A moon gate in my wall: собрание стихотворений - Мария Визи

[1960s]

579. Анна Ахматова (1889–1966). «Из памяти твоей я выну этот день…»

Out of your memory I'll snatch this day,so vou will question, lost, with helpless eyes,«Where did I see the little wooden house,the Persian lilac, swallows in the sky?»

The sudden longing of unnamed desiresoh, very often you will call to mind,searching in pensive cities for a streetuncharted on whatever map you find.

Sight of some letter you did not expect —sound of a voice at some half-opened gate —and you'll be thinking, «Here she is herself,coming to help me in my faithless state».

[1960s]

580. Анна Ахматова(1889–1966). Cadran solaire на Меньшиковом доме

A steamer passes churning up a wake.Familiar house with its cadran solaire.Spires gleaming, and reflections of these waves—nothing on all the Earth to me more fair!

A narrow alley darkens like a crack.Sparrows alight upon a wire to rest.Even the salty taste of many strollsmemorized long ago — is also blessed.

[1960s]

581. Анна Ахматова(1889–1966). «Муза ушла по дороге…»

The muse walked away up the trail,autumnal, narrow and steep.Large dewdrops were sprinkled overher dusky legs and feet.

I'd begged her to wait till winter,to stay with through the fall.But she answered, «This is a grave here,How can you breathe at all?»

I wanted to give her a present —the whitest dove I possessed —but the bird flew off on its ownafter my shapely guest.

I watched her go. I was silent.She was my only love.And like a gate to her countryThe dawm was shining above.

[1960s]

582. Анна Ахматова (1889–1966). «Почернел, искривился бревенчатый мост…»

Bent and blackened the logs of the bridge's spanand burdocks grow as tall as manand, dense, the thickets of nettles singthat they never will know a sickle's sting.There's a sigh at the lake when evening fallsand wrinkled moss creeps over the walls.

That's where I greetedmy twenty-first spring.To my lips the pungent honeywas the sweetest thing.

Dry branches shreddedthat white silk dress of mine.A nightingale sang on and onin the crooked pine.

He would hear me callingand would leave his lair,gentler than a sister,though wild as a bear.

I would swim across the rivulet,run uphill, but oh,later I would never say«Leave me now, go».

18 Jan. 1966

583. Анна Ахматова (1889–1966). «Heмудрено, что не веселым звоном…»[263]

And you, my friends, you who are so few by now—with every passing day you are more dear!How very short the road has grownand how it used to seem of all the longest way!

26 Nov. 1992

584. Александр Блок(1880–1921). Перуджиа[264]

Half a day of toil, and half of ease,azure smoke above the Umbrian hills.Short and sudden shower, cooling breeze,loudly out-of-doors a chorus trills.In the window — one whose dark eyes smile,under Perugino's fresco, there,tries to reach a basket for a whilewith a sunburnt hand, and does not dare.In it lies a note for eager glances:«Questa sera… cloister of St. Francis…»

15 May [1928]

585. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Пройдет зима — увидишь ты…»

When winter goes — then you will seemy fields and fens that stretch away.«What beauty!» you will say to me,— «What lifeless slumber!» you will say.

But, child, remember, in the stillI kept my thoughts, and in that plainI — restless, sorrowful, and ill —Have waited for your soul in vain.

And in that dusk I guessed my fate,stared into death's cold face, and long,endlessly long I had to wait,peering through mists that swam along.

But you passed by before my face,— among the bogs my thoughts I keptand in my soul a gloomy traceof that strange lifeless beauty slept.

16 May [1928]

586. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Мы шли на Лидо в час рассвета…»[265]

We walked toward Lido once at dawn,the rain was gentle, like a net.Without replying you were gone.And soon I slept beside the wet.I heard the waves, their steady falling,because my sleep was light, I heardthe sounds, that shook with passion, calling,loving (??) the sorceress, — the bird.And then the gull — a bird, a maiden, —came down and floated on the sea,upon the waves of song, love-laden,with which you always dwell in me.

12 June [1928]

587. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Я просыпался и всходил…»

I've wakened often in the nightand peered at stairways darkness-filled.The frosty moon threw silver lightupon my house, where all was stilled.

I've had no messages of late;the city only brings me roundits noise, and every day I waitfor guests, and start at every sound.

And waked by steps that seemed to passat midnight more than once I roseand in the window — saw the gasthat shimmered in the streets in rows!

Today — again I must awaitmy guests, and clench my hands, and fear.I've had no messages of late,knocks is all I hear.

12 June [1928]

588. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Я был смущенный и веселый…»

I was confused and glad of heart,your dark silk garments teased me sore.The heavy curtain swung apart,and voices hushed and spoke no more.

A gleaming ring — the footlights — tracea wall of fire between us two,the music burns your very face,and brings a change in all of you.

And so again the candles light,my soul alone is blind anew…Your bared shoulders glisten bright,the crowd of men is drunk with you…

Star, you have left this world of mire,and far above the plain you stand…You raise your hand — a silver lyreis trembling in your outstretched hand.

[1928]

589. Александр Блок(1880–1921). «Какому Богу служишь ты?..»

Who is the God to whom you pray?Are you related in your flightto dreams that come before the nightor anxiousness at break of day?

Or, joined to a star, are you —yourself a goddess — with the restproud of an equal beauty too, —with eyes devoid of interest

Looking from strange heights up theredown at the shadows touched with flame —oh, queen of purity, of prayerand earthly homage to your name?

[1928]

590. Александр Блок(1880–1921). Незнакомка

Above the restaurants, at twilight,where drunken shouts and laughter ring,the hot and putrid air is governedbv the impurities of spring.

Above the dull suburban houses,above the dust of narrow streets,a gilded signboard faintly glitters,and infant's distant cry repeats.

And every night, amidst the ditches,their bowlers jauntily pushed back,the city wits parade their ladiesin fields beyond the railway track.

Above the lake the squeak of oarlocksmingles with women's muffled screams,while in sky, surprised at nothing,the stupid disk forever beams.

And nightly, in my glass reflected,my solitary friend I see,by this mysterious tangy potionsubdued and quieted, like me;

while next to us, at other tables,waiters look sleepily about,and drinkers, with their reddened eyelids,«In vino veritas!» will shout.

And nightly, at the hour appointed(or do I dream that she exists?)a woman's form, in gleaming satins,moves in the window through the mists.

And slowly walking past the drinkers,without an escort, as before,wafting a breath of mist and perfume,she finds a seat beside the door.

The shining satin tight about herof strange and ancient legend sings,and so her hat, with mourning plumage,and slender hand with many rings.

And caught within this sudden nearness,I gaze beyond her somber veil,and there enchanted shores discover,a faraway enchanted trail.

With someone's secret I am trusted,a sun is given me to keep.Throughout the fissures of my soulthe tangy wine begins to seep.

Those ostrich feathers, dimly drooping,rock in my brain forever more.Blue eyes, so deep they have no bottom,now blossom on a distant shore.

Within my heart there lies a treasure,and I possess the key, alone!You speak the truth, oh drunken monster:«In vino veritas» — I own.

[1929]

591. Александр Блок (1880–1921). Эпитафия Фра Филиппо Липпи[266]

Here I am resting, Filippo, artist forever immortal,the wonderful charm of my paint brush is on everyone's lipsinto the paints I was able to breathe with my fingers a soul,souls of the pious I could shake with the voice of the Lord.Even Nature herself, looking at what I createdhad to admit that I was artisan equal to her.Here in this marble I was rested by LawrenceMedici, 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 boundbefore you, on,and every oneweaves living strings, as on they flowand do not know their banks around.

But through the crystals running byyou are as ever far from me…The crystals sing along and cry…How can I make your traits, that Imay have you come to visit mefrom where en chanted countries lie?

[1960s]