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…
[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.
[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.
[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.
вернуться
288
Poem not found in a collection of this poet; presumably translated from a publication in a Russian emigre newspaper.