"White Rawen" Miniatures

[Tagore]

Oh, so here is a little o' part of what I write. The problem is - I have not translated a single word for about two years, so her is the result. If you find some really big mistakes, I'd be glad to receive some comments on it. Originally written in Russian, so here it comes:

WORLD FOLK MOTIVES

The Negro (April, 2003)

If only for a night might I become a negro poet, would rather sing Missisipi. Lower lip sagged and vegetation other on the bosom would grow, but now... Grass short, asphalt gray, bridges short, clouds thin. Loved I wenches black, as resin, backfisches white as icecream, they - me. Full-grown at age and minor their daughters – each bend of they’re bodys would I become aware, secret map of they’re flesh and drew there white sky on a green meadow. But now our womens look like noodle, and guys sit smoking all around, seeing nothing than they’re own hands. But could become distant seafarers.
There was I negro poet, but grow up in an other country, where three fourth of the years winter lasts, instead of burgundy they preffer milk. Provincial slurb, in which I was born, - more hens and goose, than the total rural population. The buildings, syllables, and all what’s between them, was a little above water level in the stream, when it, at spring anxiety, came out of coast.
Instead of palms beside us, after one’s nose, amongst the city, amongst mist - fir trees stand. Instead of marmoset with red back and black tail - a dull squirrel with a nut, yes, brown deer sleeping in leafy grove. Instead of coconuts – fir cone, I tried to chew, but gave – too difficult for me. Give onto the window - where the destiny river should be, the great Missisipi, instead of steamships sails going down, and you’ve got no idea, how to live.


Arabic poet (April)

Was not fated to be born in the blessed Mecca, joyfull Medina did not become my home. Without kin, you should not doubt, my birth was in an ordinary family. From Ibragima (may god speed you!) to Isaaku, next Jacob, Yusufu and Moiseyu, before phenomena of David, Solomon, Jesus and Muhammid, do not have a father, nor was my uncle or cousin in islam.
You should not compare my talent with an arabic nightingale, nor ever could. You do not know the sweetness of the praise of lord Allah, did non resited in rooms with Jibrail, and, speaking honestly, never seen a single scroll of the vast Quoran. No, sir, I did not sung one hundred fifth surah, as sheikh Suleyman, dead drunk with wine from your mouth. Will century step on anothers head, two eternity in resignation I would spend, the great award, generous payment you would not send to my credit card; I do good not because it’s right, but because of the advantage - my conscience not being clean. We are brothers with various mothers, on the pilgrimage to paradise.
Whatever would I read, whenrever I would sit, wherever would my person look, disregarding my weak-willedness, whoever would not visit us, no noticing hte quantity of faxes sent with Easter congratulations, the entry in temple will stay locked.
About Muhammid, whose image just as sun, name beautiful, who’s famed as far as Damascus to Dushanbe, from Africa up to Antarctica, be gracious to me, be patient in that arena, where angel with steel wings will convene Judical day. Take vengeance on those, who have offended - have offended wrongly - take off the camel hunch that did not honour your portrait on the wall, pagan, who errors every day – teach him your law. The merciful, kind, buy my body with my tongue, take me to heaven where the prophets swim in pools, piece of bread, set free some meat. Allah Akhbar!



PICTURES OF THE BIG CITY



Nobody knows my name (May)

In Moscow I am identified as a poet from Riga – it’s easier not to add any details, no need to explain, like the fact I’ve only spent some nights in tha city. Where is my native town, in which I’ve lived for so many years, indeed, they have not got a clue. In USA I’m telling that I’m, again, a Russian poet and I was born in Moscow. But what shall I say to my countryman when I’ll return home?


Modern idyl (May)

How absurdly looks oneself on the part of a young person, in which’s hair stylish earphone "Sony" rim got mixed up, and as he can not switch off his walkman, buttons cohered long ago, after the poured refreshing drink "Fanta" in the knapsack.
As a matter of fact nice-looking girl addressed him for help. Her stunning figure with glamouring appearance (external data collected by his brains), was dressed smart with "Gianni Barbato", direct hairs before shoulder, oat coloured just like "Hercule’s" cover.
To sole of her stylish, with a sharp toe, court shoes from "Casadei", à chewing gum adhered long ago, but right before the enterance in metro her heel broke off, as nail "twenty". She got into lattice of the soil-pipe. The beautiful girl standing in pedestrian subway, sandal in hand, leaning against the wall.
They get acquainted, he wants to write the number of her telephone number down, painfully searches for it in rucksack handle, but finds perspiring from jogging shoes "Puma" year 89’ and a banana rind – how awkward. Ht wore cheap sunglasses, roubles so for three hundred not more, beside him she with self-adhesive finger-nails with drawings from Babylon; he has put on torn "Diesel" jeans, beside him Milanese underclothe from "Wolford", which you can buy only in "Gallery of the Actor", on the second floor in thr second department to the left. Beside him a hand-bag "Pierre Cardin" from sealskin, on him - crudely sutured rucksack from rough fabrics, beside him - swiss watches "Rado" on rubber band. Beside her watches from "Omax", another great product from the great industrial country Thailand.
Not withstanding the whole afore-mentioned facts, they where happily married to the second friday of the February, to get divorced after one and a half year. Kiddies did not occur. Nothing ever happened.