Russia. Tatiana Terebinova lives in Moscow and in Otradny (Samara). The poet is a winner of the Moscow International Free Verse Festival (1996). Tatyana Terebinova, "The fire of Universe", 2019. - The book is translated into English and Mandarin. DICTIONARY of WORLD POETS ASSOCIATION And WORLD LITERATURE ACADEMY. ROMANIA, 2020ã. "Kanye and Mani". The Encyclopedia of Poets of the World, the Arab World and Various Art, 2020. Samara Historical and Culturen encyclopedia (1995). WORLD INSTITUTE FOR PEACE APPOINTS AMBASSADOR FOR RUSSIA, HONOURED HER WITH WORLD ICON OF PEACE WiP. (2019).
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Òàòüÿíà Òåðåáèíîâà-burning in the snow rowan berries-("The butterfly of your palms")- Rus-to-Eng
Youri Lazirko Þðèé Ëàçèðêî
Translation:
burning in the snow rowan berries
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The butterfly of your palms
is on my shoulder.
You flying fingers
like thin branches of highness
pouring on me
the pollen of flowering moments.
To guess in the dark
the black suns of your eyes…
Fate acts for us
some paradise scene
on the hell stage
where everyone has their own prayers:
at the breath of fire and touch of dewdrops
at the wings of waiting and roots of flight.
The sea with an expression of a creek's face
speaks to me.
Your soul – a swallow
which likes to be caressed.
Your tenderness –
burning in the snow
rowan berries.
Crickets of moments rage.
In your eyes
glows the aura of my dawn.
.
Ïîðòðåò õóäîæíèêà. Àâãóñò-Rus-to-Eng
Þðèé Ëàçèðêî
Translation:
A portrait of an artist. August
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The catcher of predictions, losses, and dreams…
The despair catcher of the vastness…
In the yellow river of autumn birches
The renewed soul’s hiding-places are reflected –
When it sings at dawn with turrets
And vociferous roosters
About a thin blade of the horizon spikelet.
The heavenly dawns’ icons are lit in you.
O’er the true story of yours - golden dust,
O’er the dust - devilishly-angelic fervor.
Today you are a cemetery watchman-prophet,
Or the holy Magdalen.
You light a candle in the labyrinths of soul
From the celestial abyss of fire.
.
Áðåéãåëü Âðåìåíà ãîäà-Rus-to-Eng
Þðèé Ëàçèðêî
Translation:
Pieter Bruegel the Elder – Seasons
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It’s night. The string of rays is melted here.
The moon is tenderer, while cheekbones – sharp.
O’er the forest the black bluing dangles near.
An old man taps with his more ancient cane and carps.
Some dogs are barking, gnaw the getting colder chains.
Discomfort is divinely naive as early summer rains.
And over us, so many stars got their chance to shine.
A chilly wind burns eyes through temple yards.
A silver sturgeon – catch it, have some fun in mind.
The fishing for those slimy and green tenches starts.
And darkness breathes on a merry hail again.
There is some painting art – the houses entertain.
A fish is in the sky, a fisher on the shore.
I can’t save sadness with its only seal.
O’er the sandy spit geese fly, I’ll wait for more.
In murky groves, the spirits of the mermaids chill.
Right through the veins, a clear flame will rise.
And sweeter than from moonshine – sleep in paradise.
So rise from that damp ground, that’s enough to lie:
For sweeter than from moonshine – visit paradise.
So rise from that ground – where we could go or fly?
Just burn out, the star wormwood opening’s eye.
And secretly on the wave of the dusk we float,
In the tussock scatter the stars and forget the load.
What is leading you, what warps your fear?
How about to put on leash affection?
What a knotty snake which twists around you here.
In deep ditches heather ligature’s perfection.
So you’ll find vague forces in yourself again.
And the earthy bush will come in prayers then.
And the night will breathe in gloomy tides
Till the crest of star start falling down.
Bring the smoke and spell – whatever’s right;
For entire August – stars’ north wind’s around.
Not so cool your friendly ties and might:
Recognize, persuade me – you have clouds to slide.
Fading, I am fading in stone steps,
Like a beast, dumbfounded by a flag.
And again a mountain bathes in the sky, then naps,
Yet in vain the heaven in wild mirrors sags.
Pure azure is pouring into soul maze dorms,
Overflowing slightly, looking for big storms.
A young woman flexes the sky’s splashes in a pond.
And the wind comes from high mountains – what a peaceful swan.
And a bush the brown skin is still alive and found.
Oh, unknown yet beast, please sing about the earth in grief till dawn.
You will see the woods that hold the morn in fragments of the dreams.
And a boat of moon swings all around, it seems.
Here in the houses snow of celery gains smell.
Make more space right here with a feather’s swing.
Make the orange daybreak for the plowmen well,
And a nameless icon as a gift please bring.
An old mill grinds minutes roughly – joy of tears-beads.
And the tree of laces – drags convoy of streets.
Shutters with runes' prayers open eyes for us.
Let the wanted tempest rage with the wildest gust!
.
Ñàä íàñëàæäåíèé-Rus-to-Eng
Þðèé Ëàçèðêî
Translation:
Hieronymus Bosch. The Garden of Earthly Delights
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The sky
is not yet wounded
by a dawn.
But the rocks,
in anticipation of a different fate,
rush up heavenward
with their peaks.
The shore sleeps,
resting its chin
on sand.
A mollusk-muscled fountain
froze for a moment
like a living pyramid.
Animals and birds
are enchanted by a musical pipe.
An unicorn catches
its reflection
in water
for the last time.
In a green garden
the Pensive Creator
releases
the Star of Adam
and Eve to sorrow.
.
Äðåâî - Rus-to-Eng
Þðèé Ëàçèðêî
Translation:
The Tree
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The sky prays on you with the bottom of the abyss.
The ways of roadlessness run away to you.
Numbers and letters
complain to you and growl,
as well as future shouts and angry looks of tongues,
so as manners of an adverbial mob.
Thoughts of words flow in streams of fire.
They exclaim to you, the free cornflowers
and giving birth rye,
descending into your heart with their umbilical roots.
You are above all – the Tree of Life!
.
Tatyana Terebinova
.
"you are laurel burning in fire"
.
you are the rain of waiting over me
you are my mysterious darkness and purring aura
you - predict me and carefully forget
you are the blood of my naked fire
you are the skin of my cosmic soul
you are the body of my bottomless breath
you are the sweat of a newborn
you are the milk from my chest
you are the joy of dying bitterness
you are the sadness of my laugh
you are a rainbow over the groves of my senses
you are the frost on the eyelashes of anxiety
you are the hunger of my unknown ways
you are the saturation of my vortex
you are the bird on the branch of my hand
you are my impatience to inhale
you are my tear on your cheek
you are the wings of my recognition
you are the laughter and the hop of insights
you are my cry and captivity over the stone of insensibility
you are the search for dew in the hot desert
you are a pearl in the shell of my bottomless soul
you are my strength and meekness in the palms of god
you are my soul look around in a dance of fire
you are my madness in the game with the universe
you are my legend, the parable of all reasons
you are my mind when i burst like a petal
you are noble laurel, burning in the fire of my ether