by strannikov
the sleepless serpent's return
in time for dark the batteries die
the clock's numerals erase to grey:
in silence shuts the visor of night.
the city's streets vacated soon
all visible lights stare at the ground—
dim streetlamps distant stars the moon.
—but night does not reduce me to sleep
the dragging minutes keep awake
the dark that only opens its deep:
a snake, my memory unfurls
and slithers black from out its black night—
inside my aching chest it curls.
this snake recites scenes long since spent
returns to life those vivid scenes
those loathsome scenes I'd as soon forget—
the curses and shames the vain regrets
the bitter complaints the scorching tears:
the snake coils tighter in my chest—
then squirms away back to its black night
leaves me to face these mem'ries alone
as bleak sorrows dawn and day arrives.
more memories than any petrified tree
more memories than any petrified tree—
walnut drawers crammed with booklets and odd stuff,
ink-stained pages, love notes, tickets, receipts,
a thin braid of hair in onionskin sheets,
could not yield the murk my seething skull schemes.
my brain a hollow pyramid, mummy-stuffed,
with stench of the dead and embalmment sealed.
I am a lost graveyard the moon detests:
with guilt and remorse worms writhe through their dead,
feeding on those cherished dead who stare appalled.
I'm a noir boudoir of wilt, must, cloy, and rot,
the latest dead fashions themselves stiff embalmed,
where bloodless young girls in pale pastel styles
breathe pervading stale scents and ghosts of scents.
only days near the end could be so slow,
when accumulated weights of wet snows
sheathe every surface, seed indifferent sleeps
enduring longer than years we can count.
O living life, your career finds its scope—
a cold rock orbits a suspicious sun,
a blind desert surveys its wealth of wastes,
a mute sphinx before burial forgot,
no longer marked on any map—mood fierce
as suns set with threats, nights rise with new fears.
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Adaptations/paraphrases of Pushkin’s “Remembrance” (Воспоминание, 1828) and Baudelaire’s “Spleen (II)” (Les Fleurs du Mal, 1857), the former courtesy of Dimitri Obolensky and Walter Arndt, the latter courtesy of Anthony Hecht and Richard Howard.
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The imagery in "the sleepless serpent's return" is dark and mesmerizing. Can't turn away. The coiling snake. Perfect.
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"I am a lost graveyard the moon detests:" is powerful moment. A book title perhaps? A Lost Graveyard the Moon Detests.
The slow days, indifferent sleeps, ghosts of scents.
"no longer marked on any map"
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Anything I say feels superfluous.
" noir boudoir of wilt, must, cloy, and rot"
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I feel like I'm inside the furnace here. Beautiful.
Sam: bolshoi spasibo, merci bien, and thank you much!
Pushkin seems to've let the serpent bear "remorse" and a scroll to've served as arbiter of "memory": I gave the serpent both roles.
My French dictionary left me to wonder whether "oublié" serves better as "omitted" or "forgotten": both Hecht and Howard were a tad more concise in their respective fashions.
Hecht and Howard were identical in their approach to the "cemetery" line: I did inject "lost" (which helped accommodate "detests"), glad to hear it worked.
Thank you again as ever.
Amantine: I thank you.
Gary: mille grazie, merci bien, i bolshoi spasibo!
I think I borrowed one word each from Hecht and Howard, the other two came to mind from the context.
Thank you again.
Dianne: many many many thanks--a lot of them, that is. These guys boil my brains, this I know.