At times when the spotted moonwith torn and ragged clouds is strewn;at times when in the city streamthe isle of dead its last does dream,and every leaf on every treeis full of spring impurity,— then, hiding in the twilight thick,a man will make his step more quick,and hasten from that road and pastwhere crosses come to life and stare,and on one's breath a shadow castfrom rocky height that rise up there…— There by the cemetery wall,you stood with me, — do you recall?And fresher than a mountain streamthe April kiss to us did seem.
20 May [1930s]
611. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). Ангелу-хранителю [272]
From my childhood, you were always near me—in a woman's tender first embrace,in the floor that bore my infant footsteps,in the first warm sunlight on my face.After that, you always walked beside me,gave me Paris in the month of May,Andalusian gardens, Roman sunrise,— speaking Russian all along my way.Then, I thought — not knowing you were with me —that it was myself I used to hear;there was too much noise and too much gladnessdrowning out all else in my young ear.It is only now, when all is quiet,that I have been able to divinefinally, the voice — in all the stillness —which I long ago mistook for mine.Now I know: if ever I was worthyin this life, from very early youth;if at any time my earthly falsehoodhad in any way resembled truth;if I kissed a woman without wounding,felt a flower, and it never died,— it was all because you leaned to touch me,all because you never left my side.And of all the things you did, the wisestwas that all day long till night would fallyou were always able to protect mefrom myself, most dangerous of all.
Hot as a bonfire is the summer noon,but in this wood relief awaits you still,the morning freshness will not leave it soon,and it is all suffused with early chill.Stay for a while. Sit in the nut-grove bowerupon this hidden moss-grown stump, and hear,while drinking in the languor of the hour,the wondrous tale unfolding for your ear.A leaf is wafted to the mossy ground;fragrant, the little mushrooms upward reach;a sigh, a rustle, whisperings… the sound,insatiable, of creation's speech.
273
From the collection Навстречу небу, Frankfurt-on-Maine, 1952.
28 Feb. 1961
613. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). Всевышнему [274]
By the starry sky and my own soulYou proclaim that You indeed exist.As an infant blind from the beginning,never having known his mother's face,yet remembers whispering and singing,hands caressing tenderly and bringinggentle warmth and never-ending grace,so do I, not having ever seen You,know You, feel Your breath from where I stand,hear Your song, Your whisper understand,and against all human earthly reasonrecognize the warmth that is Your hand.
274
From the collection След жизни, Frankfurt-on-Maine, 1950.
13 Mar. 1961
614. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). Наш мир [275]
Of course, it's fair! Not in the presentthe end of which it cannot seeand not in that which it bewailsor does not have the strength to be.But in the changing successionof suddenly bedazzled days,its gift of momentary gladnessthe transient kindness of its ways.So all around us, and forever:under a dagger's constant aimpeople will kiss and gather flowersand build their houses just the same.In spite of all the grief of partings,of all the hands wrung in despair,of all premeditated falsehood,it still will be forever fair!
275
From the collection Разрозненная тайна, Munich, 1965. Variant in the first line of the first stanza in the manuscript: «Oh, yes, it's good! Not in the present.»
Children are taught in textbooksthat stars are so far away —I somehow never believed them,those things they used to say.I used to love as a childto stay awake in bed:and stars would ever so lightlyrain tinkling round my head.From the blackened boughs of chestnutsI would shake them down to the sand,and, filling my pockets with them,could buy the wealth of the land.Since then I've been mean and stingy,— oh heart! — but, forsaking youth,I never forgot, growing older,my childhood's merry truth.We live low down on the groundand the sky is so far, and yet —I know that the stars are near usand can be easily met.
276
From the collection Навстречу небу, Frankfurt-on-Maine, 1952.
15 June 1967
616. Дмитрий
Кленовский (1893–1976). «Вот стоишь, такая родная…» [277]
In your plain little coat and kerchief,so familiar and dear, you stand,the key to our promised heavenyou hold in your empty hand.Let's set out once again together!The hills ever darker grow.Does it matter that we are tired?We've so little left to go.If only we're never partedin the lonely course of our fate,if we only have strength togetherto reach the Highest Gate!Once again, let us bless each otheras we used to, and never fear —they will let us enter together,that's long been decided, dear.
277
From the collection След жизни, Frankfurt-on-Maine, 1950.
July 1967
617. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). «Легкокрылым гением ведомы…» [278]
Guided by some lightly winging spiritfar beyond the sea the birds have flown.On this dark and bleak November morning,why do you and I stay home alone?Maybe we should follow — take a knapsack,staff and flask, some good and trusted books,and pursue the swiftly flying swallowsover woods and meadowlands and brooks?Only those who linger are un ableto partake of joys on Earth arrayed.Every turnpike, boundary and barrierwe would pass, unseen and unafraid.Surely then, at break of day tomorrowyou and I would reach the rosy hazeover gleaming rocks and crested breakers,slender palms, and golden blessed days!And as surely, to the fullest measure,we who dared would be repaid indeedfor the grain of utter faith within us,for that single mustard seed!
278
From the collection След жизни, Frankfurt-on-Maine, 1950.
[1960s]
618. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). Царскосельские стихи [279]
When I was a boy I used to be your friend,beautiful town of parks and lonely statues,dense lilac groves and empty palaces, —you hadn't yet been visited by grief.Your Gumileff was still a carefree youth,Akhmatova — a schoolgirl and in love,and Innokenti Annensky had notdied suffocating at your railroad station;even your Pushkin used to seem to menot dead, but living, not yet grown up,but just another of my noisy classmates.Decades have passed. Impossible to countyour losses. All your palaces now liedecaying. All your poets have been killedby silence, bullet, or complete contempt.Alone the name of Pushkin, as of old,still shines above you like a glorious promise— a token of the coming future truth.
279
First part of a poem from the collection ,Неуловимый спутник, Frankfurt-on-Maine, 1956
[1960s]
619. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). «Как много есть прекрасного на свете…» [280]
There s such a wealth of beauty in the world:a maiden’s breast, a flying eagle's wing,loaf of a maple, sunrise in Rialto,a lily-of-the-valley in the spring;a leaping doe; the Milky Way, a sail,the Volga's great expanse, a child's eyes…You see yourself: too many things to mentionfor you and me to count or to surmise.And yet is life not easier for knowingthat everywhere around you children roam,and maples grow, and there are waves, and maidens,or simply someone's garden and a home?You say to me: All that is transient, passing!But you are wrong! Next spring, in that green bower,another doe will leap again, as lightly,and underfoot will bloom another flower!Our world is ill. It whispers invocationsand tries to smother what in life is true.But nowhere in it stands a ruined buildingwhere grass will not come up anew.
280
From the collection Прикосновенье, Munich, 1959 Variant in the first line of the last stanza: «Our world is sick. It whispers invocations».
[1960s]
620. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). «He камешком в мозаиках Равенны…» [281]
No pebble in ravenna's sculptured tomb,nor crimson paint-dab in the Vatican, —I merely was a wisp of merry spumeupon the ocean's blue and distant span.But when a sail came toward me, I would swirlto meet it; I have played with reefs near land,caressed the body of a sun-tanned girl,and, tired, dug into the golden sand.My fleeting course no great event did jar;for one chance moment was my fate unfurled,yet I was happier and richer farthan all the tombs and castles of the world.