Anatoly Kudryavitsky

De Profundis

We dig a pit to accommodate all pits.
Our spade-like hands, their affluent errors.
An effluence of supervisors’ shadows.

Somebody bricks up the knowledge windows.
Life minus colours. Life under canvas.
Hooves of the earth!
Look at the historical parallels, abandoned, crying.
Look at the vacuum of illocution:
that’s all we’ve inherited – apart from
the chart of chattels.
Lamp-posts, trees and policemen rush at us
from every hole in the day. We’re in
Disappearing Hollenegg, and it’s hard
to keep ourselves whole.

Swampy, swampy…
The continents moor up to the stumps
of their past.
The concept of height, its plight …
You are well preserved,
and so is your underground muzak.

Out of the deep,
the globe in a landing net.


Words paint the world. Guess how.
We step into a non-picture from somebody’s
parsimonious life that drowns in indirect speech.
The view is ornamned. Names are hottings.
Inflammable sounds bloom inside
an Ur-language rant. Some brol tunt
will always find a derseasser
but will he revolve or revolt?
A revolution is a true-born Frenchwoman
who shapes the mountains of her rage.
Tarasso! Beware, the son of the depths
of my breath. The guttering stars
mark the geometry of germination,
the terra nova of an eternity, reiterated.
My dedness grows.
My undictionary too.

A Bit of Jackeening

A Dublin Poem

Elsewhere, a mad astronomer rabbits on about the part of the Universe called Divil the Bit. We’re on our way there. Hold on to the throttle.
Elsewhere, masters enter with sheep; this kip is called St. Stephen’s Green. Fallow bodies follow the scent of necessity.
Elsewhere, a maggot acting the maggot. Nah, only messin’, he’s a good skin, just a bit buckled. His striped belly…
Elsewhere, a mechanical maestro leaving the island, a quare langer. Where's Paddy roughly when he's not here?
Elsewhere, a South African golfer whose lower clothing did a legger. His honeysuckles... Stop the lights.
Elsewhere, eels swimming with wheels.
Elsewhere, heels dug in.
Here, a branching me, in my jocks, on me tot, writing in tired ink.

A Roofless Glass House

The present is an artist who never paints
the future. The future is an artist
who is averse to painting.

Somebody grows a succulent name
above our scurrying synonyms.

This is not the greenest moment
of the grey day.

We stiffen the siphons.
We taste every syllable
for a heedless “I”.
For the “I” that multiplies.

Follies, ants
are best eyed from the sky.
Who will regenerate our
defoliated patterns?

At twilight of birds
we unshade shadows
craving for crevices,
torn by tears
and oozing poison.


Some play it gruff, but I like the cumbersome
cubicles of your face.
Miss Disuniverse… you’ll always be with us
amid torrential prize-giving.
Any pharmacy will sell you a good farmer.
Count the braids on a gaudly bride.

“You never know who is sky-sailing
your nautical self,” a little nude female doll winks.
“I roll freely inside a man’s head. Some
have wives modelled after me.”

Who is chilling in the melting chair?
Who is melting in the chilling chair?
It’s us, the fools that don’t suffer fools.
The world is whittled by our less cultured dreams.
We occasionally get lost in undertableness –
like other ping-pong balls,
like square squirrels in round hollows.

Anatoly Kudryavitsky has published four collections, the latest being Horizon (Red Moon Press, 2016). His poems have also appeared in Oxford Poetry, The Literary Review, Poetry Ireland Review, The Prague Revue, Hayden's Ferry Review, Plume, The American Journal of Poetry, Otoliths, etc. His latest novel titled DisUNITY has been brought out by Glagoslav Publications in 2013. He lives in Dublin, Ireland, where he is the editor of SurVision Poetry Magazine. He was the recipient of the Maria Edgeworth Poetry Prize (2003) and the Mihai Eminescu Poetry Prize (2017). In 2016, one of his poems has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize by The American Journal of Poetry.
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