A moongate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

Визи Мария Генриховна

Shanghai, 1936–1937

522. «I hope from where you sit or lie…» [234]

Norma Jean

I hope from where you sit or lie that you can see a patch of sky at night, with angels flitting by, each lighter than a sigh. I hope that thru your window pane you see trees, dripping in the rain, or stooping low as under strain where heavy snow has lain. That you can watch a billowy cloud sailing, like some white galleon proud, and birds around it, crying loud, ever a joyous crowd; I hope that you may never tire of watching sunlit skies on fire.

234

The Norma Jean to whom this poem is dedicated has not been identified; perhaps it was Marilyn Monroe, whose real name was Norma Jeane Morrison.

27 Nov. 1951

523 Nocturne(«White clouds…») [235]

White clouds Remote Like little explosions Climb the sky and float Above the black erosions Of the castle moat. Behind the grey parallelogram Of his castle wall The aged knight Snores, for he doesn't really give a damn At all For the beauty of the night. But in her tower The knight's young daughter Forgetful of the hour, Silently watches The silver splotches Upon the water.

235

Variant in the last stanza in the manuscript:

«But in her tower / high-walled, / the knight's young daughter /enthralled /forgetful of the hour/ silently watches/ the silver splotches / upon the water.»

29 Mar. 1955

524. Impressions at the Opera (a true story)

Three dowagers with silver tresses and silver foxes over pale-blue dresses floated into their box, fox after fox, and settled down, like pillows stuffed with eiderdown. And Salvatore Baccaloni, as Bartolo up on the stage, though usually quite the rage, seemed not as fat, nor half as funny.

21 Feb. 1956

525. «It is usually very still on that day…»

It is usually very still on that day, which comes at different times in different places; came in the end of October in the place where I lived. Very still and cold, and then, toward evening, the air is suddenly warmer. Nature stands still, you can hear the earth breathe, the trees reach out and wait. Stars that had been very brilliant all at once turn opaque. It is then that the first snowflake of the winter, always large and slow, is wafted, like a small parachute, down upon the expectant earth, in hushed silence.

27 Feb. 1956

526. «With folded wings he sat and took a rest…»

With folded wings he sat and took a rest upon a branch not far from where his nest was hidden in the thicket from sharp eyes and sharper claw and long, deep in a wood of aspen and of beech where sunrays rarely reach, where stillness lies and shadows hang. Quietly he sat, small, gray and soft, colorless lump of life, alone, aloft, seen and admired by no one. Then he spread his wings, most powerful among such minute things, and, gray no more but golden in the sun, he rose to soar, and then he sang…

February 1956

527. «Nothing is left to write of any more…» [236]

Nothing is left to write of any more, all that there is to say was said before: all is recorded — every human breath. The poets have discussed God, love and death, the seasons and the land and water here, cities around us, and the atmosphere, creatures from the amoeba to the auk, including beings that can sing and talk. All you need do is listen, gratefully, to Swinburne, or Verlaine, or Po Chu-i.

236

Po Chii-i: Bo Juyi in contemporary transcription (772–846), a Chinese poet of the Tang dynasty

7 Mar. 1956

528. Nocturne («Late twilight in October…»)

Late twilight in October. Stillness hangs above primeval marshes like spun glass. Escaping lightly from the reaching arms of scrawny birch, the moon, opaque and naked, drops her seventh mist. No rustle stirs the elderberries. Sorrowful, a loon raises his pointed head among the blades of marsh grass; even he does not invade the silence with habitual complaint. This is when suddenly, passing high above, departing cranes cry out between the earth and moon urgently, clearly, for a rapid moment; the marshes bear their soft provocative and wistful voices, high in the air, yet ultimately close; then they are gone. And in their wake the first large timid snowflakes dim the moon.

15 Feb. 1957

529. «There is something you want to say…» [237]

There is something you want to say — thoughts gurgling in your brain, words choking your throat. Say them, say them before you stop breathing, see the darkness converging upon you from the sky — from the shore — from the water — The circles upon the water grow large and flat and disappear altogether, and the surface is silent. Speak out — call loudly and say all those turbulent words, cry lustily so that the shores will echo, then whisper softly those last compassionate words, and all will be dark, dark.

237

Variant in the third line of the fourth stanza in the manuscript:

«cry loudly.»

1 Mar. 1957

530. «There was hoarfrost on the lawn this morning…»

There was hoarfrost on the lawn this morning at dawn. The seagulls were flying inland from the ocean, to the warm earth and the grass. They were gray in the early light against the November sky.

1957

531. Night Dance

Little dead children, candles in their eyes, uprooting earth, and clanging through staid skies, remembering their ermine-mantled days, all guillotined too soon, dance on the lawn where night dreams spawn unmindful of the gaze of the thick-skulled mongol cheek-boned moon. Dance, slithering sprites in this transparent trance through all your promised perfumed nights with well-earned mirth which sly time pilfered on your withering earth! Dance in the tear-soaked grass dangling each tinkling somewhere-living heart as void eyes dart to where the stolid unbelieving old grow by the snarling oak roots in a silent mold buried en masse. Disdain and disregard the sod-bound throng. There is a song composed about you and your life goes on dancing long nights upon a moonstained lawn.