Константин Кондратенко

Очень плохоПлохоУдовлетворительноХорошоОтлично (Без рейтинга)

Константин Кондратенко (Кыргызстан)

По образованию организационный психолог. Один из создателей и активист местной литературной группы “Ковчег” (группа занимается пропагандой культуры чтения в КР, проводит различные литературные мероприятия, пытается сплотить литературные клубы по всему Бишкеку, наращивает связи с зарубежными клубами) и творческого коллектива “Гильдия” (группа записывает песни, проводит литературные собрания).

Высланная на конкурс подборка стихотворений изначально была написана на русском языке, но позже переведена на английский язык под чутким руководством моего близкого друга, лингвиста Семена Ахрамеева. Я словно заново передал свои мысли и чувства в стихотворной форме, но уже не на родном языке. В этом есть особое чувство процесса творчения – эксперимент над словом.


Experimental poetry “The Trepidation of Three” by Kondratenko Konstantin





Hands like eyes – feel on the touch,

Each inflection of you back

Those are kindred patterns.

With a harsh odour in the night,

In each fold of my pillow,

Remembering affectionate sight.


I hear you footsteps

And what will go after

Embracing with my eyelashes.

Your voice is dancing in time with fire,

Whispering and rustling on you traces

By silver knitting needles,

Of rolling wheels on your cornea.


Purple glace will turn into vermeil,

Inhaling scent closely

Around semicircle of your lips…

You’ll take me to the riverside,

Passing riverbed through fingers,

Touching strings.

By breathing of sleeping moons.

Hasteless movement of bows.


Wanderer to the Demon


Slept tumbling in the bed, dripping with sweat,

Soulful century in dust tried not to fall,

Cheering and feel sorrow about discord,

Ideal hell which cannot be stolen.

Wounds gathered, covering with sweat,

Nova wonderer passed into oblivion without fear,

People were spoiled by their faith in God and scarecrow,

Godling laughed and got dirty from slavery beauty.


Give me the wings besmirched by sin,

Eat my bowels, named “soul”,

Bestow true liberty among the trees,

Surround and conceive your power.

There is no need  to straddle along lonely filth,

The dirt was at the origins of beauty.



Hungary rain


I had a dream again

On an asphalt road in Hungary

I died untimely,


And happy.

Probably that was a wind gust,

Severe wind gust from the north.

It toll the bells and muffed singing

In vain.

I heard everything.


Cantorial signing reverently

By angels’ voices,

Forcefully but patiently

Dissolved the dreams,

From inside and off.

Autumn requiem mass

With its former confidence.

Passion and inspiration

Of dropping jingle –

The rain I am.


I fall on your shoulders

With melancholic revelation,

I don’t know anybody here

And no one knows me as well,

I’m not Balaton.

And I died humbly

On the asphalt road in Hungary,

A lost man –

Unknown nameless rain

Let’s sing, Angels.