Goryenna
By Maria Galina
Translated from the Ukrainian and Russian by Anna Halberstadt
***
1.
The sun moves toward sunset, above the sea the air is clean
a young attorney comes to see another lawyer,
they sit on the terrace, like in some novel scene
the wine is Amanti, their ties are Armani
while out where white foam dissolves in blue
water, Goryenna shines with incandescent beauty,
confounds the search for words that could describe it,
red at sunset, green in the light of stars.
Just five more minutes of melting lazy bliss
bad move, says lawyer to lawyer, to have settled here,
there’s a saying shared by all worn down by sorrow
peace will ne’er be found by them, even after death
here, since the beginning of all time / the souls of those once
put to death unjustly / gather here from all around
looking for attorneys / they come together here
demanding a retrial / or the rumor mill
In its deep blue valleys, rusty hillsides
wander shades of the innocent, ghosts of the murdered
The local Chianti isn’t bad, / aah, my friend, just stop
2.
Where the field beyond the fields / obscures another field
the sun is in a crimson pillar / a cloud of powdery snow / a dry
snowy storm
that was where they sort of lived / though never very well
3.
Look how these fatheaded towers / or really, towering
thunderheads
release, completely harmless, the final ray of light
4.
I do not love you, he said, but count me your devoted friend
the train leaves the gorgeous station, heading south
those leaden arches, in the insect manner,
purloined from nature by a tubercular engineer
Their roofs fade away in a long fluid arch
let us praise the T–square and firm pencil
Ladies’ hats and suitcases wander back and forth
how strange indeed that none of it’s forever
while she, tears veiled, walks on, her face gone pale,
embodying a classic image from interwar prose
What will you then dream of, while the storm blows
just look how lovely Nice is, look at Courchevel
look at these parvenus we’ve called forth from the dark
look, closer and closer, they’re almost like you and me
beneath Parisian roofs / almost like you and me.
The local Chianti isn’t bad / aah, my friend, just stop
While steam–powered life booms loud in honor of science
let us praise intelligent hands and precise sketches
the pumping station towers, the houses that are small
come, why are you crying again? / oh, I just don’t know
What will you then dream of, in the black and desolate steppe
it’s just heat lightning / go to sleep, my sweetie, sleep . . .
6.
It seems that I can hear them in the very simplest things
as if some bats were thrashing round and squeaking —
flying it whistles / a bat / on tiny shreds of dark
remember we
do you remember
you all remember
how happy we once were
how a chaffinch whistled to us, a passing grass–snake rustled
in the garden where there’s trees of apple, and also trees of pear
I do not love you, he said, but I’ll be a faithful husband
and she, gulping back tears, stands already ’neath the crown
embodying a classic image of old classic prose.
How frothful is the seafoam, how swollen is the surf,
how veiled is mount Goryenna in its shadows pale and blue
Lights are flashing here and there, the heat is made of pitch
don’t you worry, those there / are just spotlights
7.
The paper–thin borders of green blue lands
just look how lovely Nice is, look at Courchevel
how much gladsome flesh is being shipped in
by these snow–white airplanes and bright red trains
how silly are the fashions dictated by this spring!
They will go to take the waters / she’ll return alone
Ladies’ hats and suitcases, little white boats
how strange indeed that none of it’s forever
the call of distant paradise, a subtle itch beneath the skin
where are we being taken, I don’t know, just know we’re being led
As if bats came whistling across the waters’ expanse
quiet, my love, quiet, soon our turn will come
for us with our things, soon, and the wind will touch our cheeks
of course, we’re bourgeoisie, for heaven’s sake, who else?
Zagreb, Paris and Nice — all just mirages in the steppe
it’s just heat lightning / go to sleep, my sweetie, sleep . . .
The light at grandpa’s dacha flinched sharply and went out
As if by some mad chance, we could be saved
just listen to us, listen
just listen to us, listen
just listen to us, listen
just listen
listen
to us
Lights are flashing here and there, an august thunderstorm
don’t worry, it’s . . .
just close your eyes
8.
The sun makes its rounds above the world’s water
the gray–haired attorney answers his friend
you and I’ve been sitting here nearly till dark
but, no big deal, here, have a bit more wine
the local Chianti isn’t bad. Oh, my friend, just stop
who cares how high the mountains are in our personal hell
all these conversations don’t go anywhere
The Alps and Appalachians / no one will mourn for us
ore of a nuisance when you are, alas, an old man
Who knows who might be crying there, letting water out from
eyes
The light at grandpa’s dacha flinched sharply and went out
Alas, we all, unfailingly, wherever we may be
see mount Goryenna shining from every corner of the earth
it confounds the search for words that could describe it,
it is red at sunset, purple in the light of stars
and those who brought us here will have to answer for that too
But listen, it’s about to crack, / our chrysalis of common fate
each of us was killed. Each of us will resurrect.
* * *
Love, meet me in the green glen . . .
John Claire
Their train cars full of young hot bodies,
precious human raw materials,
the window panes day after day
reflect some other railroad station,
and still, come meet me in the green glen,
my love.
The hotter it gets at the borders
the stronger the home front
the more exquisite the bloom of the almond tree.
Their train cars are stuffed
with cold unbending bodies,
shoes with broken heels
deformed bursitic toe caps,
heaps of worthless castoffs,
like you and me.
And still, meet me in the green glen,
my love,
look, here’s a willow by the stream,
here are the moats, overgrown with grass,
here are mouths grown over with grass
here is your voice.