IVAN AKHMETYEV *** to L. Rubinshtein What does it all mean? Where will it all lead? Where does it come from? *** For we are like the tree rooted in cracked cement Its trunk will conserve the crack’s form Not ours to break through cement walls the thing is to grow 1974 *** People stayed the same those that stayed *** Who is able with precision and detail to recite our happiness? (Valery Popov) *** there’s certainly always a way out but I’m tired of constantly having to look for it *** through my teeth I thank you *** certainly I’m dissatisfied with myself but far be it with myself only *** the winter was difficult well let’s say fair but difficult *** Our war for the Caucusus lasted and lasted Lermontov Tolstoy so we got ours beria and dzhugashvilli *** Chechnya my ass, not Russia. Now Byelorussia.... *** Khlebnikov – our father Kharms – our teacher Khristos – our Savior *** poetry – most cost-effective occupation pleasure – immense expenses – there aren't any ________________________________________ MIKHAIL FAYNERMAN *** The day is a cold one so that the sheep huddle along the front wall of the house. Inside it is warm while in the yard hangs a cold vapor. It is a cold morning in late autumn and it seems that even the river turns toward us. *** The trees tire of sleeping and come to me nightly: What are you mumbling? Why are you not turning the light off? *** Some bird or other is still screeching: one past midnight. A nail in the darkness. That’s why last night that bird was warbling: morning, snow is melting: the cold spell has broken. *** Five o’clock in the evening, three hours after midday: the summer almost over, autumn approaching. Am I saddened? Not an inkling: mountain shadow, smoke, evening... (Compare with Issa Strong autumn breezes! Even the mountain’s shadow trembles before him.) *** in the yard a cold fog, morning– so tempting to hug the branches... *** The birds flying higher than high upon the islands of the white sky. *** Wet umbrellas, a rain in April, like a tiny bell ringing and ringing. *** High in the sky the sand martin. Bigger than my house? Smaller than my house? *** Wind from that angle, because it’s midday, hazy. The twilight of our worries. *** Sky filled with birds, its name I can’t recall: sky, filled with birds. *** The bullfinches have come back, the bullfinches: the air so transparent it’s immediately clear it’s March ending. Listen, God be with her, style, know what I’m saying. Write what there is for us in letters— write: “to celebrate spring in Jerusalem, on the hillsides, on the hillsides...” ________________________________________ ALEXANDER MAKAROV-KROTKOV By the Sea wind gusts caught on the laundry wire a ship mast– time to take care of the watermelon or for the concerns of sea gulls *** the birth of a woman takes place in a man’s heart the birth of a man– that’s an enigma Measure of Distance between sea and sky one horizon only *** I write verses you write verses he writes verses we’re doing our communal duty our country experiences a shortage of paper *** fixing the moments the pauses between us– exchange of carbon dioxide *** I came here I came to *** rooted a tree raised a house brought a son up tree struck by lightning house inhabited by strange people son an alcoholic God forgive me *** how good to drink vodka in any weather good to know that time ends on your deathbed in reserve I still have tomorrow into which you will enter From Tallin Sketches church spires trained at the heavens you and I learn to walk the ground hard as the crust of a stale bread loaf *** (after D.A.P.) a poet is generally a writer inasmuch as he writes sometimes and when he no longer writes then he is definitely–a poet 28.04.2009 *** (in memoriam V. N. Nekrasov) we live and see in sum total that's about it 1.06.2009