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    "Мчись над волной, смелый..."
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov 
    

    Translated by Tanya Wolfson 
    
    *  *  *
Fly over waves, hellbent,
My little brave sailboat.
On my face and your bow
Mars casts a scarlet glow.
Changing course, ready about!
What if Mars is my abode?
What if I'm on a quest here?
An uninvited guest here?
What if for me there's no death,
And Milky Way is my path?
What if this path of my travels
Never completely unravels?
Is that a reef, or an island
With hostile warlike strangers,
Or a welcoming smile and
A hearth shielded from dangers?
Could this be my true face,
Or just a faint blue trace
In the tree rustling's largo,
In your own song, Virgo?
Maybe the night is nervous
And trying to force my sails?
Maybe, deep under the surface
These are a sea-devil's wails?
He scrubs the ships' underbellies,
He lifts them past an odd shoal,
But at night the beast bellows,
Begging me for my soul.
I'll give men lands of rich soil,
I'll give God skies of sweet air,
I'll give this devil my soul:
I have souls I can spare.
And, symbol of bad tidings,
My specter will dance, gliding,
In the tree rustling's largo,
In your own song, Virgo...
Why promise me peace, Maiden?
Why try to conceal your weeping?
I know the secret you're hiding:
You want my heart for the keeping.
Very well, doors are open,
But don't forget, I'm an alien.
Here is a heart you can rope in--
But I have over a million.
Each one special and precious,
Each holds my powers and wishes,
My will's flowing garments,
My hell's growing torments.
But this is not my true face,
Only a faint blue trace
In the tree rustling's largo,
In your own song, Virgo...
Top

    


    А кое-кто по костям моим пройти...
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov 
    

    Translated by Tanya Wolfson 
    
    *   *   *
It seems that dancing on my grave
Is the dream of a certain knave,
God help his soul, God help his soul.
He wants my skull to crack beneath
His stomping feet; he wants no teeth,
No bones left whole.
And with this dream inside his head
He takes his meals and goes to bed,
And as he struts, he plots.
Meanwhile the fact that I am quite
A powerful mage in my own right
Escapes his thoughts.
And all of his clan and every friend
Demand that he cause my dismal end,
By grinding me into grout.
But if things really become that grim,
I have a much better chance at him,
Without a doubt.
And if it's to be or not to be,
Surely he won't escape from me,
My clever net, the traps I set!
I'll burn him alive, crush him in ice,
I'll find a way to cause his demise,
Trust me on that!
But carrying out this proud plan
Is tough because of my loud clan
(My very own, my kith and kin)
Insisting that honor won't be defiled,
Therefore I must use his own style
To do him in!
So to save my kin, that's twice fivescore,
From losing their haughty face before
Whoever's not my clan,
I have to act as honor declares,
And publicly stomp, to the sound of fanfares,
On his poor skeleton.
And thus he and I dog each other's heels,
Each wishes the other speedily keels
Over, crushed and gored.
And it won't take a rocket scientist
To see that we're ruled by the iron fist
Of the same lord.
The battle tradition is our lord,
The bloody way of bullet and sword,
Habitual old ritual,
And glory that taunts, beckons and begs,
By a mere possession of powerful legs
Made almost reachable.
But happiness isn't here, it's there,
Well maybe it's here, but it wouldn't be fair
For us to pine and whine.
And he who's not with us is against us,
So we stand ready this very instance
To kill the swine.
And again the glory of our Homes,
Will be announced by the crunch of bones,
And similar happenings.
And we will yet make the bastard scream
For having the gall to come here and dream
Of happiness.
But happiness isn't here, it's there,
Well maybe not there or anywhere,
For yours and for mine there's none to spare,
So where did it go, I want my share,
Why can't it be found?!...
Top

    


    Любовь, как истина, темна и, как полынь...
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov 
    

    Translated by Tanya Wolfson 
    
        *   *   *
But love is dark, like truth, and has the bitter bite
Of wormwood, while the salt of sweat grows still more salty.
Time for a change, you cannot live with all doors bolted,
A diehard beast, ad finem, to the final rites.
    The mill of learned books has barely reached its youth.
    Clutching a textbook in a wasteland isn't canny.
    Blessed is he, whose will is strong, and who knows Truth,
    But truths are many, many...
And sometimes Fortune stands before me in a dream.
She smiles and I know her eyes see naught, as always.
Each year more splendid, more luxurious in all ways,
Her riches tease me with their luscious gleam.
    I steal - these days only the lazy do not steal.
    Forbidden fruit and golden coin are both my spoils.
    Fate doesn't care, I do my tricks--she cools her heels,
    But joy recoils, recoils...
"Arise!",  commands my guardian angel, "Life will soothe
Your heart with cyclamens, that come as wormwood's sequel.
Honey of love and bile of treachery are equal
In molding him, whose will is strong and who knows Truth."
    I nod: Yes, treachery is nothing, you are right.
    And even love is hardly worth the fuss we're making.
    And thus my aspect is serene, my steps are light,
    But heart is aching, aching...
Top

    


    О чем молчишь ты... (Частушки)
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov 
    

    Translated by Tanya Wolfson 
    
        CHASTUSHKI
Now sweetheart, why so downcast?
Don't keep staring at the ground.
Won't you tell me something, fast,
And I'll hang on to every sound:
Words are so skilled and variable,
Some beautiful, some terrible,
Some very wrong, some very strong..
But here a cat got every tongue.
Countless indeed are human words,
They sneak up on you with admonishments,
They're often posthumous rewards,
And always lifelong punishments.
But without them hearts dry up like chalk,
Hearts crumble, hearts can't do without..
And once again we try to talk,
And once again wrong words come out.
No matter what I'm thinking,
No matter why I part my lips,
I get a default "thank you",
And with it a generic "please".
Meanwhile the eyes are growing wet,
Meanwhile the heart is growing dry,
No screams, no whispers.. You're upset,
No wonder, is it, sweetiepie?
Haven't you had it up to here
With the yakking and the hollering?
And all the world's a stage while we're
Just watching from the peanut gallery.
And already from that stage, some fool
Made my own words go up the flue,
How I love you, my priceless jewel,
How I am mad with love for you...
Top

    


    "В белой мгле ледяных высот..."
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov 
    

    Translated by Tanya Wolfson
    
                         *   *   *
In the white mist where rocks pierce skies
I searched for myself amid frozen glaze.
But I found only mounds of ice,
Rigid, heavy cold, like the heaven's gaze.
I saw starlight return to a star,
Bounced by the chilly diamond glare.
I saw clouds, black and dense like tar,
But I did not find myself anywhere.
From the skies then I did alight -
Dark waters took me and barely stirred.
There, amazed, I observed the flight
Of winged fish, spellbound ocean birds.
I heard the laughter of blue nayades,
Dulled by the ocean's enormous mass.
I saw remnants of great armadas,
But I still did not find myself, alas.
To the depth, to the heart, into the core
I descended then, and what met my sight
Was just the wealth of colorful ore,
Threadlike gleam of gold and molybdenite.
I saw granite, clay and sandstone,
But I myself was nowhere I went,
As if my species were unknown,
Not observed in any environment.
And leaving the dreamworld to weave itself:
Its fine, ornate, nonexistent lace,
I reached blindly toward the shelf,
And removed a heavy tome from its place.
Unaware of the book's concerns,
Its theme or plot or the points it raised,
I combined first letters, to learn
That in such joining they formed a phrase.
The phrase revealed a command, and thus
To you in my song it will now pass:
"Find yourself in a looking glass,
In a looking glass, in a looking glass..."
Top

    


    Кариатиды
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov
    

    Translated by Tanya Wolfson
    
    CARYATIDS
Everywhere life's cauldrons bubble,
And it's their own business.
Men raise high and turn to rubble
Destinies and buildings.
Loves like plaster busts abound,
And fates go up like fences.
Friend, that's also holy ground:
One of Fine Art's fancies!
(That's how it works for me, and you?)
New construction keeps you busy,
You will cut no corners:
Columns, porticos and friezes,
Architrave and cornice,
Winding hallways right and left,
Great views command attention,
Pairs of caryatids heft
The top part of the mansion.
Each small detail a delight
Of fine ornamentation.
Still, one minor oversight -
Didn't lay the foundation.
Oh no, how could this have happened?!
Then again, we're human.
Tear it down at one fell swoop, and
Start to build a new one.
Polish all the skills you're wielding
If this be your calling.
Breaking's easier than building
Fate as well as dwelling.
Looks like only good work shows
Itself as one comes closer,
But the master builder knows
Where all the fatal flaws are.
If he has his craftsman's honor,
Even mid ovation,
Mid the crowd's astounded moan or
Frenzied admiration,
He'll ignore his ego's heaves,
He'll tune out thrill and glamor,
Plant his feet, roll up his sleeves
And swing the old sledgehammer!
If I were like that good master,
I, too, would know better -
I'd not hang on to my dumpster
As if it could matter,
I'd destroy it in a twinkling
And build a new bungalow,
But I guess I'm just a weakling,
Just a spineless bungler.
I've no torment, angst or grouse,
Real or created,
I'm just propping up a house
Like a caryatid.
Just my manly self-denial
(And that'll be my best part)
Keeps me wedded all this while
To my work of messed art.
Mouth agape I stand there brooding,
Stuck mid falling plaster.
If, say, you're a beast of burden,
Know who is your master.
Hoofed or winged, sleek or matted,
Know your kind of bondage.
If you are a caryatid,
Know your wall and don't budge.
Everywhere life's cauldrons bubble,
And it's their own business.
Men raise high and turn to rubble
Destinies and buildings.
What do you care for their heated
Shouts and frantic hopping?
If you are a caryatid,
Just stick to your propping!
(And that sums up my life, how's yours?..)
Top

    


    Школа Танцев II
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov
    

    Translated by Tanya Wolfson
    
    SCHOOL OF DANCE II
I wouldn't really say that I prefer to sleep
Inhaling strange miasmas to amaze bedbugs,
But I breathe that stuff anyway, because I keep
Nose to the wall, and the wall has rugs.
While I sleep here, the folks below yell and scream,
And hurl plates at each other and against the wall.
Why do they live, I sometimes wonder in my dream,
And find no reason for them at all.
I also muse, while sleeping, that life is noise -
But minor, and accordingly with death to match.
Today is minimum, tomorrow the same or less,
The day after - not even that much.
Now death commands so many of my lines of thought,
That when this figure (in my dream, naturally)
Enters softly, I do not ask who is that,
I know She has come for me.
And I am terrified when she draws near,
All sexy chic a la Paris, ready to pounce,
And whispers seductively in my ear:
Why the trembling, silly?  Shall we dance?
O beauty, beauty!  No matter how you rile us
Still we trail doggedly in your wake,
Knowing full well that the fairest of reptiles
Is a deadly coral snake.
And I fear setting myself up for an ordeal,
But tell me, how often do we get to harbor
Hopes of this lady's visit with a cordial
Invitation to the danse macabre!
Yes we're a couple to end all couples. Showtime!
She's George Sand and I am the Marquis de Sade!
She is airborne like a blown kiss, and I'm
Airborne like paratroopers in descent!
I'll treat you to a dance, so out of my way!
I'll smash your parquetry to smithereens!
And the folks living underneath, why they
Can go on living underneath!
"Watch your limbs!" I shrill, a beastly screech,
And break into a gallop, floors a-thud,
Today's minimum tomorrow is out of reach,
The day after - send down the flood!
But as things reach a crescendo, my lovely guest
And all her rouge and perfume, powder and gloss
With a whistle of flying silks turn to dust
And I am suddenly at a loss...
Then I wake up, mouth sour and textured like peat,
And in someone else's voice, hoarse with belief
I swear to quit smoking, renounce red meat,
And turn a new healthy leaf.
Thereupon I heat pork chops and wolf them down,
Spread noxious cigar smoke through my rooms,
And back to bed, like a ghoul replete with my own
Blood from the bleeding gums...
Top

    


    Шансон
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov
    

    Translated by Tanya Wolfson
    
         A CHANSON
The nation goes about its life: its scoundrels thirst for glory,
Its prophets lie, its poets drink, its nobles reach and grasp.
The Year of the Snake is in full swing, and venomous and leery
Its subjects strain to trick and train their souls to be like asps.
And I sit in a seaport pub,
Two coppers left to pay for grub,
Crumbs of tobacco on my lip, spellbound by a chanson.
In it my fear, my hope, my tryst,
My promised land in swirls of mist,
My way, the one I haven't found and haven't made my own..
If only in my life I find that way
Someday, oh Lord, someday, someday...
Like you, my friends, I find these constant fights too much to swallow,
And the sight of fangs and slavering jaws is making me upset.
The Year of the Snake will soon wind down, the Year of the Dog will follow,
With all the savage turf wars, barks and bites such years beget.
Why is it always rage and fear?
Why, this is just that sort of year.
But though I try to tune my anger to the highest pitch,
For reasons quite beyond my ken,
You all love me, down to a man,
And for reasons equally unknown I love you all so much!
If only I could thank, before I'm done
Someone, oh Lord, someone, someone..
Now I am not your son, nor kin, nor stepchild, just an idle gaper,
And yet I've not the strength to push the pub door and begone.
Dog years turn me into a whelp, Snake years - into a viper,
And I have learned so well to seek compassion in no one.
The singer stopped.  End of chanson.
Don't trust my I.O.U., garcon.
Everyone leaves.  I too should let sleeping dogs lie, and leave.
Through brawls and howls, riots and raves,
Through gore of wars, by will of waves,
Across life's seas, along world's shores, my tracks are yet to weave...
If only I could do, before I'm dead
Some deed of worth, oh Lord, some deed...
Top

    


    Интермедия I
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov
    

    Translated by Tanya Wolfson
    
    AN INTERLUDE (I)
Day after day, as measured and plain
As posters registering the main
Medical figures and healthy norms,
He spends surrounded by ready forms,
A pharmacist, a drudge to the shoes..
In his past life he was a mongoose,
Many an evil snake's death he brought
About, till a hunter avenged the lot,
Ending his song.  And sadly deceased
This useful, courageous, diligent beast
Stays silent on a museum shelf
Stuffed by an expert.. Control yourself,
Don't even dream of pulling its tail,
In its past life it braved frozen trails -
A polar exlorer.  Mid ice and rock
He whistled sofly "Ziganshin rock"(*)
Hearing the tune, his waddling, tame
Penguin would come out and bend its frame
In a bow, funny short wings sticking up..
In its past life it had quite a job -
A fireman, who lived life on the brink,
Who rode on an ass-drawn water tank
With the ass so slow, despite the lash
That the quarter had time to burn to ash.
When the whole city burned down to grass,
The fire devoured even the ass,
And not a trace was left of its hide.
In its past life it was southern pride,
A vibrant evergreen shrub.  A boxtree
Grown from the Black to the Caspian Sea.
It symbolized, with each tangled coil
The joining of the sun and the soil,
It burgeoned, flourished, sang in the breeze,
Its wood was made into furniture. Is
That your new chair?  Rumors are rife.
It was Copernicus in a past life..
Top

    


    "Пешком с востока стремясь на юг..."
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov
    

    Translated by Tanya Wolfson
    
FROM EAST A-WALKING
    *   *   *
From East a-walking
And Southward bound
I can't help gawking
As all around
The sunset's burning
Fires in the sky
So truly stunning,
You could just die.
I hear sweet treble
Deep in the woods,
It's feathered rabble,
Song-making broods,
Small wings aflutter
They squawk and chime,
"Die, die", they chatter,
"No better time."
I'm further coaxed
Along the way -
By country folks
Who smile and wave,
And somewhat prone
To simple speech
"Die, die", they drone,
"The time is reached."
I walk the farmroads,
I kick small rocks,
While local goats,
Chickens and ox
All harp on dying,
They've all gone mad!
I am not lying,
I'll stake my head.
And slightly shaken
I speak at last:
"You are mistaken,
My friends, alas.
You are a riot.
You are absurd.
I'm dead and buried,
Haven't you heard."
They stand astounded,
As in a trance,
To this announcement
They've no response,
And with a crisply
Gestured goodbye
I walk off briskly,
Back on my way.
My gait is proud,
I'm lord and king,
I sneer aloud
At everything,
The skies are sparkling,
Work's in full blast,
The dogs are barking,
Reach exceeds grasp...
Now through the morrows,
My soul, hail!
From a brontosaurus
To a nightingale,
Nothing is new
In your dungeon's sway,
A word rings true
And there's hell to pay,
Your lips be sealed,
My weary soul,
Onward unhealed,
My weary soul...
Top

    


    Люди сухопутья
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov
    

    Translated by Tanya Wolfson
    
    LANDBOUND PEOPLE
In the sea there are languid jellyfish.
Mid waves a little ship strains cordage.
Her cargo will cater to every wish
Of people living at the world's edge.
    Silver moonlines sweep black water's shifting mounds.
    The captain cannot sleep.
    But we - we are forever landbound.
Staying is simpler than departing.
Breaking is easier than bending.
Forgetting - more difficult than parting.
Perishing - easier than landing.
    Oh how she will wail (in your chest to muffle sound).
    Kind winds to your sail.
    But we - we are forever landbound.
And we have heavy praying duties
To help you survive the main's expanses.
Perhaps you're seafaring Don Quixotes,
That makes us landbound Sancho Panzas.
    And let the whim of fate keep you awash with joy or pain.
    We know how to wait,
    Unlike those out in the main.
You cannot know what the future holds,
Why must you try and embellish it,
Why go to sea and leave the fold?
Because the sea has lanquid jellyfish.
    So that tears may drip, I will sail the world around.
    Good luck, little ship.
    But we - we are forever landbound.
    How sad that we're forever landbound.
Top

    


    Эпиграф
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov
    

    Translated by Tanya Wolfson
    
            EPIGRAPH
The head of an ox can take knocks.  An elephant's mind is a find.
But my head is no longer useful for functions of any kind.
Rub it gently or squeeze it tight, it's in a hopeless state:
Nothing but incoherent rustle: six times seven and three times eight.
It ignores the passage of hours. Doesn't care if Christmas is white.
Will not register things around it, except maybe food on a plate.
Having eaten a slice or a chunk I project myself onto a bunk.
And go down the tubes, my career. Close your quiver, you winged punk.
So what if knowledge is hot. That work must be done, and soon.
That nearby a player wails like a street organ. No words, no tune.
With my bag I'll go through the snow, for a big loaf of raisin bread.
I'll even consider a detour, to find something to help my head.
Hey pharmacists.  Knock-knock-knock. I want nineteen from your stock
Of the roundest and whitest tablets. Or else one noose and one hook.
Ride up to my bed on a steed, Santa Claus from a local store.
Wake me up with a firecracker.  Make this lethargy last no more.
I will rise, and away I'll ride.  For example, to Kalimantan
Where I'll sing in a coffeehouse, pretending I'm Yves Montand.
In the meantime the head is dead.  Two times seven and all that crud.
And the street organ croaks behind me, and every third fa is screwed.
Top

    


    Эти глаза напротив
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov
    

    Translated by Tanya Wolfson
    
    THOSE EYES BEFORE ME
Does anyone know what a splendid sight I am when I head for a late
Audience with a certain dame, all swagger and bombastic claims:
A dashing lover.
I face the dame, a handsome rake, as though I've ordered her to quake,
A sophisticated gentleman, a lion of the parliament,
Mortals, keel over!
Indeed it must be blood of kings surging through my veins as I bring
Our present discourse
To the theme of love and all its thrills,
                            lay down a wallet stuffed with bills
And wait for fireworks.
But the young thing, herself no more than her sum of parts: a once before
Worn necklace, an exotic face, a skimpy dress of silk and lace,
Dark hair's luster,
Needs only let one eyebrow rise, and the beaumonde will realize
That this is merely a stunt, that I am a flake, a debutant,
A cheap impostor.
One look from the eyes of cool basalt, and my parade's ground to a halt,
All splendor tarnished.
One lowering of delicate lids and I am wilted, on the skids,
In fact I've vanished.
The space just now occupied by one borne on the wings of pride,
A royal specimen, whose leers to the moans of nuptial fanfares
Were irresistible,
Somehow left in that space are dregs, a doppelganger with four legs,
An effigy, which will release if split apart dark slime, and grease,
And crawling viscera.
While the resplendent former I, is a shadow now, a muted cry,
The realm of losses;
Not super-classy, hyper-smooth, but grand-grotesque, ultra-uncouth
Mega-psychosis..
Still unaware of quite how deep the trouble runs I try to keep
Some sort of a grip. I sneer at guests: I am no worse than all the rest
(Just like them really).
I still try, like those kings of lore, to keep from rising to the fore
Some of the innermost black tide, except I have no more inside -
I am all spilling.
In fact it's high time to repair back to my cave, my cozy lair,
Where hemlock beckons.
To state the matter once again, it's time to perish, run, be gone
This very second!
Those who'd been through this will confirm: it almost kills one to be firm
And scrape together the strength to rise, but to escape that pair of eyes
Huge like the sundown,
With an impressive show of force I smile politely, like a corpse,
Then I get up, pick up my cash, and head out for a solo bash:
A night on the town.
    *   *   *
The night splits into dead end ways for me and shadow mine, which lays
No claims to royalty.
The two of us cross an empty square, without a living soul to dare
Disturb our solitude...
Top

    


    Май
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov
    

    Translated by Galit Gontar 
    
May

Like trees that are calm and true,
In beauteous parks I grew,
To harsh storms I bent my crew,
My whisper was slight.
With years I grew green, then bare,
To night's shadow was my prair,
And rain with a blinding stare,
On me shone with might.

And visions of stainless thought,
Through my leaves were quickly caught.
Intwined in the unknown's fog,
And in the young, fearless, rogue.
Brushed after one winter- next,
But still the mark of some axe.
Some time in the end of spring,
Was placed on me with some's wing.

A mark made by countless year,
It seemed always strange and near,
But really there's no mark here,
It's none but a wound.
They hope's that I'd be cut low,
But order rang, "let him go",
The mark has been left and so,
On Earth I am still hurt wood.

But tears' mark is still left such,
And hat is death's certain touch.
Here somebody cried through rain,
With eyes pressed to me in strain.
This mark on my bosom, hence,
The rain could not touch or cleanse.
And visions of darkened thought,
My leaves now more often caught.

Those thoughts I, like leaves, threw far
To loneliness gave my scar,
Two humans I tried to scare,
Two humans in love.
The two humans left my shade,
And burned something long since made,
While I to the wind obeyed,
And it did not touch my cove.

Yes, I like a tree grew calm,
But could not keep my weight drawn.
They could not make me not live,
And I did not try to give.
I often lived green lived bare,
Looked over my dark, gray, lair.
But saw only men grow cold,
And slowly began to mold. 
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    Романс 1 (Давным давно мой бедный брат...)
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov
    

    Translated by Re-Miel 
    
               ALAS, MY BROTHER

Alas, my brother, many moons no fire lights up your eyes. 
An illness blind gnaws at you, encompasses you whole.
Oh yes, since those fair eyes disturbed your simple soul,
At feet of Idol, day and night, you burn a sacrifice.

Does then the history stand still ? As ages ebb and wane, 
Do our desires stay so dark, our idols so cruel.
This altar you have brought your faith will pay you back with ruin,
You're so young, why have you cast your life into its flames ?

Is that just so that when at last she leaves you to your pain,
You suddenly could clutch my hand and in a torn voice render,
That you have loved her so true, so honest, so tender,
As never should the Heavens let her to be loved again. 

At field of battle, at gaming table I've seen you face the strife.
You never once asked for respite, you never lost the hope,
Yet that which ails you is so vast, I'd try to help you cope, 
But cinder on that altar too the embers of my life. 

Alas, my brother, fever yours I all too well can feel,
Nor am I singular in this, no - half the world is burning,
And rising embers sing the praise to Idol's reign of torment,
But it was us, who lit the flames, in paganistic zeal.

And what's to do if nothing would extinguish those flames ? 
If shivers from an olden fright still haven't ceased to haunt me ?
When wind would whistle, when wheels would creak, when curtain falls, it taunts me, 
Over and over again with echoes of one name...
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    Стихи о прекрасной даме
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov
    

    Translated by Re-Miel 
    
Of a beautiful dame 

For them you are, were, and will be pearl, 
Whom your first word fills with utter awe. 
They think you ever the nicest girl,
One sight of you is a mortal blow. 

Everyone here spares no effort, sadly, 
Praising your features with every word. 
But me, I know - there is not more deadly 
Creature than you amongst reptile world. 

Through smoke of fashion and silk so whitely,
Ringing in coils, as if to entice, 
Body of dragon is shining brightly,
But oh, that shine isn't for third eyes. 
 
For third eyes in an exquisite blouse,
You sit so gracefully, look so apt. 
And through French book of some kind you browse:
Choderlos de Laclos, no doubt. 

Not just your teeth, but your lips and even,
Your very smile, I will swear to you  
Are so bloodthirsty, I'll be forgiven -   
Even myself terrifies that view.    

This all the funnier makes the blindness,
With which new dandy, doomed like them all,
Shows off, prancing around your highness, 
Like circus elephant on the ball.  

The death marks every and all whom passions
For you, my love, caught in their grip. 
But come good fortune or repercussions -  
This secret is mine alone to keep. 

That I betray it, you need not fear - 
To invite storm I do not much care.
I'd rather whisper 'Goodbye, my dear',
Uncoil my rings and crawl to my lair. 

The death marks every and all whom passions
For you, my love, caught in their grip. 
But come good fortune or repercussions -  
This secret is mine alone to keep. 

That I betray it, you need not fear - 
To invite storm I do not much care.
I'd rather whisper 'Goodbye, my dear',
Uncoil my rings and crawl to my lair. 
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    Века плывут, подобно китам...
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov
    

    Translated by Larisa Schultz
    
The eons flow, like giant whales, along their seas of silence.
Their even way, like mine, is sad. But there's a limit to mine.
The wave forever is chasing me, in smoke, its huge mane heaving:
The evil spirit, the water god, wills it to muddle my mind.

No fear I know; but so deep is the wave's cold-blooded malice,
Tormenting, crushing, with only one thought adorning my tired brow:
Will my head succeed in running away from the wave's enormous throat?
And if it does, what will be the price? But if it doesn't, why so?

My bride'll get tired waiting for me, but she won't wear mourning;
A wealthy neighbor will visit her, she will not show much pride.
Their kin will have them engaged by March, and married after Easter,
And all my life will be flooded then by the darkest ever tide...

Oh evil spirit! Emerge from the haze! Reveal yourself before me!
While in the sky the moon still shines, I want to see what you're like.
Will I become ashes after a glimpse, or will my eyes never open?
Will you, oh Satan, take fancy to me, or will God keep me alive? 
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    Века плывут, подобно китам...
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov
    

    Translated by Pavel Dolganov
    
Centuries flow like whales in the sea within their silent milieu,
Their steady way is gloomy like mine, but mine has limits to see.
The ocean wave is following me, for long its mane is familiar,
The evil ghost, the devil of sea is plainly threatening me.

I know no fear, but now and then, the wave is full of cold ire
It's pressing me with one single thought as years calmly go by:
What's up to my head and whether it can escape this craw, so dire,
If yes, at what expense it is bought and if it cannot then why.

My bride will be tired but, coming of age, she will not go into mourning,
A wealthy neighbour, kind-hearted and brave, will start to look for a wife;
In March, no later, they will be engaged and marry on one summer morning,
And then for sure the ocean wave will flow over my life.

Oh evil ghost, appear in the night, show up in the mighty splashes,
I want to see, in gentle moonshine, for all the way I behaved,
If I shall close my eyes at your sight or make a handful of ashes,
And will you take this soul of mine or may I hope to be saved?


    


    Во славу Греции твоей...
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov
    

    Translated by Larisa Schultz
    
In honor of your sunny Greece and all the seas around,
Our vessel "Argo" will be named, its sides will bear ten wings.
We'll leave our snowy land behind, our way is southwards-bound.
I shall be standing at the helm. And Margo, you will sing.

By listening to your lovely songs which must be ages old,
By reading ancient maps of lands where myths are dwelling free,
At last I'll have a chance to learn the language of your gods,
I'll learn by heart its crystal words, its golden melody.

The sea in which, like reeds of stone, the islands sprouted clear,
Will not endow us with its bliss, nor mark with death our lot.
Its water's hot though not from blood, its salt is not from tears.
It is not bothered by our life. Our death for it is naught.   
 
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    Анета
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov 
    

    Translated by Larisa Schultz
    
        Aneta.

Good news is hard to come by, bad news travels fast - Aneta is in love.
The lodgers have been whispering since the break of day, and eyes are all askance.
None could have heard of it first-hand, and none has heard, but things are clear to all -
In love, indeed. Well, isn't that too bad? Besides, the fog from early on.

The next door flutist burnt the pieces of his flute - Aneta is in love.
Who needs this "Turkish March" today, what sense is there now in the treble clef?
He's pulled the thing out of the suede, pressed somewhat harder - and the flute is gone.
A slender maple once, a craftsman's labour - all just ashes, ashes now.

It's such a complicated day today - wreaths, mourning, carriages, the knell.
The tyrant's dead, the city weeps and cries for him - Aneta is in love.
Why God should choose this one for me to have been born in... What a place, I say!
The seventh corpse in seven years, they should be used to it, but still they cry. 

Come in, dear stranger, be my guest, sit down, I'll have a wine-jug brought for us.
We've got a real-life circus here, you'll simply laugh - Aneta is in love.
There's not much hope that she'll address me by my given name while I am here.
Still lesser chance for that to happen in that place where soon I'll be, alas.     

Oh well - a complex day, the army, wreaths, the fog unlike a year ago.
At least the flute was somewhere whistling then, today instead there's just the knell.   
Look at my birds - they're petrified within their cages, making not a sound.
You ask me who's a thrush, a finch, but now I cannot tell you which is which.

I'm sad and nothing interests me anymore - Aneta is in love.
Take any one of these two glasses, they're the best, but meanwhile drink alone.
No taste in wine, the fog is thick, the capital keeps mourning on and on.
Rue not Aneta, but the flute, though what's a flute - an ex-tree, after all. 

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    Восточный романс
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov 
    

    Translated by Pavel Dolganov
    
 An Eastern Romance

You whisper softly: "Are you leaving?"
But I'm attached to you with chains.
My oath is made and it remains,
And there's more truth in this deceiving
Than holy Alkoran contains.

Why should you always look for reason
Why I would leave you? Pray you stop,
This burden never shall I drop;
If I commit this awful treason
The snow will leave the mountains' top.

Rejoice, and do not worry how
To keep this happiness, but know
That while the summit's in the snow
Things will remain as they are now
Up in the highlands and below.

Your Lord-blessed country, to be sure,
Knows not what winter cold could be,
It lies as far as one can see.
My home province is so poor
And so far from any sea.

Although you try to hold me near
Soon you will see that I was right,
And after one unhappy night
I will depart; and then you'll hear
The snow coming from the height.

The mighty flood will hide my traces,
Will cover all that was before,
Will mix the lies and truth, and more
Will wash the tears from our faces,
And flow further to the shore.

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    Deja
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov 
    

    Translated by Larisa Schultz
    
          Deja

Impossible! Spring's at the gate!
The lightning shines like a spoon-bait.
The height roars like a firing squad.
Where have I looked, oh God?

The folks have to the forests gone.
Your time has come, oh gnat! Come on!
Grow, nettles! Now it's time to spread! 
But I have slept like mad.

While sinking in the quivering stream
Of drowsiness, I had a dream.
To court I rode from my exile.
That's not a lucky sign!

The path was empty, clean and clear, 
but from the bushes jumped a hare 
and kicked me off my thoroughfare.
Oh no! How could you, hare?

I tell my soul: wake up, old hag.
"Deja, deja" - it answers back.
But what's the point, if it's been years 
since you saw stars, shed tears?

The voice is false, the feet askew.
The teeth much less than thirty-two.
The years went likewise down the drain.
Oh youth! Where is your trail?

To open windows wide and yell:
it's spring, it's spring! Impossible!
The rope gets tighter round one's neck.
That's it. Well, what the heck.

A friend of mine from days bygone,
tight-lipped you are in lands beyond.
Why don't you phone me once a day,
so I don't fade away. 

Phone me to lie, to whisper "love",
phone any time - sleep's not my stuff.
For lies I won't be mad at you.
I am a liar, too.

So don't believe the liar's tune.
He never did howl at the moon.
He's apt to voice a languid phrase 
to frighten wives and maids.

But he is merry and robust,
and, having ten deft stanzas cast,
is clowning by the window sill: 
it's spring! Impossible...

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    Залив
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov 
    

    Translated by Larisa Schultz
    

              The Bay

My soul, the wizard, need you yet another accolade?
Rejoice - what you foretold is more or less what came to be:
This time it was in earnest - I prevailed against the void,
I rose, left, built a house, and now a goldfinch stays with me.
He's small and still naive, and seven notes is all he's got
so far, but two of these he picked up from a nightingale.
Were I to blame someone, of him I would have never thought.
He's just like you, my soul - a singer, and he is in jail... 
                                    He is in jail, he is in jail...

October. Empty time. The hollow days stretch out like walls.
The beach is dead - no fisherman, no boat at sea, none moored.
What kind of somber sleep upon this land in winter falls,
I'm able to imagine, but can hardly say for sure.
The daytime haze is humid and my head already aches.
The bay is not of water, rather mercury or lead.
The goldfinch, looking out the window, says "alas!" to chicks
and birds, though he himself is but a chick, my little pet...
                                    My little pet, my little pet...

Each line has got a mate, two fragments make a perfect match.
The draft is done - clean copy, and the strings take up their role.
But no! A new finale bids my quill suspend its touch.
Alas, my soul! I cannot help it, I'll erase it all.
I'll throw away the lead, I'll bury deep the hollow days,
I'll move the beaches and the bay around, mile after mile,
I'll turn October into May... but one thing I'll delay:
I'll leave the goldfinch in his cage and let him sing meanwhile... 
                                    He'll sing meanwhile, he'll sing meanwhile...
                                    
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    Тирренское море
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov 
    

    Translated by Larisa Schultz
    

                The Tyrrhenian Sea

Bright drop of a gold tear, shine once and then perish,
       break up now, don't bother the eye.
I still have not mastered the whole panorama.
       The moment I do, I shall leave.
No hope, not the slightest, that love will be mutual:
       the landscapes don't know what it is.
Oh well. Not the slightest... That's not what I'm seeking.
       I'm saying good-bye, that is all.

Good-bye, signorina! Add up, without thinking,
       the steps from the port to the town, 
meanwhile taking home or to friends, con amore, 
       a basket of olives just bought.
Good-bye to the seaside. Please keep, con amore, 
       this savor, distinctively yours.
No wars, and no errors. The sea won't freeze over.
      Vesuvius will not speak again.

It's not too surprising that I in an instant 
      got used to this freedom and space,
last night still surviving down there in the dungeons,
      for ages, blind-like, groping by.
The point now is - should I unlearn it this minute,
      returning and hearing the voice:
"Good-bye, oh dear stranger! Yes, you are a stranger,
      by all means. Good-bye then, of course..."

In time I'll unlearn it. Withdrawn, I'll turn voiceless.
     This break came by chance, I will say.
Back home I shall open my old listless diary,
      resuming it from the same line.
But here, for as long as I see there before me 
      the vivid Tyrrhenian blue,
I reach - con amore - for it, and the meaning 
     of "soul" is at once clear to me.
                                    
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    Неразменная бабочка
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov 
    

    Translated by Larisa Schultz
    

         The never-dying butterfly
              (la chansonette)

No sudden whirlwind should disrupt this peace,
but nothing will persuade the wind to cease:
it claims its right to blow without relief - 
and separates the pollen from the sleeve.

     A minute back, or two - the time was brief -
     a butterfly was sitting on the sleeve.
     A butterfly that was fragile and white,
     and gone, as if it never had arrived.

             But will it not come back a year from now,
             from nothingness emerging God knows how?
             To rustle, in the mist to disappear,
             and to return in yet another year.

And if there're things that need to be explained,  
it means that nothing needs to be explained.
But if there's something worth explaining here,
it will cost nothing to explain it clear.

     I often see an ocean in a dream,
     a promenade along it with a stream
     of brilliant lights... a sight not to be missed!
     The sea, the land, the pollen and the mist.

           Like a mirage, a yacht is looming there.
           A sense of mutiny is in the air.
           And in the street, like a mirage again,
           along the ocean rides a wedding train.

The coat is black, the veil shines in the lights:
somewhere to happiness the couple rides,
just married, going somewhere far away
to nothingness, to heaven, to the bay.

      The officer's reserved, but the young bride
      finds in what happens such a great delight
      that she can't bring herself to let you know
      whether her name's Charlotte, or not quite so.  

           His lorgnette's lens is from the finest glass.
           Her veil is white, like wings of butterflies.
           And at the place to which their carriage runs,
           the rebel yacht awaits with lights and guns.

The pollen and the mist slow down the wheels.
The ocean now a different face reveals.
It looks like a disaster might be near...
But I put down a semicolon here.   

       And then I climb aboard a kiddy plane,
       and rush to where the ocean swings its mane,
       the yacht, the couple, the mirage float high,
       and flies that never-dying butterfly.
                        
             And if there're things that need to be explained,
             it means that nothing needs to be explained.
             But if there's something worth explaining here,
             it will cost nothing to explain it clear.  

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    Треска
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov 
    

    Translated by Larisa Schultz
    

                   The Cod.

Afterwards you'll imagine you noticed the one who was
taking aim very slowly and priming his weapon well...
But in fact nothing happened. You've made it all up, of course.
If he shot, then it looks like he missed, anyone can tell.
         No invasion whatever, a patrol need not pass by.
         A display lighted up, for some system did not perform. 
         As if right after February there arrived July.	
         It was so very cold, it got so very nice and warm.
  
Not much worse than a punch by a woolen paw to your skin.
Don't beg yet for a monument, first let us see your works.
You are not made of bronze, you are not even made of tin.
You're just thrown out of water and flattened upon the rocks. 
        You'll get back into shape. Come on now, get up from the sand.
        You've indeed run aground, but stop flapping your dripping gills.  
        Never mind, stupid cod. Doesn't matter. It's not the end.
        Shots, if any, hit way off the mark. Not the kind that kills. 

Yes, sunflower seeds slipped out of your hands, not that much remains.  
Must have dropped them while nibbling, and husks scattered all around. 
Never mind, stupid cod. It's too hard for your fishy brains.    
What does matter, in truth, is that darkness turned into sound. 
        Like a radio-set that would suddenly jerk and crack
        after half-day of silence, damn babbler of a device.
        As if tropic Brazil came in place of a skiing track. 
        It was so very cold, it got so very warm and nice.

Angels are right at hand, it is something you didn't know.
Details moved from the dark, little things came back from afar. 
Look, the scene is alight, it's full up to the farthest row.
Everyone's clapping hands. It must seem to them that you are
       circling over the dark, like a gull over shallow seas, 
       sticking out brittle wings, crooked weirdly, against the storm...
       Well, so what if meanwhile you just lie on the sand like this? 
       Never mind, stupid codfish. What matters is that it's warm.    

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    Switzerland
    

    Mikhail Scherbakov 
    

    Translated by Genia Gurarie
    

Switzerland
 
At dawn the north wind blew and pierced
The land, but not for very long.
Its sway was brief and fierce,
And then it passed,
And now it's gone.
 
The spring inside the garden froze;
From drops and jets, a crystal grew.
At dawn, while standing close,
I saw it melt,
And glint like new.
 
The stock was dry a while, but fresh
It seems again, and bright, and young.
So death will heave and flash,
And then it's gone,
It's June again.
 
On slopes they tend the sheep - and I
Would like to climb up there, and glance
To find Helvetia
More visible
Than other lands.
 
Tell me, dear shepherd, why your ax
Is waved.  There is no need to frown
At all - just thought I'd ask
Towards what town
Your herds are bound.

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    To be continued...