Issue Fifteen | Spring 2016Long Poem Magazine wwwlongpoemmagazine.org.ukIssue Fifteen Anatoly Movshevich | was sixteen when I read Jules Renard’s words ‘What I write is lke letters to myself that I would then permit you to read.’ I'm still fascinated by this phrase. To address yourself, you need to be away from yourself. The poem is called “The Strange Feeling’: in some ways almost every feeling can be called strange. Of course sometimes in life ‘we can say definitely ‘I'm happy’ or ‘T'm miserable’, but often what we experience is more complex. Poems are indeed like letters to yourself. The places that are important to me suddenly emerge on paper. I's the world of litte towns and villages around Moscow, old streets of Riga, that seem to have come back on their own, against my ‘ill. Light inside a hazel bush or a path by the river appear in front of my eyes; [remember voices but can't decipher ‘words. Yet the fecling is so strong that it needs to be shared. (Anatoly Movshevich) This sequence, ‘Strannoe Chuvstvo’ in Russian, opens Anatoly’s book Molchalivy Golos (which means ‘silent voice’) and is about 350 lines altogether: these are Anatoly’s own selections. The Russian is clear and simple, but the mood is elusive and the haunting of his personal experience had to be precisely captured, so as well as showing my versions to his daughter "Tatyana in London (1 always need to check with a native Russian speaker), for the final translation I consulted the poet himself when he was over here. (Peter Daniels) from THE STRANGE FEELING Anatoly Movshevich, translated by Peter Daniels ‘We do things, say things, discuss the problems of our sinful world, ‘and with such emotion and confidence as if in fact we were interested. So many people around, I've almost forgotten what a human face looks like Tm used to itall, and accept itll. But one day the stream of time formsitsef into a funnel that instantly sucks you down to the depths. Its okay if you've managed to gulp some ai, and then the underwater current swill carry you up to the surface, ‘And you see the world, that has come to exist just once. ‘And you understand suddenly how frail the constellations are, but how boundless a drop of water, flowing down the vein of a leaf, inhaled by another, secret sky. 22 | Long Poem Magazine You remember: once you came into this world together with me. ‘This world is only ours in the midst of nobody's universe. What can threaten it? ‘There are no disasters that can destroy it. But there's an incomprehensible something hiding in each of us. Asecret bitterness, deep in the solitary heart. Living in this world ‘you must follow unwritten rules, And these rules hhave to be observed unswervingly. And probably the most important: never reveal yourself in anything. ‘The skill t0 be not yourself you master from the very frst days Almost everyone around will help, and you'll soon be making progress. But it’s not for nothing I say “almost”. ‘There are 90 few of them, the ones for whom you exist as your own self. You could say simply: “The ones for whom you exist.” But anyway, there are still the clouds of evening, ‘worn out things in an abandoned room, the sea wind sometimes shivering in the windows on a narrow street, ‘tree by an old fence. Abriar rose by a window. And maybe something else that I don't want to talk about. Issue Fifteen, Larnive at a space emptied of time. Dark glasses, everyday things, along snowfall, ike a letter torn into tiny shreds. Maybe that’s somebody calling, or an incomprehensible ‘or — more precisely — uncomprehended prophecy. roam around my own past and suddenly find I'm in the hallway of a spacious apartment. can hear happy voices and see a woman, close yet strangely distant. She looks somewhere and smiles at somebody. Darkly glimmering ‘minutes are passing Now she utters unremarkable words ‘or simply nods her head. ‘And then the world that’s all around me at once begins to vanish from before my eyes. ‘What do they change into, the trees and walls, the transparent jug, and the frosty ai? Now its all changing, the whole world, and losing sense and meaning. But she keeps on simply looking, and says nothing with a bewitching halfsmile. ‘Trees and snow come back into the world where everyday time continues just the same. But sometimes in life ‘moments arise that look very much like crossroads. Long Poem Magazine | 23Issue Fifteen “An outdoor café in an old neighbourhood. ‘Alitde way away, a small pond. ‘Te birds are strangely large fr the centre of town Minutes before sunset, the prophecy comes tue ‘And the strange renunciation fof someone and of something "The wet windows of the houses ‘Accold colour, and the colour of lilacs ‘But the tall poplar is ike ‘an old abandoned lighthouse ‘A man in.a wicker armchair, apparently expecting something, His thoughts are tangled up with numbers, che splash of water, adoomed voice, astonishment and fright inthe ait. ‘And yet the emptiness, in which he loves at times to sit silent ‘Expectation changes the ar. Expectation changes the city Expectation changes the colour of the voices you hear everywhere. “Andin the space there suddenly aises an invisible narrow door ‘Can itbe that someone's going te open i But let's Ieave him in peace. Let him finish his coffee. He needs a while alone. tn spring the air brings to mind an invisible window and you look into the time that hasn't happened. And struggle to remember a half forgotten face. 24 | Long Poem Magazine Sill, someone's amused and someone's annoyed by my chattering. But always fewer, the ones I can stay silent with ‘And not long ag° while I did up my old tie Teta fleck of sunlight fall and elt a strange coldness where the space was shattered. Somebody called me, Dut I coulda’t answer 1 went along the frosty path along tough and solid ground “To be free from the world, what could be better? went out to the pond and in the cold water, almost covered witha scab of ie, all at once [saw a bust of lame ‘an inexplicable, delicate building burned inthe water {stood there looking a the col fire Atthat moment, outin the world, somebody did away with himself