A moongate in my wall: собрание стихотворений - [65]

souls of the pious I could shake with the voice of the Lord.

Even Nature herself, looking at what I created

had to admit that I was artisan equal to her.

Here in this marble I was rested by Lawrence

Medici, ere I would be turned into lowliest dust.

23 May 1930

592. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Грустно плача и смеясь…» [267]

In ringing streams my poems go,

weep, laugh and sorrow, quickly bound

before you, on,

and every one

weaves living strings, as on they flow

and do not know their banks around.

But through the crystals running by

you are as ever far from me…

The crystals sing along and cry…

How can I make your traits, that I

may have you come to visit me

from where en chanted countries lie?

[1960s]

593. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Из ничего — фонтаном синим…»

From nowhere, like a fountain blue

a light flashed on.

We turn our heads up, I and you,

and it is gone,

above the blackness yonder, throwing

a golden mop,

and here — one more, in spirals going,

a ball, a top,

green, yellow, red and blue again —

all night aglow…

And, having wakened it in vain,

they go.

[1960s]

594. Андрей Блох(Russian emigre poet) [268]

Far from the highways stretching round

a small forgotten town is found.

Its park is fresh, its church is old,

its sleep starts early, one is told.

A fountain and a tree are there

right in the middle of the square,

where often do a pig and kid

graze till the setting sun is hid.

And when at times a motor car

comes through the swelter from afar,

raising the dust, and hurries on,

and, like a soul that's doomed, is gone, —

all watch with sorrow for a spell

the stranger rushing straight to hell.

And later pray, when all is still,

for peace for him whose soul is ill.

[1930s]

595. Андрей Блох(Russian emigre poet)

I used to know and have forgotten lists

of ancient names and numbers half erased.

This world — who leads it in the dusky mists,

that some are lowered and the others raised?

And why have people suffered through the days,

and blindly sought, in vain, a better share?

Did hidden hands direct them on their ways?

Or was it chance that tossed them here and there?

And if it was that someone wished to send

the sound of mortal agonies to stand,

when will it be that He will put an end

to all, rem oving the relentless hand?

[1930s]

596. Андрей Блох(Russian emigre poet)

Poems are songs of a soul in its flight —

listen to them, passerby, in the night.

Poems are sparks of a soul that s aflame,

catch them, for heaven and they are the same.

Poems are tears of a soul that's a-smart —

take them, extinguish the fire of your heart.

Poems are secrets a soul has in store, —

Know them, rise up to them, sin nevermore.

[1930s]

597. Иван Бунин (1870–1953). «Она молчит, она теперь спокойна…»

She doesn't talk, and she is calm once more,

but joy will not return to her again:

the day dam p earth was thrown into his grave

— that day joy took leave of her for good.

She doesn't talk — and now her very soul

is empty, like a shrine above a grave,

where day and night burns an eternal flame

lighted above the silent sepulchre.

[1960s]

598 Мария Визи. «В одном моем привычном сне…»

In one of my familiar dreams

there is a place that is so strange,

a stillness, where the sunlight beams

upon a peaceful mountain range.

Green stands a peak, and others crowd

as far away as eye can see,

while in the sky a silver cloud

patterns its fragile filigree.

And there upon the slope I stand,

but shall I triumph or deplore

that in this meditative land

I do not need you any more?

1957

599. Мария Визи. «Вот бредем пустым суходолом…»

We roam a waterless valley

— but are we asleep or awake?

The wind stirs the treetops above us

with its ragged hem in its wake.

Here once a stream was running,

but its source has long been dry.

Only the sting of the half-moon

and desert's fathomless sigh.

From grandfathers' fairytales

— there once was a source, we know.

But we can't recall, half-dreaming,

when? and where did it flow?

We are lost. We are searching for landmarks.

Our hearts in their last despair

are poorer than starving beggars

that stand in the city square.

5 Dec. 1967

600. Николай Гумилев(1886–1921). «У меня не живут цветы…» [269]

Flowers never live in my house,

but a minute they soothe the eye,

in a couple of days they die;

flowers never live in my house.

Birds either don't live here long,

only ruff their feathers and frown,

and by morning — a ball of down…

Even birds do not live here long.

Only volumes in eight long rows,

silent volumes of many pages,

guard the languorous thought of ages,

like teeth, in eight long rows.

The man who sold them to me,

I recall, was hunch-backed and poor…

…By the graveyard he kept his store,

did the man who sold them to me.

[1930s]

601. Николай Гумилев(1886–1921). Свиданье [270]

Tonight you will be coming soon,

and I will understand

why all alone beneath the moon

it feels so strange to stand.

Pale, you will check your step, and throw

away your cape and hood,

does not the full moon likewise flow

above the somber wood?

And by the magic of her ways

and by yourself spell-bound,

I will be happy — with my days,

the dark and stillness round.

So in the woods a beast which smells

that spring is coming soon