[Carl Copeland]

November Day

Nicotine-filled lungs, a hazy brain,
creeping fog … How heavily you weigh—
baptized early by an icy rain,
now a whiny, yellow-swaddled day!

Narrow apertures let out white gasps:
sirens bawl, and foghorns, with a howl,
cloak the waterfront in inky wraps;
carters rattle buildings with their haul.

Hidden shamelessly from view, the slime
generated by the day is downed
sloppily by chomping, slurping swine:
murky cesspools lurking underground.

Now the soul pines anxiously again,
lest it fool itself as darkness looms:
flecks of gold that glitter in the pan
won’t redeem the day’s excess of ooze.


Edits
S2L1: release > let out
S2L2: wail > weep > bawl
S3L4 was: gloomy cesspools sunken underground.
S4L1 was: Now the soul grows anxious with a pang,


Crib

November Day

Fumes in the brain and nicotine in the lungs—
and fog starts creeping … Oh, how heavy/oppressive you are
after an icy, rainy baptism/christening,
a whiny day in yellow swaddling!

A narrow outlet for white choking/gasping—
all the sirens weep, and horns,
with a howl, dress the coastal area with India ink,
and draymen/draught horses shake buildings.

And more shamelessly hidden from view,
in underground gloom, impurities of the day
are devoured by the chomping hog
of sewage treatment cesspools/cloacae.

And in anxiety again the soul repines
so as not to delude itself before dark:
a particle of panned gold
will not redeem all the daytime muck/haze/murk.


Original

Ноябрьский день

Чад в мозгу, и в легких никотин —
И туман пополз… О, как тяжел ты
После льдистых дождевых крестин,
День визгливый под пеленкой желтой!

Узкий выход белому удушью —
Все сирены плачут, и гудки
С воем одевают взморье тушью,
И трясут дома ломовики.

И бесстыдней скрытые от взоров
Нечистоты дня в подземный мрак
Пожирает чавкающий боров
Сточных очистительных клоак.

И в тревоге вновь душа томиться,
Чтоб себя пред тьмой не обмануть:
Золота промытого крупица
Не искупит всю дневную муть.