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

16 July [1930]

606. Николай Гумилев (1886–1921). Душа и тело[271]

I

Above the city night is soaring, tilleach sound grows softer, duller every chord.And you, my soul, are keeping silence still,have mercy for the souls of marble, Lord.

And to this speech my soul did answer give(as though a harp was singing in the skies):«Why was I ever made to come and livewithin this hum an frame, which I despise?

I hastened towards a glory new and rich,leaving my home; I must have been insane,for me this earth is now a ball, to whichthe prisoner is fastened with a chain.

And, oh, this love, how I have grown to hatethis illness, of which none on earth are free,which ever darkens with its shade the fateof worlds so wondrous, although strange to me.

And if there is one thing that keeps me sealedto shining planets and to days of old,that thing is grief, my only trusted shield,that thing is sorrow, full of scorn, and cold».

IIThe clouds were covered with a greenish rust,the golden sunset turned into gray,and i addressed my body: «Now you mustreply to all the soul has had to say!»

And to my speech my body answered so —a common body, but with blood aflame:«The meaning of this life I do not know,though I have heard that «love» can be its name.(…)A woman, too, I love…but when 1 kissher lowered eyes, it is a strange thing,and I am drunk, and overcome with bliss,as in a storm, or drinking from a spring.

And yet for all I want or take today,for all my dreams, and all my joys and sorrowas well befits a man, I will repaywith that sure peril which will come tomorrow.»

IIIAnd when the word of God was set aflameas Big Dipper in the darkness blue,the body and the soul before me canie,and asked of me: «Who, questioner, are you?»

I lowered at the impudent my eyes,and slowly condescended to reply:«Pray, answer, do you think a dog is wisethat howls when the moon is bright on high?

Then can it be for you to question me,to whom all time since worlds began to flower,until the day that they will cease to beis but the smallest fraction of an hour?

Me, who, like lgdrazil, the tree, does growthrough Universes seven times seven,whose eyes regard as equal dust belowthe meadows of the earth and those of Heaven?I am who sleeps…

[1930s]

607. Георгий Иванов (1894–1958). Разрозненные строфы

It's yes and no. A star on highburns bright a hundred thousand years.The star burns bright. The years go by,and so an era disappears.

There is no joy. The world is stilland sad, and through the icy stingof the ethereal spaces, spring,carrying roses in her hand,flies to the sad and silent land.

24 June 1961

608. Георгий Иванов (1894–1958). «Меня влечет обратно в край Гафиза…»

The land of Hafiz calls me back, to rovewhere my Gulnara's gaze shone green and bright,and tentwise over her and me abovewas spread the sapphire chasuble of night.

And memory, deprived of all these things,looks everywhere for landmarks of that valewhere waits the lute, forsaken, and where singsto ageless rose, an ageless nightingale.

[1960s]

609. Георгий Иванов (1894–1958). «Оттого и томит меня шорох травы…»

I am filled with a sadness by whispering grass —it will wither, and roses will die and decay,and your own precious body will also, alas,be changed into flowers, and turned into clay.

All memory of us will vanish. And thenskilled fingers will fashion a beautiful thing,a pitcher of clay, which will live once againand be filled to its wide golden throat at spring.

And someone, perhaps, by the well where they meetembracing each other, with sunset aglow,will drop that dear clay, which will slip to her feetand ring as it breaks into fragments below.

[1960s]

610. Лазарь Кельберин (1907–1975). «Когда пятнистая луна…»

At times when the spotted moonwith torn and ragged clouds is strewn;at times when in the city streamthe isle of dead its last does dream,and every leaf on every treeis full of spring impurity,— then, hiding in the twilight thick,a man will make his step more quick,and hasten from that road and pastwhere crosses come to life and stare,and on one's breath a shadow castfrom rocky height that rise up there…— There by the cemetery wall,you stood with me, — do you recall?And fresher than a mountain streamthe April kiss to us did seem.

20 May [1930s]

611. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). Ангелу-хранителю[272]

From my childhood, you were always near me—in a woman's tender first embrace,in the floor that bore my infant footsteps,in the first warm sunlight on my face.

After that, you always walked beside me,gave me Paris in the month of May,Andalusian gardens, Roman sunrise,— speaking Russian all along my way.

Then, I thought — not knowing you were with me —that it was myself I used to hear;there was too much noise and too much gladnessdrowning out all else in my young ear.It is only now, when all is quiet,that I have been able to divinefinally, the voice — in all the stillness —which I long ago mistook for mine.Now I know: if ever I was worthyin this life, from very early youth;if at any time my earthly falsehoodhad in any way resembled truth;

if I kissed a woman without wounding,felt a flower, and it never died,— it was all because you leaned to touch me,all because you never left my side.

And of all the things you did, the wisestwas that all day long till night would fallyou were always able to protect mefrom myself, most dangerous of all.

March 1960

612. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). В лесу[273]

Hot as a bonfire is the summer noon,but in this wood relief awaits you still,the morning freshness will not leave it soon,and it is all suffused with early chill.

Stay for a while. Sit in the nut-grove bowerupon this hidden moss-grown stump, and hear,while drinking in the languor of the hour,the wondrous tale unfolding for your ear.

A leaf is wafted to the mossy ground;fragrant, the little mushrooms upward reach;a sigh, a rustle, whisperings… the sound,insatiable, of creation's speech.

28 Feb. 1961

613. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). Всевышнему[274]

By the starry sky and my own soulYou proclaim that You indeed exist.

As an infant blind from the beginning,never having known his mother's face,yet remembers whispering and singing,hands caressing tenderly and bringinggentle warmth and never-ending grace,so do I, not having ever seen You,know You, feel Your breath from where I stand,hear Your song, Your whisper understand,and against all human earthly reasonrecognize the warmth that is Your hand.

13 Mar. 1961

614. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). Наш мир[275]

Of course, it's fair! Not in the presentthe end of which it cannot seeand not in that which it bewailsor does not have the strength to be.

But in the changing successionof suddenly bedazzled days,its gift of momentary gladnessthe transient kindness of its ways.

So all around us, and forever:under a dagger's constant aimpeople will kiss and gather flowersand build their houses just the same.

In spite of all the grief of partings,of all the hands wrung in despair,of all premeditated falsehood,it still will be forever fair!

17 July 1965

615. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). Звезды[276]

Children are taught in textbooksthat stars are so far away —I somehow never believed them,those things they used to say.

I used to love as a childto stay awake in bed:and stars would ever so lightlyrain tinkling round my head.

From the blackened boughs of chestnutsI would shake them down to the sand,and, filling my pockets with them,could buy the wealth of the land.

Since then I've been mean and stingy,— oh heart! — but, forsaking youth,I never forgot, growing older,my childhood's merry truth.

We live low down on the groundand the sky is so far, and yet —I know that the stars are near usand can be easily met.

15 June 1967

616. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). «Вот стоишь, такая родная…»[277]

In your plain little coat and kerchief,so familiar and dear, you stand,the key to our promised heavenyou hold in your empty hand.

Let's set out once again together!The hills ever darker grow.Does it matter that we are tired?We've so little left to go.

If only we're never partedin the lonely course of our fate,if we only have strength togetherto reach the Highest Gate!

Once again, let us bless each otheras we used to, and never fear —they will let us enter together,that's long been decided, dear.

July 1967

617. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). «Легкокрылым гением ведомы…»[278]

Guided by some lightly winging spiritfar beyond the sea the birds have flown.On this dark and bleak November morning,why do you and I stay home alone?

Maybe we should follow — take a knapsack,staff and flask, some good and trusted books,and pursue the swiftly flying swallowsover woods and meadowlands and brooks?

Only those who linger are un ableto partake of joys on Earth arrayed.Every turnpike, boundary and barrierwe would pass, unseen and unafraid.

Surely then, at break of day tomorrowyou and I would reach the rosy hazeover gleaming rocks and crested breakers,slender palms, and golden blessed days!

And as surely, to the fullest measure,we who dared would be repaid indeedfor the grain of utter faith within us,for that single mustard seed!

[1960s]