*

Dɔjdu ¹

today’s windy day.

i’m lying watching a movie with you.

i’put a laptop close to my face,

trying to step into the movie.

you kindly remark to me and when some words

appear on the screen

you translate them for me.

the wind picked up.

playful swirl of road dust

walks people to the front door ²

i want to breathe in some fresh air.

i call my dog and we walk outside.

my mom calls and asks what do I do.

«Had Anya repaired her car?»

I think: she’s impatient to go to dɔjdu.

but what does dɔjdu mean to me?

where’s my dɔjdu?

maybe it’s somewhere on the way from the city³ to Curapcɯ?

(maybe I’ve dropped it there when I was little?)

or is it somewhere between Qajaqsɯt and Diriŋ?

there’s (somewhere) a crumbling fence,

unmown grass —

because there’s no man who would have mown it.

(last summer my aunt Asya asked a neighbor).

there grasshoppers hiding in the grass are singing

my dream’s song about summer.

when I come closer to them squatting, some stop and

gaze at me,

as if trying to remember me.

«if crows sit on the dry wood, there will be rain» — that’s what

my ebe⁴ was used to tell.

in the crow dɔjdu there’s drought now.

no matter how much the crows sitting on the dry trees screamed —

not even one cloud would show on the sky.

our land wants to rip apart,

and it does so — the permafrost is not so permanent.

the forest is full of fallen trees.

one summer a wildfire came close to our village —

the wind has changed and luckily it passed us by.

no one says about that loudly —

every summer — heat,

every summer — wildfires.

the wind changes at will:

sometimes it picks up

sometimes is blows faintly,

then the plants, as if sleepy, barely move.

mom is hurrying me, she wants to ride to pick red currants.

before I open the gates, I stop,

i touch the heavy pole with my fingertips.

I'm afraid I'll get a splinter in my hands.

when I hear my mom yell, I pull down the sleeves of my shirt,

and start moving.

the way I do it with stops,

I remind myself of a young bull

or a calf that just turned a year old.

my grandfather's nickname was Boro:sku⁵.

i think they called him that because he was stubborn, I don't know —

with his personality and his looks

that nickname suited him just fine.

or maybe he too

was always waiting for someone

— big brother, little brother, mother —

to tell him what to do,

that's why they called him boro:sku?

after my ebe died, he only lasted a year,

he left prepared, cleansed.

when I was a kid, he was a kindergarten stoker,

was he a bit stingy?

at home he used to turn off the lights after us

everywhere to save money, I remember.

my mom recently whatsapped me an old picture of Oqono:s.

I don't know how old he was

when it was taken.

there he is standing with the chairman of the Khayakhsyt village council.

the chairman is holding his hand like an adult.

the two of them were shot wearing costumes.

Oqono:s’ suit is pretty worn, he looks like

he's in need of protection.

but somehow

you can tell from this kid, from the way he looks,

it's like he's a scribe with good handwriting.

now this picture is like a darkening silhouette of a man…

at my parents' wedding Oqono:s called Arama:n

qartɯj6 in his eyes —

my mom told my dad disappointedly.

and so, as if offended,

i felt about myself and my language for quite a while.

and now, because I'm trying to write in Sakha,

it looks like something's changing.

and it's like things can still fall into place.

when I was a kid, my both grandfathers separately took me to

the horse races.

both were gamblers.

both separately taught me how to play barɯs⁷.

and because they both read all the time

(«Qotugu sulus»⁸ magazine had such a small print, remember?),

i like to read, too.

Oqono:s had a little stool in front of the stove,

I remember him sitting there and smoking with his face to the fire.

Arama:n liked to sit outside, in the shade of the house.

In my imagination he still holds a crumpled Belomorkanal

cigarette in his mouth.

in the shadows, under his hat and eyebrows,

you can't see his soft eyes.

now, the fact that I'm getting into everything with passion —

is because of them.

the two of them, against all odds —

are my roots. my dojdu.

i walk into the house with the dog.

“pizza's here!” - with this words you call me into the kitchen.

the pizza box has a drawing:

the youth are eating pizza, pop culture items are all around them:

a «Friends» poster on the wall,

a Harry Potter book and a Darth Vader figurine on the shelf.

and a coro:n⁹ among them.

i think my writings in the Sakha are like that too:

it's not jealous of anyone,

it doesn't get upset about anything.

it can suddenly come up behind me

and kiss my ear.

it's by itself, without reference to me,

with a separate destiny, alive.

*

¹ homeland

² this, according to the belief, means a quick death for the one who was escorted to the door by the swirl of dust.

³ Yakutsk is usually called «a city».

⁴ grandmother.

⁵ young bull.

⁶ Khartiy — I was explained that it means red like kharta - horse’s bowels, i.e. Russian.

⁷ a card game.

⁸ «Northern Star» — literary magazine

⁹ traditional tableware, a wooden cup/bowl on the leg(s) used for drinking koumiss (kɯmɯs — national beverage made from fermented mare’s milk)

---

Animal Speech

Dived into a deep sleep,

Barefoot on the cold floor

Don't try to run in vain to the door,

To wake up, look for the long blade

***

If your stomach is growling,

Hurry up and put the pot on

Throw in some raw meat,

Salt your soup

When you’re full, now

You may consider yourself

Sakha

***

If your stomach aches, your head rips apart,

and all your unspoken words lump up

in your throat,

don't try to hold back.

Then with your stomach,

with your animal,

that lives in your belly,

talk to it, stroke it:

«Don’t hurry, my friend, I'll

wait for you».

And then see what happens:

this beast of yours

will find

all those who've suffered

broken,

split in two,

joints missing,

dirty, tangled, frozen,

fallen into the water, burned in the fire

little qara¹ people-words

and put them back together again,

grieving, licking with tongue,

will soothe them

***

In the midst of my words that turned to ghasts,

there will be a ray of one that has come to life

*

¹ dark, black. Qara зon — commoners, the rabble.