Зимородок [Яна Кане] (fb2) читать постранично, страница - 23

name=t222>

Vyacheslav Leikin 'No, I will not depart, nor cut the branch…'

* * *

No, I will not depart, nor cut the branch,

Nor hope that Rome and Paris are still waiting.

I fear that there I'll feel a bitter love

For all of this that here I relish hating.

I fear I will not manage to forget

The acrid taste of Fatherland's smoky air.

I fear, because to feel a love for this

Is not impossible, but more than I can bear.

Vyacheslav Leikin 'Lately far too many live all out of kilter…'

* * *

Lately far too many live all out of kilter,

Spitting, picking, grabbing where it's not allowed.

In the man-made thickets, the communal Edens,

There are far too many destitute and screaming.

Magic does not charm them, thrillers bore them silly

Jigsaw puzzle pieces do not fit together.

Driven by the devil, they crave revelation:

Serve up all the truth now, from the past and present.

Let the chasms yawn open, bring to life the pictures

Where the knaves pass judgement and the fools enlighten,

Where the whores and robbers, murderers and stoolies

Roam in packs and solo, slavering and baying.

That's the truth stripped naked, filthy, vicious-tempered,

Brewed of dust and ashes, rabid snarls and screeches,

Petty alms for beggars, pitiful repentance,

More debased than vileness, viler than debasement,

With its loathsome tributes, monstrous celebrations,

With each window serving as the new Golgotha.

That's the truth whose venom seeped into the Lethe.

And, forgive me, never was there any other.

Vyacheslav Leikin 'Not this one, not the truth-wit who, inspired…'

Let us honor the madman

Jean-Pierre Beranger

* * *

Not this one, not the truth-wit who, inspired,

Pontificates and makes his careless way

Up to the gallows, who is always trying

To put it to you straight and to your face.

Not this self-swallowing snake, this wingless dodo —

But that one, he who lied and covered up,

Who peered into the chasm and understood

That there, within those depths, is not the past,

But our tomorrow, whose assault is yet to come,

Whose stench is yet to rise up to our nostrils.

Anna Akhmatova 'True tenderness can’t be mistaken…'

* * *

True tenderness can’t be mistaken

For anything. Quietly it stirs.

In vain you envelop caressingly

My shoulders and breast in furs.

In vain you speak to me softly,

Your humble first love confess.

How well do I know your glances

That insatiably rove and press.

Anna Akhmatova 'Madness has now spread his wing…'

* * *

(from Requiem)

Madness has now spread his wing

And half my soul is in its shadow.

He pours me fiery wine to drink,

He beckons me to his dark meadow.

I understand I must surrender,

That victory belongs to him;

As my own raving fills my hearing —

A stranger’s voice, confused and dim.

I know that pleading would be wasted,

It’s useless to implore and weep.

All that I cling to will be taken,

There’s nothing that is mine to keep.

Not the remembrance of my son,

His gaze engulfed in horror, frozen;

Nor the arrival of the storm,

Nor the brief meeting in the prison,

Nor the dear hands, cool to the touch,

Nor the lime trees astir with birds,

Nor the ethereal, far away

Sound of the last consoling words.

Anna Akhmatova Crucifixion

Weep not for me, Mother,

Seeing me in the coffin.

(from Requiem)

The choir of angels praised the hour of glory,

The firmament became a molten sea.

He asked His Father: «Why did you forsake me?»,

Then, to His Mother: «Oh, weep not for me.»

Magdalene collapsed, convulsed with weeping;

The beloved disciple stood frozen, dazed.

Yet to where the Mother stood in silence

Not a one would dare to lift his gaze.

Anna Akhmatova The owner

To E. S. Bulgakova

In the chamber where I’m dwelling

Lived a sorceress before:

When the moon is new her shadow

Yet appears beside the door.

By the threshold stands her shadow,

In its customary place,

As elusively and sternly

It is gazing at my face.

I myself am not of those

Whom another's charms can sway.

I myself… But no, my secrets

I don't freely give away.

Hava Broha Korzakova 'A winter thaw is almost bare of beauty…'

* * *

A winter thaw is almost bare of beauty —

A soupy mix of sand and salt and sod.

A world made up of icicles and bleakness

Does not reveal the master plan of God.

In order to discern it, gaze intently,

But not at faces, nor the many books

Held close to faces. Not a page within them

Says anything, no matter how you look.

Perhaps the branch that spreads its patterns over

The human mass that hurries through the rain,

May sketch a pictogram in otherworldly language,

Make the preliminary outline plain.

Hava Broha Korzakova 'Between two languages…'

There is one thing I'd like to tell the poets:

Learn to be silent till the poems come.

Maria Petrovykh

* * *

Between two languages my words have lost their way.

My mouth is numb to either tongue today.

Hour after hour drop down and are absorbed

By CNN, report after report.

I wanted poetry to glue and hold together

This shredded day. But it unravels further.

I'm sinking. Yet a hundred years from now

What will it matter? Who will even know?

Silence is wisdom's path to glory (so they say).

The bitch of poetry is not in heat today,

For all the males are dead or far away.

So let the Internet and wine help keep me warm.

My hopes lie in my tongues. Though now struck dumb,

I know it's «silence, till the poems will come».

Ed Pobuzhansky Conversation

I started having conversations with my cat

And with my radio. So, Siri, tell me, friend,

What will it lead to? Cobwebbed, frail

Will I be talking to my shadow in the end?

I started having conversations with myself.

I wish it were a witty repartee, a joke.

Instead, it’s trial by combat with the truth,

A truth that does not hesitate to stab, to choke.

I started having conversations with my dad.

For years, we used to fight, to rage and rave.

But here I am: gray hair, his face – now my face,

Bawling, as I uproot the nettles on his grave.

Ed Pobuzhansky Neighbor

In the morning, cold white light

Blankets all like heavy snow.

There’s my neighbor walking by;

His tracks fill with drifting glow.

“Neighbor!” I call loud and clear.

But my neighbor does not hear.

He is walking, white-haired, tired

Further, further,

Higher, higher…

Ed Pobuzhansky Buttons

“You, Russians, always complicate everything,”

Sighed the Czech poet and translator,

Shutting my book;

“Who needs rhymed poetry nowadays?

Maybe just the kids!

Today, rhymes are as incongruous

As a row of buttons on a naked body!”

I kept silent.

I was reluctant to admit

that in my childhood,

whenever I came to spend the summer

at my granny’s,

I loved to sift through

the multicolored buttons

in a tin box.

Made of mother of pearl, glass, steel,

In all shapes and colors —

to me, they seemed like a genuine

treasure!

I even wanted to filch one —

A yellow button with a star, —

In order to trade it for a slingshot…

And, when I and my friend, Sashka,

ran away to the lake,

we would come home

only at the end of the day,

when the June sun

was sinking below the horizon,

like a large red button.

Ed Pobuzhansky Parting

Sometimes it happens like this:

You are still together.

In the morning,

You drink the stone-cold coffee,

You finish off the omelet with bacon

(That is, by the way, over-salted as usual).

But already,

Somewhere in the bedroom,

On the upper