АЛЕКСАНДР ГАЛЬПЕР. Стихи с переводом.
Translated by
David Pemberton, Igor Satanovsky, Marta Jamiolkowska, and the author.
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ГАМЛЕР Задали Гальперу То в Гальпере мало Гамлета, Философское Настроение Ради чего Бог принес нас на Землю? Патагонское Танго Сегодня видел сон про Гитлера, Не мучают кошмары о 50 миллионах Фюрер качается в кресле на крыльце
Услышал сегодня про поэта, И как ему не намекают, В наш жестокий век волчьего капитализма
Один друг мне сказал, что Другой — что в русском ресторане на Брайтоне. Третий утверждал, что Костя любил Украину, Четвертый доказывал, что Костя вообще плевал на политику. И тут я понял, что у каждого свой Кузьминский, Было увеличительное стекло, Детская Молитва Лет в четырнадцать я просил Бога: «Дай мне силы посвятить всего себя искусству, Чтобы никакие девушки и тусовки не отвлекали!» Бог внял молитвам и послал дурака в эмиграцию. Изгнание из Рая Когда-то судьба забросила меня Без копейки денег На затерянный в Тихом Океане остров Мауи. Я спал на диком пляже, В волосах поселился золотой песок, Умывался изумрудно-чистой водой, Нырял каждое утро и здоровался С крабами и черепахами. Пестрые рыбки были моим цветным телевизором. Теплыми вечерами я говорил «Спокойной Ночи» Пыхтящему рядом на горе вулкану, Питался не фаст-фудом, А чудесными фруктами что росли на деревьях, Но Рай серьезно портили аборигены. Они меня там сто лет ждали И хотели убить. Я не был толстосумом из дорогой гостиницы. Я был другого цвета, разреза глаз, Бледнолицый оккупант с Большой Земли. И я сбежал назад к небоскребам Закрывающим солнце, К грязной подземке с крысами, От одних убийц к другим. |
GHAMLER Galper was assigned Hamlet’s monologue in acting class. He worked really hard on it. Still, the teacher tortured him for two hours. There was either too little Hamlet in Galper or too much Galper in Hamlet. And so, wretchedness unleashed, GHAMLER was born. The Prince of Denmark in yarmulke, with AK-47, washing down pork shish-kebab with vodka. Shakespeare turns in his grave. In the Mood for Philosophy Why did God put us on Еarth? What is this circus all about? — I wonder, looking at this creature that fell asleep on my office floor. A year ago, he was Boozer Jo. Now, after a government-paid sex change, she is Tipsy Joan. Patagonian Tango I had a dream of Hitler escaping to Argentina. He savours blood-red Malbec, tangos with Eva Braun. He sleeps just fine, no nightmares about 50 million dead in the Old World. High in the Andes it’s hard to believe Europe exists at all. The air is crisp and clean. The mail arrives monthly. He rocks in his chair on the veranda, empty-eyed, watching past his playing daughters. The Great Love I’ve heard about a poet who gave up his rent-controlled apartment to follow the love of his life to Europe. Now he’s a couch-surfer in New York, abusing his friends’ hospitality. Nobody has a heart to kick the poor soul out in the middle of winter. And I am reflecting on how good it is to know that such a great love still exists in our cruel times of predatory capitalism, that some things are not lost, as I am lying in a warm bed in my cozy apartment. On Kostya’s Kuzminsky’s Death One friend told me that the wake for Kuzminsky should include vodka drunk straight from the bottle with pickles alone. It should take place on the children’s playground where Kostya used to walk his Russian hounds. Another friend insisted that a Russian restaurant on Brighton Beach is the place to go. Kuzminsky was a true Russian imperialist. Drape his portrait with a Russian flag! The third claimed that Kostya loved Ukraine, wrote a few poems in Ukrainian, hated Putin and KGB. We should commemorate Kostya at the Ukrainian korchma over horilka and salo. The fourth friend declared that Kuzminsky didn’t give a damn about politics. He was a real foodie. Loved oysters and young women! We should hold a wake at the three-Michelin-stars French restaurant. Everyone had their own Kostya Kuzminsky in mind, but who was he, really? Perhaps a magnifying glass, increasing the fire of imagination tenfold. Now, this telescope himself populates the starry sky: chases Emily Dickinson with a cossack sabre, unleashes his borzoi on Akhmatova, drinks vodka with Dovlatov, exchanges insults with Brodsky. The Child’s Prayer When I was fourteen, I asked God to give me the strength to wholly dedicate myself to art, so that neither girls, nor parties would distract me from my path. God heard my prayers, and turned this fool into a penniless emigre. Expelled from Paradise Once upon a time destiny left me penniless on an island lost in the Pacific. A wild, secluded beach was my bed. My hair was anointed with golden sand and I washed with virgin water. I started every morning with a dive, and said “Hello” to lobsters and turtles. Tropical fish was my color TV. I watched the sunset and wished a good night to the smoldering volcano. Instead of fast food I ate luscious fruit plucked from trees. But Paradise was spoiled by the natives. They detested me. They wanted to kill me. I wasn’t some big wallet staying in a ritzy hotel and didn’t look like a native either, a pale-skinned invader from the continent. So I escaped back to the sun-blotting skyscrapers, dirty rat-infested subway, from one murderous lot to another. |
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Адские Сказки Когда Ненависти исполнилось сто лет, Ее забрали в дом престарелых, Где регулярно ставили клизму И вывозили в коляске на балкон. Ненависть смотрела на бушующий океан, Набегающие волны, и щурилась от солнца, Напрасно дожидаясь, когда позвонит Неблагодарное Зло.
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The Tales from Hell When Hate turned 100 years old, she was taken to a nursing home where she was given regular enemas and wheeled to the balcony. She gazed at the turbulent ocean and crashing waves, squinted her eyes from the sun, waited in a vain for a call from Ungrateful Evil. |
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