Anatoly Kudryavitsky was born in Moscow in 1954 of a Ukrainian-born Polish father and half-Irish mother. He was educated at Moscow Medical University (graduated in 1978). A holder of a PhD from Moscow Medical Academy, he has a background in biology, Celtic heritage, music and literature.
A former Samizdat author, he was blacklisted in 1979, and first saw his work published in 1989. Since then, his poems and short stories have appeared in the best Russian literary magazines, e.g. ”Novy Mir”, ”Druzhba Narodov”, ”Novaya Yunost”, ”New Literary Observer”, ”Strelets”, ”Grani”, “Deti Ra”, “Zinziver”, etc. He was the founder and first President of the Russian Poetry Society.
Having lived in Russia and Germany, Anatoly Kudryavitsky has been based in South Co. Dublin, Ireland, since the beginning of this century. From 1999 until 2004 he was on the Board of Directors of the International Federation of Poetry Associations, UNESCO. Poet, fiction writer and literary translator, he is a member of the Moscow Writers’ Union, Chairman of the Irish Haiku Society and the editor of SurVision Magazine and Shamrock Haiku Journal.
In 2010, he was a member of the judging panel for the Dublin IMPAC Literary Award. His works have been translated into fourteen European languages, and he gave readings and workshops at various international literary festivals.
Viking Breath
How does it feel to be the Cultural Attaché
for the North Pole, the ice
of the voiceless?
No encyclopaedia will give you shelter.
As life drifts by, the waters ache
and pallid faces stare from every porthole.
Winter is inside us, it’s tasty
like a sea onion.
Who will get the first bite?
Crunchy things surround us:
the shore, the bleak frosty sun,
the clouds glistening like Santa’s beard.
Amundsen has sailed into a greater crispness.
Penguins are chanting defiant slogans
outside our red tents.
What are we waiting for?
What is sprouting up
in our hoar-frosted hearts?
(First published in Rose Red Review No 15, 2015)
The Ninth Count of Monte Cristo
swims across Lago Maggiore
into forgiveness.
His revenge, a flooded village;
his harem, oysters.
Italians excel in retrieving deadwood,
so hope is always behind the next
wave crest.
Scientists crave simplicity.
In every lightning, there’s God,
in every smile, a sea flag.
Clemenceau surrendered to the wind,
De Gaulle adjusted his sails
but the swimmer avoids a rendezvous
with his rippled soul.
Meanwhile, the opposite bank
is slipping farther away with each
passing hour. Air currents
spell the art of decay.
The Count’s old watch is dead.
The time it’s been gathering for years
comes gushing out.
(First published in The American Journal of Poetry, Vol. 1, 2016)
https://kudryavitsky.webs.com/poems.htm
