Igor Kotjuh. 12 poems in English

Igor Kotjuh / Poems

Translated from Russian by P.I.Filimonov

***

Imagination draws – the hand can’t.

The tune is spinning – I can’t hum it.

Almost a lost person.

Hadn’t there been poetry –

I would have lost

my way.

***

a man would like to live a century

but his wishes do not coincide with his possibilities

and that is how it always and everywhere is

he goes

or, more exactly, he takes

his body outside

to stroll and do his business

fresh air strikes his face

his eyes notice last fallen leaves

passers-by will shortly overflow the pavements

cars pass by at a high speed

sweets and news are sold at kiosks

observing the world around has become the initial cause of the stroll

the harmony shatters

every little piece becomes self-sufficient

soul and spirit

technics and tectonics

  

a man burns out like a wire between them

***

late in the evening I dive to bed

the body on the sheet the blanket over

it feels like I’m lying on the bottom

of some sea or ocean

being a flat fish

a plaice or a halibut

departing day in front of me

in my thoughts is the following one

I think it’s sometimes called

widening the mind

or seeing further than present-day

I can lie this way for a long time

thinking remembering forgetting

while the unseen flow of time

takes me further and further

into the soft weeds of dream

***

I haven’t seen the film “Prelude to a Kiss”, but I

have always admired the lightness and the chasteness of this

title. Especially considering the fact that the kiss itself is

also a prelude to something more serious. So

a prelude to a kiss is the most beautiful thing a

man can have, this is an elevated state,

the sharpened feeling of beauty, the wish and the desire

to live for the sake of an idea, to sacrifice one’s comfort and selfishness

for intangible good, for feeling, for art.

A prelude to a kiss opens the best in man,

without demanding anything in exchange for it. This is a forced freedom

and a voluntary slavery. Anticipation of happiness.

A prelude to a kiss is sublime psychology

and an abyss of meaning. A quality emotion. This is

a classical work of music which

won’t leave you alone. It cannot be comprehended

while entirely staying alive. A prelude to a kiss is

a dream. That is why I will not watch that film.

***

i like rock music

and the romantic feeling of freedom

accompanying this music

however i am tired of substituting strange guitarists

(you see they forget

they are having a performance

and go picnicking on the day

or leave for another town)

shortly before the concert

this is cruel and disrespectful towards me

it is only out of love to that wing-lending music

that i keep coming on stage

feeling nervous feeling shy because of the bright light

trying to show my best play

it’s happened again tonight

an open stage in the woods

a festival of modern rock

i am languishing with a strange guitar

moving from one pine tree to another

searching for shelter

for a sudden rehearsal

my fingers are aching my palms are sweating

what for what do i suffer it for

painful hours and minutes of preparation

before the presenter announces

the name of the next band

the crowd will move and roar

when me together with the group come onstage

thrilled by strange fame

a possibility to say my word

jesus how fearful it is

i cannot play the guitar at all

and i don’t have such a good memory

so that i could put my dreams down

Psychology

  

She likes sleeping on her side

nestled as a shrimp. He

likes to sleep on his back, at his full growth.

She touches her chin

with her fist. He keeps

his hands behind his ears.

(A textbook on non-verbal behaviour

explains her posture as the one expressing humbleness

his is an arrogant one).

She will enjoy a good night’s sleep.

He will have nightmares.

  

***

Bleating, croaking, puffing,

rain and water humming in the pipes –

the symphony of a fishermen’s village.

Everyone is pleased. And only one

man was missing Mozart.

This man is a foreigner.

  

***

A town on a few islands

on the north-western coast

of Norway, with a narrow bay

looking like a trout belly,

receiving ferries and cruise ships. The streets

start from water and lead to water.

Flocks of balconies are looking at the sea.

The town of motley shadows, with

20, 000 people. In the working time

it is noisy here: plants, shops,

bars…But on Sunday

the town sleeps until lunchtime, the picture

fades. And only the pensioners

bustle about in their expensive cars.

IDENTIFICATION ATTEMPT

Think of myself as an Estonian – the mother tongue is Russian.

Think of myself as a Russian – the temperament fails.

Call myself a European - a privilege of the chosen few.

A citizen of the world sounds too abstract.

What remains – to be just a human.

Will they understand it, though?  

 HISTORICAL ISSUES

In the Soviet time

there was a Jewish issue. .

In the Estonian time

there is a Russian issue.

In European Union

there is an Arabic issue.

New day brings new rhetorics.

  

***

Finland is an unusual country

Peaceful progressive satiated

The air here doesn’t crack with ideas

The ideas here are handed inside the balloons

Finland is a search for medium

Between the abundance and modesty

Generously laid with stones

Its pavements and roads

Remind you of a soup

Where the body predominates

I think of it every time

When I find myself in Helsinki downtown

O sweet Finnish towns

Porvoo Kotka Lahti

You are doomed to be loved

As what else can you feel towards the place

Where street hubbub is as blessed

As is the baby’s first cry

The man feels at ease in Finland

The man feels at ease being a man in Finland

Here a foreigner finds oneself  on „ground zero“

This probably is freedom

***
metaphysics start on Friday

when a childhood friend

sees you off to the Kiev-Simferopol train

softly kissing you farewell on the cheek on the platform

you are going to a literary festival

bottles perspired from cold

are jingling on the table

your fellow traveller is going to her daughter Marina

she is asking you: how is it there in Estonia

are Russians not badly treated?

no I say

thinking of my iPad

hidden in the bag

no they are not

all Estonian hotels for Christmas

were bought by Russians in summer already

 
the lady is sitting on the lower berth asking new questions

iPad below her wants to contain new poems

who am I?

a troubadour feeling glee from art

looking for encounters with new songs, faces and streets

my wife and children are waiting for me in Estonia

(the reader likes to compile the author’s biography)

a flat overlooking the sea

(I prefer lakes but it doesn’t matter)

and constant self-immersion

Estonia, Estonia

a girl with a proud gait

looking to the West, then to the North

yet capable of stomping her foot

“you like feel at home both here and there”

my fellow-traveller remarks

I am nodding in reply

I like to be foreign everywhere

metaphysics start on Friday

when the day turns into evening

a conductor is walking along the corridor

showing his grey-haired chest to the world

and his companion

opening beer with a tea-spoon

a pumpkin turns into a carriage

Kaurismäki is looking for Finland in France

Allen finds New York in Paris

the restaurant carriage flies into the midnight

you are going to conquer Crimea

you seem an Estonian poet

though you write in Russian

you seem a Russian poet

though your poems don’t rhyme

you are travelling as a stowaway in a compartment meant for the staff only

a text message comes to your phone

be positive

press OK

and read jokes