1 year of Bernhard; for the better or for the worse

Hey guys, I know it's been like half-a-year since it has been my one-year anniversary on this awesome forum, but I've just logged on (haven't been active in months) and I am happy to be back. I wonder what I've missed.  :)

Comments

  • Better late than never... Happy Regday, Bernhard!

  • Thanks ha ha 
  • You've missed so many things. Westerners complaining about immoral Slavs, Billy Mays selling Oxi Clean and so on...
  • "Irina" disliking any where there is a Russian person...
  • @Bernhard Welcome back! I hope you stay around and add something new to the conversation here at Slavorum.  :)

    Please accept this welcome back gift for me to you. A poem by Ukrainian poet Serhiy Zhadan. :)

    POLISH ROCK
    by Serhiy Zhadan, 2002

    Falling asleep, she remembered the river –
    somewhere in the caverns of sleep, where she started to forget his face,
    the freezing river glistened bronze from its center,
    although snow covered its current;
    later old post-war locomotives crawled out of the mist 
    and workers came out in their blue denim overalls.

    We wound up on opposite sides of winter,
    and the announcer’s voice, caught in a random taxi
    reminds you
    of the eighties when the radio
    was full of Polish rock:
    rock’n’roll -- mechanics in train depots listened to it
    rock’n’roll flew over the Carpathian Mountains,
    leaking into the air somewhere near Rava-Ruska;
    our country is not big enough for us to miss each other,
    our air space is not vast enough
    for us to listen to different kinds of music.

    I think that if a direct link to God existed
    it would be through the help of 
    warm brown covers
    containing Polish rock records
    with narrow grooves cut by god’s nails
    on their black fields;
    you can see his vinyl skin,
    you can feel his strawberry blood,
    washing off the dust and
    wiping the cuts
    with a sponge soaked in vinegar.

    Birds frightened by the wind
    calm down and assume their places
    in the spaces between her heartbeats,
    without knowing, what she sees in her sleep,
    or who she is forgetting in the middle of the dry river bottom;
    her life’s baggage – beauty marks on her skin and
    tram tickets in her jacket pockets;
    soon winter will roll from one hill onto the next
    and the hot weather will come,
    when so many things grow from the earth,
    that the air has to rise up a little higher,
    to avoid touching the long tall stems
    that grow out of nowhere and stretch towards nowhere
    just beneath her window.

    translated from the Ukrainian by Virlana Tkacz and Wanda Phipps

  • @Karpivna Thank you  :) nice poem
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