A moongate in my wall: собрание стихотворений - [56]

and stars burnt out which had so brightly shone —

all the tall stately firs stand bare and dead

and silent lies each empty riverbed.

Only the still brown rocks, moss-covered, keep

their watch where silver wavelets curl and creep,

and that same sky, sunless and cold and grey,

hangs, — as the morning when I sailed away.

Shanghai, 1936–1937

522. «I hope from where you sit or lie…» [234]

Norma Jean

I hope from where you sit or lie

that you can see a patch of sky

at night, with angels flitting by,

each lighter than a sigh.

I hope that thru your window pane

you see trees, dripping in the rain,

or stooping low as under strain

where heavy snow has lain.

That you can watch a billowy cloud

sailing, like some white galleon proud,

and birds around it, crying loud,

ever a joyous crowd;

I hope that you may never tire

of watching sunlit skies on fire.

27 Nov. 1951

523 Nocturne(«White clouds…») [235]

White clouds

Remote

Like little explosions

Climb the sky and float

Above the black erosions

Of the castle moat.

Behind the grey parallelogram

Of his castle wall

The aged knight

Snores, for he doesn't really give a damn

At all

For the beauty of the night.

But in her tower

The knight's young daughter

Forgetful of the hour,

Silently watches

The silver splotches

Upon the water.

29 Mar. 1955

524. Impressions at the Opera (a true story)

Three dowagers with silver tresses

and silver foxes over pale-blue dresses

floated into their box,

fox after fox,

and settled down,

like pillows stuffed with eiderdown.

And Salvatore Baccaloni,

as Bartolo up on the stage,

though usually quite the rage,

seemed not as fat,

nor half as funny.

21 Feb. 1956

525. «It is usually very still on that day…»

It is usually very still on that day,

which comes at different times in different places;

came in the end of October in the place where I lived.

Very still and cold, and then, toward evening,

the air is suddenly warmer.

Nature stands still, you can hear the earth breathe,

the trees reach out and wait.

Stars that had been very brilliant

all at once turn opaque.

It is then that the first snowflake of the winter, always

large and slow, is wafted, like a small parachute, down

upon the expectant earth,

in hushed silence.

27 Feb. 1956

526. «With folded wings he sat and took a rest…»

With folded wings he sat and took a rest

upon a branch not far from where his nest

was hidden in the thicket from sharp eyes

and sharper claw and long,

deep in a wood of aspen and of beech

where sunrays rarely reach,

where stillness lies

and shadows hang.

Quietly he sat, small, gray and soft,

colorless lump of life, alone, aloft,

seen and admired by no one.

Then he spread

his wings,

most powerful among such minute things,

and, gray no more

but golden in the sun, he rose to soar,

and then he sang…

February 1956

527. «Nothing is left to write of any more…» [236]

Nothing is left to write of any more,

all that there is to say was said before:

all is recorded — every human breath.

The poets have discussed God, love and death,

the seasons and the land and water here,

cities around us, and the atmosphere,

creatures from the amoeba to the auk,

including beings that can sing and talk.

All you need do is listen, gratefully,

to Swinburne, or Verlaine, or Po Chu-i.

7 Mar. 1956

528. Nocturne («Late twilight in October…»)

Late twilight in October.

Stillness hangs

above primeval marshes like spun glass.

Escaping lightly from the reaching arms

of scrawny birch, the moon,

opaque and naked,

drops her seventh mist.

No rustle stirs

the elderberries. Sorrowful, a loon

raises his pointed head among the blades

of marsh grass; even he does not invade

the silence with habitual complaint.

This is when

suddenly, passing high above, departing cranes

cry out between the earth and moon

urgently, clearly, for a rapid moment;

the marshes bear their soft

provocative and wistful voices,

high in the air, yet ultimately close;

then they are gone.

And in their wake

the first large timid snowflakes

dim the moon.

15 Feb. 1957

529. «There is something you want to say…» [237]

There is something you want to say —

thoughts gurgling in your brain,

words choking your throat.

Say them, say them before you stop breathing,

see the darkness converging upon you

from the sky — from the shore — from the water —

The circles upon the water grow large and flat

and disappear altogether,

and the surface is silent.

Speak out — call loudly

and say all those turbulent words,

cry lustily

so that the shores will echo,

then whisper softly

those last compassionate words,

and all will be dark, dark.

1 Mar. 1957

530. «There was hoarfrost on the lawn this morning…»

There was hoarfrost on the lawn this morning

at dawn.

The seagulls were flying inland from the ocean,

to the warm earth and the grass.

They were gray in the early light

against the November sky.

1957

531. Night Dance

Little dead children, candles in their eyes,

uprooting earth, and clanging through staid skies,

remembering their ermine-mantled days,

all guillotined too soon,

dance on the lawn

where night dreams spawn

unmindful of the gaze

of the thick-skulled mongol cheek-boned moon.

Dance, slithering sprites

in this transparent trance

through all your promised perfumed nights