Cherubic

I took my daughter Kelsey to the train

station. As the train was leaving, we waved

and waved to one another. I never saw her again.

She went on to become the fi rst woman on the moon.

How she got there nobody knew. And she never

came back, as far as I know. And she never wrote

me a letter, she never called. I just hope she’s

happy, my moonbeam. Every night I’m at my telescope.

I’ve seen dinosaurs, snow leopards, fl amingos.

I saw a one-eyed dog wagging its tail. I saw a

mail truck. I saw a sailboat, but, of course,

there is no water. I saw a sign for water pointing

to the earth. I saw a sign for hamburgers

pointing to the earth. And I saw a little girl

fall off her tricycle. A poof of atomic tangerine

dust, that’s all. I never saw the girl again.

The tumbled tricycle’s wheels kept spinning.

Sleep, I said, sleep, little baby.

Never Again the Same

Speaking of sunsets,

last night's was shocking.

I mean, sunsets aren't supposed to frighten you, are they?

Well, this one was terrifying.

People were screaming in the streets.

Sure, it was beautiful, but far too beautiful.

It wasn't natural.

One climax followed another and then another

until your knees went weak

and you couldn't breathe.

The colors were definitely not of this world,

peaches dripping opium,

pandemonium of tangerines,

inferno of irises,

Plutonian emeralds,

all swirling and churning, swabbing,

like it was playing with us,

like we were nothing,

as if our whole lives were a preparation for this,

this for which nothing could have prepared us

and for which we could not have been less prepared.

The mockery of it all stung us bitterly.

And when it was finally over

we whimpered and cried and howled.

And then the streetlights came on as always

and we looked into one another's eyes –

ancient caves with still pools

and those little transparent fish

who have never seen even one ray of light.

And the calm that returned to us

was not even our own.

The Workforce

Do you have adequate oxen for the job? 

No, my oxen are inadequate. 

Well, how many oxen would it take to do an adequate job? 

I would need ten more oxen to do the job adequately. 

I'll see if I can get them for you. 

I'd be obliged if you could do that for me. 

Certainly. And do you have sufficient fishcakes for the men? 

We have fifty fishcakes, which is less than sufficient. 

I'll have them delivered on the morrow. 

Do you need maps of the mountains and the underworld? 

We have maps of the mountains but we lack maps of the underworld. 

Of course you lack maps of the underworld, 

there are no maps of the underworld. 

And, besides, you don't want to go there, it's stuffy. 

I had no intention of going there, or anywhere for that matter. 

It's just that you asked me if I needed maps…

Yes, yes, it's my fault, I got carried away. 

What do you need, then, you tell me? 

We need seeds, we need plows, we need scythes, chickens, 

pigs, cows, buckets and women. 

Women? 

We have no women. 

You're a sorry lot, then. 

We are a sorry lot, sir. 

Well, I can't get you women. 

I assumed as much, sir. 

What are you going to do without women, then? 

We will suffer, sir. And then we'll die out one by one. 

Can any of you sing? 

Yes, sir, we have many fine singers among us. 

Order them to begin singing immediately. 

Either women will find you this way or you will die 

comforted. Meanwhile busy yourselves 

with the meaningful tasks you have set for yourselves. 

Sir, we will not rest until the babes arrive.

Family Sorrow

I was alone in the house reading the evening

paper and sipping a glass of sherry when a note

arrived by courier informing me that me that my brother

had been hospitalized. He had fallen from his 

horse and was paralyzed. This struck me as funny

on two accounts: 1. I have no brother, and 2.

he has no horse. Nonetheless, I changed into my

tragic suit and quickly caught a taxi. At the

hospital "my brother” looked awful, but was exceed-

ingly happy to see me. I kissed him on the brow

and struggled to hold back tears. After a brief

chat, the nurse came in and injected him with some-

thing that made him turn green. "For the pain,”

she assured me. He began to smell like Walt

Whitman, so I crawled home, pausing only to sniff

at passing dogs and policemen.

Переклад Остапа Сливинського. Куратор та редактор розділу – Олег Коцарев

Перекладено за виданнями: James Tate. Lost River, Louisville 2003; James Tate. The Eternal Ones of the Dream. Selected Poems 1990–2010, New York 2012. 

Photo © James Tate at his home in Pelham, Massachusetts, in 2011. Photograph: Christian Science Monitor/Getty

---

Остап Сливинський (нар. 1978) – поет, перекладач, критик, есеїст. Автор чотирьох поетичних збірок, понад сотні есе, колонок, рецензій, оглядів в українській та закордонній періодиці. Твори перекладені 15-ма мовами.

Перекладає художню і наукову літературу з англійської, білоруської, болгарської, македонської, польської, російської мов. Серед, авторів, яких перекладав, є Дерек Волкотт, Чеслав Мілош, Анджей Стасюк, Ольга Токарчук, Ґеорґі Ґосподинов.

Був координатором Міжнародного літературного фестивалю в рамках Форуму видавців у Львові (2006–2007), співкоординатором фестивалю «Дні перекладу» (Київ, 2015). Брав участь у багатьох літературних та перекладацьких фестивалях в Україні і за кордоном.

Член редколегії польсько-українсько-німецького літературного часопису «Радар» (Краків). Викладає історію польської літератури у Львівському національному університеті ім. Івана Франка. Ініціатор і учасник синтетичних мистецьких проектів і перформансів.