups

39 Кофе

40 01/06/2007

41 06/01/2007

42 Old Jockey

43 All That’s Left

44 Looking at Her Body . . .

45 Глядя на её тело...

46 Two Lines

47 No!Love: Take Two

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48 Homeless on My Block

49 Out of Silence

50 Today

51 No!Love: Take Three

52 Snow

53 Снег

54 March

55 Март

56 The Meteorologist Said

57 My Friend Said

58 My Mother Said

59 For N. C.

60 To My Older Friends

61 Broken Lives

62 Love a Live One

63 At 3 a.m.

64 A New Book

66 About the Artist

67 About the Author

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[ARTWORK – VALDMAN 1

TURN RIGHT]

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NO! LOVE

Here or there

no difference

all I see

and feel

is a haunting past in every move stocked by solitude

and ghetto produced by Chernobyl and WWII, and

Moscow's flat, and Hebrew-speaking Great-

Grandma killing every essence of me in a carpet-

surrounded small room with the essence of my

passport—no picture and a few lines as a mark of my existence.

Me—marked by a hotel of imaginary self-explanatory distortion.

And there she was—respect for beauty—sore eyes

surrounded by short black hair. No hair aligning itself

with eyebrows of sorrow. Eyelashes shooting desires

straight into the skies. New machine age.

Piece of shit vomited body—not so human—

more alive than Mr. or Mrs.—trigger resolving wishes.

There she stood—ribs shooting out there—killing

dead Eva—pinkies aligned with shoulders.

Devils in my head abnormally taking my muse for a ride

fucking her in the ass with a bottle of absinth.

Name it.

Call it despair.

She stood there naked hugging her vagina and thinking

no imagining what I imagined without an intercourse.

It takes a man to say NO!

It takes an animal to shut up.

I've been told that she's good looking,

knowing that she's the best one—

presenting her pussy as an accordion to play with—

just note and push.

That's what life is about—push alive.

My life—is hunting—to kill—kill my past,

my father inside of me.

Killing the past makes present and future alive.

Every day

I've made a killing

waiting to see it happen.

9

LONG ISLAND WAVES

Jones Beach

where window washers’

wives

go about their stanzas

and call themselves

Nobel poets

while waves crush

the shore

and

the stones

on the sands

try to become

part of the mountain

bordering Uzbekistan

And their libido

seems ridiculous

and tormented

and useless

Like this broken line

written: “Waste of Time.”

10/2006

10

PINE CONES

for Chad Green, E-1

Four flights down

to smell old pine trees

Play football with

baseball-size pine cones

Sit on a pile of

thin fallen brown leaves

Look at the red warm plate

and a cold one

One on the other

horizon’s side

Take the hat off

and let the wind

Punch that bald spot of mine

Enjoy every fraction

of each second

Before filling

the barracks again

Where face hits the pillow

on a lower bunk

Where the heart wishes

for dreams

While ears listen to the

drill sergeant’s explicit orders

delivered over the intercom

11/2006

11

JAILBIRD BLUES

I have only two more days

to serve

And I have a hundred blank sheets

I’ll arrive home before my mail

gets there

So what am I gonna do with these

paper sheets?

I can turn each one into

a little plane

But my cell is too small for flights

I could write a poem on each

paper piece

But I don’t know how to rhyme

If I knew how to draw

I’d draw my wife’s portrait on every

paper sheet

But I don’t know how to draw

And my wife left me long ago

I can get home faster then

any postman

To find a pile of letters and postcards

in a puddle

on my porch

And grow that pile with a hundred

blank sheets

Then see if my key works

11/2006

12

BEING

being an old man pushing forty

and being a young man pushing the same

being divorced for the fourth time

being a father of two bastards

being an author of lost books

being the son of vodka-mother

with a few talented friends

being the son of the resistance

being an uncle of acrylic paint

that flashed nyc’s subway rats

into habitants’ minds,

I declare silence—

can you keep up with me?

11/2006

13

PRICE

I look at myself

and into myself

and all I see—

wrinkles in a mirror

deep dents in x-rays

This pilgrim’s soul of mine bemired

drawn in ken of shore

but despite it

I walk the sand

and hold my betrayer’s body

saying to myself:

You’re paying for those left in the sea

and the price

is close to nothing

like rubles in the early ’90s

11/2006

14

E-4

Farting, snoring, and jerking-off

orchestra

surrounds the barracks.

Stink of feet

like a bug

trying to fill my nostrils.

Drop-off ceiling

only a foot away

silently

looking at me.

I’m an E-4

in someone else’s chess game

trying not to move

without success.

11/2006

15

UNBROKEN MIRROR

I’m sitting alone in forgotten Queens

with only two things torturing my mind:

you and the Russian snow—

meters deep and high hugging my ankles

when I’m trying to cross the lake

in suburban Moscow

to get to the convenience store

that sells the cheapest cigarettes.

The ’80s and ’00s populated

and isolated my mind like . . .

I don’t have the term . . .

I can’t speak the right word,

or a wrong one . . .

I hate myself for being

loud earlier with you today.

I hate myself. Period.

That snow is something I miss

and you would love.

The same snow happened in New York in ’95 . . .

I won’t break the mirror, but I should . . .

11/2006

16

НЕРАЗБИТОЕ ЗЕРКАЛО

Я в Квинсовской квартире. Одинок.
На ум приходят ты и снег московский.
Метровый, ласкающий голенища.
Себя по льду идущему я вижу
самых дешёвых сигарет купить...
80-е и Нулевые
мой мозг пытаются прибить.
И слово не найти... И ненавижу на тебя кричащим.
Себя. Сегодня.
Мне нужен тот российский снег.
И ты б в него влюбилась.
Подобный выпал в 95-м... в 95-м...
Я зеркало не разобью, хотя и должен по уставу...

17

ICE QUEEN

9 1/2 on a scale from 1 to 10

she sat at the counter and drank

something white

with ice

white girl with cold eyes

drinking alone

no one tried to approach her

or pass a barman dollars for her drinks

cowards, afraid of rejection

I looked into her eyes:

ice queen

was crying

I sat down next to her

said nothing

took her palm into mine

without a word

we sat like that

for about an hour

silently

ordering gin-&-tonics

with the barman,

putting those drinks

on my tab

then she broke the silence:

what time is it now?

almost midnight, I said

she excused herself

went into the lady’s room

and never came back . . .

a decade has past

and I’m still wondering

if she’s OK . . .

12/2006

18

СНЕЖНАЯ КОРОЛЕВА

9 1/2 по десятибалльной шкале
сидела у стойки пила
что-то белое
со льдом
бледная девушка с ледяным взором
пила одиноко

никто не пытался
приблизиться к ней
иль заплатить за неё
трусы, боялись быть посланными

заглянул в её глаза
на них стояли
снежной королевы слёзы

сел рядом с ней
молча
накрыл ладонь её
своей ладонью

сидели так
около часа
молча
заказывая джин и тоник
что бармен записывал
на мой счёт

и вдруг она нарушила немоту:
который час?
почти что полночь,
я ответил
она извинилась
и ушла в туалет

и не вернулась...

десятилетие спустя
о ней волнуюсь…

19

PILLS

taking pills every morning

isn’t so sad

when the woman you love

puts them next to your coffee cup

12/2006

20

ТАБЛЕТКИ

таблетки по утрам
не так уж грустно принимать
когда любимая кладёт их
подле чашки кофе

21

SAD

I told her to google my name.

She did and called me the next morning,

which proves that writing poetry makes sense.

I saw her the next day,

took her out to my favorite jazz-club

and back by cab to my place.

We made love,

and I felt sad

for admiring her.

12/2006

22

ГРУСТЬ

Сказал: набери моё имя в Google.
Послушалась и позвонила на следующий день.
Чем не повод писать стихи?

Встретились.
Повёл в любимый джазовый клуб.
И в такси — домой — затем.

А в постели настигла грусть,
за проявление к ней
уважения.

23

A STRANGE CALL

She calls me and drops her famous last name

like I give a damn

then she says that she needs a place to stay

and my apartment would be perfect for her

as she is for me

poor girl has no idea that I’m tired of bitches

taking my space

and though sure that she’s a sincere young thing

just looking for love and an elderly writer

I still have to say NO!

These days NO! has become my theme

my usual answer to almost any proposition

since people have nothing to offer

except their pain—which is old news—

I’ve experienced more, greater.

I’m exposing pain only in writing,

in publications—not in person—

not over the landline

not over the cell.

Pain is private

shouldn’t be passed

to strangers

even at funerals.

I feel for that girl

and can help

but won’t

for a few simple reasons—

she did not give me

a reason to help or trust

nor to fall in love with her.

Knowing that love

has no reasons,

I’m still looking for one,

for a reason to be in love.

12/2006

24
LIARS

Burn me and tell me that everything will be all right.

Leave me and let USPS deliver my mailbox key.

Dial my cell a few times a day

as long as it helps you to feel strong.

Babe, let me tell you something you’re gonna hate:

Strong women never existed and never will.

They cannot even drink man under the table.

And women break like the nail that couldn’t hold my painting.

Women are gentle and needy creatures

sent to this earth to civilize men.

Women are the biggest liars God’s ever created.

Yes, the biggest liars . . . lying to themselves.

11/2006

25

NO!IDEAS

for K. Kedrov

It doesn’t matter

what time you get up,

the demons will do

what they do best.

But I still have a wish for you—

a stream and a flower

and a hand—

take my hand.

Hand—is the inside of welcome

Welcome—is a program of love

Hello—is a gesture of all goodbyes

Kiss—is a wind’s gentle touch.

As you can see, I have NO!IDEAS of my own.

12/2006

26

A LITTLE VICTORY

I

Auditioning for the New Year

on January 1, 2007,

early-morning commuters

breathing sweat and booze

trying to make plans

for the year that just began.

Their eyes are weary,

their clothes need cleaning,

and I bet that their plans

don’t go any further than

a can of Bud Light

and, maybe, a snack

in front of cable TV.

II

Tomorrow is a day-off

for government employees,

thanks to the dead president

who couldn’t chew gum and fart at the same time,

which means that the USPS

won’t get smokes when I need it.

And, except for this thought,

I can’t pinpoint the difference

between these subway riders and myself.

Though I did not drink

and just had terrific sex

with a beautiful girl I used to love.

1/2007

27

ANOTHER SLUT

She said:

"You can sleep with

any girl you want,

just tell me

about it."

I knew

that she simply

wanted to feel

better

about herself

being a slut.

She was just looking

for an excuse.

12/2006

28

ОЧЕРЕДНАЯ ШЛЮХА

Сказала:
Можешь спать с любой,
только держи меня
в курсе событий.

Понимаю,
так
блядство
заглаживают.

Ищут повод
налево...

29

MAYBE

Maybe barracks

Roofing blind spot

And a bald head earlier

Maybe it’s girlfriend’s poems

Or Voznesensky’s volume

Roofing falls . . . satisfy

And what? Don’t know myself, fuckwith

Wife will dial my studio number

In 7:30 mornings

But we have nothing to talk about

But we shall stretch a colloquial string

For a half an hour

Also I shall say: I wanna be inside of you

She’ll answer: Come back in the evening

But I shall varnish

Useless paintings

Till midnight

And throw oil paint

On a canvas

All night

And call older women from the past

No change

Where’s she? With vodka and tonic.

And I’ve decided that it’s gotta be a long poem

Meaning: I shall prolong lines

And again I admit love

And again I shall reel up

Anonymous continents

On a wrinkled finger of mine

The clown!

I shall get

A new dental brush

Do you know

How scary it is to go outside?

How frightened I am to fit myself into the shower,

To shave

To provoke my skin?

All right, I shall throw a jacket on top of a sweater

I shall fertilize my pocket with keys

I shall answer the next call—

Casually

My number was dialed by

The mistress from ’97

30

ТОЛИ...

толи бараки, зона
толи плешь
и невтерпёж лысина
толи стихи подруги
толи том Вознесенского
толи... утоли
а что? сам не знаю, паскуда...
жена позвонит в мастерскую
в 7:30 утра
а говорить не о чем
но протянем разговорную нить
на полчаса
и скажу: мне в тебя хочется
она скажет: возвращайся вечером
но я буду покрывать лаком
бесполезное
до полуночи
и бросать краску масляную
на холст
ночью
и звонить подругам
не изменяя
а с кем она? с водкой и тоником.
И я решил что это поэма
значит: продлю строки
и снова признаюсь в любви
и вновь намотаю
безымянные континенты
на морщинистый палец
паяц!
приобрету
новую щётку зубную
знаете ль вы
как страшно выходить на улицу
как в душ лезть западло
как бритва
гладит притворно?
Ладно, накину пиджак
удобрю карман ключами
отвечу на очередной звонок —
случайно
номер мой набрала
97-го года любовница

31

And I shall hit the streets

Without a trace—

Leave the coldness of my studio

And step on 7 inches of concrete with a steel face

And I’ll pay a visit to a Pakistani kiosk

Will have shish kebab to interrupt a hangover

And purchase tonic in

An overcrowded supermarket

And I’ll take the train

And I’ll arrive home

To embrace

And to cuddle

And to lie: I LOVE YOU

12/2006

32

и выйду на улицу
себе во след —
когда квартира не топлена,
на гравии не так холодно

и пройдусь до ларька
шашлыком перебью похмелье
куплю в супермаркете
тоник
и сяду в метро
и приеду домой
чтоб обнять
и объять
ту блядь
что утром
в любви признавалась

33

WHAT?

shadows cover

concrete’s wrinkles,

hiding softball players in a playground

across the street,

and causing neighbors to turn on the lights

and TV

while I’m counting cigarettes left in a $7 pack

and ideas for unwritten poems

then

I step aside

to do everyday push-ups—

41—today

and my favorite person in the world

puts it right:

"You are telling tormented stories

instead of writing poetry."

And I know that she’s right,

and I do respect her opinion,

while hopelessly stroking keys

without seeking approval.

1/2007

34

TRANSFORMATIONS

It’s late

and, according to the calendar,

January.

I look through a window

which serves as a mirror

translating paintings on the wall

into Arabic and Hebrew,

transforming the light bulb

on the apartment’s ceiling

into the moon.

Being very kind

to my baldness,

I can’t look away . . .

sitting by myself

but not alone.

1/2007

35

LEFORTOVO

An editor of a new anthology

called me up to ask me to write

a theme poem

and offers 70 bucks.

And I thought of one Russian-American

writer who wanted to sell his soul

but simply gave it away.

The theme is the G.W. Bridge that

leads to Fort Lee,

a N.J. town that I call Lefortovo,

where I used to work

as a news editor

a long time ago.

Lousy theme

lousy money

all leading to

a lousy poem . . .

that you just read.

1/2007

Lefortovo—prison for political detainees in Moscow

36

KOONS, WARHOL, ETC.

for Aldo Tambellini

A friend of mine said:

You gonna be famous

because your second wife

used to mix paints

for Jeff Koons.

The same person

said to Boris Lurie:

Your paintings

are worth millions

because Warhol, Andy

moved across the street

from you.

Then my friend assumed:

We’ll make millions.

He did not know that

I’m a poet, already a millionaire.

1/2007

37
COFFEE CUPS

My body feels different

(I felt her body just last night)

sitting by the new computer desk

with the old laptop on top of it

in the apartment that used to be ours

in the apartment that’s almost empty

(I’ve mentioned the new desk

and add a decade-old blue air-bed).

Don’t worry, reader,

she came back to me,

though now she has her own flat.

And, when I ask myself what

difference is there,

I think of cups of coffee:

how fast we drink them now,

before we leave each other

in the morning

for another day or so . . .

1/2007

38

КОФЕ

я тело чувствую иначе
сегодня вечером
своё (её — я ощущал всю ночь)
сидящее за новым
кухонным/письменным столом
у клавиатуры старой
в кимоно
в нашей ранее общей квартире
недавно
брошенной ею
увёзшей мебель

она вернулась (не в квартиру)
но отношения иные
при проживании
при проживании
раздельном —

раскол спортивен —
в скорости кофе питья
несколько раз в неделю

39

01/06/2007

Another warm winter

60º   fog

New York at 9 a.m. feels like

summer nights in Leningrad.

Windows   metal curtains   fire escapes—

everything in b/w.

I’ve seen all these too many times

in different cities on two continents.

The colors are gone

accompanied by upbeat.

The mood is cool-jazz,

broken umbrellas filling

garbage cans like dead ravens.

And almost no traffic

this Saturday morning.

Only tired, shaky drunkards

and dog walkers

and lonely lovers

are hitting the streets,

some looking for an adventure

some making a buck

some going home

to get some rest.

1/2007

40

06/01/2007

очередная тёплая зима
15 градусов туман
Нью-Йорк в 9 утра
напоминает Ленинград ночной в июне
витрины лестницы пожарные
ч\б
я наблюдал эти картинки
во многих странах разных континентов
нет цвета цвет ушёл
с ним испарился оптимизм
и настроение — кул-джаз
сломанные зонты валяются
как дохлые вороны
проезжая полупустует часть
субботним утром
лишь в тряске алкаши
прогульщики собак
усталые любовники
проходят
одни — в ликёроводочный
другие — заработать бакс
последние — домой — поспать

41

OLD JOCKEY

Cold apartment

cold feet . . .

where are you, war journalist?

Ten years ago, wanting more,

you could not even settle

for a lovely young housewife.

But that's all in the past,

waiting for more,

what now?

Sitting drinking near-beer,

cooling your living space

with your mind,

making plans

how to get back on your horse

that used to race

but now

sleeps in a stable.

Waiting,

you know

it’s time to ride again,

but faster,

to make that gelded horse

a winner.

1/2007

42

ALL THAT'S LEFT

Lights out!

No!

Not anymore!

The past becomes present

and

I’m back in the Tombs.

Barracks and lockups

are parts of my life

playing their roles

and cops beating the shit

out of me

while thinking of their wives and children.

Some would call it another

bump on the road.

I call it my fault.

Swollen wrists

handcuffs and watchband

and guilt.

Guilt . . .

bigger than a skyscraper.

Guilt . . .

suicidal guilt.

Rage at myself

and guilt

are all that’s left.

1/2007

43

LOOKING AT HER BODY . . .

Looking at her bruised beautiful body,

I’m figuring out how much booze

she had

and how much she’s going to remember

tomorrow morning

when I’ll bring her

hangover medicine

and a glass of tap water.

I’m thinking of many mornings

waking up next to women

whose names I can’t remember,

going through their purses

looking for an ID.

Looking at her bruised gentle body,

I’m thinking of cobblestones

in old hometown

when I injured my head

falling down

twenty years ago

on the day of university exams.

Looking at her bruised naked body,

I’m thinking of nights

we spent apart,

of the times I caught

her before she fell

then carrying her to bed

and holding her tight.

Looking into her wet eyes . . .

I see . . . myself.

1/2007

44

ГЛЯДЯ НА ЕЁ ТЕЛО

глядя на её прекрасное в синяках тело
пытаюсь прикинуть
сколько на грудь приняла
и что будет помнить завтра
когда поднесу анальгин
и стакан воды
*
об утрах думаю разных
когда просыпался рядом
с женщинами
не помня их имена
как рылся в сумках
в поисках ответа
*
глядя на её измождённое нежное тело
вспоминаю брусчатку
киевской деревни
об которую размозжил череп
в университетских экзаменов день
две декады назад
*
глядя на её одетое в синяки тело
думаю о ночах
что мы не были вместе
о вечерах
когда успевал подхватить её
пьяную
уложить в постель
и обнять

вижу себя в её слезах

45

TWO LINES

Going into the night

getting through the night

Knowing what's wrong with me

knowing what's wrong with her

Two people

two lines

Is it too late

to turn them into one?

Memories like Canadian geese

making their way from north to south

Shitting on their way

into to the garbage of my memories

And wishes—my wishes—tossed

into the cans along the way

I’m thinking of the late father of a friend

who ended up saying one word—shit

Years later jails and divorces

I took a chance on disagreeing with that old stiff

Now, holding the phone knowing the number

but unable to dial

1/2007

46

NO!LOVE: TAKE TWO

days hypocritical days

nights

no!love

dead cellphone

beer more beer

forgiven desires

blocked

sex more sex

guests then visitors

strangers thieves

cooled kill-jazz

words

unspoken

lies

truth

unresolved

where am I?

1/2007

47

HOMELESS ON MY BLOCK

A homeless guy on my Manhattan block

never asked for change

nor food,

doesn’t have a sign

that tells his story.

His beard and hair

haven't been trimmed nor washed

for quite some time,

unlike mine.

He sits inside a torn cardboard box

reading Novoye Russkoe Slovo—

an immigrant newspaper that published

some writings of mine.

Everyday leaving an upscale building

and passing by this smiling fellow

from my homeland,

I bear a thought in mind:

Would it be OK to start

to talk with him

in our native rhyming tongue?

1/2007

48

OUT OF SILENCE

The earth and the sky

Words . . . unspoken

right in between.

Numbers to dial,

friends in their graves—

everything is hanging.

I put on my clothes,

but am afraid to go out.

I turn on the TV,

and, a minute later, turn it off.

I smash the radio against the wall,

unplug the laptop.

Poems must be written

out of silence,

fished out of despair.

Poems . . . poems . . .

1/2007

49

TODAY

Today I’ve noticed more beautiful women

on the streets than in a whole year—

guess I’m fine with the divorce.

Today I wrote about 30 letters:

they were more upbeat

than a year of correspondence.

Today I did 50 push-ups—

made me feel good about

my physical state.

And, today, I wrote a poem

that made me question

my state of mind.

1/2007

50
NO!LOVE: TAKE THREE

scar on her spine

bisector

hairless body

in my arms

I feel NO!

not too old

her fingers tight

street lights

2/2007

51

SNOW

snow snow

again snow

heaters on

pulse faster

women call

articles written

snow

TV silent

I read lips

translate stills

as moving pictures

I dress in black

but the weather

paints my clothes white

with snow

I like the color

of black & white

like photos of my childhood—

lost

so much snow

2/2007

52

СНЕГ

и снег и снег
и снова — снег
включён обогреватель
чаще пульс
и женщины звонят
статьи написаны
и снег

ТВ беззвучно
читаю по губам
обыгрываю фото
как движенье кадров

и в чёрное
укутываю тело
но красит в белое погода
снегом

цвет по душе
люблю ч\б
и фотоснимки детства в голове
...утеряны
сугробы

53

MARCH

It resembles Baryshnikov’s character

from Sex and the City,

the same city

for her . . .

on the same streets . . .

I’m in a reality program.

All serials come to an end.

Chapters progress

despite age.

The moon grows larger,

but March

does not exit February.

It's still cold and wet and windy

and dark enough for poems

to inscribe the season.

3/2007

54

МАРТ

на роль барышникова походило
из сериала секс в большом городе
городе том же
для неё...
на тех же улицах...
я — в реальности
сериалы заканчиваются
главы новее
супротив возрасту
луна полнеет
и
март февраль
не отпускает
и стих свободнее

55

THE METEOROLOGIST SAID

The meteorologist

on the ten o’clock news

said

It’s going to be cold and windy

tomorrow in the New York City area

Mostly dry with

a chance for light

showers in the evening

no greater then ten percent

Eight hundred percent humidity

I hear humiliation

Temperature

thirty-fucking something

What else can he know

about me

that I don’t know myself

already?

3/2007

56

MY FRIEND SAID

“She saw sugar daddy

in you, not a poet.”

I felt it.

It wasn't for the first time.

Got used to it.

But these days,

I know how

to put a stop to it,

that is, before the one who

asked for two hundred bucks

to pay her dentist

or to buy new prescription glasses

that she said she really needed,

since she has been

walking blind through life.

3/2007

57

MOTHER SAID

after Hal Sirowitz

Mother said:

"You're too selfish

to keep your marriages alive."

She’s usually right.

I put too little

into the relationships

and too much

into the divorce lawyers' pockets.

2/2007

58

FOR N. C.

For more then a decade,

I haven’t seen a journalist

taking notes as fast as she.

What did she write about me?

“An arrogant badass,” I guess.

I think I’m not—

just a cynical multilingual writer

who’s seen it all,

except for true love.

4/2007

59

TO MY OLDER FRIENDS

I didn’t have a chance to meet

most of the Great Ones

though History repeats itself.

But, lucky me,

I was able

to catch quite a few

in my storm-colored net.

I’ll never throw anyone back

into the pond

like scaly sunfish

which take more time

to cook than eat.

I’ll be listening

till the End

for them,

asking myself:

What did I miss

being deaf before?

4/2007

60

BROKEN LIVES

I guess any woman

can work as a stripper

in Irvington, NJ.

The Go-Go place

I stopped by for a drink

had only beer-bellied, middle-aged

Latinos in bikini.

And when I finished my

vodka tonic and stepped outside,

a crackhead white trash

in her fifties, I guess, offered

a blow-job for twenty bucks.

And a unisex salon

on the next block

was still open

at midnight.

I had a whole night ahead of me

supervising broken lives

of employees in the transit garage,

with my ex-wife among them.

4/2007

61

LOVE A LIVE ONE

she was crying:

"I lost him, I lost him

he’s dead, but I'm

still in love with him.

Why did 9/11 happen?"

I took another sip

from my vodka and tonic

in a plastic glass, and said:

"It’s easy to be in love

with a stiff,

than trying to love

a live one."

4/2007

62

AT 3 A.M.

Parked cars

are like sardines in a can,

people like zombies

at 3 A.M.

I’m back in the city.

I’m back. For what?

Another lonely night.

Should I buy myself a hooker

or write a poem?

One or the other . . .

4/2007

63
A NEW BOOK

Well . . .

let’s close this chapter

light a Cuban cigar

take another sip of JW Blue

kiss a woman

still occupying your bed

who won’t go away

and feel like a rich man.

Then . . .

open a new book

another child

of a lost poet.

4/2007

64
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ABOUT THE ARTIST

Alexander Valdman was born in 1956 in Odessa, Ukraine. From an early age, he studied art privately, then later in various schools, winning the First Prize at the Second International Children Art Exhibit. In 1974, he was admitted to the Surikov National Alcademy of Art School of Graphics, from which he graduated with honors in 1989. His studies included oil painting, gouache, tempera, etching, linocut, as well as unique graphics, print, poster, and book illustrations. Since 1980, he has worked with various publishing houses in Russia, including Detskaya Literature Publishers, Progress-Raduga, Abris, Ex Mo, Centrepolygraph, and Selena. He has produced original illustrations and covers for over 120 books and magazines (including the Bible and the works of Shakespeare, Dostoyevski, Tolstoi, Agatha Christie, Isaac Asimov, Gerald Durrelll, John Le Carré; historical novels, children and nature books, Sci-Fi, fantasy, and adventure books). He has also produced original posters, comics, cartoons, and unique graphic works. In addition to his work as an original illustrator, Alexander is a prolific painter, whose works, since 1992, have been exhibited in Europe . Over 500 of his works are in private collections in Austria, Belgium, France, Hungary, the Netherlands, Russia, Spain, and the USA, including the Norton and Nancy Dodge Collection at Zimmerli Musuem and C.A.S.E. Museum of Contemorary Art (New Jersey).

ARTWORK IN THIS VOLUME

Page 8: Drawing #1, pen & ink, 8'' x 11'', 2004.

Page 68: Drawing #2, pen & ink, 8'' x 11'', 2004.

66

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Aleksey Dayen is a Russian-American award-winning poet and novelist, publicist, translator, artist, and photographer. He was born and raised in the USSR and immigrated to the United States in 1994. His writings have been published in anthologies and leading periodicals worldwide. He works as an editor-in-chief of the Member’s Magazine, a literary review, and as co-editor of five non-conformist journals in Russia. In 2004, he was awarded the David Burliuk Prize for international poetry achievement from the Germany-based Academy of Zaum, as well as an award for his memoirs from Russia’s Futurum Art Review. As a member of ALTA (American Literary Translators Association), he translates from Polish and English into Russian and from Russian into English. Among others, he has translated poems by Gregory Corso, Allen Ginsberg, Stanley Kunitz, and Dylan Thomas into Russian. He lives and works in Manhattan.

ОБ АВТОРЕ

Алексей Даен – поэт, прозаик, публицист, переводчик, художник-коллажист. Родился и вырос в СССР, с 1994-го года живёт в Нью-Йорке. С 2002-го года работает главным редактором литературно-художественного издания «Членский Журнал» и книжной серии «Библиотека Членского Журнала», с 2003-го состоит в редколлегии международного издательства «Cross-Cultural Communications», с 2004-го – в редколлегии московского журнала «Дети Ра», с 2005-го – в редколлегии российско-американского издания «LiteriЧе» и др.. Лауреат Международной Отметины имени отца русского футуризма Давида Бурлюка Академии Зауми и журнала «Футурум АРТ» за 2004-й год; фестивалей Silla Crown, 2004; Другие, 2006. Широко публикуются во многих странах в различных антологиях, коллективных сборниках и периодических изданиях, участвует в международных выставках. Будучи членом Американской Ассоциации Литературных Переводчиков, сделал и опубликовал переводы множества поэтов, в т.ч. Грегори Корсо, Аллена Гинзберга, Стенли Кьюница, и Дилана Томаса. Автор живёт и работает в Манхэттене.

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[ARTWORK - VALDMAN 2]

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