3 article(s) translated from Uzbek
The Stone Guest
Suhrob Surataliyev’s friends used to tease him by calling him Zurab Tsereteli. Suhrob was a sculptor by trade, but he was somewhat less of a household name than the popular Tsereteli, whose oversized monuments loomed over so many Moscow squares. Our sculptor Suhrob, instead, was a serious artist, and quite well-respected among the elite of Moscow’s art community. It had been forty or more years since Suhrob had come to Moscow, so he often imagined he was a child of this...
And my window flees Followed by my doors My chair is in a rush, too I’m left standing in the middle of a bare room The room can’t withstand the volume of the loneliness It starts shaking Badly Threateningly Urging me to leave, too But where to I can’t open my doors Can’t fly away from my windows The room leaves, too I utter these words: Mad marathon Mad marathon July, 2014
Lovers in Samarkand
(An old song that wells up in this poem) Before midday, round about eleven in the bazaar by the Boltabay post with its attached loudspeaker, the sun is just heating up. Like a wheel not hurrying to go out on the road of Ibodullah the gypsy, the tambourine, and after it the cymbals, flutes and the violin, the horses, saddles and reins, then a beauty in a palanquin and a voice looking out from under a veil... You breathe in the burning air, your lungs fill with the air of...