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Best Famous Andrei Voznesensky Poems

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by Andrei Voznesensky | |

MODERN NATURE

 Red cows 
 on the asphalt road have settled.
Lazing on the asphalt pan they lie.
We drive them round for cows are sacred! They are loyal to the highway, we wonder why.
"Old herdsman, we want our question answered: Why have the cows gone mad?" "God forbid! The point is that flies do not like asphalt.
" Those modern cows! The are wise indeed! They got it, the sly ones! Cattle of genius! Unlike the poor, unfortunate flies.
"The flies know that asphalt is carcinogenic.
" Those modern flies! They are really wise! © Copyright Alec Vagapov's translation


by Andrei Voznesensky | |

THE SONG

 Sailor, my dear, my heaven-made spouse! 
 There is one thing that I beg of you, man: 
 Kiss any strangers, and give them your flowers, 
 love many women.
But, pray, don't love one.
These are the words that I send with my letter, piercing land after land they will moan; stay there as long as you wish, and you'd better love all the countries, but, pray, don't love one.
Give me a whistle -- when tired of roving.
Held in sweet bondage, or about to drown, play with your life as you wish, when you're roaming, but don't ruin ours because it is one.
© Copyright Alec Vagapov's translation


by Andrei Voznesensky | |

RUSSIAN-AMERICAN ROMANCE

  In my land and yours they do hit the hay 
 and sleep the whole night in a similar way.
There's the golden Moon with a double shine.
It lightens your land and it lightens mine.
At the same low price, that is for free, there's the sunrise for you and the sunset for me.
The wind is cool at the break of day, it's neither your fault nor mine, anyway.
Behind your lies and behind my lies there is pain and love for our Motherlands.
I wish in your land and mine some day we'd put all idiots out of the way.
© Copyright Alec Vagapov's translation


by Andrei Voznesensky | |

ABUSES AND AWARDS

 A poet can't be in disfavour, 
 he needs no awards, no fame.
A star has no setting whatever, no black nor a golden frame.
A star can't be killed with a stone, or award, or that kind of stuff.
He'll bear the blow of a fawner lamenting he's not big enough.
What matters is music and fervour, not fame, nor abuse, anyway.
World powers are out of favour when poets turn them away.
© Copyright Alec Vagapov's translation


by Andrei Voznesensky | |

RUBBER SOULS

 I hate you, rubber souls, you seem 
 to stretch to fit any regime.
They'll give a yawning smile, stretched wide, and, like an octopus, they'll draw you tight.
A rubber man is an elusive rogue: a fist gets sucked into the bog.
The rubber editor is scared of script, the author is bogged down in it.
A rubber office I used to know where "yes" was stretched to courteous "no".
I pity you, elastic crank, as if erased, your past is blank.
You have erased many a passion, many a thought, but you were happy and excited, were you not?.
.
.
Above the waist you are a cowardly man, an ace of spade, and an unlucky one.
.
.
© Copyright Alec Vagapov's translation