592. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Грустно плача и смеясь…» [267]
In ringing streams my poems go,weep, laugh and sorrow, quickly boundbefore you, on,and every oneweaves living strings, as on they flowand do not know their banks around.But through the crystals running byyou are as ever far from me…The crystals sing along and cry…How can I make your traits, that Imay have you come to visit mefrom where en chanted countries lie?
267
Variant in the fifth line of the second stanza in the manuscript: «could have you come to visit me».
[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.
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.
268
Андрей Блох (ок. 1896 — после 1930) Данные о поэте и переводчике крайне скудны: известно, что в начале 20-х годов он служил во французском Иностранном легионе; печатался во множестве периодических изданий (преимущественно выходивших в Латвии на русском языке между 1922 и 1930 годами). Автор двух поэтических сборников — «Стихотворения» (1927) и «Поэмы и стихи» (1929); оба изданы в Париже.
[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.
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.