I Went Sick as a Child

By ARSENY TARKOVSKY

Translated by VALZHYNA MORT

 

             I went sick as a child

with hunger and fear. I’d rip the crust
of my lips—and lick my lips; I recall
the fresh and salty taste.
And I’m walking, I’m walking, walking,
I sit on the steps by the door, I bask,
I walk delirious, as if a rat catcher led me
by my nose into the river, I sit and bask
on the steps; I shiver this way and that.
My mother stands and beckons me, and seems
within my reach, but not:
I’d approach—she stands seven steps away,
and beckons, I’d approach—she stands
seven steps away.
So hot
I got. I unbuttoned my collar, lied down.
Suddenly the trumpets blared, light struck
my eyelids, the horses dashed, my mother
flies above the pavement, beckons me—
then she flew off.
Now, in my dreams
a white hospital stands in an apple orchard,
and a white sheet comes up to my throat,
and a white doctor stares,
and my white sister stands at my feet,
stirring her wings. And so remained.
And my mother came, beckoned me,
and flew off.
Arseny Tarkovsky (1907–1989) was a Soviet poet and translator who successfully published in the1960s through the 1980s. His poems are recited in his son Andrei Tarkovsky’s influential films Stalker, Nostalgia, and The Mirror.

Valzhyna Mort was born in Minsk, Belarus. She is the author two poetry collections, Factory of Tears and Collected Body. A recipient of the Lannan Foundation Fellowship and the Bess Hokin Prize for Poetry, she teaches at Cornell University.

[Purchase your copy of Issue 09 here.]

I Went Sick as a Child

Related Posts

Image of book cover

Kazakhstani Poet Aigerim Tazhi in Translation

Aigerim Tazhi
A shaggy cactus in the window / catches on the drape. A stinging / spine in the hand. Along the wall. / Don't step into a moonbeam, / Don't tread on a house-elf / Or any other living thing. / In the newborn darkness / Pushing away dreams and shadows, / Sit on a sofa, keep still...

Graffitied diamond

A List of His Flaws

PETER MISHLER
Single-headed. / Flowering inwardly. / Barely felt in the birth canal... / Cupped like a handful of sea uncertainly held. / Carried fire to the human encampment. / Herod in boyhood. / An herbicide. / Given name known to the weapons inspectors. / Anchorite.

Cover of John Freeman's "The Park," a black and white photo of park benches and trees

April 2020 Poetry Feature: Poems from John Freeman’s THE PARK

JOHN FREEMAN
Every Sunday belfry bats of dread / flapped in the day’s corners— / I raised my head at 25, at 30, then 35, / as the sun arced down, always / wretched by the coming dark. / I assumed it was the awakening / singular to humans: / one day, that day would be the last.