Arthur Turfa Places and Times

Spring in Berlin by Irene Riz

Russian and English versions of the famous Autumn by Sergey Esenin

Autumn by Sergey Esenin translated by IRiz

Question by IRiz

My Birthday Presents

I live in lovelihood of words
and letter combinations.

I float between 
the windows in my room.

And February fog
                           invited in,
still hesitant and eerie,
                 hangs at my door.

We will be drinking hot
and aromatic grog
with fruits suspended in magenta.

We will be drawing sketches on
 the dust of cinnamon and pepper
and talking only
             about things that matter
to both of us:
the difference between young grass
that shoots its seedlings in the air,
unstoppable and strong,

and trembling of dry stems,
their lack of forceful directness,
  
about gnarly rhododendrons,
tangled lines, 
an angular perfection of open arms, 

about little worms that soon
will grow into oaks but now 
grab the dirt with stubborn strength,
yet hardly peeking from their acorns,

about stones that look like eggs 
laid by an awkward bird and scattered 
on the bottom of a marshy pond
 that was a fog before 
and now is the fog again that stands 
and waits near my door.

February

February! Pick up a pen and weep,
and write about it, in sobs and ink,
while resounding sleet
burns in the black of spring.

Pick up a cab and move
through church bell ringing
through clanking of the hooves
into the rains that louder than tears

where like enchanted charred pears
thousands of rooks,
drop into puddles, crash and bare
dry sadness of your eyes away.

There are black gaps in melted snow
and wind with croaking screeches throbs,
the more spontaneous the better poems
are composed as sobs.

My TranslationPasternakFebruary

Февраль. Достать чернил и плакать!
Писать о феврале навзрыд,
Пока грохочущая слякоть
Весною черною горит.

Достать пролетку. За шесть гривен,
Чрез благовест, чрез клик колес,
Перенестись туда, где ливень
Еще шумней чернил и слез.

Где, как обугленные груши,
С деревьев тысячи грачей
Сорвутся в лужи и обрушат
Сухую грусть на дно очей.

Под ней проталины чернеют,
И ветер криками изрыт,
И чем случайней, тем вернее
Слагаются стихи навзрыд.

1912

Russian Pasternak February

No details 
that are too small for me:

sunlight through the orchid petals 
on my windowsill,
– my son gave it to me three years ago
and the crazy being keeps blooming –

or a dark blue pebble 
from mostly black and white shore.
– I brought the pebble home. 
It proudly sits on my table.

I pay attention to
a sound of hot water flattened
on the tea leaves,
a tiny crack in my kettle,
a piney smell in the yard,
a new wrinkle,
an unfamiliar word 
like a green tuft peeking out 
from half-frozen early spring ground
of the nineteen century novel.

Unusual colors 
of the exposed slopes – 
red dirt and sudden snow 
hanging in the air due to 
a complete lack for a better world.

All the small things are worthy,
the smaller the better,
I wish I could use 
            a microscope more often.

I accept everything even if sometimes 
it feels completely unfair and hurts 
I can handle small things
                                 but I am afraid of 
big changes, important events, 
promises, expectations and hopes.
IRiz 2018

Irene Riz

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