Стихотворения

Джойс Джеймс

A MEMORY OF THE PLAYERS IN A MIRROR AT MIDNIGHT

They mouth love's language. Gnash The thirteen teeth Your lean jaws grin with. Lash Your itch and quailing, nude greed of the flesh. Love's breath in you is stale, worded or sung, As sour as cat's breath, Harsh of tongue. This grey that stares Lies not, stark skin and bone. Leave greasy lips their kissing. None Will choose her what you see to mouth upon. Dire hunger holds his hour. Pluck forth your heart, saltblood, a fruit of tears. Pluck and devour!

Zurich, 1917

АКТЕРЫ

В ПОЛНОЧНОМ ЗЕРКАЛЕ

Они бормочут о любви. Заткни Ухмылку рта щербатого. Уйми Трепет и стыд Зудящей плоти — пусть умрут они! От затхлых песен, слепленных тайком, Как изо рта кошачьего, разит Дурным душком. Вот седина, смотри, Сквозь кожу кости острые торчат. Пусть пьют другие с губ сей срам и смрад; То, что ты видишь, не для серенад. Но голод жжет. Так вырви сердце — вырви и пожри, Как пряный плод!

Цюрих, 1917

BAHNHOFSTRASSE

The eyes that mock me sign the way Whereto I pass at eve of day, Grey way whose violet signals are The trysting and the twining star. Ah star of evil! star of pain! Highhearted youth comes not again Nor old heart's wisdom yet to know The signs that mock me as I go.

Zurich, 1918

БАНХОФШТРАССЕ

Глумливых взглядов череда Ведет меня сквозь города. Сквозь сумрак дня, сквозь ночи синь Мерцает мне звезда полынь. О светоч ада! светоч зла! И молодость моя прошла, И старой мудрости оплот Не защитит и не спасет.

Цюрих, 1918

A PRAYER

Again! Come, give, yield all your strength to me! From far a low word breathes on the breaking brain Its cruel calm, submission's misery, Gentling her awe as to a soul predestined. Cease, silent love! My doom! Blind me with your dark nearness, О have mercy, beloved enemy of my will! I dare not withstand the cold touch that I dread. Draw from me still My slow life! Bend deeper on me, threatening head, Proud by my downfall, remembering, pitying Him who is, him who was! Again! Together, folded by the night, they lay on earth. I hear From far her low word breathe on my breaking brain. Come!I yield. Bend deeper upon me! I am here. Subduer, do not leave me! Only joy, only anguish, Take me, save me, soothe me, О spare me!

Paris, 1924

МОЛЬБА

Вот снова! Приди, отдай мне все, ты — мой! Зовет из мрака вкрадчивое слово С жестокой силой, с кротостью слепой, Как бы смиряя ужас в обреченном. Молчи, любовь! Мой рок! Накрой меня своею темнотой, о, сжалься, враг мой милый! Невыносимым хладом лба коснись, Вытягивай живые жилы Из сердца! Ниже, ниже наклонись, Грозя и муча, мстя и сострадая За все, чем стал, чем был! Вот снова! Из шелеста ночного, ветрового, из тьмы, что впереди, Зовет

чуть слышно вкрадчивое слово, Терзая слух и мозг: приди, приди! Я здесь. Я — твой, блаженный мой мучитель! Прими, утешь, спаси! О, пощади!

Париж, 1924

Стихи на случай

THE HOLY OFFICE

Myself unto myself will give This name Katharsis-Purgative. I, who disheveled ways forsook To hold the poets' grammar-book, Bringing to tavern and to brothel The mind of witty Aristotle, Lest bards in the attempt should err Must here be my interpreter: Wherefore receive now from my lip Peripatetic scholarship. To enter heaven, travel hell, Be piteous or terrible One positively needs the ease, Of plenary indulgences. For every true-born mysticist A Dante is, unprejudiced, Who safe at ingle-nook, by proxy, Hazards extremes of heterodoxy, Like him who finds a joy at table Pondering the uncomfortable. Ruling one's life by common sense How can one fail to be intense? But I must not accounted be One of that mumming company With him who hies him to appease His giddy dames' frivolities While they console him when he whinges With gold-embroidered Celtic fringes — Or him who sober all the day Mixes a naggin in his play — Or him who conduct 'seems to own', His preference for a man of 'tone' — Or him who plays the rugged patch To millionaires in Hazelhatch But weeping after holy fast Confesses all his pagan past — Or him who will his hat unfix Neither to malt nor crucifix But show to all that poor-dressed be His high Castilian courtesy — Or him who loves his Master dear — Or him who drinks his pint in fear — Or him who once when snug abed Saw Jesus Christ without his head And tried so hard to win for us The long-lost works of Eschylus. But all these men of whom I speak Make me the sewer of their clique. That they may dream their dreamy dreams I carry off their filthy streams For I can do those things for them Through which I lost my diadem, Those things for which Grandmother Church Left me severely in the lurch. Thus I relieve their timid arses, Perform my office of Katharsis. My scarlet leaves them white as wool Through me they purge a bellyful. To sister mummers one and all I act as vicar-general And for each maiden, shy and nervous, I do a similar kind service. For I detect without surprise That shadowy beauty in her eyes, The 'dare not' of sweet maidenhood That answers my corruptive would'. Whenever publicly we meet She never seems to think of it; At night when close in bed she lies And feels my hand between her thighs My little love in light attire Knows the soft flame that is desire. But Mammon places under ban The uses of Leviathan And that high spirit ever wars On Mammon's countless servitors Nor can they ever be exempt From his taxation of contempt. So distantly I turn to view The shamblings of that motley crew, Those souls that hate the strength that mine has Steeled in the school of old Aquinas. Where they have crouched and crawled and prayed I stand the self-doomed, unafraid, Unfellowed, friendless and alone, Indifferent as the herring-bone, Firm as the mountain-ridges where