Maria Galina
trans. by Sasha Dugdale
Seven POEMS
[He drank his milk hastily, kept separate]
He drank his milk hastily, kept separate
the cream for the spy, the reprobate
who was a little distressed, the crazy freak.
Took her some old stuff, some bread.
They got nothing from her, not a word,
not even under duress, as she couldn’t speak.
From his strategic watchpoint, what a view
before them, sky unblemished, not a scar in its blue.
He fetched a sigh, his breast heaved
but she stood silent, unmoved,
the cold wretch, although
she was hardly old.
It smelt of catnip by the end of the day
and the mosquito danced in the sun’s last ray,
but there were no houses, no fire smoke above,
and he so wanted to feel loved.
To hear someone say his name.
When she looked at him with her mad eye,
and when love sap trickled down her thigh,
and when she lay there by his side.
It was still fearfully lonely.
It was so fearfully lonely.
[As usual she sets the table for four]
As usual she sets the table for four,
pours fresh water in the cat’s bowl.
They’re late again, she says, but they’ll soon be at the door.
Everything’s getting cold, but they aren’t far now.
A furtive glance at the window
where the cat sits waiting, washing a white paw.
Dust covers the photograph on the sideboard,
and the stuffing from the divan seeps onto the floor,
needs stitching up, but those silly children are late.
Late for dinner, but it’s not too late,
and she wraps the pot in thick wool
because that way the food won’t cool.
Not so fast, anyway . . . but the cat is no fool
And pities her and sadly washes, washes its white paw.
[Old woman in the midnight calm]
Old woman in the midnight calm,
why fly through the sky
with a broom under your arm?
The earth is asleep, so why the low swoop?
Why loop the loop?
Because I’m an old woman, and flying solo.
and black figures glance from their tenement
and green figures lie on sand although
the firmament hangs on a filament.
Yes, I, an old woman glide
like a meteor through the sky,
because Kant
did not want
me to bring down the skies.
He whithers and wanders
like a fool moon,
and his name is scurrilous,
and he scurries, the buffoon,
so fearsome, so unsure,
in a nightshirt and no more . . .
[hey diddle diddle]
hey diddle diddle
the cat and the fiddle
played a good tune
and the little brown cow
flew up to the moon
and there was made into
a brand new creature
and mooed on the moon
for somebody soon
to come and milk her
and where is my dog
he barks on the moon
and guards the cow
that nobody now
will ever milk
and where is my cat
she mews on the moon
and grandmother said
she was better off
there so I too later
will be on my way
to stroke my cat
in the dish of a crater
An Unsuitable Climate
We have such an unsuitable climate
that all the peripatetics
choke on snow
sink to the depths of this endless black winter
without
managing to say anything sensible
We have such an unsuitable climate
that Diogenes with his interminable cough
moved from his damp container
under the lagged duct pipes
to the fields of asphodel
a long time ago
We have such an unsuitable climate
that Dante and Beatrice
flew to Thailand on their honeymoon
after only a single wedding night
and never came back
they live a happy life there
and never write us a word
We have such an unsuitable climate
that the cynocephalus and the cyclops
have moved in from the edges of the Earth
to colonise the rubbish tips
of industrial zones
and speak as we do
are in fact indistinguishable
totally indistinguishable
from us
[From the top floor windows of the former townhall]
From the top floor windows of the former townhall
at exactly seventeen thirty, the view is of
planes, coming in to land
landing lights, the purity of their beam
(mounted in the wing root in close proximity to the fuselage, in their power
and range they are like the full beam on a car. White light
with a narrow spread, focused on one point)
and all the various buildings
constructed to no obvious end
and the airport building itself, the pride of our region.
We gather at the window at approximately seventeen twenty.
Stand silently, smoking, no one now in a rush.
We wait for the lights to come on in the arrivals hall.
Sometimes we bring women and children, but not often—
the women weep, and the children just don’t understand
what it is roaring and flashing in the sky
circling round and then disappearing again.
A few moments, after all. And then it’s over. Emptiness again, and the wind
that wasn’t caught in windsocks
chasing the dust and the waste through the ruins.
A strange sight, yes, but it captivates.
And so every evening at seventeen thirty we stand and watch.
I imagine it is something to do with the atmosphere’s memory
after all the atmosphere must have a memory of some sort, mustn’t it . . .
[London Bridge is falling down falling]
London Bridge is falling down falling
in the collapsing sky it rises to its fullest
and the mirror of waters gathers to a fist
How many fading stars are cast
in your eyes
O my darlin’
From underneath, comes a bawling
Hurry up please it’s time
dockers and brokers
and the rest of the watery slime
and London Bridge is falling
my people humble people calling
London Bridge is still falling
a shallow perch for angelic toes
down below the water comes and goes
the fairest that was ever known
crimson flesh and whitest bone
O my darlin’ O my
Maria Galina, born in 1960, is an award-winning writer, critic, and translator. A graduate from Odessa University majoring in marine biology, she took part in several sea expeditions. Her fiction contains a strong element of magical realism with gender issues being the core focus of her attention. She has been nominated for the Russian Booker and short-listed for the Russian Critics Academy Award. Iramifications was awarded the International Portal Prize.
Sasha Dugdale is a poet and translator. Her most recent translations include the play Bad Roads by Natalya Vorozhbit, produced by the Royal Court Theatre in 2017, and Maria Stepanova’s poetry and prose. She was shortlisted for the 2020 T.S. Eliot Prize for her Deformations, her fifth collection of poetry.