On my birthday, June 11, I write this
to salute the Russian poet born on this day,
this now future day commemorating the one
in 1893 when our hero sprang into life.
A statue of the poet stands in the square
facing the Moscow hotel where we stayed
which was once KGB headquarters
but now doubles as a casino
and offers the services of a brothel.
"You see," the Russian professor said,
"We build statues of our poets."
"But not before you kill them," I said.
For you, Vlaidimir, handsome, forever to be twenty-four years old,
who makes a bowtie, cigarette, and cap seem the ultimate in chic accessories,
I lift my glass of Russian Standard vodka. Nostrovia!
(Or as they say in Russian, Na Zdrovie.)
From The Cloud in Trousers (trans. David Lehman)
Maria, I want you
to ignore whatever they say about me.
I may have kissed a thousand girls
but you’re this madman’s favorite,
for I’ll gladly admit I’m a mad man,
mad about you.
Maria, I’d love it if you
and I took off all our clothes
and lie, naked and shameless,
or scared, if you prefer,
in bed.
Let me kiss you on the mouth.
On this May day come live with me
in the April of my heart.
Maria!
Poets write sonnets
to the souls of their lovers,
but I am every inch a man
and I want your body as much as
a devout Christian beseeches the Lord
to “give us this day our daily bread.”
Maria,
I confess I’m afraid I’ll forget your name
as a poet is afraid he’ll forget le mot juste
which he has looked for all his life,
the word born in a night to perish in a night,
while the soul glowed in rays of light.
Maria,
I promise you I will love your body
as much as a wounded veteran loves
his one remaining leg.
No? Why no?
But you say no.
Damn.
So once again I’ll have to carry my heart away
as a dog nurses the paw that was crushed by a train.
For more of the translation, go to LIT
For The Southern Revew, I recorded an excerpt:
https://soundcloud.com/lsupress_and_tsr/a-cloud-in-trousers-by
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