Poetry of Sergey Arkhipov

As seawaves anxiously across the coastline sweep I sink into the night, and fades my feeble lantern. The darkness whispers, soothing me, like fingers gently Caress an ancient volume still in age-long sleep. I firmly sheath the dagger of my anguish deep. As I construct the phantom bridge of dreams entangled, A ghost of me appears in dazzling magic mantle To see how startled you are despite the smile you keep. Your pupils are still cold and quivering with fright. There is no madness, trust me; for thus reigns the night: I am but in your dream, as you shall be in mine. Your elvish eyes are now and shall for evermore Be weaving spells on me, and never did before With purer astral light your long eyelashes shine.

Translated in 1992 by Serge Winitzki

Let him who seeks after knowledge be sad and never complain, For even his daring and fearless striving for truth is worth sadness. Those who I pity rejoice but are doomed to anguish and pain; So pitied are vessels at bay by one sailing the tumultous madness. Resting at bay is a mask, an asylum for those who believe That despite all their fear of storms they should try to seem useful. They are the feasting among the plague. They will never perceive That creations of wisdom of North become in the South untruthful, Just as the sweet melodrama of flattering warmth Would freeze into dangerous ice. And so after a halting, Hopeless attempt to recover the smile -- it contorts, And the terrible screenplay of anguish is swiftly unfolding. Which path should we choose to escape this unfortunate plight? To nowhere. Our servants and tinkling of goblets we borrowed Are vain. We sit watching the flames, feel the chilling of night And sink in the mist of twilit understanding and sorrow.

Translated in 1992 by Serge Winitzki

This city, whose name is like tablet of mint in my mouth Dissolving unhurriedly, as ringing bells spread their power; Whose merciful skies of the Baltic So easily hide from the nervously scurrying crowd The terribly infinite Universe; where the thick towers Are intently keeping from melting The ice of the heavens---it guards the centennial sleep Of stone and the flavor of old coffee-houses at corners And gates of burnt sugar and candy; Where hands touch the world's very pillars impregnably steep;--- This city, a haven of warmth, an asylum of order Forgotten by strangers defending Their lives against blizzards and winds; this fair-gold Rivendell Assumes the most pitiful fate of an overnight farm-inn,--- A place where I sit at the table And chat with the aging inn-keeper so tired of the smell Of dampness in streets, and lament that the winter is coming, That time now long past seemed so stable When people were more generous, and beer seemed more tasty and strong And pillows were softer than nowadays, and nights were so pleasant... But then I return to the mists and Twilights of the world of delusions to where I belong, Realizing that nothing will change there if I am not present, Just nothing, not even an instant.

Translated in 1992 by Serge Winitzki

This city where time is held still by the old clocktower's hands, Where the quilt of the heavens is sewn by the needle-sharp spires, And the lamps in the night Reverse the swift arrow of time to the yesterday's lands Toward wars long surrendered, and days of abundance, and fires Of the dawn -- same tired lights That playfully gilded the chapels when princes last reigned Or herzogs; this city is brimming with cosiness and sounds Of a language unknown. The carnival beasts have stood still as the centuries waned, The hour has been always the same, change of minutes announced By quick sifting alone Of sand. Stone-paved streets of this fortress resound their refrains, The vagabond echoing sounds haunt the valleys -- the words Of the speeches of yore. We leave the bright carnival for the dull slumber of lanes, As magical signs on an age-old cathedral point towards An eternity. For Our fate brings us back in a moment, but hours would be lost By time flowing hastily outside the cirle of towers And not crossing that line. We're bound to return. Unaware of a January frost, The organ is playing, the blizzards of Christmas are powerless, And the streetlights still shine.

Translated in 1992 by Serge Winitzki

The curvature of space and the wiggling streets blended. Our eyes relentlessly stare ahead, as we follow a path that became a spiral. Swallowed by a mirror pane that slowly solidifies, we take up playing "sages-and-prophets". Is this a game or the mirror's mere deception? do our words tear rifts in the smooth precession of stars? Curvature managed to drown the world. Space-time, when examined, shows tears in its canvas. Having smelled the springtide, a boisterous crowd sneaks in, toting all centuries and seasons intertwined. Each minute, another knight tumbles down from the gallery. In the old times they would fall far less often; in this climate, such tightening of their schedule would augur rebellion, would tell of the slow-witted living and glorious dead. In those days the cuckoo of time would fly up, its wings tossing the weather-vane, to old Thomas's tower. Lodged in rice straws, today his numb clockface drips time through the ruptures of space in a spiritless rain. The scene is quite empty, not counting us and the crowd. If a ghost of a vagabond yesterday craves a tomorrow and creeps through the pores--- so what! We descend to the city, to its gates, to that lamp-post where time warped: dance is over for us. You'll return to fun chores, as we mingle with the crowds and disperse through the carnival's sieve, juggle our voices and words, overlooking the sweaty mob's odor. We are busy with molding the truths into words. We can hardly perceive what it is we are saying. Your gaze follows us to the border; do smile us a farewell.

Translated in 1999 by Serge Winitzki