rxmediworld.com, buy #kngwnvpnxj online, generic #rsJsere without prescription, generic #KjhdyHf, buy #yadkdhjf no prescription

The Misadventures of Quinxy von Besiex truths, lies, and everything in between

18Nov/120

The UnElected Day

The UnElected Day

My every day is the desperate

(and only partially successful) attempt to

think the right things (

1. limit my awareness to only what i can bear, ignore most of life's everpresent horrors

2, think of myself and all in ways which allow me to act without unreasonable cost

3. find a reason to cautiously invite tomorrow ),

and insodoing somehow

produce something

to satisfy those who employ me,

appease those who rely on me,

engender all others,

and if I am  lucky, perhaps be left with a scrap or two of joy

or at least a peaceful absence of hurt.

- Taras Zaitsev (translateion QvB)

19Nov/090

The Undying Day

A letter from comrade Zaitsev to a lady:

Dear Natalya

You stayed the weekend, we had our pleasant  few days. I walked you to the train, where you hugged me a little too tightly and for a little too long.  I was happy, delighted by the sudden strength of the feeling behind it, until you looked up and revealed that in it was goodbye. You did not feel strong romantic feelings for me. I was doubtful, too; we are different. But I was enjoying you, and those little romantic feelings I was having, and I'm sad that you weren't, quite enough.  I didn't expect anything of an us; I was still exploring you in pleasant minutes, not plotting hours.  It was enough.  I wish you had shared your grave uncertainties sooner, before our final night, before our final hours, before my touch and words and I became all silently unwelcome.  What a shame.

Alas, I wish you well.

Taras

Poet Taras Zaitsev, various works over various years
Translation by Quinxy von Besiex, 2009

11Aug/090

Scraps from Comrade Zaitsev – Volume 22

From a larger work entitled "The Faces of Love":

in a parallel universe somewhere

we are lying still,
some aimless sunday morning.

we are looking at the world sideways,
but each other right side up.
i am opening my mouth to speak
and you are opening yours to yawn.
i pause, and watch your eyes squint shut.

your arms swing wide to stretch,
your body writhes,
the edges of your mouth curl up,
in satisfaction.

and when it's done,
your gaze again meets mine,
and for a moment i am lost
in wonder.

we made this little world of ours:
our constancy.
our refuge from the universe of things
we can't control
and upon which we can't rely.

and now i make a free choice,
as every morning,
to love you.
not for all the goodly reasons
every other they do,
but for all the reasons
they have missed.

you are still looking at me,
i crawl my left hand over
and renew our introduction.
i draw you in, our limbs entwine.

the day can have us for its use,
but not quite yet.

Poet Taras Zaitsev, various poems over various years
Translation by Quinxy von Besiex, 2009

20Jul/090

Scraps from Comrade Zaitsev – Volume 21

Often when I try to translate Taras Zaitsev's work I am only able to beautifully translate a few lines of a given poem or work.   See more here.

This is from a letter Taras wrote to a woman he was courting. 

i am doing so very much (slightly) wrong. and i know this. and yet i do it (slightly). and i hate myself for doing it (slightly). and yet i do it (all the same). and i do not wish our nascent little we to go all wrong for my momentary microidiotisms.

you are wondrous. and i do like you, so very hello much. and you seem to like me, which is not surprising, but surprises. and in my surprised delight, i get lost between the subtle differences in our personal languages, where nuances live, and i (for not speaking your tongue, yet) die. i lose my nerve and become an awkward sort, a little uncomfortable in my own skin, and not comfortable enough to access yours and give you the confidence that we are a kind of right. and in that, i throw the rhythm off, slip your grasp, and we go cartwheeling out; and i linger at the periphery, wondering if you'll take my hand again, so we may dance another round. if only, if only you have faith enough to keep stretching your arms out, fingers ready to take mine, just a little longer, until this brief, uneasy phase passes, and i get back to being my more me. i would hate to see us lose out on the potential for grand conspiratorial adventures, and a burgeoning mayhap, because i was a fool...

And from some footnotes in his "grey book"

i wasn't sure,
until you took my hand.
such a simple, thrilling thing.
a perfect moment.

-

Fingers touched with speculation
The hope beyond comfort, beyond proof, the long supposing...

Poet Taras Zaitsev, various poems over various years
Translation by Quinxy von Besiex, 2009

2Apr/090

to my most precious unknown

to my most precious (as yet unknown)

your smile i have seen on other's lips,
your kindness i have seen in other's acts, your spirit kept mine company in darkest times.

i know you only as the parts of others i now can't imagine being a lifetime without.

(what is your name? i have pet theories.)

Poet Taras Zaitsev, 1973
Translation by Quinxy von Besiex, 2009

24Mar/090

oh, how lovely our projections be

oh, how lovely our projections be

i miss the delicious euphoria of seeing a too beautiful universe contained in another's eyes.

i miss the transcendent feeling of hope, despite all odds.

i miss the thoughts you (all) inspire, and the things we (conspire) to do.

once or twice a year i am beguiled, a-mused, and ride that little roller coaster to a delightful, draining nowhere.

perhaps i should accept that such things are only and forever but little delusions, and things to be wary of... but for a little while still i'll hope that something approximating it is possible.

that some (in & out) pretty she will find me similarly, and that we will smile like charming fools into and through some long night (of curious bliss).

perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Poet Taras Zaitsev, 1971
Translation by Quinxy von Besiex, 2009

18Mar/090

Scraps from Comrade Zaitsev – Volume 19

Often when I try to translate Taras Zaitsev's work I am only able to beautifully translate a few lines of a given poem.  Converting a poem one language to another requires that each line retain meaning, feeling, sometimes rhyme, and most problematically dimensions (beats).  This requires tremendous effort, and for an amateur, hobbyist is often beyond my abilities or time.  But the beautiful fragments which I could translate should not be punished, unknown for my limitations...  So, periodically I'll post those fragments, so they are not wasted...  maybe someday I'll go back and put them in their more perfect context.  But somedays rarely come.

I would be restored by one transcendent, undeniably beautiful moment.

-

Where once I wanted an evermore bliss.  Now I want only one moment of it, to remember, always.

-

Love requires perpetual, ever-changing mystery.  A darkness into which to peer, to suppose you see your every ultimate desire met (in her).

-

My capacity or sorrow is more limited in degree than duration.

-

I will miss the wild imaginings that her sparkling eyes
[this line untranslatable]
that the angles of her smile's ends were never so steep.

-

I am in love with she,
who teases me out of false limits,
who makes me smile,
in my reformation.

-

When I anticipate the universe,
I deny it the chance to delight and surprise.

-

The art is in living every moment with logical decisions about the future, with all emotions limited to the present.

-

Emotions must only guide the present, they do not belong in thoughts of the past or future.

-

Be only and unapologetically me, {somehow} inspite of obstacles and petty fears.

 

Poet Taras Zaitsev, various poems over various years
Translation by Quinxy von Besiex, 2009

6Sep/080

Scraps from Comrade Zaitsev – Volume 13

Often when I try to translate Taras Zaitsev's work I am only able to beautifully translate a few lines of a given poem or work.   See more here.

lost in time

how could the everything i know by feel have been wrong?
perhaps it wasn't, only momentarily.

-

she who was my little everything
ages past.

and now brings curious remembrance,
residual longings.

-

it felt like a nearby yesterday
that i loved her.
one of the only things i knew
without the normal doubts
that come to all things.
i wish it would come again.

-

i remember you,
you were near to me, dear to me.
your thoughts were close enough to my own to make my brain sing.
you were so sweetly naive, you made me want to give you everything i had.

-

your choice seems curious.
how very much i thought of you.
i do not understand.
but, perhaps therein lies the answer.
you wanted who and what i wasn't.
still, a pity.

-

i remember the way you looked, and spoke,
and now you are here, again.

-

oh sweet beguiling memory of youth,
why tease me with a familiarity i will not know again.
my love for you remains, unqualified.

-

how can everything
i know by feel
be wrong?

it may not be.

-

if she felt (what i feel)
there would be a dozen
things she'd do
which she hasn't done.

-

why do i always want
what will not be.
perhaps because i do not really want
them at all.

-

so many days have passed
and yet i find myself
back with familiar thoughts, and hopes.
all for nothing.

i wonder why i like you.
it defies reason.
it is a response.
i like the way you look, the kindness in your face, the sweetness,
i like your noble and lost soul.
i like your voice.

-

you remind me of the unsatisfaction i once felt
that you were never entirely there.
you were always slightly elsewhere.
what a pity, your presence would be nice.

-

i have built you up.
and you are not quite what i thought.
and that makes me a little sad.

-

i wonder why i loved you,
for in truth you were nothing so spectacular.
but there was a delicate something
in which i found attraction.
which won't pass easily.

-

i remember, when we were young,
the love i felt
which was unlimited.

Poet Taras Zaitsev, 1975
Translation by Quinxy von Besiex, 2008

1Sep/080

Scraps from Comrade Zaitsev – Volume 18

Often when I try to translate Taras Zaitsev's work I am only able to beautifully translate a few lines of a given poem. Converting a poem one language to another requires that each line retain meaning, feeling, sometimes rhyme, and most problematically dimensions (beats). This requires tremendous effort, and for an amateur, hobbyist is often beyond my abilities or time. But the beautiful fragments which I could translate should not be punished, unknown for my limitations... So, periodically I'll post those fragments, so they are not wasted... maybe someday I'll go back and put them in their more perfect context. But somedays rarely come.

divine suffering, unavailable beauty: such a thing should be hidden from eyes unprepared to see and a soul unprepared to feel [your exquisiteness].

-

were i another me, i may have wrested more undeserved moments.

-

illusory longing,
how very i want you
to know me
enough to miss me
when i go.

-

uniquely all
that ever was within my heart
was begun
with such a spark as you.

-

mourning the disconnection of two like souls,
wishing things could unbe.
and that I had gravity enough to hold you.

-

pity this poor creature, me,
who can be unsecured in an instant by a unique you.
pity this poor selfish me
who wants you at whatever cost to he.
pity this poor and silly me,
that screws up its ego to believe that
my goodly self deserves no less than you.

-

i cannot create, cannot contain, cannot perpetuate joy. if/when it exists, it arrives mysterious and immediately threatens sudden departure. and it holds me crippled, hostage ('til it goes).

-

alone i am [uncomfortable for my desire is to be with you],
as always was (when not with),
it is a wicked and pitiful thing
to remove yourself [me] from an otherwise embracing world of potential someones.

-

silent, loving, slowing
selves
then rage eyes met,
made wide, collapsing
in a long unending maybe.

-

sleeping, somewhere outside my reach
to hold you,
now and a divine forever.

-

i wonder in her under thoughts
just what i am.
she who knows well so many
(and herself)
must suspect me
of some something (noble, or great, or useful).

-

love is the defiance of death.
the choice to feel more than a well reasoned nothing.

-

i wish to one day see some unordinary her
who in one look transmutes my cautious reason into reckless feeling
whose visage screams her goodness
whose being makes me brave
and who sees in me so some much somehow the same.

-

oh sweet and mighty mysterious yearned quasi nothing
how i would love you. for in your every breath you make me more myself than e'er i've known.
the frightening becoming more, facing old fears, releasing old imperfect response.

i hold in as you nothing, but an idea; illusorious.

Poet Taras Zaitsev, various poems over various years
Translation by Quinxy von Besiex, 2008

7Aug/080

Scraps from Comrade Zaitsev – Volume 8

This poem was found written on the back of a map of Stalingrad.  Taras had journeyed there with a girl one summer.  She returned before he did, it is unclear if they spoke again.

upon these sepulchral days

i am unwell, out of phase with this good world.
just slightly off,
enough to make the difference:
the simple made complex,
the fluid, rough.

we suffered for our silence,
lost for faith's lack.

i will miss the never we always were.
and the all i merely imagined.