domingo, 18 de septiembre de 2016



Galina Rymbu (Omsk, Rusia 1990).  En Omsk realizó sus estudios en la facultad de filología y teología. Actualmente es estudiante en el Instituto de Literatura Gorkogo. 

Sus versos han sido publicados en las revistas “Deti Ra”, “Volga”, “Sibiriskie ogni”, y en publicaciones electrónicas tales como “Novaya realnost´”, “Alternatsya”, “Znaki” y dr., en los sitios “setevaya slovesnost’ ” y “Na seredine mira”. 

Fue parte de la short-list del premio “Debyut” en 2010, finalista en el premio “LiteratuRRentgen” (2010), obtuvo el segundo lugar en el Slam de Moscú (2010) y el Gran Premio en el festival “molodoi literator” (Jóvenes escritores) en la categoría de poesía. 

Traducción del ruso, Indira Díaz Hernández.


todo fluye: la palabra del órgano,
la oscuridad de las tinieblas
que avanzan a nado por la habitación, por las personas,
dentro del flujo — el deseado aburrimiento (¿de dónde proviene? ¿de mí?) —  y
el cálido rojo sobre el blanco, descansa, — “Todo es horrible, maldición” pienso, — “el mundo es como el mundo”.
hasta que ellos vengan a tomar su turno en la historia
por la historia todos pasan, los recibe así,
sin hacer nada,
inyectando su mundo (sin fluir) en el mío­ — el mundo es como el mundo
hasta que yo caiga, es espantoso (sí, bueno) — el tejido del cuerpo
y por encima la tela; lo que piensas tú— no tiene importancia,
de todos modos, piensas como un carnicero, así piensas, es claro—
detenido en su turbio tiempo o manejando la política a su conveniencia,
mirándose, fluir cobardemente, ­—
aunque también…


все вытекает: слова из
органов, темнота из темноты
движется вплавь по комнате, по лицу,
внутри течения — желающая скука (откуда это, из меня?) и
теплое — красное на
белое, лежу — «жуткое все, жопа», думаю, — «мир как мир».

пока они приходят поочередно в историю,
в истории все ходят, хозяйничают такие,
яйца чешут, впрыскивают свой мир (не текут) в мой — мир как мир,
пока я лежу, жуткое (ну да) — ткань тела
и поверх ткань; что думаешь ты — неважно,
все равно думаешь как мясник, думаешь ясно —
остановился в своем мутном
времени или лопатой гребешь политику под себя сам,
оглядываясь, трусливо течешь, —
хоть так…

Galina Rymbu was born in 1990 in the city of Omsk (Siberia, Russia) and currently lives in St. Petersburg. She has published poems in the Russian Journals The New Literary Observer, Air, Sho, and in the Translit series. Her essays on cinema, literature, and sexuality have appeared on the internet portals Séance, Colta, and Milk and Honey. She is the author of the recently published collection Moving Space of the Revolution.

so lightly touching my tongue to your tongue . . .
the dream breaks off suddenly:

we buried our weapons in the ground
the lightning approaches with a crack
the advertising hoardings are about to crash down

pushing my tongue deeper to your tongue’s root
and the cool, sweet roof of your mouth

the stirring scent of spring and the rumble
of the first world war. then, without a subject,
they produce an individual utterance
with the question: who is speaking?
I: who is kissing us as long as
the dream lasts? we are trapped in history.

one bell and
puffs of smoke fall out into the open
look, my burning house, the summer right behind
mixed with blood
it knows in wide moments
where your pain is, how it hurts
to gather tears off a cheek, a collarbone, with your tongue.
at night, in the ditch, in bed, where the flashes are,
where blood speaks, you can cry with me,
close your eyes in distortion.

the closeness of thunder, when
the ribcage is white hot,

as if meeting by chance in the hallway, by touch,
running my tongue across your neck…

hearing orchestras in the distance, cannons,
falling into madness, is it possible to recall
when it all began, beyond any concrete markers of time,
like a bee swarm, it stings,
leaving one alone, to cry, and the other, inside this swarm,
falls to her knees.

Translated by Jonathan Brooks Platt
May 2015

vague sounds of distant night clubs, the bass notes
wring out reality like a wet sponge. migrant
skeletons in the half-dark move fresh earth in wheelbarrows.
some guys, angels no doubt,
are hanging about as the people pass, whispering something
in the language of the insane, masturbating in parks. spring is here.

to be in love without desire, to desire without
sense, when you knock at your neighbor’s door, like it’s your own,
but no one’s there, you drown out anxiety with cheap
cocktails, get mixed up with suspicious guys,
telling them everything like it is, though they could be Putin Youth members
or just sympathizers of the regime, while the ones standing in the dark
dressed similarly—may be Stalinists,
you ask them for a light.
you spit out blood, in the toilet of an internet café
you write a short post about it, and you scream into the little puddle of puke,
my revolution.

my revolution in Russia
in this peculiar place
on boards grown damp from rain and time
by abandoned gatehouses
and dusty shop windows,
where love hollowed out a heavy boat for itself
from my body, to sail off on a journey
across your cold seas,
to look into your white pupils.

making no effort to find light, or anything there that might bring you more strength.
lacking all possibility of loving more loves, with trembling hands
holding a teacup at breakfast, squeezing out, “leave, go away,”
locking yourself in another room or just hanging around in squares, in the metro
with a few bad books instead of foreign philosophy
trying to feel something out in the shadow of your decline
falling into insignificant sleep
scrambling in the shadows of what’s disappeared

where are you
have been looking for you for a long time
waiting for you for a long time

Translated by Jonathan Brooks Platt

I want to send you an excellent gift,
when the heat pierces the dry trees,
it’s a western—the gravel, the brown dust quivers,
rising over this scorched place, when
troop carriers pass by the abandoned industrial zones,
strewn with red caviar.

Maybe I’ll send you a letter, make contact, get mixed up in it once and for all.
Here it is, the fire’s started—the doors of the clouds open wide, and out
roll the guillotined heads of the Bonnot Gang.

History, sing your wrath.
Are you that little girl in the sticky panties, who
stands in front of the mirror, putting on
powder and blush.

Are you that little girl
the one with her black and pink, icy gob wide open,
who climbed into bed with everyone
playfully singing a patriotic song,
rubbing anti-fungal creams on her feet,
you piss and spit into a special pot
by the bed.

Turn around. Think about my gift,
think about weapons in general,
think—how strange,
only a couple of days ago—
there was no mention of blood.
But the party is still going on somewhere
Night, the hum of voices, meat roasting, a little beer…

History, sing your wrath!
Let everyone in Moscow now look at the black sky
with its huge moon.
Why is the rage in our hearts so watered down?

Where “Russian, be afraid” rules the ball, where no one sings of freedom anymore,
where 60% of the population is dying from the “small public deeds”
of a few compunctious bureaucrat intellectuals,
where my little friends, little boys, who were born in 1990—
Are dead!
The provincial cemetery is swollen with wrath.

Remember them. My gift will come in handy.
Tomorrow, or now—
it will serve you very well

Translated by Jonathan Brooks Platt


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