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ЫШШО ОДЫН

На сайтах Google можно скачать первый и второй выпуски антикоммерческого антипериодического издания "Ышшо Одын"
Выпуск одын. Детство

Редактор — Павел Банников
*******************************

Выпуск дъва. Слишком личное

Редактор — Юрий Серебрянский
**********************************

МЕЖДУНАРОДНЫЕ ОТНОШЕНИЯ (EVERGREENS). 2007

JAZZ
время похоже на кокаиновый джаз

я точно знаю
           что прослушал композицию длиной в десять минут пятьдесят четыре секунды
и сожалею
           что музыка кончилась
но
также точно я знаю
       что эти десять минут пятьдесят четыре секунды
                                            длились несколько часов
я понял это не так давно
(так давно что уже сам не помню когда помню но не могу сформулировать мысль лишь образ 
трое у подъезда курим один говорит год за три ребята
год за три)

никак не могу привыкнуть
кокаиновый джазмен наверное тоже не мог



Полностью опубликовано в Альманахуе Вольных кастоправов "Кастоправда", 2008 — Full text

Mary Ruefle

Мэри Руфл
РУКА
Учитель задает вопрос.
Ты знаешь что ответить, полагаешь,
что в этом классе ты — единственный,
кто знает, поскольку предмет
вопроса — ты, а в этом
ты величайший авторитет,
но ты не поднимаешь руку.
Ты поднимаешь крышку парты
и достаешь яблоко.
Cмотришь в окно.
Не поднимаешь руку, ощущая
какую-то внутреннюю красоту своих пальцев
не барабанящих по парте, и лежащих
так расслабленно, спокойно.
Учитель повторяет вопрос.
На ветке, почти прикасающейся к окну,
малиновка чистит перышки
и весна — в воздухе.

The Hand
by Mary Ruefle
The teacher asks a question.
You know the answer, you suspect
you are the only one in the classroom
who knows the answer, because the person
in question is yourself, and on that
you are the greatest living authority,
but you don’t raise your hand.
You raise the top of your desk
and take out an apple.
You look out the window.
You don’t raise your hand and there is
some essential beauty in your fingers,
which aren’t even drumming, but lie
flat and peaceful.
The teacher repeats the question.
Outside the window, on an overhanging branch,
a robin is ruffling its feathers
and spring is in the air.

photo: Michelle Eikenbary

Mary Ruefle

Mary Ruefle is the author of several volumes of poetry, most recently A Little White Shadow (Wave Books, 2006), an art book of "erasures", a variation on found poetry; Tristimania (Carnegie-Mellon University Press, 2003), Among the Musk Ox People (2002); Apparition Hill (2001); Cold Pluto (2001); Post Meridian (2000); Cold Pluto (1996); The Adamant (1989), winner of the 1988 Iowa Poetry Prize; Life Without Speaking (1987); and Memling's Veil (1982).

About Ruefle's poems, the poet Tony Hoagland has said, "Her work combines the spiritual desperation of Dickinson with the rhetorical virtuosity of Wallace Stevens. The result (for those with ears to hear) is a poetry at once ornate and intense; linguistically marvelous, yes, but also as visceral as anything you are likely to encounter."

She is the recipient of both National Endowment for the Arts and Guggenheim fellowships as well as both an American Academy of Arts and Letters Award in Literature and a Whiting Foundation Writer's Award. She lives in Vermont, where she is a professor at Vermont College's MFA program.

Charles Simic

Чарльз Симик

"Отель "Бессонница"
Любил свою берлогу,
окно, глядящее на кирпичную стену.
Соседское пианино.
Пару раз в месяц
хромой старик приходил играть
"Мои Голубые Небеса"

А так, всё тихо.
В каждой комнате паук в сыром пальто,
Опутывает муху паутиной
Сигаретного дыма и грёз
Темно,
Я не вижу отражения в зеркале для бритья

В 5 утра звук босых ног по лестнице.
Ясновидящая "цыганка", —
Её витрина — на углу, —
Идет пописать после ночи любви.
Раз, два: звук детского рыдания.
Так близко, я подумал,
на миг, что это я рыдаю.

Оригинал:

Hotel Insomniа
by Charles Simic

I liked my little hole,
Its window facing a brick wall.
Next door there was a piano.
A few evenings a month
a crippled old man came to play
"My Blue Heaven."

Mostly, though, it was quiet.
Each room with its spider
in heavy overcoat
Catching his fly with a web
Of cigarette smoke and revery.
So dark,
I could not see my face in the shaving mirror.

At 5 A.M. the sound of bare feet upstairs.
The "Gypsy" fortuneteller,
Whose storefront is on the corner,
Going to pee after a night of love.
Once, too, the sound of a child sobbing.
So near it was, I thought
For a moment, I was sobbing myself.

Photo by Philip Simic

Charles Simic

Charles Simic was born on May 9, 1938, in Belgrade, Yugoslavia, where he had a traumatic childhood during World War II. In 1954 he emigrated from Yugoslavia with his mother and brother to join his father in the United States. They lived in and around Chicago until 1958.

His first poems were published in 1959, when he was twenty-one. In 1961 he was drafted into the U.S. Army, and in 1966 he earned his Bachelor's degree from New York University while working at night to cover the costs of tuition.

His first full-length collection of poems, What the Grass Says, was published the following year. Since then he has published more than sixty books in the U.S. and abroad, twenty titles of his own poetry among them, including That Little Something (Harcourt, 2008), My Noiseless Entourage (2005); Selected Poems: 1963-2003 (2004), for which he received the 2005 International Griffin Poetry Prize; The Voice at 3:00 AM: Selected Late and New Poems (2003); Night Picnic (2001); The Book of Gods and Devils (2000); and Jackstraws (1999), which was named a Notable Book of the Year by the New York Times.

His other books of poetry include Walking the Black Cat (1996), which was a finalist for the National Book Award; A Wedding in Hell (1994); Hotel Insomnia (1992); The World Doesn't End: Prose Poems (1990), for which he received the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry; Selected Poems: 1963-1983 (1990); and Unending Blues (1986).

In his essay "Poetry and Experience," Simic wrote: "At least since Emerson and Whitman, there's a cult of experience in American poetry. Our poets, when one comes right down to it, are always saying: This is what happened to me. This is what I saw and felt. Truth, they never get tired of reiterating, is not something that already exists in the world, but something that needs to be rediscovered almost daily."

Simic has also published numerous translations of French, Serbian, Croatian, Macedonian, and Slovenian poetry, and is the author of several books of essays, including Orphan Factory. He has edited several anthologies, including an edition of The Best American Poetry in 1992.

About his work, a reviewer for the Harvard Review said, "There are few poets writing in America today who share his lavish appetite for the bizarre, his inexhaustible repertoire of indelible characters and gestures ... Simic is perhaps our most disquieting muse."

Simic was appointed the fifteenth Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry in 2007. About the appointment, Librarian of Congress James H. Billington said, "The range of Charles Simic's imagination is evident in his stunning and unusual imagery. He handles language with the skill of a master craftsman, yet his poems are easily accessible, often meditative and surprising. He has given us a rich body of highly organized poetry with shades of darkness and flashes of ironic humor."

"I am especially touched and honored to be selected because I am an immigrant boy who didn't speak English until I was 15," responded Simic after being named Poet Laureate.

Simic was chosen to receive the Academy Fellowship in 1998, and elected a Chancellor of The Academy of American Poets in 2000. He has has received numerous awards, including fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, the MacArthur Foundation, and the National Endowment for the Arts, and was elected to The American Academy of Arts and Letters in 1995.

Most recently, he was announced as the recipient of the 2007 Wallace Stevens Award by the Academy of American Poets. Simic is Emeritus Professor of the University of New Hampshire where he has taught since 1973.

CHARLES SIMIC

Чарльз Симик

БОГИ

Статуи греческих богов
В кладовой школы искусств,
Куда я приводил Памелу за руку,
Или она приводила меня?
Покусывая мое ухо, пока я задирал ее юбку.

Одинаковые Аполлоны с одинаковыми
Пустыми руками. Бледные копии.
Будто из витрины
Захудалого магазина
На темной забытой улице.

Поэтому я закрыл глаза,
Задолго до того как я открыл их снова,
Спустилась ночь. Был мягкий свет —
Чтоб отличить их наготу от нашей,
Но я не представлял откуда он
И надолго ли он останется.

Оригинал:


The Gods
by Charles Simic

The statues of Greek gods
In the storage room of the art school
Where I led Pamela by the hand,
Or was it she who led me?
Nibbled my ear, while I raised her skirt.

Identical Apollos held identical
Empty hands. Poor imitations,
I thought. They belong in a window
Of a store going out of business
On a street dark and desolate.

That’s because my eyes were closed
Long before they were open again.
It was night. There was still light,
Enough to tell their nakedness from ours,
But I couldn’t figure where it came from,
And how long it meant to stay.

GREGORY CORSO

Грегори Корсо

ПОЛНЫЙ БАРДАК... ПОЧТИ

Я пробежал шесть лестничных пролетов
к своей меблированной комнатке,
открыл окно
и стал выбрасывать
все эти вещи, главные в жизни.

Первой вылетела Правда, визжа, как стукачок:
"Не надо! Я всем расскажу, чем ты ты дышишь!"
"Да ну? Отлично, мне нечего скрывать... ВОН!"
Затем пошел Господь, сердясь и удивленно хныча:
"Я не виноват! Они все сами выдумали!" "ВОН!"
Потом Любовь, воркуя подкупающе: "Ты не узнаешь импотенции!
Все девушки с обложек Vogue — твои!"
Я вытолкал ее толстую задницу и крикнул вдогонку:
"Ты всегда заканчиваешься обломом!"
Сгреб в охапку Веру, Надежду, Милосердие,
вцепившихся друг в дружку:
"Без нас ты точно умрешь!"
"А с вами — чокнусь! Пока!"

Затем Красота... ах, Красота —
подведя ее к окну,
я сказал: "Тебя я любил больше всех
... но ты — убийца; Красота убивает!"
Не желая и вправду сбрасывать ее,
Я тут же сбежал вниз,
как раз вовремя, чтобы подхватить.
"Ты спас меня!" заплакала она,
я поставил ее и сказал: "Иди."

Вернулся через шесть пролетов —
выбросить деньги,
но денег не оказалось.
Лишь смерть осталась комнате,
прячась за мойкой
и рыдая: "Я понарошку!
Я всего лишь выдумка жизни"
Смеясь, я выкинул ее, мойку и все остальное,
и вдруг обнаружил Юмор —
только он остался.
Все что я мог поделать с Юмором — сказать:
"Проваливай, и забери с собой окно!"

Перевод Павла Погоды


Оригинал:
The whole mess...almost

I ran up six flights of stairs
to my small furnished room
opened the window
and began throwing out
those things most important in life

First to go, Truth, squealing like a fink:
“Don't! I'll tell awful things about you!”
“Oh yeah? Well, I've nothing to hide ... OUT!”
Then went God, glowering & whimpering in amazement:
“It's not my fault! I'm not the cause of it all!” “OUT!”
Then Love, cooing bribes: “You'll never know impotency!
All the girls on Vogue covers, all yours!”
I pushed her fat ass out and screamed:
“You always end up a bummer!”
I picked up Faith Hope Charity
all three clinging together:
“Without us you'll surely die!”
“With you I'm going nuts! Goodbye!”

Then Beauty ... ah, Beauty —
As I led her to the window
I told her: “You I loved best in life
... but you're a killer; Beauty kills!”
Not really meaning to drop her
I immediately ran downstairs
getting there just in time to catch her
“You saved me!” she cried
I put her down and told her: “Move on.”

Went back up those six flights
went to the money
there was no money to throw out.
The only thing left in the room was Death
hiding beneath the kitchen sink:
“I'm not real!” It cried
“I'm just a rumor spread by life ...”
Laughing I threw it out, kitchen sink and all
and suddenly realized Humor
was all that was left —
All I could do with Humor was to say:
“Out the window with the window!”

Photo courtesy of New Directions.

Gregory Corso

Gregory Nunzio Corso was born in New York's Greenwich Village on March 26, 1930, to teenage Italian parents. A year later, his mother moved back to Italy. After living in orphanages and foster homes, at age eleven Corso moved back in with his father, who had just remarried. After two years, however, he ran away; upon being caught he was placed in a boys' home for two years. He also spent several months in the New York City jail while being held as a material witness in a theft trial. He was returned to his father, but after running away again was sent to Bellevue Hospital for three months "for observation." At age sixteen, he began a three-year sentence at Clinton State Prison for another theft. While in prison, he read widely in the classics, including Dostoevsky, Stendahl, Shelley, Thomas Chatterton, and Christopher Marlowe, as well as the dictionary; it was there that he also began writing poems.

In a Greenwich Village bar in 1950, the year of his release from prison, he met Allen Ginsberg, who introduced him to experimental poetry. In 1954 he moved to Boston, where again he devoted himself to the library—this time at Harvard University. His first published poems appeared in the Harvard Advocate in 1954, and the publication of his first book, The Vestal Lady on Brattle and Other Poems (1955), was underwritten by Harvard and Radcliffe students. Corso worked at times as a laborer, a newspaper reporter for the Los Angeles Examiner, and a merchant seaman.

The following year he went to San Francisco, where he performed readings and interviews with Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac and became known as one of the major figures of the Beat movement. From 1957 to 1958 Corso lived in Paris, where he wrote many of the poems that became his book Gasoline, which Lawrence Ferlinghetti/City Lights Books published in 1958. From 1970 to 1974 Corso worked on a manuscript that was to be titled Who Am I—Who I Am, but the manuscript was stolen. He did not issue another major work until 1981's Herald of the Autochthonic Spirit. Among other notable books are Bomb (1958), The Happy Birthday of Death (1960), Long Live Man (1962), Elegaic Feelings American (1970), and Mindfield: New and Selected Poems (Thunder's Mouth, 1989).

Corso traveled extensively, and taught briefly at the State University of New York, Buffalo, and for several summers at the Naropa Institute in Boulder, Colorado. (He was dismissed from the SUNY teaching position in 1965 for refusing to sign an affadavit certifying that he was not a member of the Communist Party.) He was married three times and had five children. Gregory Corso died on January 17, 2001, at the age of seventy.