A moongate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

Визи Мария Генриховна

[1970s]

632. Валерий Перелешин (1913–1992). Неизбежное [289]

Like some strange blessing that descends upon us, our kiss is full of fire and passion swift. And yet I know: a future day is coming when I will have to choose your wedding gift. So let it be: some shaken thrones will tumble, and mighty cities fall, and forest burn. Laws that are ironclad were once established, — once and for all they will remain stern. I’ve long outgrown all manner of partitions, of language, and of blood, and even race, and all those other age-old walls and fences with which a man surrounds his private place. Even today, I hate that coming hour when, speaking softly, you will say, «My dear! A temporary harbor may be lovely, but now it's time the ship should homeward steer. My destiny is clear, — you will explain, — I'm but a door where generations stand yet to be born, of small and slant-eyed people with yellow skin — as ever in my land». And you will leave forever, disappearing behind blank walls which I deny in vain, — in cold betrayal, though without betraying — into the cruel truth of your domain. No races, castes, or creeds… Wide as the sea, like that same sea, I will remain alone, wearily mirror someone else's dawns, and, longing for the East, complain and groan. Alone and free…But truly, what of that: I'm quite prepared, forsaking all desires, an unknown passerby, to be the last to warm my hands at other people's fires.

289

From the collection Южный

дом, Munich, 1968.

23 Jan. 1973

633. A.H. Плещеев (1825–1893). «Был у Христа младенца сад». Легенда [290]

The Christ Child had a garden once, and many grew the roses there. He gave them water twice a day, so he could have a wreath to wear. And when the roses came to bloom, he called the children in, to share, bach took a flower for himself, and soon they left the garden bare. «How will you make yourself a wreath? There's not a rose on any bed!» «You have forgotten that the thorns are left for me», the Christ Child said. And so they took the thorns and laid a prickly wreath upon Him now, and scarlet were the drops of blood, instead of roses, on His brow.

290

A.N. Pleshcheev's poem was published with notation «С английского».

1948

634. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). «Закрой плотнее дверь, глаза закрой…» [291]

Close tighter every door and close your eyes, forget that you are living, think not then, and let your blindness guard you from the skies and deafness — from the noise of earthly men. Know not of the beginning and the end — and a new world before you will arise! So in his coffin does a dead man send a smile to visions hidden from our eyes.

291

From the collection Закат, Paris, 1931.

29 June [1930]

635. Владимир Смоленский(1901–1961). «За ночами проходят дни…»

Days are passing after the nights putting out — what care they? — the lights. Dream on dream float onward and on, all alike and black every one. Ever lower the sky does grow. God, it's death approaching, I know. God, I know it's you who led me on poverty's path ahead, turned off near me all the lights of the dreams the days and the nights, so that I, in the dark around, on the empty, ice-covered ground, being sentenced, like all, to die, found nothing of which to cry.

29 June [1930]

636. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). «Нам снятся сны, но мы не верим им…» [292]

We dream our dreams, but do not know that they are God’s own warnings, and believe them not. A last night’s dream, like smoke, will blow away, today will come — and it will be forgot. So with this earthly life — when death is nigh, and on the death-bed frozen falls our hand, closing the lid of our wondering eye, we never will recall or understand!

292

From the collection Закат, Paris, 1931.

16 Sept. 1930

637. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961).To my wife [293]

I know not how or why, at whose behest, by what strange powers of the earth or sky, you share with me my crust of bread, and lie close to the heart that heats within my breast. In days that are inspired, as on the day of death — you are inseparably near. All else will pass, all else will disappear… I he constant shining of your eyes will stay.

293

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

16 Sept. 1930

638. Владимир

Смоленский (1901–1961). Ангел [294]

As slaves are driven from behind with w hip and shouts that don't abate, so I am goaded by my blind, my cruel and relentless fate. In such a servitude and pain what boundless strengths one must possess in order not to go insane or die from hunger and distress! But as the day grows ever dimmer it s pierced — so often! — from the skies by slender wings that lightly shimmer and luminous transparent eyes. I die so slowly, crawling, groping… Yet as I reach the gate of heaven I know that he will pull it open and with his wing will help me in.

294

From the collection Закат, Paris, 1931.

[1930]

639. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). Два восьмистишия [295]

Don't go away, for I am lost, stay here, for I am cold; upon my chest my hands are crossed that I may not unfold. I cannot lift my eyes to see, it's cold, and dark as well. This cannot be, this cannot be the bottom of the well…

295

Second part of the poem from the collection Закат, Paris, 1931

[1930]

640. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). «Никогда я так жалок не был…» [296]

Never felt I more to be pitied, ridiculous, clumsy, weak; I dreamed I was turning blind, the sky was a blackened streak. Oh, weight of unseeing sadness, remembrance of earthly day! Invisible voices, crying, ran past me upon their way. Oh, death without putrefaction, insatiable worm of night. I summoned God to redeem me, but it was you who replied. The lower your voice, the softer, the more the answer grew clear: «My dear, I hear you, I hear you, there is no salvation, dear!»

296

From the collection Закат, Paris, 1931.

[1930]

641. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). Сердце [297]

It all will be as I have always wished: over my feet the cover will be white and white will be the ribbon of the wreath around my forehead, grown cold and dark. Keeping my earthly, my familiar look, three long, three not-to-be-forgotten days alone upon the table I will lie. Pompous and solemn, the memorial mass will be performed above me by the priest and silently around me there will stand my family, my enemies, my friends, and those with whom I lived and whom I'd met; and the transparent pallor of her face will lend an added beauty to my wife. It all will be as I have always wished. And only you will never have a chance, in your great longing and your last despair, to touch my hand, my all but living hand, to touch already my unseeing eyes. And even into the wide open church you will not dare to enter with the rest. But, waiting for me somewhere on the way, pressing your hand over your pain-stilled mouth, you will observe my coffin floating past silently, in the mist, without a trace… And at that moment the dead heart in me will suddenly, in mortal pity, shake, and you will clearly hear the distant beat — the beat, so long familiar, of my heart. But people will not hear a sound.

297

From the collection Закат, Paris, 1931.