A moongate in my wall: собрание стихотворений - Мария Визи

[1960s]

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

From nowhere, like a fountain bluea light flashed on.We turn our heads up, I and you,and it is gone,

above the blackness yonder, throwinga 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 rounda 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 thereright in the middle of the square,where often do a pig and kidgraze till the setting sun is hid.

And when at times a motor carcomes 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 spellthe 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 listsof 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 sendthe sound of mortal agonies to stand,when will it be that He will put an endto 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 soulis empty, like a shrine above a grave,where day and night burns an eternal flamelighted above the silent sepulchre.

[1960s]

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

In one of my familiar dreamsthere is a place that is so strange,a stillness, where the sunlight beamsupon a peaceful mountain range.

Green stands a peak, and others crowdas far away as eye can see,while in the sky a silver cloudpatterns its fragile filigree.

And there upon the slope I stand,but shall I triumph or deplorethat in this meditative landI 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 uswith 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-moonand 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 despairare poorer than starving beggarsthat 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 understandwhy all alone beneath the moonit feels so strange to stand.

Pale, you will check your step, and throwaway your cape and hood,does not the full moon likewise flowabove the somber wood?

And by the magic of her waysand by yourself spell-bound,I will be happy — with my days,the dark and stillness round.

So in the woods a beast which smellsthat spring is coming soonthe rustling of the hours tellsand goes to watch the moon.

And softly to the glen he creepsto wake the dreams of night,and with the moon's own movement keepshis step, that's ever light.

Like he, I will be speechless too,will look and lose my strength,and guard the solem n seal of you,o, Night, throughout your length!

There will be m any shining moonswithin myself and near,and pallid shores of ancient dunes,alluring, will appear.

And from the darkness which unfurlsthe ocean green that roarswill bring me flowers, corals, pearlsthe gifts of distant shores.

And there will be a thousand sighsof creatures dead and far,and somber sleep of silent eyes,and wine from every star.

Then you will go, and I will stayto hear the moon's last tune,and see the dawning of the skyabove the pallid dune.

[1930s]

602. Николай Гумилев(1886–1921). Покорность

Only the tired are worthy of praying to God,only by lovers the meadows of spring may be trod!

Soft is the sorrow on earth and the stars in the sky,softly resounded a «yes» — in the darkness to die.

This is submissiveness! Come and bend over me now,pale maid, wearing the black mourning-veil on your brow!

Sad is my land, in the wilds of the marshes it lies,no land could ever be fairer for sorrowful eyes.

Look at the brownish buds and the damp-grown glen,they are what makes me renounce the pleasures of men.

Am I in love? Or just weary as never before?Oh, it is good that my eyes do not shine any more!

Calmly I look at the wind-blown grass of the plain,calmly I hear in the marshes a bittern complain.

[1930s]

603. Николай Гумилев(1886–1921). Читатель книг

Reader of books, I also tried to findmy heaven in the knowledge which obeys,I always loved them, — strange ways that windwhere neither hope nor reminiscence stays.

Into new chapters eagerly to roam,upon the stream of many lines to ride,and watch the growing waves and splashing foam,and listen to the roar of rising tide!

But after dusk.. how horrible the shadebehind the shelf and icon in the night,and, like a moon that shimmers on the glade,the pendulum — immovable and bright!

[1930s]

604. Николай Гумилев (1886–1921). Портрет мужчины

His eyes are hidden underground lakes,forgotten kingly halls, with floors untrod,upon his brow the highest shame makesits mark, and he will never speak of God.

His lips — they are a purple wound that's madeby poisoned daggers. Early silent grownand overcast with melancholy shade,they ever summon to a joy unknown.

His hands are full-moon marble, they are suchon which damnation will forever last,for they have crucified and used to touchyoung sorceresses in the ages past

His fate is in the centuries that lapseto be the dream of people who would slay,and of the poets; at his birth, perhaps,a bloody comet melted, far away.

Within his soul — age-old offences live,within his soul unnamed sorrow's tarry,his reminiscences he would not givefor all the flowers of Cyprid or of Mary.

His wrath is not a sacrilegious wrath,and tender hue his silken cheeks maintain.And he can smile, and he can also laugh,but weep… he cannot ever weep again.

[1930s]

605. Николай Гумилев (1886–1921). Орел

The eagle flew ahead and toward the height,through starry gateways to the Powers' Throne,and full of beauty was his kingly flight,and in the sun his brown feathers shone.

Where had he lived? Perhaps it was a Kingwho kept him chained, a prisoner, till now,and he had cried to greet the maiden-spring,that loved a prince with melancholy brow.

Or maybe in a wizard's gloomy denwhen he was looking out the narrow doorthe height above enchanted him and thenturned to a sun what was a heart before.

What matters that? The perfect azure heightsunfolded, ever luring him aheadand ever on he flew, three days and nightstill in his bliss he smothered and was dead.

(…)Rays of the planets pierced the heavens throughmagnificent, divinely frozen rays,but, never knowing perish, on he flewand watched those planets with a lifeless gaze.

And more than once worlds tumbled, making roomfor more, and the archangel's trumpet came,and yet alone the eagle's gorgeous tombdid never fall a victim of the game.

16 July [1930]