A moongate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

Визи Мария Генриховна

[1960s]

622. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). «Прощаться всего трудней, потому…» [283]

It's hardest of all to say goodbye, it is best to be alone to die. For no one at all to be near, instead just an empty room, a chair, a bed, not to see anyone sadly weep, not to have any small dog creep from under your bed to lick your cheek, or a sun ray come through a crack and peek, or a butterfly dart in the window So may it not be spring when I have to go! May I die in the night! When a single star may fall… and another… again… How far easier, maybe, to go away down such an utterly empty way.

283

From the collection Прикосновенье, Munich, 1959.

[1960s]

623. Дмитрий

Кленовский (1893–1976). «Я растерял их по пути…» [284]

I lost them all along the way, those words 1 failed to clothe in sound. Like swallows on a winter day, never again can they be found. I didn't show them much concern, so they departed, taking wing. And yet perhaps they will return to others, in some future spring?

284

From the collection Разрозненная тайна, Munich, 1965.

[1960s]

624. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). В комнате умершего [285]

Yes, now it's empty here… His silhouette is gone, it isn't at the desk, nor in the easy-chair. I his stillness! And the thought that he is here no more How can you justify, how can you call it fair? And yet — don't weep! And leave this vacant room! Go down the stairs, stand by the window-pane, look hard into the fading blue of dawn. You see — that's he, there, striding down the lane! Don't try to call — you cannot bring him back! But know: he lives, his life will never end. He had been visiting, and has gone off once more. Listen — he's singing! Far…around the bend.

285

From the collection Навстречу небу, Frankfurt-on-Maine, 1952

[1960s]

625. Довид Кнут (1900–1955). Я не умру и разве может быть [286]

I shall not die. Nor can it be, I know, that earth without me in the gladsome space would draw its thread of fire and ever go along its senseless and its joyful race. It cannot be that after I am gone the earth would blossom, wilt, and roll ahead among the worlds, that trees would rustle on, that snow would circle, after I was dead! It cannot happen. I assure you. I will stubbornly continue on my course, and when the awful hour has come to die will push the coffin's lid with all my force, and I will shout: I do not want it so! I need to feel this gladness that is blind! Shoulder to shoulder with my sweet to go! To give the sun whatever name I find! No in a stuffy box you cannot lay one who has spurned all I want to live, and I shall live, I say and…

286

Unfinished translation from the collection Вторая книга стихов, Paris, 1928.

[1960s]

626. Довид Кнут (1900–1955). «Пусть жизнь становится мутней и непролазней…» [287]

Let life grow dimmer, harder every day, let work become more vain, more useless, let men we can speak to seldom come our way, I thank You for the right of living yet. And let the years… Indeed it is but nothing that one pays: a tear and sigh — for fields, for songs afar, for cherished voices, for a brother's gaze, and for the air of this rejoicing star.

287

Unfinished translation from the collection Вторая

книга стихов, Paris, 1928.

[1960s]

627. Михаил Лермонтов (1814–1841). Утес

Once a golden cloudlet spent the night on a giant cliff's great rugged breast; than at daybreak speeded on its quest, gaily playing in the azure light. But a spot of moisture lingered, traced in a wrinkle on the ancient stone; lost in thought, the giant stands alone, weeping softly in his barren waste.

10 Jan. 1961

628. Юрий Мандельштам (1908–1943). «Еще я беспокойнее иного…»

То V. Smolensky

I am more restless than another still, — a word that's said with casual caress, a furtive glance — still send through me a thrill, alike a tender glance or vivid dress. And even yet to me it is a pleasure to… a fancy, strange and far away to suffer from a rime, at times to measure emotion, caught by chance upon the way But every day the soul does stricter get, obeys the ray that moves not, and I feel that I will teach that same emotion yet, though that same rime to be of sadless zeal And soon, I know, — thanks to the God who takes us onward with a wisdom-guided palm, — we will exchange anxiety that aches for heavenly and light-abounding calm.

11 June 1930

629. Юрий Мандельштам (1908–1943). «К чему стихи? Уже и так от них…»

More verse? What for? Already from their curse the soul is sad, as unsuccessful verse. Already, when I barely close my eyes — comparisons to you before me rise. You are w o ndrous than a rose, and, too, more tender than my tenderness for you, or you are sad, a drooping willow tree, or toiling, as a love-abounding bee, or else you dream — and in that mood you stay to me more puzzling than a gloomy day. Our life is plain, less visible by far: and you are worse — yet better loved you are.

ca. 20 Aug. [1930]

630. Юрий Мандельштам (1908–1943). «За окном морозная луна…»

То Katherine Garon

Out-of-doors — the murky winter light, frosty moon, and stillness of the night. Hut your window has been covered long with a screen, reliable and strong. Out-of-doors, above the house and tower fearful is the moon this chosen hour. Yet you sleep, the moon you do not heed: you are dreaming other dreams indeed. Out-of doors, beneath the moonlight glow, stubborn guard, I wander to and fro. But it is not joys of love that fill your illusions in the midnight still.

[1930]

631. Ирина Одоевцева (1895–1990). «Скользит слеза из-под усталых век…» [288]

То М.Кгuzenshtern

From tired lid, a tear crawls down my cheek. Coins jangle on the church collection tray. No matter what we pray for, what we seek, it's always for a miracle we pray. That two times two make five instead of four, and straw would turn into a rose in bloom, that I be home, in my own house, once more, though there is no such thing as house or home. That from the churchyard mound where grasses sway you suddenly step out, alive and gay.

288

Poem not found in a collection of this poet; presumably translated from a publication in a Russian emigre newspaper.