Vyacheslav Glebovich Kupriyanov (bilingual post)(por Corina Moscovich)

I met Vyacheslav in Rosario, Santa Fe, Argentina in 2007, when he came here in order to be part of a Poetry Festival. It was a little difficult to communicate, at the time he did not speak much English or Spanish. But still, we managed to have some conversations. Maybe the starting point was my last name (Moscovich) and a common love for poetry. 
Vyacheslav provided me with the picture and the following information about him, through email, and also some of his poems, translated by  Dasha C. Nisula. Enjoy!

Conocí a Vyacheslav en Rosario, Santa Fe, Argentina en 2007, cuando vino aquí para formar parte del Festival de Poesía. Fue un poco difícil comunicarnos, por entonces él no hablaba mucho inglés o español. Sin embargo, nos arreglamos como para sostener algunas conversaciones. Quizás el punto de partida fue mi apellido (Moscovich) y un amor común por la poesía. 
Vyacheslav me envió por email la foto, y algunos poemas suyos traducidos por Dasha C. Nisula.

Viacheslav Kupriyanov. Nació en Novosibirsk, Rusia, en 1939. Ha traducido a poetas alemanes. Estudió Cs. Técnicas en Leningrado y Alemán en el Inst. de Lenguas Extranjeras de Moscú. Miembro de la Unión de Escritores de Moscú y la Unión de Escritores Serbios. Publicó trabajos en Inglés (“In Anyone's Tongue", (London & Boston: Forest Books, 1992, dual text, Russian and English), Alemán y Polaco. Obras: Primera Persona (1981), La vida continúa (1982), Homework (1986), Eco (1988/1989), Poemas (1994), El tiempo mejor (2003).  Ode para el tiempo (2010)

Aquí un link de su información suministrada en 2007, cuando participó del festival de poesía de Rosario. http://www.festpoesiarosario.com.ar/edicionesanteriores/2007/home.html ¡A disfrutar!

Vyacheslav Glebovich Kupriyanov was born in Novosibirsk in 1939His first published works were translations of poetry from German (Hölderlin, Novalis, R.M.Rilke, Hoffmannstal, B.Brecht, G.Grass, Enzensberger, Hans Arp, Erich Fried) and English (Walt Whitman, Carl Sandburg).
Kupriyanov studied technical sciences in the High Navy School in Leningrad (1958 - 1960),  and graduated in 1967 from the Moscow Foreign Language Institute (now Linguistic University), section of math linguistics and German (1967). He is a freelance writer, a member of the Moscow Writers Union, and a member of the Serbian Writers Union.
His published works in poetry include: "First person", 1981 (Moscow), "Life goes on", 1982 (first free-verse poetry published in Russia after the Second Wolrd War); "Homework", 1986; "Echo", 1988, 1989; "Poems", 1994; “THE BEST TIME”, 2003.
His published works in prose include: "The shoe of Empedokles" (Novel), 1996, 2000 (Moscow), and short stories (including science-fiction) published in various magazines. His translated works include: In English:  "In Anyone's Tongue" (London & Boston: Forest Books, 1992)(dual text, Russian and English); in German: "Moist manuscript" ("Das feuchte Manuskript", Roman), 1991, Alkyon Verlag, "Der Schuh des Empedokles", 1994, 1999; Poetry: "Sober echo", 1986, (LCB-Edition); "Challenge to flight", 1990;  "How to become a giraffe"; 1991, 1999;  "Monument to the Unknown Coward", (Delp Verlag, 1990); "Eisenzeitlupe", 1996, (awarded first place prize in Südwestfunk-Bestenliste, 1997); »Short Stories of Eurasia«, Alkyon Verlag, 2001, “Mitlesebuch 96”, Aphaia-Verlag, 2006; In Bulgarian: "Unknown Wonder", 1987; "The Oase of Time", 2000; in Polish: "The Circle of life", 1986; in Serbian: "Singing lesson", 1987; "Report on an angel" (awarded Library of  European Literature Prize, 1988). “The Heaven of earth”, “Branko-Radicevic-Prize” – 2006; in Dutch: "The feelers of earth", Leiden, 1988; in Tamil (Sri Lanka): "Modern poems", Colombo, 1988; in Macedonian: "Singing and thinking lessons", Struga, 1999.  
Here are some websites with information in Russian and in German:
The flash of the birds' flight
Translates to somnolent scurrying of the fish
And back
From the ancient language of fish
To the contemporary syntax of the birds' flight
And so on
From the dark language of the ocean
To the clear language of the sky
And back
Be more interested
in the quantity
of souls
per head                     
of population

the quantity of brains
per capita

the quantity of ideas
per brain

the quantity of opinion
per idea

the quantity of rumors
per opinion

the quantity
of lies
per quantity
of truth

be more interested
in conversion of quantity
into quality

For 300 years
Russians claimed
oppression by the Mongols
who it turns out
were just delivering the mail
for 300 years
Russia received letters
it couldn't read
that's why Moscow
had to be burned intermittently
in order to free itself from the darkness
of unread letters

finally Ivan the Terrible
went East
took Kazan and began
to send letters West
to the runaway Prince Kurbskoy
these terrible letters
were answered by Peter the Great
from Holland overseas

then Catherine also the Great
arranged a connection with the better world
of Mr. Voltaire then Napoleon
the very Bonaparte in continuous burning
of Moscow helped introduce
the elegant French epistolary style
for nobility so as not to confuse
the common folk
too early with
freedom equality and fraternity

With better delivery of mail
Decembrists sent their letters
about reforming Russia
from Siberia to awaken
Herzen in London
they were answered by
Vladimir Ilych squinting his  
farsighted Mongolian gaze                   
from Geneva from Zurich

then the October Revolution
came to pass
as an inevitable consequence
of Mongolian mail
as an Eastern
reply and a challenge to the West

in the next 300 years
something will come to us as a response    
from the West
by electronic mail 
When my ship moors at the shore,
a poem will come ashore with me,
To which before only the sea was listening,
as it was competing with the call of the sirens.
It will have only soft vowel sounds,
That sound like this in pale translation
From the language of roaming to the language of mooring:

I love you with the hoarse cry of the seagulls,
With the scream of the eagles, flying toward the scent of Prometheus' liver,
With a thousand year silence of the sea turtle,
With a click of the cachalot that wants to be a roar,
With a pantomime, executed by the tentacles of the octopus,
Before which all seaweeds stand on end.

I love you with all my body coming from the sea,
With all its rivers, tributaries of the Amazon and the Mississippi,
With all the deserts, considering themselves seas,
You hear their sand sift through my desiccated throat.

I love you with all my heart, lungs and the medulla,
I love you with the earth's crust and the star-studded sky,
With the fall of the waterfalls and conjugation of verbs,
I love you with the invasion of Europe by the Huns,
With the One-Hundred year war and the Mongolian Horde,
With the uprising of Sparta and the Big migration of people,
With Alexander's column and the Tower of Pisa,
With the speed of the Gulf Stream to warm the North Pole.

I love you with the letter of the law of gravity
And the sentence of the death penalty,
To the death penalty through the eternal fall 
Into your bottomless Bermuda triangle. 

Contemporary man
extends himself through the wire
together with the murmur of the sea
jams himself into the shell of the telephone       
compresses himself
seeks immortality
on a phonograph record
becomes a sea monster
a prisoner of the television aquarium
he becomes more portable
more compact
more contemporary
already he can be switched on
switched off
made louder softer
he doesn't see you
doesn't hear you
he doesn't know you  

MASS MEDIA          
the great ocean
runs between
the east and the west
Super highway
all the borders
The world's sense
of moderation
is in transatlantic
is natural
like a window in a house

like the glass in a window

like the world beyond the window

like science

appearing at the juncture
of rising and
declining knowledge
Russia sleeps in cold dew
and dreams
that it is America:
its chatterers are congressmen
its loafers are the unemployed
its hooligans are gangsters
its drunkards are drug addicts
its profiteers are businessmen
its Russians are Blacks
and it must fly to the Moon

Russia awakens in cold sweat
everything appears to be in place
chatterers are chatterers
loafers are loafers
hooligans are hooligans
Russians are Russians
only it must land   
in the right place                                                                                                                                                  

and Russia again falls asleep
and stirs a Russian idea -
that America sleeps and dreams
that it is Russia  
All this is reflected:

Sisyphus is pushing his rock
Icarus is falling into the sea
Prometheus is chained to a cliff

while carelessly rollick
indifferent nymphs
and apolitical fawns
in ecstasy
of a fleeting life

all this is reflected
in the blood-shot
single eye of Polyphemus

that is just about to be gouged
by a wanderer
seeking his homeland
North America
still hasn't slipped
into South America

Asia Major
still hasn't crushed   
Central and Asia Minor

Europe still hasn't fallen
through the Mediterranean
onto free Africa

Africa still
hasn't been swallowed
by the Sahara

Icebergs of Antarctica
haven't succeeded in
merging with the ice
of Greenland

Forces of gravity
still surpass
armed forces

The political map of the world
hasn't been destroyed
by the physical map
Oh, half past six!
Oh, quarter to seven! Oh, five to!
Oh, seven in the morning!
Oh, eight! Oh, nine!  Oh, ten!
Oh, eleven, twelve, one!
Oh, lunch break! Oh, after-
noon nap! Oh, after
the afternoon
of the faun! Oh, the last news hour!
Oh, horror! Oh, supper hour! Oh,
the last straw! Oh, the last cloud
of dispersing storm! Oh, the last
leaf! Oh, the last day
of Pompeii! Oh, never!
Oh, after the flood! Oh, half past
eleven! Oh, five to!
Oh, midnight!
Oh, midday!
Oh, midnight!
Oh, hit! Oh, miss!
Oh, Moscow time!
Oh, Greenwich time!
Oh, for whom the bell tolls!
Oh, the hour strikes! Oh, the happy ones!
Oh, half past six!
Oh, half day!
Oh, half night!
Oh, five to!


Los amarillos
los negros
los blancos

la sangre nuestra
es igualmente

basta de

Versión: Pável Grushkó  


 La poesia
es natural
como la ventana de casa

y artificial
como los cristales de la ventana

como el mundo fuera de la ventana

y consecuente
coma la ciencia

que surge dela conexión
del albatemática
y la ocasologia


Poemas –
del sol

Poemas –
cristales de nieve
hara los que anhelan
la neive

Poemas –
camplanillas blancas
para nos hartos
del invierno

Poemas –
bajo cuyas sombras
hay luz

En mi cara
reuní todas las caras
de mis amantes

Quién me dice a mí
que no soy

El cielo nocturno
sobre nosotros -
es el diurno
cielo de los seres celestes:
las estrellas –
en las manos de un innúmero
en una infirma via
en busca
del hombre

De un toque de pincel
a ti
de pie en tiniebla de horizontes,
te dibujo
en tamaňo natural

El espacio vacio
entre nosotros
se esculpe
por la gravitación de nuestros labios:
la única palabra
gue puede pronuciarse
entre dos.

Para la memoria de las olas del mar
pasó sin huellas
la edad media bajo velas
(sin contar los tesoros sumergidos)
viejos mundos de remos
pasó sin huellas la prehistoria
(sin contar los hunidados continentes)
la ola de los descubriemientos geográficos
rumoreó  tan sólo en la tierra firme
el mar no se altera
o por mucho que lo fustiguen
o lo cubran de bombas
(incluso en los abismos)
el mar nada recuerda
y nosotros
unos a lo profundo
otros un poco menos
todos entramos con alegria de vivir
en el agua conmovida sin cesar
y renovadamene incomovible.

En l desierto del espacio
el oasis del tempo
es clara fuente
de inspiración

Miramos en ella
como en un espejo

lo que

para tener la fuerza
de ir
donde no hay nada que ver.

El reflejo del sol

en el esanque
es mas
que el proprio sol

La orilla
en la que estás
es más amplia
que el universo.
No me dibijo
en el marco
de serenos

El viento
sopla de las montaňas

Me ahogo
en mares y ríos

Tomo el pincel
y me fundo
en el cielo.
para no rumper
el silencio

Os calláis
porque ba

Ellos callan
porque no saben

Hablemos pues
sobre lo que
hernos callado
Una bez
inventar alas
y volar
de maňana

o simplemente
a cada
una pluma

é ň á í ó

Y una ves encontró
aquella muhacha
y dijo que se acordaba de todo
como si fuera ayer
y por eso le ira agradable
cualquier hoy.

Ella dijo
que algo hubo una bez
pero después hubo esto y lo otro
y por ello era extraňo
que él se acordara de algo.

El dijo
su memoria
envuelve lo que se enquentra atrás
en una luz inextinguible
sin la que
no hay encuentro.

Y ella sonrió
ahora me acuerdo
tú fuiste siempre
un tanto extraňo.
versión de Jose Reina Palason
de la libertad:

Los más peligrosos
hortadores de microbos –
son la gente
que ha sufrido la enfermedad
del amor

Los corazones humanos
se atraen uno a otro
pero les ponen barreras
los salvoconductos
los portamonedas
los billetes

Las manos humanos
se atraen unas a otros
pero las retiran
las bolsas de compra
las carteras con papeles oficiales
los relojes gue siempre adelantan

La gente quiere caminar
uno hacia el otro
pero les separan
los empetuosos trenes y aviones
y los hemisferios del globo terrestre
gue se desgajan

cuyas fronteras
pasan por el corazón
de cada uno
versión de Justo Jorge Padrón

Florece la Tierra
como una violeta
sus pétalos se separan más y más
Pero luego se desprenden
Los hombres recordarán con tristeza
la maravilllosa primavera pasada
cuando los separaban
sólo el mar
y las fronteras
Traducción del ruso: Marta Shuare

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