Стихотворения

422. RESTORATION {*}

To think that any fool may tear by chance the web of when and where. O window in the dark! To think that every brain is on the brink of nameless bliss no brain can bear, unless there be no great surprise — as when you learn to levitate and, hardly trying, realize — alone, in a bright room — that weight is but your shadow, and you rise. My little daughter wakes in tears: She fancies that her bed is drawn into a dimness which appears to be the deep of all her fears but which, in point of fact, is dawn. I know a poet who can strip a William Tell or Golden Pip in one uninterrupted peel miraculously to reveal, revolving on his fingertip, a snowball. So I would unrobe, turn inside out, pry open, probe all matter, everything you see, the skyline and its saddest tree, the whole inexplicable globe, to find the true, the ardent core as doctors of old pictures do when, rubbing our a distant door or sooty curtain, they restore the jewel of a bluish view. 9 марта 1952

423. THE POPLAR {*}

Before this house a poplar grows Well versed in dowsing, I suppose, But how it sighs! And every night A boy in black, a girl in white Beyond the brightness of my bed Appear, and not a word is said. On coated chair and coatless chair They sit, one here, the other there. I do not care to make a scene: I read a glossy magazine. He props upon his slender knee A dwarfed and potted poplar tree. And she — she seems to hold a dim Hand mirror with an ivory rim Framing a lawn, and her, and me Under the prototypic tree, Before a pillared porch, last seen In July, nineteen seventeen. This is the silver lining of Pathetic fallacies: the sough Of Populusthat taps at last Not water but the author's past. And note: nothing is ever said. I read a magazine in bed Or the Home Book of Verse;and note: This is my shirt, that is my coat. But frailer seers I am told Get up to rearrange a fold. 1952

424. LINES WRITTEN IN OREGON {*}

Esmeralda! Now we rest Here, in the bewitched and blest Mountain forests of the West. Here the very air is stranger. Damzel, anchoret, and ranger Share the woodland's dream and danger. And to think I deemed you dead! (In a dungeon, it was said; Tortured, strangled); but instead — Blue birds from the bluest fable, Bear and hare in coats of sable, Peacock moth on picnic table. Huddled roadsigns softly speak Of Lake Merlin, Castle Creek, And (obliterated) Peak. Do you recognize that clover? Dandelions, I'or du pauvre? [17] (Europe, nonetheless, is over). Up the turf, along the burn, Latin lilies climb and turn Into Gothic fir and fern. Cornfields have befouled the prairies But these canyons laugh! And there is Still the forest with its fairies. And I rest where I awoke In the sea shade — l'ombre glauque [18] — Of a legendary oak; Where the woods get ever dimmer, Where the Phantom Orchids glimmer — Esmeralda, immer, immer. [19] <20 июня> 1953

17

Солнце бедных (фр.). — Ред.

18

Тень цвета морской волны (фр.). — Ред.

19

Погружайся, погружайся (фр.). — Ред.

425. ODE TO A MODEL {*}

I have followed you, model, in magazine ads through all seasons, from dead leaf on the sod to red leaf on the breeze, from your lily-white armpit to the tip of your butterfly eyelash, charming and pitiful, silly and stylish. Or in kneesocks and tartan standing there like some fabulous symbol, parted feet pointing outward — pedal form of akimbo. On a lawn, in a parody Of Spring and its cherry tree, near a vase and a parapet, virgin practicing archery. Ballerina, black-masked, near a parapet of alabaster. «Can one — somebody asked — rhyme „star“ and „disaster“?» Can one picture a blackbird as the negative of a small firebird? Can a record, run backward, turn «repaid» into «diaper»? Can one marry a model? Kill your past, make you real, raise a family, by removing you bodily from back numbers of Sham? <8 октября> 1955

426. ON TRANSLATING «EUGENE ONEGIN» {*}

1

What is translation? On a platter A poet's pale and glaring heard, A parrot's screech, a monkey's chatter, And profanation of the dead. The parasites you were so hard on Are pardoned if I have your pardon, O, Pushkin, for my stratagem: I traveled down your secret stem, And reached the root, and fed upon it; Then, in a language newly learned, I grew another stem and turned Your stanza patterned on a sonnet, Into my honest roadside prose — All thorn, but cousin to your rose.

2

Reflected words can only shiver Like elongated lights that twist In the black mirror of a river Between the city and the mist. Elusive Pushkin! Persevering, I still pick up Tatiana's earring, Still travel with your sullen rake. I find another man's mistake, I analyze alliterations That grace your feasts and haunt the great Fourth stanza of your Canto Eight. This is my task — a poet's patience And scholiastic passion blent: Dove-droppings on your monument.

427. RAIN {*}

How mobile is the bed on these nights of gesticulating trees when the rain clatters fast, the tin-toy rain with dapper hoof trotting upon an endless roof, traveling into the past. Upon old roads the steeds of rain Slip and slow down and speed again through many a tangled year; but they can never reach the last dip at the bottom of the past because the sun is there. 1956

428. THE BALLAD OF LONGWOOD GLEN {*}

That Sunday morning, at half past ten, Two cars crossed the creek and entered the glen. In the first was Art Longwood, a local florist, With his children and wife (now Mrs. Deforest). In the one that followed, a ranger saw Art's father, stepfather and father-in-law. The three old men walked off to the cove. Through tinkling weeds Art slowly drove. Fair was the morning, with bright clouds afar. Children and comics emerged from the car. Silent Art, who could state at a thing all day, Watched a bug climb a stalk and fly away. Pauline had asthma, Paul used a crutch. They were cute little rascals but could not run much. «I wish», said his mother to crippled Paul, «Some man would teach you to pitch that ball». Silent Art took the ball and tossed it high. It stuck in a tree that was passing by. And the grave green pilgrim turned and stopped. The children waited, but no ball dropped. «I never climbed trees in my timid prime», Thought Art; and forthwith started to climb. Now and then his elbow or knee could be seen In a jigsaw puzzle of blue and green. Up and up Art Longwood swarmed and shinned, And the leaves said yesto the questioning wind. What tiaras of gardens! What torrents of light! How accessible ether! How easy flight! His family circled the tree all day. Pauline concluded: «Dad climbed away». None saw the delirious celestial crowds Greet the hero from earth in the snow of the clouds. Mrs. Longwood was getting a little concerned. He never came down. He never returned. She found some change at the foot of the tree. The children grew bored. Paul was stung by a bee. The old men walked over and stood looking up, Each holding five cards and a paper cup. Cars on the highway stopped, backed, and then Up a rutted road waddled into the glen. And the tree was suddenly full of noise, Conventioners, fishermen, freckled boys. Anacondas and pumas were mentioned by some, And all kinds of humans continued to come: Tree surgeons, detectives, the fire brigade. An ambulance parked in the dancing shade. A drunken rogue with a rope and a gun Arrived on the scene to see justice done. Explorers, dendrologists — all were there; And a strange pale girl with gypsy hair. And from Cape Fear to Cape Flattery Every paper had: Man Lost in Tree. And the sky-bound oak (where owls had perched And the moon dripped gold) was felled and searched. They discovered some inchworms, a red-cheeked gall, And an ancient nest with a new-laid ball. They varnished the stump, put up railings and signs. Restrooms nestled in roses and vines. Mrs. Longwood, retouched, when the children died, Became a photographer's dreamy bride. And now the Deforests, with fourold men, Like regular tourists visit the glen; Munch their lunches, look up and down, Wash their hands, and drive back to town. 1953–1957

СТИХОТВОРЕНИЯ НА АНГЛИЙСКОМ, НЕ ВОШЕДШИЕ В ПРИЖИЗНЕННЫЕ СБОРНИКИ

429. REMEMBRANCE {*}

Like silent ships we two in darkness met, And when some day the poet's careless fame Shall breathe to you a half-forgotten name — Soul of my song, I want you to regret. For you had Love. Out of my life you tore One shining page. I want, if we must part, Remembrance pale to quiver in your heart Like moonlit foam upon a windy shore. <Ноябрь 1920>

430. HOME {*}

Music of windy woods, an endless song Rippling in gleaming glades of Long Ago, You follow me on tiptoe, swift and slow, Through many a dreary year.... Ah, it was wrong To wound those gentle trees! I dream and roam O'er sun-tormented plains, from brook to brook, And thence by stone grey thundering cities. Home, My home magnificent is but a word On a withered page in an old, dusty book. Oh, wistful birch trees! I remember days Of beauty: ferns; a green and golden mare; A toadstool like a giant lady bird; A fairy path; bells, tinkling bells, and sighs; Whimsical orioles; white-rimmed butterflies Fanning their velvet wings on velvet silver stems.... All is dead. Who cares, who understands? Not even God.... I saw mysterious lands And sailed to nowhere with blue-winged waves Whirling around me. I have roved and raved In southern harbours among drunken knaves, And passed by narrow streets, scented and paved With moonlight pale. There have I called and kissed Veiled women swaying in a rhythmic mist, But lonesome was my soul, and cold the night.... And if sometimes, when in the fading light Chance friends would chatter, suddenly I grew Restless and then quite still, — Ah, it was Music of you, windy woods! <Ноябрь 1920>

431. THE RUSSIAN SONG {*}

I dream of simple tender things: a moonlit road and tinkling bells. Ah, drearly the coachboy sings, but sadness into beauty swells; swells, and is lost in moonlight dim… the singer sighs, and then the moon full gently passes back to him the quivering, unfinished tune. In distant lands, on hill and plain, thus do I dream, when nights are long, — and memory gives back again the whisper of that long-lost song. <1923>

432. SOFTEST OF TONGUES {*}

To many things I've said the word that cheats the lips and leaves them parted (thus: prash-chai which means «good-bye») — to furnished flats, to streets, to milk-white letters melting in the sky; to drab designs that habit seldom sees, to novels interrupted by the din of tunnels, annotated by quick trees, abandoned with a squashed banana skin; to a dim waiter in a dimmer town, to cuts that healed and to a thumbless glove; also to things of lyrical renown perhaps more universal, such as love. Thus life has been an endless line of land receding endlessly.... And so that's that, you say under your breath, and wave your hand, and then your handkerchief, and then your hat. To all these things I've said the fatal word, using a tongue I had so tuned and tamed that — like some ancient sonneteer — I heard its echoes by posterity acclaimed. But now thou too must go; just here we part, softest of tongues, my true one, all my own.... And I am left to grope for heart and art and start anew with clumsy tools of stone. <21 октября 1941>; Уэлсли, Macc.