Discernible Sound

By Andrey Kneller

While known primarily for his translations from Russian, Andrey Kneller has also written a great deal of his own poetry. He was born and grew up in Moscow, Russia. In 1993, when he was ten, his family immigrated to United States. He has been writing and translating poetry since the age of fourteen. His work has appeared in a number of literary magazines and journals, including National Forum, Gentle Reader, Unlikely Stories, and the Hypertexts. This book is a complete collection of his poetry from 1999 to the present day.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrey Kneller
• Release date: Mar 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310582745

Andrey Kneller

Andrey Kneller is a Russian-born poet/translator. Andrey was 10 years old when his family immigrated from Moscow, Russia to New York in 1993. He grew reading and speaking Russian fluently. At fourteen, he started writing his own poetry and not long after that, he started translating his favorite Russian poets into English. Understanding that Russian poets have been represented rather poorly in the west, the goal of translation for him has always been to keep as much of the original as possible, preserving meaning without losing rhyme and music. At the present, he has published 9 books of translations, including the works of Anna Akhmatova, Marina Tsvetaeva, and Vladimir Mayakovsky, among others, and Discernible Sound, a book of his own poetry. Andrey currently lives with his wife and daughter in Ashland, MA and works as a high school math teacher in Boston.

Book preview

Licked by the tongues of summer heat,

The day burns slowly into ashes.

As though a teardrop from the lashes,

A drop of ink falls on the sheet

And I, as lonesome as that dot,

A single mark upon the page,

Sit locked inside an opened cage,

In endless space can’t find my spot.

I search but do not see a reason

Why full of images and thought

I cannot write a single word,

Why being free I feel imprisoned.

Amadeus

Each night, I am deprived of sleep and rest

Three grueling weeks and I have just begun.

It started as a game, - now I’m obsessed,

The cards were dealt, - His will is left undone!

With every note, my Fate is drawing near

The melody resounds in her steps

Oh Melpomene, my heart is filled with fear.

I'm tangled in my notes,  - my wicked webs.

I wove each line with Ariadne’s thread

My Requiem is due, I’ve lost my touch…

"Do take the music that my soul has bled

There’s more in me, - don’t hold it as a grudge!"

Embrace me Silence...

Embrace me Silence! In your presence,

So many poets seek the Muse.

They search for words to share their views

And take no knowledge from your lessons...

But you and I, - we sense the essence,

We understand, - words have no use!

Fire and Ice

Both, fire and ice, before destruction

Can be tamed!

Two opposites meet in attraction, -

As a result of this reaction,

The melting ice puts out the flame!

But if one day it does expire,

The world’s demise will come from love,

Since neither ice nor blazing fire

Can mar enough

To damage more than heart’s desire!

November

A whole new day erupts, -

Horizon’s lit with embers.

The sky is pierced with drops

Of tears shed by November.

The leaves twirl in their flight,

So weak and short of breath,

While reaching for new heights,

They glide into the depths

Of dimmed reflected skies,

Where heaven quickly smears

And echoes of their cries

Send ripples through the years.

The sad fate of the lost, -

To seek the Truth in mud

When by the window crossed

The Truth is hung to rot.

Just take a look outside, -

The skin hangs off its bones!

November, crucified,

In all three voices moans...

July. White curtains…

July. White curtains. Melancholy.

The stale air is hard to breathe.

Alone I sit and stare at Holly,

Who’s doing homework, while I grieve.

Two weeks remaining. Birds are chirping.

It’s four a.m. I’m counting sheep.

Is it my conscience-- so disturbing?

My eyes are red from lack of sleep.

Spread fingers hold the heavy Norton.

Her other hand is on her lips.

While I am left to die from boredom.

Outside, the pale sunrise creeps.

The sun will rise before we know it

This day will be consumed by time.

But, until then, let’s steal a moment

From lifeless verse and boring rhyme.

I strain my eyes from lack of sleep

July. White curtains. Melancholy.

Four twenty-five. I’m counting sheep

Alone I sit and stare at Holly.

Although the day is six feet under…

Although the day is six feet under,

Your perfume in the air remains

And horses drag the fallen reins,--

Apollo's fallen into slumber.

Like ghosts at night, dark branches sway

And cast long shadows onto walls.

The creaking carriage slowly rolls...

The horses’ hooves sink into clay.

The wearied horses stray and wander.

The night is chilling, cold and grim,

And one by one, the windows dim,

Apollo’s fallen into slumber.

The heavy clouds loom with gray.

They’re undisturbed by northern winds

And leaving only rounded prints

The horses’ hooves sink into clay.

Dark skies are gliding down the lanes.

The moonlight lulls us, softly healing.

Cold corpses lie without feeling

And horses drag the fallen reins.

The darkness fills the empty halls.

Our voices lower to a whisper.

The air is turning colder, crisper.

The creaking carriage slowly rolls...

With frenzy throwing up the curtains,

September rages, filled with spite...

My darling, don’t turn off the light--

We won’t awake the sleeping servants.

Silent Night

Choking minutes with her hands,

Slowly squeezing the aorta,

Nature, with her chilling glance,

Proves to us that she’s immortal.

Naked trees with passion sway,

Sweeping stars, while none will fall.

Icy puddles mark my way, -

Dark like windows to one’s soul.

Ashen doves rest on the cable,

They observe the pale sky.

Wind, - the hand that rocks the cradle,

Softly sings a lullaby.

There, I linger, sad and wearied,

Breathing in the silent night.

Shaking lips confirm my theory, -

Even dreams here freeze in flight.

The sun left the vertex…

The sun left the vertex

And tree trunks fell slanted.

Thrown from the vortex,

Gold leaves were implanted

Alongside those bleak streets,

Where gentle and cautious,

Avoiding dark thickets,

In muddy galoshes,

We rambled on homeward

For what seemed like hours,

But, we took the long road

Because it was ours.

Your skin showed a faint blush.

The clear chilly evening

Was drawn with paintbrush,

Its colors were gleaming.

How softly you whispered,

Don’t take these nights lightly

Believe me, my sister,

I think of them nightly.

Reflect me...

"Reflect me as I am, — three-dimensional!

Do not flatten me with your exterior,

rather curve from all the conventional

and engulf first my spirit ethereal

and then patch it up with new scenery.

Swallow light and reflect its radiance,

capture everything in your vicinity,

and invert the lines of your radius

as to include all of the outwardly,--

everything that is out of your medium.

In some sense, I guess that I’m cowardly,

I’m afraid of the permanent tedium

of the life on this side of the border...

so I beg you reflect me, I’m sinking!"--

Thus I prayed to oblivious water,

as the puddles were drying and shrinking...

The demon on my shoulder said it best…

...we consider too much the good luck of the early bird, and not enough the bad luck of the early worm.

-F. D. Roosevelt.

The demon on my shoulder said it best,--

"The grass is greener when the grass is smoked,

It doesn't matter on which path you've walked,

All roads will lead to Rome, both east and west...

Remember that three lefts will make a right!

That curiosity gave cats a life worth living.

And don't read novels, -- content is deceiving,

Judge by the cover and you'll be all right!

There aren't any winners when there's peace

Engage in fights as often as you wish!

Learn that the worms will catch the early fish,

And that the second mouse gets the cheese!

For every penny saved, a second's lost...

If time is money, -- do not sell it short!

Don't sell your soul for pennies to the Lord--

The Devil buys it at