Endarkenment: Selected Poems (Wesleyan Poetry Series)
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Major collection by a contemporary Russian avant-garde master
Endarkenment Wesleyan Poetry Eugene Ostashevsky Translated by Lyn Hejinian, Genya Turovskaya, Eugene Ostashevsky, Bela Shayevich, Jacob Edmond, and Elena Balashova Foreword by Lyn Hejinian Endarkenment Edited by p o e m s ARKADII DRAGOMOSHCHENKO s e l e c t e d Wesleyan University Press | Middletown, Connecticut Wesleyan University Press | Middletown CT 06459 | www.wesleyan.edu/wespress | © 2014 Estate of Arkadii Dragomoshchenko | Foreword © Lyn Hejinian | “Dragomoshchenko’s
grandmother’s small garden. These were the apertures through which he made his first conscious observations of the world, irregular circles of sensation. They were portals, but they became over time, emblematic, too, of the aporias that puncture consciousness and that neither knowledge nor speculation can ever fill. The polyglot city and the holes in the fence proved to be dual points of departure for Arkadii’s poetics; they also appeared in one of his first letters to me. “My youth went by in
for migrating southward, from the foliage which the October chill unlocked at touchdown in the reflection of wan confessions: once he said that “his heart is broken observing the bird in gossamer depths”; we will remind you: reflections were of little interest to anyone, to see—even now—means to become what you saw. Who didn’t we become . . . contemplation of time turned into the most delicate sand running through a woman’s fingers, which we also had the occasion of being, as well as other
Hejinian. | pages; cm.—(Wesleyan poetry series) | Includes bibliographical references. | isbn 978-0-8195-7392-6 (cloth: alk. paper)—isbn 978-0-8195-7393-3 (ebook) | I. Ostashevsky, Eugene, editor of compilation, translator. II. Hejinian, Lyn, translator, writer of added commentary. III. Turovskaya, Genya, translator. IV. Shayevich, Bela, translator. V. Balashova, Elena, translator. VI. Edmond, Jacob, translator. VII. Title. VIII. Series: Wesleyan poetry.
cistern, its depth over your head (you would have choked on water) and the breadth just so, no higher than the waist, so that the little boat seemed to be made of bread, and later, empty years passed, lean as the rafters of a fire. Was it not the obvious end that drove you not into the raspberry brambles but the dry leaves, to the scythe’s swing through the clover. Were you crying when you understood that the voices didn’t reach you. That is, they did reach you—called you to supper, to come