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

[1960s]

644. Владимир Смоленский(1901–1961). «Enormous world, embraced by sleep and dusk…»[300]

Enormous world, embraced by sleep and dusk,in which we live so close we gasp for breathnot guessing the beginning or the end,dreaming of happiness which conquers death.

This indestructible, poor mortal land!But close your eyes: another lies beyond —A world in which you are a midnight starimmobile in its speechlessness and bright,

— a world in which I am a limpid poolwhose face reflects your ever-shining light.Above this world, that other will appear —that's quite transparent, and quite simply clear.

[1960s]

645. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). «Как лебедь медленно скользящий…»[301]

A graceful swan that's slowly glidingupon the mirror of the lake,a falcon in the clouds abiding —my dream-invented world is ridingin phantom imagery's wake.

Between its wings, unfurled and gleaming,I slowly drift, not knowing where,sweetly and languorously dreaming,regretting nothing, nor redeeming,melting in this transparent air.

And this prophetic voice of mine,voice of my soul in dream's embrace,above abysmal darkness flying,is echoed hollowly, and, dying,it disappears without a trace.

[1960s]

646. Владимир Смоленский(1901–1961). «They will live very crowded — this Earth like a jail they will crowd…»[302]

They will live very crowded — this Earth like a jail they will crowd,Cod and hell and eternity even they all will deny,and their houses of steel and concrete will reach up to the cloud,and a huge zeppelin to the farthermost planet will fly.

And when over this world that is whirling the trumpet does sound,and the firmament over this Earth opens wide like a gate,and the lights all go out, and the graves open up in the ground,none will then understand what is meant or believe anymore.

[1960s]

647. Владимир Смоленский(1901–1961). «В полночный час, когда луна…»[303]

At midnight, when the pallid moon,shivering as from cold and pain,within its bluish aureolesoars upward past your windowpane,

when burnt by the celestial coldsilently floating in the darkits rays that shimmer in the nightare barely heard above the park,

then, through the stillness and the dream,in all your grief of long ago,you will approach your windowsilland push the panes apart and go

out of the darkness gliding upa path by human eyes unseenon which your foot will never slipnor will you falter or careen.

And in the ringing solitudewith hand outstretched and sleeping eyesheavy and cumbersome and slowabove the darkness you will rise

until from out the icy space,the earthly blackness void and still,some reveller's nocturnal voicesuddenly rises sharp and shrill.

Then, jolted, will the heavens rockand swim, and lights go out that shone,and dead onto the stones belowthe moon will tumble like a stone.

[1960s]

648. Василий Сумбатов(1893–1977). Гиперборей[304]

Akhmatova, Ivanov, Mandelshtam —forgotten notebook I have rescued here —«Hyperboreus» — home for transient verseof youthful poets in that happy year.

I found it at the bottom of a trunkamong my dusty archives lost retreat.And forty year — is that not ancient yet?To have survived so long — not yet a feat?

«October. Notebook Light. Nineteen Thirteen».Year of the sunset, last bright, carefree year.For all that followed was not life at all,but time of reckoning, reprisal, fear.

This notebook — witness of a golden age,these pages — that escaped the lethal stream!I open it, I read — my eyes are wet, —how young the poems, young the poets seem!

And I — how old! How wasted all these years!How dark ahead what — emptiness behind!What awesome thought — that not a trace of mewill anyone, in any notebook find!

1 Nov. 1966

649. Василий Сумбатов(1893–1977). Видение[305]

To Mary Vezey

The street lamps shed their meager light,mist wove its wisps about the town,a chilly twilight shuttered tightall windows, drawing curtains down.

Then, growing white, not vapor-softbut heavy, like a lowered load,dusk let a fragile hoarfrost waftonto the sidewalks and the road.

November midnight: winter's eve,a helpless longing, taut distressof autumn strings in mute reprieve,leave-taking, but without redress…

A sketch from nature? — No: the timewas filled with flowers, springlike-bright,when suddenly the poet's mindenvisioned this November night.

About him warm th and sunlight shone,young foliage gleamed, birds flitted, gay,everything bloomed, — his soul alonehad left this blossoming of May.

He roamed along deserted roads,where street lamps shed their meager light,where mist in pungent smoke-rings rose,where hoarfrost tinged sidewalks white.

5 Dec. 1967

650. Василий Сумбатов (1893–1977). Памяти юности[306]

We parted at an early date, —youth, — in the blackest year of war,though we had been fast friends before,still, friendship cannot conquer fate.

Our parting came at night, when skieswere dark above the steppe. Your waywas down the trail to yesterday,and never once you raised your eyes.

Night quenched the heat, and scattered farthe glare of sunset; and the grass,its strings by twilight winds harassed,moaned in the steppe like a guitar.

And from afar I could discerna voice that sang for me alonethat all my happy days were gone,that you were never to return.

1967

651. Юрий Терапиано (1892–1980). «Куда ни погляжу, везде…»[307]

No matter where I look, I finddimensions perfect everywhere:a star is wondrously designed,crystals are regular and fair.

Foolish, the beating heart, alone,is not concerned with star or beam;it will not cease to long and moan,it's built on quite a different scheme.

[1960s]

652. Юрий Терапиано (1892–1980). «Поднимись на высокую гору…»[308]

Climb atop of the loftiest mountain,gaze about from the peak where you standtoward the sheen of the sunset in autumn,and the sweep of the far land.

There is soundless music around you,contemplation and stillness are deep.It is evening. Mountain rangesdarken, waiting for quiet and sleep.

[1960s]

653. Марина Цветаева(1892–1941). «Черная, как зрачок, как зрачок сосущая…»

Black, like the pupil of an eye, like the pupil, suckinglight — I love you, vigilant night.

Give me voice to sing of you, oh original motherof songs, holding the reins of four winds in your palm.

Calling you, glorifying you, I am onlya sea-shell, where the sound of the ocean has not yet been stilled.Night! I've already looked long enough into the pupilsof man! Now reduce me to ashes, oh black sun, — night!

[1960s]

654. Марина Цветаева (1892–1941). «Знаю, умру на заре! На которой из двух…»

I know I will die at dawn, or at sunset — which of the two,at which of the two — this cannot be foreordained!Oh, if it only could be that my torch would be dimmedboth at sunset and sunrise, together, at once!Dancing I walked over Earth! — the sky's own daughter!Full of roses, my apron! Never a broken twig!I will die at sunset or dawn! God won't sendthe night hawk for my soul — the soul of a swan!

Moving the unkissed crucifix gently aside with my hand,I will rush toward the generous sky for the ultimate greeting.A slit of the dawn — and a slit of my smile in reply…… In the hiccough of death, a poet still, — I!

[1960s]

655. Марина Цветаева (1892–1941). «На кортике своем: Марина…»

On your dirk you etched «Marina»when rising for the strife.I was the first and only onein all your splendid life.

I see the army boxcar hell,that night, your radiant face…Your curl I scattered to the winds,your patch I laid in a secret place…

[1960s]

656. Марина Цветаева (1892–1941). «Кто уцелел — умрет, кто мертв — воспрянет…»

Не who survived will die, who died — will rise,and when recalling olden days, a sonwill ask «Where were you?» — like a roll of thunder,so will answer thunder, «On the Don».«What did you do?» — «We merely suffered tortures,then we grew weary and lay down to sleep».And pensively the sons, opposite «Duty»will enter «Don» into the book they keep.

[1960s]

657. Марина Цветаева (1892–1941). «Идет по луговинам лития…»

Above the meadows rings a requiem mass.The secret book of Russia's Genesiswhere all Earth's fates are hidden has been readright to its end and has been tightly closed.

And round and round the steppe winds rove and scour«Russia! Oh martyr! Rest in peace!»

[1960s]

658. Марина Цветаева (1892–1941). «Если душа родилась крылатой…»

If a soul is born with wings —what does it care about earthly things!About Genghis-khan and about his Horde!I've but two enemies in this world,twins who have ever together stood:the hungry ones' hunger, the fed ones' food.

[1960s]