About the Author

From the book Kliazma and Yauza
From the book The Wild Rose  
From the book Tristan and Isolde
From the book Old Songs
From the book Gates. Windows. Arches
From the book Stanzas in the Manner of Alexander Pope
From the book Stellae and Inscriptions
From the book The Iambic Verses
The Chinese Travelogue
From An Unfinished Book
From the book The Evening Song
From the book Elegies
From the book The Beginning of a Book
From the book The Wild Rose
Legends and Fantasies
(1976 - 1978)

The sick man woke up. But before he did
a huge headache got up,
like a triton blowing up a storm within.
The storm, echoing on all sides,
stayed and sang, closing eyes.

And where he scarcely could perceive
some trifle, a part of the token,
she was looking. Like a lash
she raised her eyes, which had never liked to look,
but saw in such a way that the objects finished.

If he succeeded in helping
the objects, caught up with that illness,
then he saw himself exactly
as a hero, rescuing the princess,
as a constellation that rescued another constellation.
As though he had climbed seven hundred steps,
freeing a woman prisoner on each one,
and now he approached his cradle
and chose himself, like a thing from things,
and suddenly fell, letting go that thing.


No, it was not light, not light,
not that which I remember and think of remembering.
I believe that there where I am not
I will meet myself, like wondrous advice,
which I don’t even want not to fulfil.

I feel the ancient connection of dream-sleep
with all who were and did not fulfil the task to the end.
I myself disappear and I am one of you.
I listen to a long and coherent tale
in the huge paradise of the most deep body.

As in a house which was once open,
where it seems everything disappears for ever,
but someone is reading and the lamp is burning,
and its light is talking in the future tense,
and this caresses the closed eyelids.

Oh, how good it is for you in my heart,
how you are not here, how I remember and know
your voice, living like a ruined house,
and the wind, the wind booming over it,
the icy mountain of your corridors.

I think that illness is a unique teacher,
teaching how to lie on the sledge that flies by,
into the iron will, into its sieve,
and twice and thrice to disappear to prove
that –the heart is uncountable as gold.

My destiny is warmed by a hot hand –
a most empty thing that always got lost –
but now they take it out and look at the light
and see: to love you where you are not
is an unprecedented success indeed.
Richard McKane
The Wild Rose
Second Legend
Sixth Legend
Seventh Legend. Death of Alexis the Roman Saint
Selva Selvaggia
Now in warm gold, in broad bindings...
Preamble to the Song
Strange Journey
The Flight of the Prodigal Sun
Night Legend. The Nun’s Funeral
Candlemas Day
Names fly out of the magical horn...
Cat, Butterfly, Candle
Water: The Peasant Woman
Eight Octets
In The Mood of Leopardi
I carry two books, as I go I am leaving...
We shall walk slowly and listen attentively...
I often dream of death offering...
Legends about ascetics are similar...
I cannot make them stop their music...
Three Mirrors
Farewell Wind
Somewhere in the corner of a neglected illness...
Journey of the magi
Mountain Lullaby
Morning in The Garden
The Cat’s Look
Azarovka. A Suite of Landscapes
Portrait of the Artist in his Picrure
Tenth Legend. Jacob
Eleventh Legend. Supper
Twelfth Legend. Sergey Radonezhsky
Magic Stone
A Faible
“I raise the radiance, like a fallen hand...
The Old Poet
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