Helena Boberg
Translated from the Swedish by Johannes Göransson
                                                                                                      I drown
                                                                                                      in the day
                                                                                                      with a
                                                                                                      slowly
                                                                                                      rolling wave
                                                                                                        in my head
                                                                                                    The mundane
                                                                                                    :a gap

An undecided transparent
gray atmosphere
                  the concepts cannot reach

        Then I returned
Gaze mute
        from all the impressions without meaning

                                                                           I won’t be here much longer

                                                                                            High summer rain
                                                                                                             and blue
                                                                                            eyes, one of which
                                                                                                     has darkened

                                                          Charred
                                                        Served
                                                        as an oyster
                                                        between lust
                                                        and madness

Small warm bodies
fall off
like pinecones
or eggs

                                                                                                                           Topple
                                                                                                       through a window
                                                                                                        let yourself hatch

                                                        Not yet ready to fall

                            The entire tree crown
                            contorts
                            from vertigo

                                                                          loses its fruit
                                                                          at the mere touch

Lose yourself
I say

                                                                        Everything begins
                                                                        and ends
                                                                        at exactly
                                                                        the right time
                                                                        and place
from the book SENSE VIOLENCE / Black Ocean
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The Silver Age of Russian Poetry

"The Silver Age of Russian poetry is an artistic period that dates from the very late 19th century and ends in the 1920s. It implies a wide range of poets, genres and literary styles. There is even a broader notion of the Silver Age of Russian culture that includes avant-garde art, theater, cinema, photography and sculpture."
 
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