Andrey Gritsman


House abandoned,
even traces of souls evaporated.
No one will die there anymore.
Nobody prepares the bed.
I am just a passerby,
incidental traveler.
And I am calm, my return
secured. For some reason
my soul’s in the empty house.
It calls come back
to the dark corners, to dust.
This is my regular stroll,
passing the house,
passing myself
on the road unknown.

Translated from Russian by the author.


Captured rug.
Milk stain.
I am five, sore throat.
Light stain of Soviet champagne.
My father’s young, 1955 New Years?
The rug’s eternal, sturdy German job.
Deep in the texture—
traces of the German family:
Brandenburg, Silesia.
Along the advance of the 33rd army,
3rd Belorussian front.
Now we are relatives with
an unknown, untraceable family.
Captured rug.

Translated from Russian by the author.


Light from nowhere to nowhere.
Wreck of statues on the tiled floor.
Dark crypt is empty.
Judas silent in the corner.
And He is invisible in the chapel,
there is cold and echo of emptiness.
There is nobody to wait for.
Crosses deserted in the dusk.
Still light fell on the floor reveals
the fragments of the marble dream.
Cathedral under repair.
Shadows. And you and I
are alone there.

Translated from Russian by the author.

Andrey Gritsman came to the US from Russia in 1981. He is a physician, poet and essayist, writes in two languages. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize several times. Poems, essays, and short stories have appeared in more than 80 journals including New Orleans Review, Notre Dame Review, and Denver Quarterly and anthologized. Poetry and essays translated into several European languages. He edits international poetry magazine INTERPOEZIA and runs Poetry reading series in New York City.

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