Matvei Yankelevich

/Združene države Amerike

(ZDA) je pesnik, prevajalec, urednik in profesor, avtor poeme The Present Work (2006) ter knjige Boris by the Sea (2009). Pri založbi Ugly Duckling Press je urednik zbirke Eastern European Poets Series, ki izdaja dela vzhodnoevropskih pesnikov, na Hunter College v New Yorku poučuje rusko literaturo, ter piše eseje o ruskih in ameriških pesnikih. Njegovi članki in prevodi se pojavljajo v uglednih časopisih, kot so The Guardian in The New York Times.

Pesmi

(dialog na podeželskem pokopališču) / (dialogue in a country graveyard)

Bartholomew Dibble je rekel Lovini: »Boš moja žena?«
Lovina je rekla: »Ne, jaz sem Mojzesova žena.«
Mojzes je rekel: »Ne, ti nisi moja žena, ti si moja sestra.«
Mojzesova sestra je rekla: »Jaz nisem tvoja sestra, jaz sem tvoja mama.«
Mojzesova mama je reka: »Poberite se!«
David Yanson je rekel: »Imam dve ljubki hčerki.«
Humphry Dibble je rekel: »Jaz sem Humphry Dibble in to je moja sestra Emeline.«
Emeline se je odmaknila od Humphryja.
Orpha Yanson je rekla: »Dajte mi mir!«
Humphry je rekel: »Okej.« In se spotaknil ob skalo.
Delia Dibble je ljubeče zrla v Lovino Yanson, Lovina Yanson pa je
hrepenela po Emeline Dibble.
Humphry je bil eden od Dibblov.
Dibble je bil priimek še iz časov izpred sredine devetnajstega stoletja.
Na epitafu je pisalo: »Žena od …« Z lepo zavitimi črkami.
Na epitafu je pisalo: »Umrla …« Z zahodnjaško osenčenimi črkami.
Na epitafu je pisalo, da je bila Elegija monolog.
Bartholomew Dibble je rekel: »Življenje je sranje!«
Na nagrobnem kamnu je pisalo: »Bralec, poglej si to!«
Naključni obiskovalec podeželskega pokopališča je rekel: »Pisava je sranje!«
Pisava je rekla: »Da, tudi spomeniki izginjajo.«
Kamen, ki je nekoč bil kamen in je kasneje postal nagrobnik
ter kasneje celo ponovno postal samo kamen, je rekel: »Nič.«
Potem pa je nagrobnik rekel: »Bralec, pojdi domov!«
Na pokopališču se je pokakal jelen.
Pokopališče je reklo: »Zdaj sem pa hosta!«

Iz angleščine prevedel Gregor Podlogar.

Bartholomew Dibble said to Lovina, Will you be my wife?
Lovina said, No, I am the wife of Moses.
Moses said, No, you are not my wife, you are my sister.
Moses' sister said, I am not your sister, I am your mother.
Moses' mother said, Get lost!
David Yanson said, I have two lovely daughters.
Humphry Dibble said, I am Humphry Dibble, and this is my sister, Emeline.
Emeline leaned away from Humphry.
Orpha Yanson said, Give me a break.
Humphry said, Okay, and tripped over a rock.
Delia Dibble looked lovingly toward Lovina Yanson, while Lovina Yanson
longed for Emeline Dibble. Humphry was a Dibble.
Dibble was a last name before the mid-nineteenth century.
Epitaph said, Wife of..., in curlicue letters.
Epitaph said, Died..., in western ombres style letters.
Epitaph said of Elegy that it was monologic.
Bartholomew Dibble said, Life sucks.
The tombstone said, Reader, check this out!
The accidental visitor to the country graveyard said, Writing sucks.
Writing said, Yes, even monuments fade.
The stone that had once been a stone, and had later became a tombstone,
and then even later became just a stone again, said, Nothing.
Then the tombstone said, Reader, go home.
The deer pooped in the graveyard.
The graveyard said, Now I am a grove.

+ / +

Gumbi / Buttons

Ta tekst je napisan na gumbe,
ki so tako tesno prišiti
drug h drugemu, da ga nihče
ne more brati. Razjasnimo:
ta tekst je napisan na notranjo
stran mnogih gumbov, ki so vsi
skupaj sešiti v
ogrlico iz gumbov tako,
da sploh ne moreš videti
teksta. Pravzaprav nanizanost
in stična lastnost
teh gumbov
onemogočata, da
bi sploh izvedeli, katera stran
vsakega gumba je notranja stran.
V tej ogrlici iz gumbov so njihove
strani nepomembne, vse strani
se dotikajo, so v stiku.
Vendar je tekst napisan
samo na notranji strani – strani,
ki je bila nekoč v stiku, se je
dotikala oblačil, ki so jih ljudje
nosili. Oblačil ljudi, ki so jih
nekoč nosili, ampak jih zdaj
ne nosijo več, ker
nimajo gumbov. Med
vojno so vsi gumbi odpadli. Tiste,

ki pa niso odpadli, so odrezali
z oblačil ljudi.
Noben gumb se nič več ne dotika
oblačil – namesto tega
se ti drug drugega dotikajo
na vseh straneh. Gumbi imajo dve
strani, samo dve strani.
Vsaj ti gumbi. Nihče
ne more brati tega teksta.
Je na gumbih in
gumbi se stikajo in tako
med njimi
ni prostora
za oko (med
gumbi). Ne, tudi luknjice
gumbov ne pomagajo.
Zabasane so z nitjo, nitjo,
ki drži gumbe v dotiku.
Ti gumbi so nekakšna
zabava, bi lahko rekli.
Njihove luknje so polne
niti, njihove strani se dotikajo.
Celo izmišljene
osebnosti ne morejo brati
tega teksta, celo miselni
eksperiment ne. Niti Boris
ga ne more prebrati,

četudi ga za to jaz zaprosim. Benita
Canova ga ne more prebrati. Celo
Nietzsche ne. Niti histerik ne.
In tudi ontolog
ne.
Gumbi so tako blizu
skupaj. Ne moreš jih niti ločiti
niti si jih predstavljati.
To so resnični gumbi.
Moji prijatelji ne morejo
brati gumbov in tudi vi ne –
niti svojih prijateljev ne poznam,
ker so na eni strani
moji prijatelji, na drugi
pa prijatelji nekoga drugega.
Mogoče vaši. Zagotovo sami sebi.
Izmišljeni, verjetno,
da.
Gumbi. Ti gumbi.
Še nikoli se nisem tako bal
gumbov.

Iz angleščine prevedel Gregor Podlogar.

This text is written on buttons
so tightly sewn
to each other that no one
can read it. Clarify:
this text is written on the inside
side of many buttons all
of which are sewn together in a
necklace of buttons, so
that you can't even see
the text. In fact, the bead-
ed and contiguous
nature of these buttons
makes it impossible to
even know which side of each but-
ton is its inside side. In
the necklace of buttons sides don't
matter, every
side touches, is in contact.
Even so, the text is written
only on the inside side—the side
which was once in contact with, was
touching, the clothing people
wore. The clothing of the people
who once wore it but now do
not wear the clothing because
it does not have buttons. During
the war, all the buttons fell off. Those

that didn't fall off were cut
from the clothing of
the people. No the buttons no longer
touch the clothing—instead
they touch each other
on all sides. Buttons have two
sides, and two sides only.
At least these buttons. No one
can read this text. It's on
the buttons and
the buttons touch and so
there's no
room for an eye to get in
there (in between
the buttons). No, the button holes
don't help either. They're
stuffed with thread, the thread
that keeps the buttons touching. These
buttons are a sort
of entertainment, you might
say. Their holes are full
of thread, their sides touch.
Not even imaginary
characters can read
the text, not even a thought
experiment. Boris can't
read it even if I asked him to. Benita
Canova can't read it. Nor
can Nietzsche. The hysteric one
can't. And the ontological
one, too.
The buttons are so close
together. You can't even un-
button them, you can't even
imagine them. These
are real buttons. My friends
can't read the buttons and you—
I don't even know my friends,
because on one side they
are my friends and on another
they're somebody else's
friend. Yours, maybe. Their own,
definitely. Imaginary, perhaps,
yes.
Buttons. The buttons.
I've never been so afraid
of buttons.