A moongate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

Визи Мария Генриховна

[1970s]

572. Т.Андреева(Russian emigre poet). В черных джунглях [262]

Here Jinna danced. Her face all glow's the prettiest, she, indeed. A golden ring is in her nose, and a nut-shaped bead. A live young lion Nagua laid by her, but she looked not, for she wanted earrings of varied shade and elephant tusks galore. Then came a white, beat Nagua's back and gave Jinna beads instead. She went with sidi, along his track, «Nagua, coward», she said.

262

No dates are available for Andreeva's life. This poem is from Rubezh, Harbin, no. 26, 1930; it received second prize in (he poetry competition organized by the Harbin literary circle of young poets

«Churaevka» in the early 1930s

[1930s]

573. Анна Ахматова(1889–1966). «Чернеет дорога приморского сада»

Black road of the garden upon the shore, bright lanterns along the rim. And I am so calm. Only never more should anyone speak of him. You're sweet and so faithful, and you and I will kiss, like friends, as we go our way, and the months will lightly fly above us, like stars of snow.

20 Sept. [1920s]

574. Анна Ахматова (1889–1966). «Широк и желт вечерний свет…»

Bright yellow is the twilight glow, and tender is the April chill. You should have come ten years ago, but I am glad to see you still. Come here, sit down, and nearer me, and look at me with merrv stare. This copy-book that's blue, you see,— I wrote my childish poems there. Forgive me that I lived in grief, rejoiced not in the sun, and, too, forgive, forgive my old belief that scores who came before — were you.

[1930s]

575. Анна Ахматова(1889–1966). Разлука

In twilight shadows sloping my road is stretched ahead. Last night, still loving, hoping, «Remember me», he said. And now — but breezes blowing, and cries of shepherds ring, and shaken cedars, growing beside the limpid spring.

21 Sept. [1930s]

576. Анна Ахматова (1889–1966). «Теперь никто не станет слушать песен…»

None want to hear my songs now as of yore, the days that were foretold have come to be. My last, the world is wonderful no more stop ringing, do not rend my heart in me. But recently, you flew above the land free as a swallow every morning gay and now — а hungry beggar, you will stand no gate will open, though you knock all day.

[1930s]

577. Анна Ахматова (1889–1966). «Подушка уже горяча…»

The pillow on either side is hot, and burning low the second candle has died, while the crow caws ever louder outside. I haven't slept all night, it's late to try in vain. How unbearably white the diapes on the white window-pane! Good morning!

[1960s]

578. Анна

Ахматова(1889–1966).«Сказал, что у меня соперниц нет…»

Не said I had no rivals, said that I was not an earthly woman, but to him the solace of a winter sun, the wild song of our native country, like a hymn. And when I die, I know he will not grieve crying «Come back!» madly, as from a wrong, but suddenly see — the body cannot live without the sun, the soul — without a song. And what of now?

[1960s]

579. Анна Ахматова (1889–1966). «Из памяти твоей я выну этот день…»

Out of your memory I'll snatch this day, so vou will question, lost, with helpless eyes, «Where did I see the little wooden house, the Persian lilac, swallows in the sky?» The sudden longing of unnamed desires oh, very often you will call to mind, searching in pensive cities for a street uncharted on whatever map you find. Sight of some letter you did not expect — sound of a voice at some half-opened gate — and you'll be thinking, «Here she is herself, coming to help me in my faithless state».

[1960s]

580. Анна Ахматова(1889–1966). Cadran solaire на Меньшиковом доме

A steamer passes churning up a wake. Familiar house with its cadran solaire. Spires gleaming, and reflections of these waves— nothing on all the Earth to me more fair! A narrow alley darkens like a crack. Sparrows alight upon a wire to rest. Even the salty taste of many strolls memorized long ago — is also blessed.

[1960s]

581. Анна Ахматова(1889–1966). «Муза ушла по дороге…»

The muse walked away up the trail, autumnal, narrow and steep. Large dewdrops were sprinkled over her dusky legs and feet. I'd begged her to wait till winter, to stay with through the fall. But she answered, «This is a grave here, How can you breathe at all?» I wanted to give her a present — the whitest dove I possessed — but the bird flew off on its own after my shapely guest. I watched her go. I was silent. She was my only love. And like a gate to her country The dawm was shining above.