#boris slutsky

[theoptia]

Boris Slutsky, from The Penguin Book of Russian Poetry; “Within that woman...”

Text ID: that calm dignity she had, / that frosty, even icy kind of passion.

[forsoothsayer]

Holding a Gaze by Boris Slutsky

An honest man

should look others straight in the eye.

We don’t know why.

What if the honest man

has watery, bloodshot eyes?

What if the dishonest one

has terrific eyesight? 

Somehow, those who served as safe-keepers

in every time and place

learned to judge truthfulness

by firmness of gaze.

Did the spies who protected,

say, Sulla really have the right

to sort dishonest from honest?

And was Tamerlane’s secret service,

for instance, really

made up of moralists?

Everyone who sees has the right

to run their eyes madly up and down

and be judged not by their gaze,

not by scent or sound,but by word and deed.  

[theoptia]

Boris Slutsky, from The Penguin Book of Russian Poetry; “Samizdat”

Text ID: but I bear this accursed blood / within me like the plague.

[ineedtoreadmorepoetry]

Filled with Final Weariness... by Boris Slutsky

Filled with final weariness Seized with the exhaustion before dying His big hands limply spread A soldier lies. He could lie differently-- Could lie beside his wife, in his own bed, Not tearing at the mosses drenched with blood. But could he? Could he? No, he could not. The Ministry sent him his call-up notice, Officers were with him, marched beside him. The court-martial’s typewriters clattered in the rear. But even without them, could he? Hardly. Without a call-up, he’d have gone himself. And not from fear: from conscience, and for honor. Weltering in his blood, the soldier lying Has no complaint, and no thought of complaining.

[ineedtoreadmorepoetry]

All Rules Are Incorrect by Boris Slutsky

All rules are incorrect all laws remain perverse, until they’re firmly set in well-wrought lines of verse.

An age or era will be merely a stretch of time without a meaning until it’s glorified in rhyme.

Until the poet’s ‘Yes!’, entrusted by his pen to print, awards success to this or that--till then the jury will be out, the verdict still in doubt.

[marinaivanovna]

Old women without old men

      to Vl. Syakin

There were many old women, but old men there were few: What bent the old women, broke old men in two. Clutching their hearts, the old men were no more, and so through their closets the old women tore, to find a good suit of quality flannel, and buy a coffin from expensive oak panels, to see one last time how her spouse lies prone, the lapels of his suit beneath hands of stone. Little by little apartments appeared, and later merged into neighborhood squares, where death was abuzz and thieves were feared, as lonely old women repeated their prayers. They spoke of death as if she came in to join them each day as they sat drinking tea, much like Anna Petrovna — thin, like Maria Andreevna — melancholy. Like sailors, they rose early each morn, Like indians, sitting in darkness they’d linger, Combing through braids, sparse and torn, Turning old strings of beads in their fingers. They went to bed early like soldiers do, but to sleep isn’t sleeping for long, minds spinning with dates, where and who, those they loved, and those they’ve done wrong. Each of them gaunt, grieving, merry, toiling — waking to the sound of the night tram’s tolls, the very moment     insomnia lolls.

—Boris Slutsky, 1977

[observando]

The horses suddenly began to neigh, protesting Against those who were drowning them in the ocean. The horses sank to the bottom, neighing, neighing. Until they had all gone down. That is all. Nevertheless, I pity them, Those bay horses, that never saw land again.

Boris Slutsky

[faredisfare-blog]

Bosco d'autunno, Boris Slutsky

A che somiglia un bosco in pieno autunno? Soprattutto ad un sommesso incendio. Lambiscono mute la coppa dei cieli gialle lingue di fiamma. Più d'uno scialle zingaro è screziato il bosco ancora un po' verde. Ad ogni albero, come a un falò, puoi riscaldarti l'anima.