Wednesday Jun 19

Porvin-Poetry Aleksey Porvin is a Russian poet born in 1982. His poems can be found in World Literature Today, Cyphers, Saint-Petersburg Review, Ryga Journal, SUSS, Words Without Borders, Fogged Clarity, The Straddler, The Dirty Goat, Action Yes, Barnwood International Poetry Mag, Otis Nebula, New Madrid, The Cafe Review, The New Formalist etc. Porvin is author of two collections of poems in Russian – Darkness is White (Argo-Risk Press, Moscow, 2009) and Poems (New Literature Observer Press, Moscow 2011). His first book of poems translated into English, Live By Fire, was published by Cold Hub Press in 2011. Poems by Porvin have been recently short-listed by Andrey Bely Prize (2011) and The Russian Debut Prize (2011).
В снегопаде жить беззвучно
иль на воле – всё равно;
зачем втихаря, ночами
материал крепчал дверной?
За какой пугливой дверью
заперт правильный исход?
Вот-вот затрещат полески
душой сосновых непогод.
Нечего ломиться, чувство,
в дом словесной белизны –
замки не сломить, ведь прочен
покой отсроченной весны.
Здешний ветер – это ключик,
повернёшь его в заре,
вот-вот распахнётся с треском
молчание о декабре.
To live silently in the snow
or in the wild – it’s all the same;
why did the door stealthily grow heavier at night?

Behind what timid door
is the proper outcome confined?
The woods are about to crack
with the heart of piney storms.

Feeling, there is no need to force your way
into the house of verbal whiteness-
the locks can not be broken because of the
powerful silence of the delayed spring.

The wind here is the key,
you will turn it in the dawn;
the silence surrounding December
is about to burst open with a crash.
Природой шелестит простодушно,
зелёную мыслит хмарь,
клювом – вся – простукана дятловым,
но доверчива, как встарь
(до молодой листвы достучаться
нельзя, уходящий сон,
если юный климат ветвящийся
так простором увлечён…)
По вертикальному коридору
плетётся земельный сок;
из лесного роста нет выхода –
это ли пейзаж просёк?
Подземной участью догадался,
а часть над сырой землёй
как всегда, прекрасна – наивностью,
думает, что свет – не злой.
The young foliage rustles artlessly
with nature, its thoughts a green fog,
tapped through with a woodpecker’s beak
but trusting, as long ago
(you can’t be heard
by the green leaves
if the young branching warmth
is so drawn to space…)
Along the vertical corridor
trails the earthen sap;
there is no egress from the forest’s growth –
has the landscape puzzled it out?
The landscape has divined this with its
subterranean fragment, and the part above
the wet earth is as beautiful as ever,
with its naivety, thinking that the light is kind.


All poems translated by the author.