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Yuli Gugolev

Yuli Gugolev was born in 1964 in Moscow. He is a translator and the author of two books of poetry: Polnoe. Sobranie sochineniy [Complete Works] (Moscow: OGI, 2000) and Komandirovochnye[…]

I look for the resurrection of the dead.

A Jew hears about the three wishes and sayst to the

golden fish, “I want a Rolls-Royce, a house in Florida, five

million euros and a beautiful, young, complaisant wife with a

great body—that's number one…”



You know very well how it goes on:

Caught unawares by late-night gloom,

Converastaion and verse dwindle to silence,

But nobody has the will or resilience

So late at night to start clearing the room,

And the hostess, herself stifling a yawn,

Brings the teapot to the table again.



“My time's up, gang. Got to hit the road.”

“Yes we'll be going…!” “Look, more tea?”

Now I can't help thinking about it,

I have trouble containing myself, a wish:

“Look for, me?” “The resurrection of the dead.”

“Of course!” And having made my bargain

Like the Jew in the joke with the golden fish:

“That's number one,” I throw in right away.



The books are asleep, maybe the time

Has come for us, too, to rejoice as seed

In the loam of the flowerbeds of Orcus.

You're saying, no need to be bedridden?

So what do we make of this holy mess?

And why do we tuck ourselves in, then,

Like letters into empty envelopes?



Who was it then keeping tabs on us?

And why do we crawl, yawning, into bed?

Waiting for—

The resurrection of the dead.

There's only one line in the world up here,

You see, but not yet completely alive.

 

I look for the resurrection of the dead.

A Jew hears about the three wishes and sayst to the golden fish, "I want a Rolls-Royce, a house in Florida, five million euros and a beautiful, young, complaisant wife with a great body—that's number one…" You know very well how it goes on: Caught unawares by late-night gloom, Converastaion and verse dwindle to silence, But nobody has the will or resilience So late at night to start clearing the room, And the hostess, herself stifling a yawn, Brings the teapot to the table again. "My time's up, gang. Got to hit the road." "Yes we'll be going…!" "Look, more tea?" Now I can't help thinking about it, I have trouble containing myself, a wish: "Look for, me?" "The resurrection of the dead." "Of course!" And having made my bargain Like the Jew in the joke with the golden fish: "That's number one," I throw in right away. The books are asleep, maybe the time Has come for us, too, to rejoice as seed In the loam of the flowerbeds of Orcus. You're saying, no need to be bedridden? So what do we make of this holy mess? And why do we tuck ourselves in, then, Like letters into empty envelopes? Who was it then keeping tabs on us? And why do we crawl, yawning, into bed? Waiting for— The resurrection of the dead. There's only one line in the world up here, You see, but not yet completely alive.