Simon Tertychniy

My name is Simon Tertychniy. I was born in Moscow, spent my adolescence in New York City, and lived in Santiago de Chile for many years. After nearly two decades of being away, I returned to N.J. In 2000, I obtained a BA from NYU, studying poetry with Paul Violi. In 2013, my Spanish translation of a book of short stories of a Russian absurdist writer, Daniil Kharms, was published in Chile. Some of my English and Russian work appeared in Night Picnic Journal, The Emigrant Lyre, New Ink, theeastvillage.com, Red Seraph, beekiller, Minetta Review, and interpoezia.

Deco

the wind comes through the window,

and makes itself at home.

a poet snaps into sharp focus

as if by an optometrist’s trick,

the bee-like, sectioned underbelly

of his eager nib glistens with ink,

spread wings of pages like a bird mid-glide.

the moon,

a centerpiece of any masterpiece,

provides for portrait lighting,

throws poet’s lupine features into sharp relief,

matches the oracular calm of his B/W eyes,

makes him appear to be ready to deploy

the volatile ordnance of verbs.

his narrative arc taut, the genius wavers,

ad portas of the final revelation,

he stares like a man who has misplaced

his only key, and words recede like smoke

in a wind-flooded living room.

this framed print,

without a question,

livens up the wall.

celestial guidance system

“…he is perfect to whom

the entire world is as a foreign land.”

Hugh of St. Victor

a takeoff and you are taken off.

in the middle seat,

with nowhere to turn

you must turn inward.

a dash 8 slices thin air

like a cutting word

that splits the present

from the past.

each liftoff is an amputation,

a severance from what’s now passed.

homeland to landscape,

in one fell swoop, accrual of the past.

some views improve with distance.

with its litany of levers

to press on in distress,

the safety announcement fails

to foster a feeling of safety,

though it assures you

that in case of a forced landing,

the seat cushion might shield you

from a blow, or aid you to both fly and float.

the clotted clouds strung up overhead,

an abrupt mountain

a bit too close.

a blown-off roof view of the village below,

the dusty ribbon of the road.

in the abrasive brightness, a river shivers.

the small plane flies over the island

looking to land.

in the wind-strewn field

saplings bend to the ground.

the wind is wound.

stumbling onto the tarmac,

you squint at the topography:

what has been lost and found?