Showing posts with label Matvei Yankelevich. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Matvei Yankelevich. Show all posts
Friday, March 20, 2015
AWP Panels - please join me in Minneapolis!
I am pleased to be on two exciting panels at the AWP Conference at the Minneapolis Convention Center. Please be sure to join us!
Daughters of Baba Yaga: The Eastern European Woman Poet in the United States
Number: R270
Moderator: Larissa Shmailo
With Katia Kapovich, Irina Mashinski, Gloria Mindock, Annie Pluto
Date/Time: Thursday, April 9, 4:30 to 5:45 pm
Room 205 C&D Level 2
From Pushkin to Pussy Riot: Poetics and Politics of Translating Russian Poetry
Number: S212
Moderator: Phil Metres
With Larissa Shmailo, Alex Cigale, Matvei Yankelevich
Date/Time: Saturday, April 11, 1:30 to 2:45pm
Room 205 C&D, Level 2
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
National Translation Month - NTM: Sergei Sokolovskiy translated by Matvei Yankelevich
Island
"It's a lie!" we answered in unison, without arranging it.
"It's no secret that the image of an island counts among those I most despise. It seems to me that this image has accumulated exactly as much filth and falsity as is needed to form an island, blast it! What could be more natural than when, from all the trash (spiritual, cultural, and biological) poured in a heap, suddenly, as if by the wave of a conductor's wand, an isle appears? Here we cannot help but associate-by rhyme-our hot uninhabited isle with the awl, a sharp implement, and through it all sharp-tongued witticisms and pointed puns, the tools of rhetoric, even the sharp heat of island spices, and as a result we are lead to all the potential harm caused by the isle-awl: it all goes to the same place, into one heap, one atoll. The pun, as you can see, nauseates: I will be sick with all these endless islands, all seclusion, solitude and cosmic loneliness, I'll vomit them into the auditorium, were there an auditorium before me, or wherever, if it so happens by some inexplicable reason that the auditorium is absent. The inexplicable reason, by the way, can only be the following: that the auditorium is also an island, a diminutive isle of peace and calm in the stormy sea of modernity. And it's not possible that I would be sick into the very thing thing that makes me sick, isn't that true? I'm asking you: is it true?
Once more we replied: "It's a lie!
"It's a lie!" we answered in unison, without arranging it.
"It's no secret that the image of an island counts among those I most despise. It seems to me that this image has accumulated exactly as much filth and falsity as is needed to form an island, blast it! What could be more natural than when, from all the trash (spiritual, cultural, and biological) poured in a heap, suddenly, as if by the wave of a conductor's wand, an isle appears? Here we cannot help but associate-by rhyme-our hot uninhabited isle with the awl, a sharp implement, and through it all sharp-tongued witticisms and pointed puns, the tools of rhetoric, even the sharp heat of island spices, and as a result we are lead to all the potential harm caused by the isle-awl: it all goes to the same place, into one heap, one atoll. The pun, as you can see, nauseates: I will be sick with all these endless islands, all seclusion, solitude and cosmic loneliness, I'll vomit them into the auditorium, were there an auditorium before me, or wherever, if it so happens by some inexplicable reason that the auditorium is absent. The inexplicable reason, by the way, can only be the following: that the auditorium is also an island, a diminutive isle of peace and calm in the stormy sea of modernity. And it's not possible that I would be sick into the very thing thing that makes me sick, isn't that true? I'm asking you: is it true?
Once more we replied: "It's a lie!
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