Viktor Krivulin

(1944_2001 / Krasnodon)

The Poems After Poems - Poem by Viktor Krivulin

The poems after poems, they look like poems
and not like poems
there is a smell of threadbare skin from them
of heated metal - well, so what,

not write anymore? You'll die of boredom!
They will put a stone with the inscription: "Passer-by,
stop at this grave,
it is all rotten, and for the appeal "O Lord"

there is no strong rhyme, neither skillful hand,
neither opened mouth - so at least close the eyes".
In the distance, Chechens and Aztecs rumble

and here it is white and quiet as in a chemistry —
one moment vials tinkle on the counter,
another, a coin slips and rolls

across the tiles - but where to?! It landed on head
in the corner where the glory where the victorious thunder
rattle in verses in season and out of season

Translated from Russian by Tatiana Bonch-Osmolovskaya


Comments about The Poems After Poems by Viktor Krivulin

  • Chinedu Dike (2/3/2017 10:16:00 PM)


    An insightful piece of poetry, well articulated and nicely penned. (Report) Reply

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  • Edward Kofi Louis (2/3/2017 9:27:00 AM)

    Skillful
    White and quiet! Thanks for sharing. (Report) Reply

  • Lantz Pierre (2/3/2017 2:50:00 AM)


    What a wonderfully curmudgeonly poem. It's absolutely alive with dismissive disgust. And an old man's resignation that this is just the kind of crap that happens. Inspired by a poem we take up pen and pay homage. The glittering example, whole and transcendent, is reduced to some tacked together monstrosity of scraps and misapplied vitality. The original comes almost god-like from the head of Zeus, ready to do battle, ready to vibrate the sinews into action. While the latter is a substance contained in a test-tube in a sterile lab. And yet what can the poet do? The resonance is undeniable and must be met with some effort, a hint at something that may find some quiet corner where it proclaims its own small value.

    Read it aloud in a grumpy old man's voice. The voice of a weathered and experienced soul, with grey stubble and uncombed hair, one who accomplished something that he speaks of only with reticence, that lends him wisdom and experience, who knows also the value of trials tried and failed. This poem fairly sings in that old, gruff intonation.
    (Report) Reply

  • Bernard F. Asuncion (2/3/2017 1:03:00 AM)


    Thanks for sharing................ (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Monday, January 16, 2017



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