A moongate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

Визи Мария Генриховна

[1960s]

542. «Can it be true, in hours of grief and anger…»

Can it be true, in hours of grief and anger that all one's past will disappear afar just like the soft sound of some forgotten music, like in the dark of night a fallen star?

[1980s]

543–561 My China [243]

243

With notation on the manuscript of the cycle «My China»: «Some time years ago, probably in the 60s.»

543. «I put my brushes carefully, one by one…»

Arranging the brushes, and picking the right

one to write a poem.

I put my brushes carefully, one by one, into their respective cones in the brass brush stand, meticulously smoothing each sensitive tuft with my fingers, to make a pinpoint end. I pull out the small white bone latch of my ink box, lifting its black and gold silk lid. The ink tablet, half covered with carved inscription, lies before me. I pull out the two white bone pieces latching the powder-blue silk covers of a small thick volume. The ivory-white rice paper page is blank. The moon has set over the western horizon and night fragrance is drifting into my window. I pick a brush of the needed thickness, touch the surface of water in a porcelain cup and caressing the ink tablet gently, write down a poem.

544. «Two ladies stand on an open marble surface…»

A favorite scroll on the east wall of my room.

Two ladies stand on an open marble surface, and the mist of the April morning swirls at their silken feet; the verdure of the white-barked pines, almost black against the still white sky, clouds over the bright blue tiles of the small pavilion. Far in the distance, all sense of perspective lost in the subtleties of the mist, hang the curling cliffs of the mountains, without top or bottom, wrapped in the twisting and winding scarves of the April mist.

545. «In early spring, bright blossom liven…»

In early spring, bright blossom liven

the clay walls of Tung-Chow-fu.

Around the ancient town of Tung-Chow-fu

a great grey wall of brick and earth was built some centuries ago. A deep, wide moat was dug and filled with water. None but friends could enter through the barred and guarded gate. Now peace hangs sweetly over Tung-Chow-fu. The wall has crumbled down in many spots, and only kingfishers disturb the sleep of aged willow trees that, drooping, touch the lazy curling wavelets of the moat. All there is green and quiet. In the spring it is a joy to cross the stepping stones and climb the wall, and see the almonds bloom scarlet against the background of the grey.

546. «At Wu-Chih-Mi the little local train…»

Listening to the evening stillness

at Wu-Chih-Mi.

At Wu-Chih-Mi the little local train stops. I step off and breathe the summer warmth. At Wu-Chih-Mi there aren't many dwellings. It dozes lying in its quiet valley in summer twilight as the hills around it turn rose and violet and transparent blue before the night. I walk across the green and soundless meadow and soon I see the lanterns of the sky reveal their silken brilliance one by one. Alone I stand and listen to the stillness at Wu-Chih-Mi and watch the silver dipper above the northern hilltops as it tips to quench the thirsting of my day-parched soul with the beatitude of simple peace.

547. «Around the bend of the Yalu…» [244]

A field of wild iris, that few people know about.

Around the bend of the Yalu where the cliffs come close to the sparkling, chattering water, suddenly you come to an open meadow all purple with wild iris. This meadow is like a green jade bowl held by cliffs on three sides with a grove of birches framing the river bank on the fourth. Tie your horse to a birch trunk; let him nibble on the sweet wild strawberries at his feet. Look: What peace, what silence! No one here to pluck these myriad blooms of deep purple, more plentiful than the grass, evidently so carefully tended by a kind gardener.

244

Yalu: a river.

548. «We sailed in a small river boat…»

A grey town, full of people very busy living.

We sailed in a small river boat up the wide canal on the way to Zo-Ssu one April day. We passed through a town and sailed under its bridge, a high curved stone bridge, linking two halves of the town. The bridge was grey, like the walls of the houses on either side, but a very busy life was evident everywhere, people selling their wares and walking about the streets, meeting above on the bridge to enjoy the sun and to engage in conversation, women washing their clothes at the edge of the stream below, and several naked children, happy to be near water, jumping in for a swim from the sampans anchored ashore.

549. «Ching-pu is an elderly man and all his chores are completed…»

Watching the river boats, having nothing else to do.

Ching-pu is an elderly man and all his chores are completed, the tilling of fields, the raising of crops and of sons. Ching-pu sits back on his heels on the sunny terraced knoll smoking his long-stemmed pipe filled with bitter tobacco, holding his slender pipe with withered yellow hand, watching the river below hurrying round the bend, watching the river sampans swiftly propelling themselves, prow to the muddy current, around the bend of the river, towards the city beyond.

550. «Your gate is heavy, strong, and always barred…» [245]

Some are closed, and some are open;

I like the latter.

Your gate is heavy, strong, and always barred. Its face is bright vermilion touched with brass. A stout kai-meng-de guards it day and night and just a chosen few may step inside. But I prefer a moongate in my wail — an open gate that has no use for locks. Come, let us walk right through and see the pines shedding dark needles on the moonlit steps!

245

With a notation in the manuscript:

«kai-meng-de' is Chinese for 'gatekeeper.»

551. «The white sands on the sloping shore of the river…»

He was almost as old as the river,

and he made more noise than the river itself

The white sands on the sloping shore of the river lie silent, except for the lapping, continuous lapping of the yellow water against the edge of the slope, — the great mass of water poured powerfully down the deep trough of its old bed. liven the water grasses, crashing close to the current, hold the wav'es of their surface silently toward the sun. Suddenly, a heavy splash disturbs the silence, as the aged bulk of a huge river tortoise turns swiftly near the top of the yellow water, to snatch a minnow.