He who couldn’t care much less

By Iryna Evsa

Translated from the Ukrainian and Russian by Philip Nikolayev

***

He who couldn’t care much less
for affairs of war
has been killed and lies in peace
on the forest floor.
Birds, be silent for the dead,
don’t disturb his rest!
Three carnations have bled red
on the wretched chest.
He was for no cause at all,
nor for politics,
yet it’s here he had to fall,
clutching his right fist.
He was nothing to those who came,
quiet carpenter,
border man without a plan,
mushroom forager.
He dreams of the sunlit glade,
of wild strawberries
in grass by the forest trail,
voices among leaves,
three figures of men, the heat
of the final minute,
three convulsions, his closed fist
with a berry in it.

* * *

Do wake me up, I beg, but not here, please,
don’t block the light for me like awful news,
like the word “war” with its dark narratives.
These days I trust only flowers and bees.
I am not responsible for the world’s decay.
“Where are my children?” Rachel cries again.
Her ward’s behind the elevator in the left wing.

Who are these men in white — doctors or enemies?
Here are my children: sweet clover, chamomile, mint.

My right hand managed to wipe away the blood
from my face. They said: “You’ve one third left.”
Don’t you approach me, don’t you dare see me like this,
here, in the intricate tangle of cords and tubes! —
a pitiful stump insists and grimaces.

Wake me where morning air turns to lucent glass
in the windows slots between pinkish slabs.
Here I sit on the branch of an alder tree, dangling
and waving, waving all the limbs that I’m missing
at those who are no more or have gone missing,
as golden bumblebees embroider the noise, colliding.

* * *

He said, “I will be leaving this fragile boat.
My strength wanes day by day.
War has launched its bony hand down my throat,
draining my life away.
There’s nothing left inside,
no leaf or petal, no cliff or vacant land or . . .
“Look,” says he, “my mortal shell has grown light,
lighter than a fish’s swim bladder.

I no longer read books or turn on the TV.
I scurry for food and hide in my den,
a tormented neurotic lunatic in the highest degree.
Neither Freud nor Jung can ease my pain.
Scrape us off, dear Lord, with your palette knife,
mix us with damp earth and darkness. Poems
have now become irrelevant to our life,
we stick to wakes and psalms.

I shiver as if suffering from fever,
the air on my tongue feels cold.
I’ve long been eating from plastic dishware,
metal’s too heavy to hold.
I can’t see the market, the Christmas house garlanded,

the sparkling blue window — as wholes.
Everything is demented and fragmented, fragmented
into pieces and holes.

He further said: “God, when it’s time for me to scatter
in judgment’s burst as a handful of sand,
revive me, not as a poet, but as a lighthouse keeper,
and please ensure he’s one who understands
plainly and certainly one thing: it’s never
darkness that works the light, but his own hand.”

* * *

— OK, You took away the sea and the tiny land parcel,
some 550 square meters
of moonlit feathergrass, the drizzly garden
with the whole hot bundle of summer,
the guests’ noisy chatter full of good news and
the fugitive ant.
But why did You have to kill the children, why?
I hear the reply: “Not I.”

— OK, You, instead of a prison cell, berating me three times,
handed me a traveler’s bag.
You plunged into darkness some of my friends’ minds
and never brought them back.
My buddy once taught me: God’s a fair guy,
He ain’t one to lie.
But why did You have to kill the children, why?
I hear the reply: “Not I.”

— OK, so You saved me. Just so I wouldn’t turn back,
You shattered all the windows in the house,
muttered “this is no time for sleep” and spat
me out at the border crossing with a reserve of rusks.
You said, “A donated coat will keep you warm and good
at Luisenplatz, where you’ll survive by eating food.
But why did You have to kill the children, why?
I hear the response: “Not I.”

So here I come floating, a speck in Your motley ranks,
into the night, where nothing’s more precious than
a roof overhead — called dakh in Ukrainian,
and the same in German.
A green church spire rises over the city wall.
Flame–colored flowers fall.
— Is that really you, Lord, am I hearing your call?
But there’s no reply at all.

Night Visitor

Crazy Vic endures alone the disaster of war.
Addressing a gathering of folks
by the kiosk — two girls and Zhora and Maks —
he mutters, “Now I am my own master,
like what’s his name, Nasreddin.
It’s been half a year my mom’s been gone.”
They do not respond.

The kiosk worker gives Vic free gum
and candy for his meekness.
He is happy: not bitter! yum–yum!
Timidly, he touches women’s sleeves,
calls them all “eccentrics,”
always adds, “Forgive me if I’m wrong.”
They do not respond.

Vic cooks up an elementary soup in a
pan (his mom’s recipe) from the available things.
. . . two spuds, some onions, carrots, followed by semolina.
Doesn’t remember his father. Maybe an officer, he thinks,
as he licks crumbs from his lips.
A sham soup, a sham life, a sham death.
His house was struck three times, and but he’s in good health.

At night Vic visits all 45 apartments — secretly.
In this one they were always drinking tea.
And here Petrovich lived, stole boots from the factory.
And here the kid who brought home some TNT.

Counting the spines of steps with his feet,
he plods stubbornly up in the dead of night.
Anyone got a light?

And then Vic finds the doorway where
a cloud hangs like charred cotton in the window hole.
Swallowing his tears, he shouts, “Hello!
One, this is Nine! Do you copy? Over!
Zhora, Maks, aren’t we always together?
Where are you, friends? What is going on?”
The dark stairwell does not respond.