Translated material
Poems for a cop's daughter
***
three days ago I received 18 messages with photos,
where my head was attached to someone else's body
the body was naked, spread and masturbating
the expression on my face was thoughtful and otherworldly
they took a photo I took during the coronavirus
where I was already on the mend, but my facial expressions were lagging behind
so I looked everywhere
tortured
and sad
I don't think people look like that when they touch themselves
when you see a porn fake with your participation
you find yourself thinking:
what an inappropriate vagina they chose for me
mine is completely different
I know what she looks like
I got this body from somewhere in the 2000s
then the fashion for hair removal of the bikini area just began
it's so tanned
tanned and smooth
like an advertisement for something tanned and smooth
my pale face
+
her golden body
I don’t know what reaction this is all intended for
ashamed?
scary?
Should I feel naked?
can I be ashamed of someone else's body
sewn together with me in the same visual seam?
is its owner alive?
imagined how at that very second somewhere in Iowa
she gets a mirror fake: my body with her face
my strict pajamas and unshaven ankles
her golden face depicting ecstasy
This image is more frightening
This is how you live your whole life as a woman with your body
you raise him in trepidation and darkness
hide from prying eyes
or expose it to the eyes of others
to catch your own gaze one day
loosening grip
unraveling all the knots
crumpled inside
you live like this, and they send you another body
to scare or shame you
Ha,
dear
sometimes there is nothing scarier than that body that is always with you
which responds to words as if they were touched
which we clasp with our hands while sitting in the cold water
dressed but undressed under clothes
survivor of violence who harbored violence deep inside
not having sex in daylight
shuddering from tactile memories
taken away and then returned by force
any body is more frightening
loves more
hits harder
if it belongs to you
COPT'S DAUGHTER
a cop's daughter goes out onto the streets of her city
cop's daughter goes to rally
on her shoulder there are three moles - three blurry stars,
inherited from father
when was she born
They showed it to him and said:
the birth was difficult
your daughter is a fighter
and you will probably rise to the rank of colonel
father burst into tears
and pressed her to his chest
and looked into her face
and realized that now the homeland will always have her face
and took his homeland into his heart
and kept it in my heart
and giving orders to fuck people in the square
he told himself “this is for her sake”
but he himself was cowardly
and did not always follow orders
the cop's daughter comes out to the square
together with feminists
together with Navalny's headquarters
together with LGBT activists
eco-activists
anarchists
human rights activists
she screams
“garbage is a disgrace to Russia”
and then screams
"police with the people"
and feels stupid
every policeman
every eshnik
every riot policeman
her father's face
and she keeps that face
in your heart
like the face of your homeland
he never laid a hand on her
returning home, he pretended that he was not tired at all
sat down to collect puzzles with her
finding the missing part, he quacked joyfully
and put the part in place
and said that when she was born
she filled the void in him, like this detail
and everything became whole and complete
maybe he didn't say that
but that's how she remembered
but today in the square he hit her
not by himself, but by the hands of other men
men, each of whom has his own face
today he grabbed her in the square and carried her
today he locked her in a car with barred windows
today he will bear false witness against her
write a report in which she resisted
his daughter with the face of his homeland
his homeland with the face of his daughter
but he will protect them both
from ourselves
his daughter will receive like everyone else: 7 days in a special detention center by court decision
he didn't raise her that way
there will be no concessions
she will not escape punishment as the son of a deputy
hit an 8-year-old girl at an intersection
the cop's daughter stands in front of the judge
and is secretly proud of his father
that he did not take advantage of his position
she herself wanted to serve 7 days
she wouldn't want everyone to know that she
cop's daughter
daughter of a riot policeman
daughter of a FSI officer
she wouldn't want her friends
looked into her face
and in his face
and they said “what a resemblance, you look just like your father”
my father joked at family dinners that it was he who was into her
he looks like her
he has her chin
her eyes
her stars on his shoulder straps
she hasn't come to these feasts for a long time
he says he asked her not to come again
she says that she asked not to call her
before when they sat at the same table
the table seemed endless
endless
boundless
like Russia
there was a blizzard blowing at one end of the table
on the other, the ground was cracking from the scorching sun
Meanwhile the TV was humming
“fog falls on the sleeping city”
just like 20 years ago
everything is stable
nothing changes
except that
that he has such an adult daughter
which goes under riot police batons
with all these idiots
with which now you can’t put two words together
without shouting
a cop's daughter goes out onto the streets of her city
cop's daughter reads Pasolini's poem
"Communist Party for Youth"
about bourgeois students who beat up policemen who came from working class backgrounds,
The cop's daughter hates the words "cop", "garbage", "astronaut"
The cop's daughter can no longer say the word "dad"
she watches a video of torture in a colony
where they play songs from the Lyube group to drown out the screams,
my father constantly listened to the group “Lube”
it would be easier for her if he himself were in the square now,
if she met his eyes
despite the helmet, she would recognize his eyes, he has the eyes of her homeland
It would be better if he hit her himself, following the order of someone else
it would be better if she hit him back
and then they would go somewhere together
would wander through the snow
through gateways and courtyards
through the blizzard
wiping blood from a cut lip and broken nose
blood,
according to which, if you attach it to the case,
it will be clear
who they were to each other
in this square
in this country
and who they became to each other
***
This evening I spoke Russian as usual.
We sat in a small room and drank vodka. A friend said “it’s time for us to leave the country.” The husband said “we need to have time to cure everything under compulsory medical insurance before leaving.”
I have a toothache and I don’t want to go to the dentist.
My left ovary hurts and I don’t want to go to the gynecologist.
I'm afraid.
I put off going to the doctor for so long,
That now this is not just a hike, but a body-oriented farewell to my homeland, my fucking homeland, whose immense body scares me when I’m left alone with it.
It's time for us to leave the country.
I never took this phrase seriously, but I have been hearing it for ten years every day from different people, and I always smile - “this is not about me.” I’m from Omsk, I grew up with the phrase “don’t try to leave Omsk,” but I left anyway.
If the tooth is not treated in time, its root will begin to die. What if the same thing happens to me? One day I will wake up and not remember how to say this in Russian. I can stay in Russia, wake up and not remember what it is called in Russian, well, this feeling when you enter the elevator of your house, and the elevator says “1488”, or this feeling when a friend writes to you that she is being watched, how can you call it in Russian, in the language of your homeland?
We need to have time to heal everything. Go to bed with a mouthful of earth. Place a warm steppe fox on your stomach. I always felt homeless and familyless, but when you said “it’s time for us to leave the country,” my heart began to beat at several different points at once, they can be connected by an invisible line and get a route, but I won’t do it.
I'm afraid of becoming a migrant. I see what it means to become a migrant. I will lose everything even though I have nothing. No one will understand how I really speak, what complex beautiful thoughts are in my head. I will never be able to do this in a foreign language. I will become invisible with my healed tooth, healthy ovary and inflated ego. Seriously, THIS scares you?
Sometimes I feel so spacious, so timeless. Neither prison, nor searches, nor violence scare me. And then I sharply shrink into one aching heavy point, I feel the same point somewhere deep under the tooth and somewhere deep in the stomach. I turn into a pulsating wormhole - and I am not outside my homeland. That's how I feel.
I recently learned several names of repressed people and political prisoners in case all the lists are deleted. If everyone learns a little bit, then they will not be able to eliminate our memory. It's a shame it doesn't work that way.
They write speeches to the president about the Polovtsians and Pechenegs. Speechwriters and referents do not go away on Saturday for the weekend; Saturday is the busiest day. Their lyrics are just work.
It’s good that we didn’t have time to take out a mortgage,” I say.
At first, the three of us will live - it’s cheaper and easier,” I say.
Idiot, I say.
It’s time for us to leave the country,” I say.
“I won’t leave,” I say.
I will forever write this text so as not to leave, I won’t go to the doctor, I’ll rot myself alive in my native land, I say.
“Fuck it,” I say.
“I created a tragedy here,” I say.
Home is where you live, I say.
“I’m a patriot,” I say.
“I’m scared,” I say.
Why are politicians afraid to say that they are scared?
Why are texts like this considered shameful and defeatist?
Why is the feeling of loss not considered emancipatory?
One day I will wake up and not remember how to say this in Russian. And there will be nothing wrong with that.
JOURNEY TO THE EDGE OF BULLING. INTERVIEW
1. How would you describe the scene?
I don't know how to explain it to you. First, it becomes cold behind the ears, as if someone turned on ice water (but just behind the ears), or as if the rest of the body is heating up so much that it is behind the ears that it becomes cold. Then my stomach hurts. You go to the toilet, sit on the toilet, your feet do not completely touch the floor, but remain on the toes, and your knees tremble from lack of support. You sit there, looking at the tiled floor, but nothing happens. You put on panties, tights, jeans, and go back to the room. You pour water. You catch yourself not drinking, but lapping it up; your tongue itself knows what to do. You put your hand on your chest and laugh. You say “you are familiar with this, you know everything that will happen next, you are like a fish in water.” This is not true, but sometimes we live by hook or by crook, we are like a fish in water, inside us there is a swallowed key, a lock, a hook, a Christian prophet, a tin soldier, a Derzhavin worm. Language is inert, language itself knows what to do, images approach us from all sides, but, fortunately, we have long been streamlined.
2. What would you say to those people who write to you “die, you creature”? Are you considering the opportunity to contact them?
If a miracle happens and I die as soon as I receive their messages, I think I can turn to them. I will appear to them in a dream, just as all my relatives whom I had never seen appeared to me as a child. And then I will tell them:
“Hello, I died, as you asked, so now I will become your latent nightly experience, because in reality you cannot survive me yet, and what remains of me is my unlived agency. I died, but I have a lot of questions for you, and I won’t let you live in peace, sorry, man. I am very stuffy, so I will now put my ghostly hands on your chest (as if for pumping) and begin to ask: what is love? What do you like to look at? what are you afraid of? who do you want? where is your father? what makes you happy? What do you want to buy for yourself, but can’t afford? What are you most ashamed of?
Like any ghost, I will be paternalistic, but good-natured, and will turn into a mustachioed angina pectoris in a fluffy starched skirt. I will hit them on the cheeks with my webbed paws to keep them from falling asleep. Live, creature, yes, yes, I am addressing you, live, and may your spirit not be here among the dead until you answer all my questions.
3. What would you say to those people who have been described by others through hate speech?
Hello brother. Hello sister. We are creatures, fuckers, whores, fagots, cunts, burning in hell, hello, the ghosts of frail shaved guys in small caps are waiting for us in the courtyards, for every 1000 ghosts there is 1 real one, for every 10 000 bots there is 1 real one, it’s like in love - who will turn out to be your one, your dark soul mate, who is waiting for you at the entrance to tell you “bitch”, I don’t wish this kind of love on anyone. We were described - and we saw each other more clearly, we are also in these dark courtyards, creatures, fuckers, fagots, whores, chumps, we will come out of the darkness into the light to protect each other, to stand like mountains or trees, to recreate the landscape, so that good people from the windows of their panels can see what unplanned developments of mountains and trees can be, we will spread out like seas, we are like fish in water, waves are splashing inside us rocks, we have long since left the shores of human language, so it is difficult to describe us as whores and fuckers,
it's like shouting to water
that she came in large numbers
it's like shouting to the ground
that she gave birth
it's like screaming into the air
that he's here
TODAY SIBERIA SEPARATED
1
today Siberia separated
the birds froze
at the air border
the grass flared up along the contour
separated herself
became an island
became a phenomenon
abnormal subject of speech
conspiratorial echo
at that very second in Moscow I felt
earthquake in the heart
the steppe unfolding in my head
horsefly falling to the center of the palm
I felt it was time
return to Siberia
on other grounds
that I need another citizenship
that I'm in love
2
all the lovers flocked to Siberia
and it's so strange
usually people become migrants
because of the war
poverty
hunger
fear for your children
and citizens of Siberia
become for love
for love
for which there was no suitable place anywhere
because of the war
poverty
hunger
fear for your children
fear of being killed for love
3
Siberians are not afraid of love
don't judge each other
men kiss on the embankment of the mighty river
two pregnant women hugging and bumping their bellies
and laugh
they have a date
I know you're on your way too
and I'm waiting for you in our place
which one are you yet
never seen
4
assimilation of lovers in Siberia
happens easily -
now everyone there is in love
with rare exceptions
Siberia is even called the land of lovers
The Russian Federation is trying to stop the outflow of its citizens
but citizens join hands
and cross the border
but citizens look into each other's eyes
long and deep
citizens are not available
5
but sometimes you can hear it here too
“Have you seen these illegals?
they look like confused dangerous animals
That's not why we separated
so that they love each other here,
for our husbands and wives to look at this,
so that our children grow up in this love"
they say after these words
it was getting so quiet
as if all of Siberia stopped breathing
as if all the waters froze
as if all the grass was bending to the ground
and people
that people
and people just hold hands
and look at the speaker
long and deep
until he takes his breath away from everyone's gaze
until a person feels
that he separated
became an island
abnormal subject of speech
conspiratorial echo
until it appears in your mouth
wormwood taste
***
THIS MESSAGE (MATERIAL)
I kept it for myself, but lost it
CREATED AND/OR DISTRIBUTED
the place of action, the circumstances, it
RUSSIAN LEGAL ENTITY
was met earlier than by his own father
PERFORMING THE FUNCTIONS OF A FOREIGN AGENT
for such a memorable moment
AFTER THE SEARCH
I walk in circles and collect things
I pick them up from the floor, look and freeze
without recognizing
things taken out of context
by someone else's hands
things whose places
I can't remember
I'm trying to straighten the space
but during dizziness
all objects are torn out of place
and hang in the void
in the depths of hearing there is a sound -
this is the door breaking in my mother's house
there are photographs falling there in which
I didn't want to smile
there are clothes that I've already outgrown
books are turned out there, according to which
I learned to speak
loud and clear free and easy
loud and clear free and easy
loud and clear, free and easy -
this is when all the words are in their place
even after the search
when all the words are taken out of context
but not subject to
seizure,
inventories,
recess,
protocol
consequence,
to the court,
punishment
like this poem
face pressed to the floor
a security officer's boot
CHAIN OF SOLIDARITY
Masha
Kate
Christina
Pauline
Dasha
sleepyhead
Oksana
Lyolya
we stand
Nastya
we stand
Anya
we stand
julia
Cold
Julia
Cold
julia
warmer, warmer
we stand
like in physical education
we stand
first
we stand
second
we're sitting
in prison
not in prison
free
in prison
free
in prison
free in prison
loves
doesn't like
loves
doesn't like
loves
rose
mimosa
carnation
aster
chamomile
loves
doesn't like
Love
Lyusya
kira
Sveta
Karina
3 years
20 years
42
54
20.2
conditionally
ahead of schedule
we stand
forming words
which are not in the dictionary
Russian language
Russian
legal proceedings
will be conducted in Russian
you're Russian
speak Russian
you have a Russian name
Fatima
Laysan
gauhar
Leah
lily
Nailya
we stand
Dasha
sleepyhead
Oksana
Lyolya
Olga
we stand
Tell
is this a queue or what
Tell
why are you standing?
Tell
what's under your clothes
Tell
whose order is this?
Tell
who pays you for this
whore
bitch
scum
pussy
skin
die
we stand
close our eyes
very cold
Cold
warm
warm
warmer
wind
warm wind
warm salty wind
grass
warm grass
warm salty grass
gold suspension
silver web
we stand
we stand
girls are standing
pull the toe
stomachs sucked in
no girls stand too
keep
keep
we stand
warm salty lips
loved one's beloved
white strap
on a tanned shoulder
flowers are transmitted
from hand to hand
fourth month of pregnancy
a drop of sweat
performing on a flower
dry herbs imprinted on the skin
first day of menstruation, stone in stomach
insect caught in an envelope
drop of amber
drop in the bucket
letters to political prisoners
constellations
lined up
in one line
Dasha
Masha
Larisa
Nastya
Irina
we stand
across state borders
we stand
without feeling my legs
we stand
in prison
we stand
in different languages
we stand
and when we stand
every person is a step
each of us is a step
wind
grass
first swallow
gold suspension
silver web
***
spring-spring, two-headed girl, golden eagle
come out to us in a white dress with the imprint of someone else's shoe on your stomach
show me who hit you
look at his tear-stained face
until it splits in two
pick off the ice crust from each wound
so that the blood runs like a warm sprout through the body
to avoid a cordon
and a round dance
to break the ice
under the major's feet
so that there were thawed areas where the bodies lay
so that faces open for blows and kisses
so that we get infected by what we see
when our eyes met
so that we don't forgive anyone
and told everyone
***
I found out that I was mortal somewhere after forty
although at that moment I was even less than thirty
at what date does the line break today?
at which word should I stop and turn around and leave?
I loved a man, a man loved me
we dug up together the darkness of our family graves
like beautiful plants, they transplanted those
who, escaping from oblivion, grew in me both down and up
if you look into the sun, there will be a white spot
your face is hidden from me today
but I remember how you look at the text where they carry you and me
and when you close your eyes so as not to see him here
FREE TRANSLATION OF THE SONG BREAD AND ROSES
we walk freely
on this day we have no number
look, our song
like a wave, the palaces were swept away
everyone sees us, we shine
so that tears come out
we carry in the hem of our dresses
bread and roses, bread and roses
we go forward and with a song
and in my own footsteps
not because someone
gives way to us
men and I shared
and losses and threats
and now let's divide it among everyone
bread and roses, bread and roses
we are marching beautifully
among the dead and the living
voices merging ours
so that you can hear them
let outstretched hands
just tired of the pose
they do not contain a scepter with an orb -
in them we keep bread and roses
we walked freely
from start to finish
this is how they become united
those who were not in the palaces
everyone sees us, we shine
We ask questions here:
who hid from us for so long
bread and roses, bread and roses?