A moongate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

[1960s]

643. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). Стихи о звезде [299]

Burn in the foggy whiteness, burn, burn in the fog of icy skies, lighting the murky twilight stillness with your bright body as it flies. And soaring from the crowded heaven, enter my crowding prison walls through the slit window, like a bird, to visit me when evening falls. Soaring above decay and coldness, incomprehensible, though near, glide, circling from the vaulted ceiling down to the dusty corners here, that — even for the briefest moment! and though I burn my fingers through — I am allowed, in sweetest torment, to touch the body that is you.

299

From the collection Наедине, Paris, 1938.

[1960s]

644. Владимир Смоленский(1901–1961). «Enormous world, embraced by sleep and dusk…» [300]

Enormous world, embraced by sleep and dusk, in which we live so close we gasp for breath not guessing the beginning or the end, dreaming of happiness which conquers death. This indestructible, poor mortal land! But close your eyes: another lies beyond — A world in which you are a midnight star immobile in its speechlessness and bright, — a world in which I am a limpid pool whose face reflects your ever-shining light. Above this world, that other will appear — that's quite transparent, and quite simply clear.

300

Poem not found in a collection of this poet, presumably translated from a publication in a Russian emigre newspaper.

[1960s]

645. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). «Как лебедь медленно скользящий…» [301]

A graceful swan that's slowly gliding upon the mirror of the lake, a falcon in the clouds abiding — my dream-invented world is riding in phantom imagery's wake. Between its wings, unfurled and gleaming, I slowly drift, not knowing where, sweetly and languorously dreaming, regretting nothing, nor redeeming, melting in this transparent air. And this prophetic voice of mine, voice of my soul in dream's embrace, above abysmal darkness flying, is echoed hollowly, and, dying, it disappears without a trace.

301

From the collection Закат, Paris, 1931.

[1960s]

646. Владимир Смоленский(1901–1961). «They will live very crowded — this Earth like a jail they will crowd…» [302]

They will live very crowded — this Earth like a jail they will crowd, Cod and hell and eternity even they all will deny, and their houses of steel and concrete will reach up to the cloud, and a huge zeppelin to the farthermost planet will fly. And when over this world that is whirling the trumpet does sound, and the firmament over this Earth opens wide like a gate, and the lights all go out, and the graves open up in the ground, none will then understand what is meant or believe anymore.

302

Poem not found in a collection of this poet, presumably translated from a publication in a Russian emigre newspaper.

[1960s]

647. Владимир Смоленский(1901–1961). «В полночный час, когда луна…» [303]

At midnight, when the pallid moon, shivering as from cold and pain, within its bluish aureole soars upward past your windowpane, when burnt by the celestial cold silently floating in the dark its rays that shimmer in the night are barely heard above the park, then, through the stillness and the dream, in all your grief of long ago, you will approach your windowsill and push the panes apart and go out of the darkness gliding up a path by human eyes unseen on which your foot will never slip nor will you falter or careen. And in the ringing solitude with hand outstretched and sleeping eyes heavy and cumbersome and slow above the darkness you will rise until from out the icy space, the earthly blackness void and still, some reveller's nocturnal voice suddenly rises sharp and shrill. Then, jolted, will the heavens rock and swim, and lights go out that shone, and dead onto the stones below the moon will tumble like a stone.

303

From the collection Наедине, Paris, 1938.

[1960s]

648. Василий Сумбатов(1893–1977). Гиперборей [304]

Akhmatova, Ivanov, Mandelshtam — forgotten notebook I have rescued here — «Hyperboreus» — home for transient verse of youthful poets in that happy year. I found it at the bottom of a trunk among my dusty archives lost retreat. And forty year — is that not ancient yet? To have survived so long — not yet a feat? «October. Notebook Light. Nineteen Thirteen». Year of the sunset, last bright, carefree year. For all that followed was not life at all, but time of reckoning, reprisal, fear. This notebook — witness of a golden age, these pages — that escaped the lethal stream! I open it, I read — my eyes are wet, — how young the poems, young the poets seem! And I — how old! How wasted all these years! How dark ahead what — emptiness behind! What awesome thought — that not a trace of me will anyone, in any notebook find!

304

From the collection Стихотворения, Milan, 1977.

1 Nov. 1966

649. Василий Сумбатов(1893–1977). Видение [305]

To Mary Vezey

The street lamps shed their meager light, mist wove its wisps about the town, a chilly twilight shuttered tight all windows, drawing curtains down. Then, growing white, not vapor-soft but heavy, like a lowered load, dusk let a fragile hoarfrost waft onto the sidewalks and the road. November midnight: winter's eve, a helpless longing, taut distress of autumn strings in mute reprieve, leave-taking, but without redress… A sketch from nature? — No: the time was filled with flowers, springlike-bright, when suddenly the poet's mind envisioned this November night. About him warm th and sunlight shone, young foliage gleamed, birds flitted, gay, everything bloomed, — his soul alone had left this blossoming of May. He roamed along deserted roads, where street lamps shed their meager light, where mist in pungent smoke-rings rose, where hoarfrost tinged sidewalks white.

305

From the collection Прозрачная тьма. Стихи разных лет, Livorno, 1969

5 Dec. 1967

650. Василий Сумбатов (1893–1977). Памяти юности [306]

We parted at an early date, — youth, — in the blackest year of war, though we had been fast friends before, still, friendship cannot conquer fate. Our parting came at night, when skies were dark above the steppe. Your way was down the trail to yesterday, and never once you raised your eyes. Night quenched the heat, and scattered far the glare of sunset; and the grass, its strings by twilight winds harassed, moaned in the steppe like a guitar. And from afar I could discern a voice that sang for me alone that all my happy days were gone, that you were never to return.

306

From the antology Содружество, Washington, 1966.

1967

651. Юрий Терапиано (1892–1980). «Куда ни погляжу, везде…» [307]

No matter where I look, I find dimensions perfect everywhere: a star is wondrously designed, crystals are regular and fair. Foolish, the beating heart, alone, is not concerned with star or beam; it will not cease to long and moan, it's built on quite a different scheme.

307

Poem not found in a collection of this poet, presumably translated from a publication in a Russian emigre newspaper.

[1960s]

652. Юрий Терапиано (1892–1980). «Поднимись на высокую гору…» [308]

Climb atop of the loftiest mountain, gaze about from the peak where you stand toward the sheen of the sunset in autumn, and the sweep of the far land. There is soundless music around you, contemplation and stillness are deep. It is evening. Mountain ranges darken, waiting for quiet and sleep.

308

Poem not found in a collection of this poet, presumably translated from a publication in a Russian emigre newspaper.

[1960s]

653. Марина Цветаева(1892–1941). «Черная, как зрачок, как зрачок сосущая…»

Black, like the pupil of an eye, like the pupil, sucking light — I love you, vigilant night. Give me voice to sing of you, oh original mother of songs, holding the reins of four winds in your palm. Calling you, glorifying you, I am only a sea-shell, where the sound of the ocean has not yet been stilled. Night! I've already looked long enough into the pupils of man! Now reduce me to ashes, oh black sun, — night!