Venya Gushchin

Summer 2024 | Poetry

Three Poems

sonnet for cincinnatus

 

my cincinnatus you do not require

sonnets, yet they                      this one comes as yet

 

another, caught, the ageold wave                    and still

 

sign stiffly panting after signifier,

making a point of                     without making a dent in

 

the graphosphere’s                  arid hills:

 

i want the air to be a page i want

the air, a film of heat upheld unheld,

to hold my fresh and arbitrary lot

of fragments

                                    vain attempts to freshly tell

a

beach   hence the fragments   hence the sonnet

comes apart     the                  parking lot      the hardest

 working eyelids my cincinnatus your

eyes hold the first and whole and first

beneath your lids hence i

supply you only all

                                                            that’s secondary

 

July 23, 2023

  

 

 

latecomers

 

about                           the reservoir you make all nouns

obsolete. pronouns became irrelevant shortly before, when

hand took hand took face took hand took neck took lips

took arm took cheek took lips took shoulderblade.

                       

                                                the sleeping dome

 

obscured still comforts, intoning that the shiftless

resignation to cliche is merely

recognition, the way we recognize

 

ourselves in other latecomers to the park.

the park is over            after    all                     like the need to make

distinctions in the dark, we all limp

 

behind the end of history. but you

upon abolishing all substance aim next                       glint in your

eye to add another post-

                                                                        the lampposts

 

wink as friends, neighborly lawns gently nudging

ribs: won’t you look at

                                                             those two

 

February 13, 2023

 

 

 

begun on an airplane

 

a crush is a religious sort of feeling.

 

the one’s afar, approached and only reached

 

in arches, contemplation, smoke. indeed,

 

as reached, the one is promptly dragged to being

 

both for and in. i sit with my window, feeling

 

objective, like the poem is not invented,

 

but comes discovered, its old form slowly

 

summing to zero in late august. what started

 

as a thrifting of scholarly robes has pulled

 

the canopy from our dirty mirror: i am not in

 

love. keeping time across measure lines, i am

 

all duty leaving for others the chance to unite

 

theory with praxis, icon with lips

 

August 20, 2020

 

Venya Gushchin is a poet, translator, and PhD Candidate in Slavic Languages & Literatures at Columbia University, writing a dissertation on the late styles of Russian Modernist poets. His translations of Vladimir Mayakovsky and Elizaveta Mnatasakanova have received the Columbia University Slavic Department Pushkin Prize. Blockade Swallow, selected poems by Olga Berggolts translated by Gushchin, appeared from Smokestack Books in 2022. Most recently, his translation of Yevsey Tseytlin’s Rereading Silence was published by Bagriy & Company. His writing has appeared in The Rumpus, Full Stop, Jacket2, Impostor, and elsewhere.

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