A moongate in my wall

588. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Я был смущенный и веселый…»

I was confused and glad of heart,
your dark silk garments teased me sore.
The heavy curtain swung apart,
and voices hushed and spoke no more.

A gleaming ring — the footlights — trace
a wall of fire between us two,
the music burns your very face,
and brings a change in all of you.

And so again the candles light,
my soul alone is blind anew…
Your bared shoulders glisten bright,
the crowd of men is drunk with you…

Star, you have left this world of mire,
and far above the plain you stand…
You raise your hand — a silver lyre
is trembling in your outstretched hand.

[1928]

589. Александр Блок(1880–1921). «Какому Богу служишь ты?..»

Who is the God to whom you pray?
Are you related in your flight
to dreams that come before the night
or anxiousness at break of day?

Or, joined to a star, are you —
yourself a goddess — with the rest
proud of an equal beauty too, —
with eyes devoid of interest

Looking from strange heights up there
down at the shadows touched with flame —
oh, queen of purity, of prayer
and earthly homage to your name?

[1928]

590. Александр Блок(1880–1921). Незнакомка

Above the restaurants, at twilight,
where drunken shouts and laughter ring,
the hot and putrid air is governed
bv the impurities of spring.

Above the dull suburban houses,
above the dust of narrow streets,
a gilded signboard faintly glitters,
and infant's distant cry repeats.

And every night, amidst the ditches,
their bowlers jauntily pushed back,
the city wits parade their ladies
in fields beyond the railway track.

Above the lake the squeak of oarlocks
mingles with women's muffled screams,
while in sky, surprised at nothing,
the stupid disk forever beams.

And nightly, in my glass reflected,
my solitary friend I see,
by this mysterious tangy potion
subdued and quieted, like me;

while next to us, at other tables,
waiters look sleepily about,
and drinkers, with their reddened eyelids,
«In vino veritas!» will shout.

And nightly, at the hour appointed
(or do I dream that she exists?)
a woman's form, in gleaming satins,
moves in the window through the mists.

And slowly walking past the drinkers,
without an escort, as before,
wafting a breath of mist and perfume,
she finds a seat beside the door.

The shining satin tight about her
of strange and ancient legend sings,
and so her hat, with mourning plumage,
and slender hand with many rings.

And caught within this sudden nearness,
I gaze beyond her somber veil,
and there enchanted shores discover,
a faraway enchanted trail.

With someone's secret I am trusted,
a sun is given me to keep.
Throughout the fissures of my soul
the tangy wine begins to seep.

Those ostrich feathers, dimly drooping,
rock in my brain forever more.
Blue eyes, so deep they have no bottom,
now blossom on a distant shore.

Within my heart there lies a treasure,
and I possess the key, alone!
You speak the truth, oh drunken monster:
«In vino veritas» — I own.

[1929]

591. Александр Блок (1880–1921). Эпитафия Фра Филиппо Липпи [266]

Here I am resting, Filippo, artist forever immortal,
the wonderful charm of my paint brush is on everyone's lips
into the paints I was able to breathe with my fingers a soul,
souls of the pious I could shake with the voice of the Lord.
Even Nature herself, looking at what I created
had to admit that I was artisan equal to her.
Here in this marble I was rested by Lawrence
Medici, ere I would be turned into lowliest dust.

23 May 1930

592. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Грустно плача и смеясь…» [267]

In ringing streams my poems go,
weep, laugh and sorrow, quickly bound
before you, on,
and every one
weaves living strings, as on they flow
and do not know their banks around.

But through the crystals running by
you are as ever far from me…
The crystals sing along and cry…
How can I make your traits, that I
may have you come to visit me
from where en chanted countries lie?

[1960s]

593. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Из ничего — фонтаном синим…»

From nowhere, like a fountain blue
a light flashed on.
We turn our heads up, I and you,
and it is gone,

above the blackness yonder, throwing
a 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.

[1960s]

594. Андрей Блох(Russian emigre poet) [268]

266

Blok supplemented the published poem with a note: «Эпитафия сочинена Полицианом и вырезана на могильной плите в Сполотском соборе по повелению Лаврентия Великолепного». Fra Filippo Lippi (са. 1406–1469) was an Italian painter of the early Renaissance.

267

Variant in the fifth line of the second stanza in the manuscript: «could have you come to visit me».

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.