Sergey Gandlevsky, Russian poet and writer was born in 1952. He graduated Moscow State University in 1977, faculty of philology. In 70s Sergey was a member of poetic group “Moskovskoe Vremja” with Aleksandr Soprovsky, Aleksey Tsvetkov and Bakhit Kenzheev. He worked as a night security guard, gardener, scene worker, guide and Russian language school teacher. He has taken part in several expeditions from Pamir to Chukotka. His poems used to be published in emigrant editions before “Perestroika”. First big “patriotic” publica- tion appeared in “Literaturnaia Gruzija” in the 80s, for which he is grateful to the editor of the magazine back at that time - Giorgi Margvelashvili.
Up until today, he has published 20 books including poetry, prose, essay volumes and trans- lations. He has received several important awards: Little Booker Prize (1996), Anti-Booker (1996), Moskovskii Schet (2009), Kievskie Lavry (2009), Russian National “Poet” Prize (2010). Sergey has been the participant of many literary festivals in Austria, England, Germany, Georgia, Italy, The Netherlands, Ukraine, Lithuania, Turkey, France, Switzerland, Croatia and Japan.
Since 1992 he has been invited for lectures and readings at Yale, Stanford, Harvard, Princ- eton Universities, University of Pennsylvania, and many others.
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Standing trial by one’s sudden maturity
Is a circus of dubious charm
Rather lacking the normative purity
Of a walk by a brook, true to form,
Whilst reflecting in rhyme. Nope, a muteness Haunts my bloodstream.So, have we received, Dear grammarians, this very minuteness
As our top lift of joy, gift of gifts?
Russian poetry’s custom of life is
Smashing mirrors instark self-disgust.
What is more, guess where our kitchen knife is. In the drawer of the writing desk.
Scruffy gent in a pigeon-shat hat
In a WWII-captured trumeau,
Sparemetorment bycreative thirst.
Who could know it is solife would go?
It was first like a skiff or a rowboat Or a sparrow on an empty hammock. Look, is this a parrot? No, a robot. ABCs in a female hand,
A primer of all that which love is, Creaking oars on the dacha pond. Lickinga scratch who runs to your voice andarms?I’ll yield you to no one!
It became a yoke, hurt and jealousy, And thetune hasall spilled drop by drop, Now I moo and miaulxerophagously,
My poor brain in a two-handed grip. Why was I to inherit this legacy: Someone’s mask, ambiguous lips?
Life, a tragedy in one act.
A fool in dialogue with a philosophist.
Fickle, finicky music, most kindly
Do explain to me, once I am dead,
Why you grimaced aloofly, unfriendly, At that party one night without end Butstill tortured the sleepy teenager With the cruelest pain that you knew? It’s a robot? A parrot, sly stranger! And I hope for no mercy from you.
translated by Fillipa Nikolaeva