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Translation of “Lift” by Sergei Tretyakov

. Here’s a translation of an obscure Russian poem that I completed five years ago.  Although the translation takes a few liberties, I hope these help capture something of the playfulness of the original. I found this poem in the great anthology Poetry of the Silver Age (Поэзия Серебряного века) published in Moscow by EKSMO in 2002. . Lift . by Sergei Tretyakov . You in darkness read, like a cat, Small print on snowdrifts. Vertical is our common path, The singsong lift. Just us two in this mobile pantry. We’ll flirt! Don’t flinch, with a gaze that’s stingy, From the wreath of myrtle. After all, you know, at… Read More »Translation of “Lift” by Sergei Tretyakov

Fuck Off We’re Working

. A Manifesto for the Left Hand . The Best Way to Hurt 1. I write poems because this year they forgot to tell me not to. 2. I write poems because rhythm is true and image too. Rhyme only sometimes. 3. We poets are like this, we first think of ourselves as poets and then start writing poems. 4. We’re poets foremost because of the pay. No faster path to the proletariat than writing poems. 5. The privelege of the bourgeois is to want to be proletariat, to imagine themselves proletariat, to use the word proletariat. 6. I sit… Read More »Fuck Off We’re Working

Mr. Buff

. This is the end of the line. All that’s left is Mr. Buff. And he’s in the middle of a mud bath.