JUNE 1ST, 2014
Orphan Duet
interviewed by N!P
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"Together they follow the meanders of their unabashed impulses. Their tongues express a blend of archaic aura with rich Slavic and Semitic influences. Their bodies, felt along moving metaphor. The authors translate the seen from the perceived in swirling words that flash images on raw senses."
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ORPHANS DUET
(an excerpt)
(an excerpt)
Tell me, my soul, in Russia,
What was it like to be a child?
What was it like to be a child?
You couldn't speak when grown-ups were talking.
Often you couldn't speak at all:
"Nobody asks you," they told me.
I spent half of my time outside of the classroom,
in a dark long corridor,
a grim statue of Lenin stretching its arm
into the bright future of communism.
I was sitting on the pedestal between the leader's fake
bronze boots,
daydreaming and writing poems.
At home I played Wonderland games under the desk.
There was no place to run,
and nobody to run with.
I was alone most of the time.
I still hide under a desk sometimes
When I feel down. It's cozy and feels safe.
At night, I danced on my bed--it was a mini-bunk bed,
the lower one for a non-existent sibling,
imagining I was a figure skater, dancing on ice--
did you?
Often you couldn't speak at all:
"Nobody asks you," they told me.
I spent half of my time outside of the classroom,
in a dark long corridor,
a grim statue of Lenin stretching its arm
into the bright future of communism.
I was sitting on the pedestal between the leader's fake
bronze boots,
daydreaming and writing poems.
At home I played Wonderland games under the desk.
There was no place to run,
and nobody to run with.
I was alone most of the time.
I still hide under a desk sometimes
When I feel down. It's cozy and feels safe.
At night, I danced on my bed--it was a mini-bunk bed,
the lower one for a non-existent sibling,
imagining I was a figure skater, dancing on ice--
did you?
I did some ice skating, but never figures.
Instead I braided flower wreaths with nobody to give them to.
I fished alone in a dirty canal
And took the train to school,
Imagining what it is like to have a friend to talk to.
I'd like to know if as a child, you also felt unwanted.
Did you cry at night, in a big, empty room, like me?
Instead I braided flower wreaths with nobody to give them to.
I fished alone in a dirty canal
And took the train to school,
Imagining what it is like to have a friend to talk to.
I'd like to know if as a child, you also felt unwanted.
Did you cry at night, in a big, empty room, like me?
I did.
Many times I would step out on the balcony
And look down at dirty snow
six stories down
Wanting to jump.
Many times I would step out on the balcony
And look down at dirty snow
six stories down
Wanting to jump.
Maybe it was your way to speak
When nobody would listen.
They never heard me
When I asked for things.
Instead I had to write long New Year's letters with fake wishes.
Did you?
When nobody would listen.
They never heard me
When I asked for things.
Instead I had to write long New Year's letters with fake wishes.
Did you?
On New Years' I was always sick, my mother thought,
And could never go to a holiday party.
I stayed at home with a compress
made of camphor, plastic and gauze
around my ears, and my mother told me
I was a bunny.
Once when I was three
I saw sleighs made of ice
with Father Frost and Snow Maiden
Outside of our cellar window--
we then lived in a one room in a communal flat,
at the underground level.
No one believed me.
We were not supposed to write letters to them, though,
We were supposed to write letters to the party leaders,
thanking them for our happy childhood.
I used to think
That all the bad things I inflicted on myself
Had roots outside:
in the rotten system,
in the totalitarian state;
in the wrong beliefs
those in power fed to us.
But it sounds
that one might grow up
feeling unworthy, desperate and sad
in a pretty place, in a free country,
and without being forced to march.
Maybe, it is not even the family.
Come think of it.
Hell is family.
Not enough love,
Too much love,
Wrong type of love.
We do not choose families;
We only choose friends and lovers.
Like we chose each other
(although sometimes
I reluctantly think
it was not a choice
as destiny doesn't give you options.)
Maybe, what makes you who you are
Is all inside
Built in,
Pre-programmed;
We are born to look at the asphalt down below
Longing to jump
or
Run away at night into the cold forest.
What do you think?
And could never go to a holiday party.
I stayed at home with a compress
made of camphor, plastic and gauze
around my ears, and my mother told me
I was a bunny.
Once when I was three
I saw sleighs made of ice
with Father Frost and Snow Maiden
Outside of our cellar window--
we then lived in a one room in a communal flat,
at the underground level.
No one believed me.
We were not supposed to write letters to them, though,
We were supposed to write letters to the party leaders,
thanking them for our happy childhood.
I used to think
That all the bad things I inflicted on myself
Had roots outside:
in the rotten system,
in the totalitarian state;
in the wrong beliefs
those in power fed to us.
But it sounds
that one might grow up
feeling unworthy, desperate and sad
in a pretty place, in a free country,
and without being forced to march.
Maybe, it is not even the family.
Come think of it.
Hell is family.
Not enough love,
Too much love,
Wrong type of love.
We do not choose families;
We only choose friends and lovers.
Like we chose each other
(although sometimes
I reluctantly think
it was not a choice
as destiny doesn't give you options.)
Maybe, what makes you who you are
Is all inside
Built in,
Pre-programmed;
We are born to look at the asphalt down below
Longing to jump
or
Run away at night into the cold forest.
What do you think?
I think, when we were born, we chose our families,
Our countries,
Because they match the make-up of our souls.
Someone who needs to find his light might be the black sheep,
Always standing in the shadow.
Your childhood sounds empty,
Like mine:
Only a string of days, activities and duties –
Numb.
Our countries,
Because they match the make-up of our souls.
Someone who needs to find his light might be the black sheep,
Always standing in the shadow.
Your childhood sounds empty,
Like mine:
Only a string of days, activities and duties –
Numb.
Yes, it was numb, bleak and dark,
but then there were books.
They hid mysteries, miracles, joys,
sharp excitement,
real things
full of bursting paints and lights,
full of shimmering worlds
unrolling before my eyes.
There were the fairies
and the princes
and the secret waves,
maybe you were hidden there, too.
The first trace of you:
between the yellow-orange pages
of Tijl Uilenspiegel,
my favorite book at eleven,
a dark blue grainy cover.
I read about flames of Inquisition
burning over Flanders
and cried for witches burnt at the stakes.
There were also the Dumas
with cunning court ladies and lilac tattoos on pale
shoulders,
Hugo with hunchbacks and dancing gypsies,
Jules Vernes with silent submarines cruising underwater,
Fenimor Cooper with Indians scalping bad people.
Those were my real true faithful friends.
Always there for me.
The bookshelf was my castle.
I transformed life into stories
As soon as I started to write--
At six.
Ever since I am nothing
but a story within a story.
but then there were books.
They hid mysteries, miracles, joys,
sharp excitement,
real things
full of bursting paints and lights,
full of shimmering worlds
unrolling before my eyes.
There were the fairies
and the princes
and the secret waves,
maybe you were hidden there, too.
The first trace of you:
between the yellow-orange pages
of Tijl Uilenspiegel,
my favorite book at eleven,
a dark blue grainy cover.
I read about flames of Inquisition
burning over Flanders
and cried for witches burnt at the stakes.
There were also the Dumas
with cunning court ladies and lilac tattoos on pale
shoulders,
Hugo with hunchbacks and dancing gypsies,
Jules Vernes with silent submarines cruising underwater,
Fenimor Cooper with Indians scalping bad people.
Those were my real true faithful friends.
Always there for me.
The bookshelf was my castle.
I transformed life into stories
As soon as I started to write--
At six.
Ever since I am nothing
but a story within a story.
Did you like paintings?
I'd like to know: how did you feel when you were writing?
Was it material, imaginary? Did the letters float before your eyes?
Did the page matter? Or did the sentences run loose into the world?
Did life gain colors as you wrote?
I'd like to know: how did you feel when you were writing?
Was it material, imaginary? Did the letters float before your eyes?
Did the page matter? Or did the sentences run loose into the world?
Did life gain colors as you wrote?
Life never really did get color
Until recently.
It was all black-and-white,
mostly grey,
in winter, in Leningrad.
only in the Hermitage
the world came to life:
the snow-white marble stairs,
mosaic floors, lapis lazuli vases,
malachite clocks,
massive golden frames,
and--paintings.
Old, precious, real,
with the grit and glimmer of oil,
luminous and magical--
pink nymphs and swans,
thousands of Christs
bleeding on crucifixes--
taken out of context
they seemed so barbaric to me, an atheist child.
I loved Italians of the fifteenths century
and Dutch paintings
as you could see every detail:
clods of earth, flies and birthmarks on long-gone
cheekbones,
wrinkles around almost real eyes, the frill of collars.
The dressed up and made up people
in the paintings felt important and more real than life
around.
My grandfather was an artist
He taught me how to mix oils at his studio
and let me paint on the canvas.
At fifteen I decided to become a Michelangelo
and licked sweet watercolors
of squirrel tail brushes,
ochre and sienna smudged over my lips.
I drew horses and women, flying and dancing.
Once in a while there would be a rider on a horse,
Was it you?
Then I realized I was no Michelangelo
And dropped my classes, going back to writing my poems.
That was like breathing--
I don't know what came first,
sound or an outline of the letter on the paper
or the images.
All alchemically mixed
poisonously delicious and dizzying
No structures, no lines, no angles,
Just fleeting half-glimpses into dreams.
I also wrote fables, short stories, mysteries,
a graphic novel--before I knew they existed--
But they came from the head
There was hardly any magic in them.
At 11, I wrote: "I live--and I write."
It has never changed.
Until recently.
It was all black-and-white,
mostly grey,
in winter, in Leningrad.
only in the Hermitage
the world came to life:
the snow-white marble stairs,
mosaic floors, lapis lazuli vases,
malachite clocks,
massive golden frames,
and--paintings.
Old, precious, real,
with the grit and glimmer of oil,
luminous and magical--
pink nymphs and swans,
thousands of Christs
bleeding on crucifixes--
taken out of context
they seemed so barbaric to me, an atheist child.
I loved Italians of the fifteenths century
and Dutch paintings
as you could see every detail:
clods of earth, flies and birthmarks on long-gone
cheekbones,
wrinkles around almost real eyes, the frill of collars.
The dressed up and made up people
in the paintings felt important and more real than life
around.
My grandfather was an artist
He taught me how to mix oils at his studio
and let me paint on the canvas.
At fifteen I decided to become a Michelangelo
and licked sweet watercolors
of squirrel tail brushes,
ochre and sienna smudged over my lips.
I drew horses and women, flying and dancing.
Once in a while there would be a rider on a horse,
Was it you?
Then I realized I was no Michelangelo
And dropped my classes, going back to writing my poems.
That was like breathing--
I don't know what came first,
sound or an outline of the letter on the paper
or the images.
All alchemically mixed
poisonously delicious and dizzying
No structures, no lines, no angles,
Just fleeting half-glimpses into dreams.
I also wrote fables, short stories, mysteries,
a graphic novel--before I knew they existed--
But they came from the head
There was hardly any magic in them.
At 11, I wrote: "I live--and I write."
It has never changed.
When Zarina Zabrisky & Simon Rogghe started writing poems to each other, a “third mind” was created, & the boundaries between their separate identities dissolved. Like the surrealists, they believe that literature is larger than its authors, that art is bigger than artists.
Zarina Zabrisky is the author of two short story collections "IRON", and "A CUTE TOMBSTONE" (Epic Rites Press), along with the novel "We, Monsters" (Numina Press). Zabrisky moved to San Francisco from Moscow to escape the aftermath of a collapsing communist empire. She wrote traveling around the world as a street artist, oilfield translator, and a kickboxing instructor. She is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee and a recipient of 2013 Acker Award for Achievement in The Avant Garde.
Simon Rogghe is a poet and fiction writer. He was born in Philadelphia and grew up in Belgium. After traveling in the US and Europe competing at horse shows as a professional rider, he found a home in the Bay Area. When not working on his PhD in French literature, he also translates French surrealists as well as contemporary fiction. His work is published in over twenty literary journals, including 3:AM Magazine, Gone Lawn, and Paris Lit Up.
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