Category: Summer 2011 – American and Russian Issue
By Aleksey Porvin 1
It seems so far from whence it came, its two inscriptions barely made out by the eye at night — a vague sign on an avenue, hanging above the
By Andrei Sen-Senkov
00 – 00 In a black-walled museum a painting conceived. Its flowers grow with subtitles for those who don’t believe in Kandinsky’s botany.
Snow within
by Anzhelina Polonskaya But should they say that snow has fallen . . . Snow on the black battlements on the sidewalks that scream with the voices
Leaves
by Anzhelina Polonskaya Like lost children, the dry leaves on the mournful sidewalks wind around our legs. Could those fallen leaves ever find
Still Life with Potato Field
by Anzhelina Polonskaya Tell me, why is there war if not to leave buckles in lumps of clay ? The potato field sleeps. At night you can’t imagine
Alone in my room to Mother
by Anzhelina Polonskaya I’m in my room. Alone. Remnants of sleep stick to my eyelids, like flies. Window wells heave with cold snow — a
(in the middle of a conversation)
by Alexander Mironov . . . Hello, hello, I only hear you badly! — Goodness! I can’t see anything, though I’m glad to see and hear you. Change
BOA
by Alexander Mironov Horror, after many years, Will turn out to be less bitter, Like the boa constrictor embracing Your neck but feeling only
Alexander Mironov
by Alexander Mironov Do not dream of living outside language, even if the ground is so tongue – tied that everything that falls to earth
to Elena Shvarts
by Alexander Mironov Addressing You, When You in St. Peter’s Basilica Put out a candle Which is like the sword of pagan Saul, So hot a candle,