Boris Kokotov, editor, Welcome to the Smashing Center
excerpts
Welcome to the Smashing Center Publisher: Adelaide Books Date: August 23, 2022 Length: 201 pages ISBN: 978-1-958419-28-1 |
The book includes poems, flash stories, mini-drama, and selected translations into English of contemporary Russian poets. Below are excerpts representing these genres.
A review by Richard Rose accompanies this excerpt.
A Segue
To memorize names,
like Heidegger or Xenakis,
insert them into your poem -
they wouldn’t escape a collage.
You will discover a pattern later,
and maybe others
will figure it out reading your text
or listening to Tetras glissandi --
the same record you were listening to
in a car driving at night
to the house of your lover, the cellist,
who recklessly said that mating
music with poetry borders incest,
and you argued: poetry reveals being,
borrowing that line
from the German philosopher
your lover never heard of.
Does it really matter since poems
are fading as quickly as names,
almost as quickly as love?
* * *
TRR
This is my first posting here. I am not an interstellar traveler like most of you. My line of work is construction. I am happy to be where I am, having a job and many friends, supervisors like myself. Usually, we talk sports. Last time, though, the topic was TRR. Imagine that! I found the subject of that conversation worthy of sharing with a new crowd, so I put together a few sentences. Now you have a chance to cast a glance at them.
The father of contemporary art, Amadeus Amateur, was a beach sculptor. He created stunning images on an ocean beach using sand as material and a rake as the tool. He had a few hours a day to complete the thing and photograph it before a tide would come and erase it. His followers went further by not taking photographs, while Amateur’s were lost or maybe destroyed by zealots. As result all we have for contemporary art today is empty beaches. Collections of ancient art, however, still reside in museums, most of which are closed, just like libraries. Working hard three hours a day two days a week, we barely have time for twitting; forget about paintings and books! We do love sports. Watching games constitutes the ultimate delight available to humans. There is widespread belief among us that the Afterlife is nothing else but endless and uninterrupted games-watching.
That is, of course, a simplification. According to orthodox doctrine, the Afterlife happens to people when they cease supervising, which, as you know, takes place at the age of ninety. It is the state of permanent bliss. We have the proof of it: nobody has ever returned to continue working! The Afterlife is available to all, but what kind of bliss an individual gets depends on his or her Social Security Score. Fair enough, I think.
The doctrine is vague on the subject of differences between the Afterlife and the Beforelife. These two aren’t the same, that’s for sure. While nobody comes back from the Afterlife, everybody comes out of the Beforelife, eager to escape it by all means. Still they have something in common; we’re just unable to figure out what it could be. Shouldn’t even try. As one of the wisest Supervisors famously said: "What difference does it make today?"
I’m almost done with the posting. In a few minutes, a tide will come and erase it, leaving the page blank. Tabula Rasa Rules! This is the motto of our civilization, and, in a deeper sense, the motto of the Universe. Look at the sky with many constellations pinned to it. Such a beautiful view! But a gigantic tide will rise and sweep the place clean: no stars, no nebulas. Isn’t that inspiring? I think it is. Let’s not be afraid. Let’s go with the tide! TRR! TRR! TRR!
* * *
Poetry Reading at a Local Library
MODERATOR: Our next and final guest for tonight’s event, Ramon, will read his poem. Afterwards we’ll have five to ten minutes for a discussion, and then the meeting will be adjourned. I’ve already introduced the author at the beginning of the event, so please welcome Ramon.
(Thin applause from a dozen people sitting on folding chairs in a small room of a local library.)
RAMON: Good evening, everybody; thank you for coming. The poem I am going to read is called “Live Lobsters on Sale” and, sure enough, it’s about lobsters. They are fascinating creatures, you know. I mean, all creatures are fascinating, but not all of them are on sale, at least not in our supermarket.
(Chuckles)Live lobsters on sale
“Can I help you with something?”
Staring at lobsters in a fish tank,
a dozen of them crawling slowly,
climbing on top of each other,
not fighting though, their claws
held tight with rubber bands...
“I don’t think so,” I said,
“It’s like bird watching.
A pity they cannot sing.”
“I see,” the saleswoman ventured,
“No seafood for dinner tonight?”
“Right,” I said, “Just bread,
cheese, and olive oil.”
Why did I say that? In truth
chicken with rice,
a glass of red wine, maybe.
She’s already turned away
busy wrapping fish
for another customer.
“Good night,” I said,
chiefly to the crustaceans.
RAMON: Thank you for listening, thank you!
MODERATOR: Any questions for our guest? Any remarks?
A MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN raises her hand: I’m Jennifer. I like your poem, Ramon. I think, however, your descriptions are not very innovative. For instance, as soon as “lobsters in a tank” are mentioned, a listener immediately has in her mind the whole scene, and the details you provide, like “climbing on top of each other” or “their claws are rubber-banded” add nothing to the picture. Same thing with the saleswoman. We are told that “she gets busy serving another customer.” but that’s exactly what any salesperson usually does, isn’t it?
RAMON: I see your point, Jennifer. Well, thousands of verses have been written about, say, spring. Glistening grass, blooming flowers, birds making nests, and so on. By your logic, as soon as the word “spring” is uttered everybody has imaged it; why provide any further details? But a spring-verse is not necessarily about spring. “Spring” isn’t the picture; rather it’s a frame. For something else. And a frame should not be innovative.
AN OLDER MAN: I am confused. Why did the narrator lie to the saleswoman about what he will have for dinner? It seems to me there is no reason for that.
RAMON: People usually lie to hide something or to impress somebody. Same here. To him, the lobsters are captivating animals; to her, they are just “seafood”. So he says, “bread, cheese, and olive oil” — veggies only. Kind of making a point. In fact though... of course he will eat chicken!
A WOMAN: Ramon, “good night” was said “chiefly to the crustaceans.” Why not to her?
RAMON: It is late evening; the supermarket will be closed soon. Most of the lobsters will live through the night, not in a very comforting environment, but still alive. To them, being alive is very important. So the narrator feels compassion for them. He also feels compassion for the saleswoman: she’s been all day on her feet, and she’s not young anymore. By the end of her shift, she’s cooked. But she has certainly had her share of “thank-you” and “good-night” from customers. The lobsters haven’t.
A MAN: I thought she was trying to be personable, even playful. But your protagonist kept his distance. To me, the last sentence sounds not as a nice gesture toward crabs but rather a cold rejection of her. Is that how it happened in real life?
RAMON: The “real life” is inside the poem, not outside. Poetry is retroactive. But it does not recreate or replace an actual event. Rather it fills in blanks. Crabs, by the way, weren’t on sale that night.
MODERATOR: Okay, last question, we are almost out of time.
A YOUNG GIRL (jumps to her feet): Are you sure lobsters can’t sing? Whales and dolphins, for instance, can. Fish also make some sounds, we are just unable to hear them...
RAMON: I agree. The definition of the word “song” could be stretched to embrace the entire spectrum of noises any living creature — alien races included — may produce. Then it would be reasonable to propose that lobsters, at least some of them, are singers like, say, a mockingbird. Expect a small surcharge on those individuals.
MODERATOR: All right, thank you, Ramon. Thanks, everybody for coming and participating. Good night.
(Muffled applause, sounds of chairs collapsing. The room becomes empty in no time.)
* * *
Childhood, Adolescence, Afterwards
by Nikolaj Reber
|
From shaky memory as bottomless as coma, — translated by Boris Kokotov |
Copyright © 2022 by Boris Kokotov
