WANDERER (So, one day, following sleepy roads)

Image credit: Slava Korolev

I have not posted here for a while. First, I was busy with an exciting - but very time consuming - project for Oxford University Press. Then my mom was visiting, and I took a well-deserved break from work to enjoy Chicago during the precious weeks before the heat wave. (Although the cicada madness made that a tad difficult. If you are in Illinois, you know what I am talking about!)

My plan and hope was that I would be then able to do some writing and video-making before new paid tasks knock on my door. For better or worse, I have not had much time to focus on my personal projects - copyediting gigs are already piling up. Before I got sucked back into the vortex of work, I was able to make this short video based on an old (probably, from about fifteen years ago) poem that I wrote while still living in Russia.

I had no plans to leave Russia back then, yet now it is evident that this poem predicted my future. Back then, it seemed impossible. I even wrote it from a perspective of some male narrator - I was probably imagining an immigrant writer like Nabokov. You can hear that only in Russian, where verbs in the past tense are gendered. 

See the video or read the text in Russian (original) and English (translation) underneath. Special thanks go to Slava Korolev, who kindly allowed me to use his photos, and to Maarten Schellekens, whose beautiful music always fits perfectly the mood of my poems. 

TEXT IN ENGLISH (translation)

So, one day, following sleepy roads
Covered with autumn leaves,
Not hoping anymore to be forgiven,
I came back to my old city.

There, streetlights gleaming through their eyelids,
Streets were arching their backs.
The city was hiding something behind its doors.
Bridges were swaying slightly in the emptiness...

I have seen this city so often in my dreams...
Perhaps this city is just a dream?
I will wrap myself tighter, pop my collar,
And step onto the unsteady sky.

TEXT IN RUSSIAN (original)

И однажды по дорогам сонным,   
Устланным осеннею листвой, 
Не надеясь больше быть прощенным, 
Я вернулся в старый город свой.                 
​                        
Там, блестя сквозь веки фонарями,                         
Выгибали улицы хребты.                                       
Город что-то прятал за дверями.                             
Чуть качались в пустоте мосты...       
                              
Мне так часто снился этот город...                           
Может, этот город – только сон?                              
​Запахнусь, и подниму свой ворот,   
И ступлю на зыбкий небосклон.