Стихотворения в переводе Ильи Шамбата на английский, Северянин Игорь, Год: 2023

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Breathe in the Sunlight
Breathe in the sunlight, live with the sunlight —
And with the sun you will glisten too!
The earth will be warm in the living sunlight
Of hearts that knew of the light and good.
Breathe in the heaven, live with the heaven —
And with the heaven will shine your eye.
With love to earth will descend the heaven
And world, forgiven, will meet the sky.
My Dacha
My little green hut —
Under the river, in old park.
How here is seclusion!
What wilderness! What calm!
A bit to the side — a dam
By dusky mill, after it is
Sleepy the poor village
Without faith in cheer of better days.
Like gates into the park — like a ghost,
The abandoned palace stands,
It has decayed, reminding
Of — lacking jewelry — a case.
My park is grim, in it is much shadow,
The hundred-year oaks are strong,
It has grown, in grass there are roads,
Mushrooms are growing on the sides.
My park is lovely, urns are white,
From terraces visible are
River, huts, the tsar’s house…
Thus it is good in evening hour.
Nocturne
Cherishing sleep, purple is the west of day.
Like a heart is a tower for the brain.
Only I’ll remember you — to you draw.
All my thoughts one by one you know.
And if I want or don’t want — to you without words
I am coming… And west is purple and full of sorrow.
Queen Victoria
Our meeting — Queen Victoria:
Rarely-rarely in bloom…
After her life — an elegy,
And hope in a dream.
Trembling in the flight,
I languish from bliss — you will come,
Our meeting — Queen Victoria:
Rarely, rarely in bloom…
Notched Lilac
Wakes up the farm.
The spring talk
Threw into window… Awake,
Did sing the young
Strings of the lyre,
Blossomed in spring lilac.
Smelled of hay.
With winter prison
Ground said goodbye. But — what dreams?
The rake did bend.
Glimmered the swords
And notched the lilac in spring!
Little Elegy
She stood up on her tiptoes
And gave to me her lips.
I tiredly kissed her
In the damp autumn silence.
And tears dropped without sound
In the damp silence of autumn.
Dimmed boring day — and it was boring,
Like all, that is not a dream.
Rose in Snow
Like bonfire in a cave, flames out fireplace…
And, like rose in snow, approving a ringing —
You will come in, silver… I — forgive, I can’t…
I will kiss you… like an idea of Brahmin!
Oh! Child from frost — is the rose in the snow.
Voluptuously will drink the velvet of gaudy sofa.
It will drink the pearl of these forms… who will drink?
Will be mine, draw! In glasses I pour verse,
I pour joy through the edge — and sings glass…
And sings glass — sings the cabinet,
And tiger’s sofa, and bonfire of start…
Drunkenness won’t be heavy — for no end:
Where wine without wine — to live and dream fate.
What is a dream?
What is a dream? What is a dream?
It’s thought of a rose, but not a rose still.
What is a dream? What is a dream?
It is mimosa tender-velvety.
What is a dream? What are the dreams?
These are seraphs’ shining tears!
To Eyes Of Your Soul
To eyes of your soul — prayers and sadness,
My illness, my fear, weeping of my conscience,
And all, that is in the end, and, that is in the beginning, all
With the eyes of your soul…
To eyes of your soul — lilac rapture
And liturgy — anthem of jasmin nights,
All-all, that is dear, that will be inspiration,
To your soul’s eyes!
Eyes of your soul — clergy of scary visions…
Kill me! torture! Torment! Strangle!
But you must accept!… And cloak, and laughter of lyre —
With the eyes of your soul!
Daisies
Oh look! How many daisies —
And here, and there they are…
They are in flower, there are many, they are in excess,
They flower.
Their triangular petals — like wings,
Like silk of white…
You — summer’s might! You — joy of plenty!
You — the luminous regiment!
Ready, earth, the drink from roses,
Juice to the stem give!
O, girls! O, stars of daisies!
I am in love with ye!
All As In Past
All as in past — she said tenderly:
All as in the past.
But hopelessly in eyes I was staring —
All as in the past.
Kissed softly, smiling —
All as in the past.
But still we were lacking something —
All as in the past!
Wind
Wind is happy, quick is wind,
Along the daisies it does run,
Bell on the harness swings,
Swaying the jets of the stream.
Wind, the flighty prankster,
Celebrates holiday everywhere,
Circles, turns all that can,
And laughs unbridled.
Wind is dear and kind-hearted
And to judgments indifferent,
But will anger — do not blame:
And will scold all the same!
Tea Rose
Over the quietly dosing pond —
Where is unusual silence,
There is a little cozy home,
And before home — the tea rose.
Over her are fans of dragonflies —
Like emerald fans,
The flowers jet around anaesthesia
And cherish the unawakening dreams.
FaГade admires in the pond,
In its whimsical polish,
And with it is flirting the garden,
Admiring the shameful rose.
And day and night, nights, days —
Unusual sorrow’s tides.
And whispers rose: ‘We — are alone
With you, miserable, my garden …’
And between the, with fire of dawn
And to the sunset’s oblivion,
In garden of pigmy, like the kings,
Lives in the incredible dream.
They laugh and they make sound,
The impressions catching greedily,
Under their feet is crushed the garden,
Immortality — victim of smouldering!
Why would he stand with rose, if the news
Accidental about her will come?..
And having not had time to bloom,
Hurries to fade the tea rose…
And She Died Young…
And she died young,
Like always wanted to die!..
There, where willow over water sorrows,
Thus now and onward she reposes.
As such, to warm with the breath
Could not the sunset dense,
The young one waited to die,
And she has died young.
On side of passer-by roads
Cemetery, and in it — an island,
And in coffin, like in oak armor
Sleeps the princess with no tears, no worries.
Sleeps and sees through the ground — all through —
Someone light with a dream bends
Over grave and whispers: ‘It came true, —
And young she has died’.
He, who prays with dream — who?
He would sing in deceased duet?
How many songs were lived by the soul?
He’s a poet! He’s a poet! He’s a poet!
May it only to poet be dear,
May it only to poet as a star shine!
In old age the myrrh saw the foe, —
And she died young.
Haymaking
Pours the rain, golden-braided,
Pours, like from a watering pot.
I am going to haymaking
On the thick alleyway.
Here over river is the cliff,
I am sitting on a bench
Looking on hundreds of scythes,
Like the steel snakes.
When at Nights…
When at nights all is quiet,
I want merriment, I want flames,
That would be dashing, that would be quiet,
That chandelier light chase host of shades!
Palace is empty, palace is silent,
Quietly whispers to me the row of legends…
Their sense is sickly, long is their plot…
Like snakes of black crawling bands…
And the heart weeps, and suffers the heart,
Here-here will tear, — for him you wait…
Guilt, merriment, for music thirsts,
But night has closed — where them will you find?
Shine, thoughts! Dreams, fall laughing!
Let go, Muse, in ecstatic dance!
And what for us — ghost! And what — threatened!
Art is with us — and God is for us!..
Habanera
Gitana! Throw off the bravura sombrero,
Pour into vial joyful claret…
We will drink for sourness of caballero,
Letting fragrant smoke of cigarettes.
Dream sails, like a light galley,
Somewhere far… sails where — do not know!
Fire! Fire! Let flare up habanera, —
We’ll bridle passion and in madness go!..
Gallop of mandol will reach allegretto,
Mesmerized by the wish of pirouette,
In languor will rustle the signs of palms…
Guilt! Guilt! Sprinkle the, gitana,
Bouquets of dreams… Then there’ no need for coats —
Then the naked frame’s Pompeian cult!..
Chansonnette
Elegant, of middle height
With head bronze-oxide,
She — the embodiment of the toast.
Mais non, regardez, regardez!
Piquant, of middle height,
She — hero of Daudet.
Many followers — there are till hundred.
Mais non, regardez, regardez!
But woman of height middle
Can be tall et deux…
And it’s good to be conscious, that it’s simple…
Mais non, regardez, regardez!
Envy Not Your Friend
Envy not your friend if he’s more handsome,
More intelligent or wealthier than you.
Let his merits and let his successes
Not tear up the laces on your shoe.
Move along your way without a care,
Smile still broader out of his success!
Maybe he’ll face darkness and despair
And your porch will be adorned with bliss!
Laugh with him, and cry with his distresses:
Feel him with your heart, and for all time!
Do not block your friend from his successes:
It’s a sin to do so! Truly, it’s a crime!
Habanera II
Piece the corkscrew in the cork resilient, —
And the sights of women won’t be fearful!
Yes, the sights of women won’t be fearful,
And to torrid passion trails will curl…
Splash into the cup amber of muscat
And observe the color of the sunset…
Paint the thoughts and colors of the sunset
And for roar of love await, await!..
Catch the women, the thoughts lose…
Count of kisses — go, count!
And reckon the final to the kisses —
And will be happiness in convenient sense!..
Five Years Later
To you, Eugenia, who gave me happiness,
I bring contrition, aflame and thorough…
You loved and suffered, and now accept all this:
Fathom my angst, fathom my sorrow.
All life is broken, all life to bits is torn,
In error of the youth — the curse forever…
The dream has dried all up, because I kept you not,
The life is crippled, the wing is severed…
Forgive the one who calls, forgive the one who grieves —
Perhaps a weakling, perhaps a genius…
For past there is no need: In it the future lives —
In future past exists .. Forgive, Eugenia!
Amazon
Yesterday at a park I met an Amazon
At the bravura spacious mazurka’s sound.
Figures of the doll in the shape of blue! —
Cheeky with delight, I said in pursuit.
She turned around, and she stared,
She slightly smiled, with sight undressed.
She waved the whip with a sly pattern,
Thick arrows into my heart pierced.
And the red horse under her pranced,
Stubbornly trampled the mare in place.
And I don’t know, it seemed, it was —
She spoiled me, to please the mistress…
You Did Not Go…
Lilac laughed the day in whole
With laughter rose-purple…
Sun pitied the dried up day.
You didn’t go (Maybe about it is sigh?)
You didn’t go. Laughed the lilac,
With the blazing laughter stifling…
Far away, at villages blinded,
Ran the train with heavy thunder.
Lilac laughed angrily,
With sharp laughter killing dreams.
Yes. And you didn’t go, — all day.
And I waited. (Maybe about it is sigh?)
To the moon the lilac laughed,
With laughter merciless-sensible….
You didn’t go. In park is damp shade.
Heart waits, with thunder heart goes mad.
Will the lilac laugh out?
Or, burned with the laugh, will fade?
Marionette of Pranks
Pure-blooded horses in dance scattered,
The crowd is smitten with curiosity and trembling.
In a carriage rides in a capital
The lacy capricious wife of the sovereign.
Laughing contemptuously at the sharp bows
And counting everybody as serfs,
Suddenly notices wife — there, where are temple’s columns,
Something colorful-sharp, stifling the laugh.
Ragamuffin, prettier than palace of lovers,
Stirred her sensuality, obsequiously having chilled.
And awoke woman in her, and awakened female in her,
And like motif in an orchestra shuddered she.
The capricious one willed to sit the ragamuffin
On velvet pillow right by herself.
And did not hold the blush the insulted crowd,
Although outside remained as hopeless slave.
And when the frightened — charmed beggar
Unconsciously fulfilled the grivoise order,
The tired woman, throwing off bootlegs,
Stomped with the carriage the marionette of pranks.
To You, My Beauty
The light-green veil with lilac patches
Over the pink ears was lightly raised.
Veil was barely damp, and warm it was,
And you smiled before me, kind and pretty…
Tenderly looked in the eyes, dreamily looked in the eyes,
Disturbed the sleeping and in pink smiled.
And I didn’t hear the streets with ringing and noises,
And heart responded with gammas thrilled.
The night went, rustling flirtatiously with plumes, with cloths,
With velvet fairy tale we wounded each other’s hearts.
The satin shrugs… births and deaths…
Low tides… shudders… the circles and the gains…
Is there time for the street with ringing and with noises?
Is there time for the city with the torturing thoughts?
Iconically I built in my heart and in my heart I built pagodas…
Ah, scarlet and juicy, like berries, are the lips!
We parted… for what, answer… and in the room dreamed long…
O, eyes and teardrops, do you my eyes recall?
Do you recall? Do you believe? Do you wait? You, magical!
They cannot be repeated — the moments wonderful…
I demand insistently, I make an order fiery:
Be gone, all that is foreign! Be gone, stone city!
Be gone all, oppressors! Be gone, the universe in all!
All brief! All fragile! All petty! All perishable!
And we, my beauty, will drown in oblivion,
Bewitching with impulsiveness the moment without passion!
Minionette
Bells of valley lilies, sing-sing,
Sing-sing to me, —
Of quietly vanished love in spring,
About the love’s spring:
About the girl’s azure smile
And — oh, pain — about moon…
Sing, sing, my princes,
To me, sing-sing!
You’re Still A Girl
You’re still a girl: this whole patch up scarlet
On the lilybatiste blouse — spring…
You’re still a girl, reading the West,
Carrying the secret into lilac canopy.
So dear! Like the penny of gold,
In different voices of the youth you sing…
Charming is the smiling pea-coal,
Entangling in the hair the naОve ear.
And, what all, know: take the twig into palms.
And — who here now? — we run on to parade-croquet!
You’re still a girl, you’re still a buttercup,
And I of buttercups will give you a bouquet.
A Girl Wept In The Park
A girl wept in the park: ‘Look, father,
The pretty swallow broke her paw. —
I’ll take the poor bird and in kerchief wrap her…’
And, by a minute shocked, the father thought,
And forgave her future whims and mischief
To the dear daughter, sobbing from pity.
Miss On Walk
Dog accompanies miss in the morning,
Miss likes the walks before lunch
And says to dog: ‘Well so, be barking
At sparrows, but calm down in time.’
Funnily dog wags the sharp tail,
Looking at mistress with a smile,
They walk on the gracious bridge,
Where they must be met with a page.
Let us accept the page as the lord
And about page stop at this…
When is fathomed the thought of last chord,
He with author already sympathizes.
Triolet
You are desired by me, as storm — to sea,
I’m dear to you, as to storm — still.
Sea loves us. And, with purple
Sky, ‘like storm — by the sea,
She is desired.’ — for hundreds miles
Rumble waves, ridges of purple
With evening dawn: ‘like storm to sea…
Like to the storm — the still…’
Eight Lines Each
I
On the deck of the ship and behind mirror cabin
You stand eating the seed of a plum like a squirrel.
You are tender and delicate, so soft and fragile,
A bit like a swallow and a bit like a girl.
At the tiller, two sailors are smiling happily,
And the captain romances, to you poems declaiming
Of a cruiser mysterious, of the dove under cupolas,
First invoking Daryalskaya, then invoking Morella.
II
In you, so much tenderness quiet,
But dragging the time insanely,
You hid it under the riot
Of day crazy and full of sin.
In movements of shoulder and belly
And leaning over the buckwheat
In you, so much tenderness quiet —
If only for me she had been!
III
I will come to you in glory,
Jewess, of the beaming stars.
Be not woeful, do not worry:
Simply fling the gate ajar!
Pay back love with love, and so,
On the traitor take revenge:
On the hills — humps in a row —
My corpse in a lake submerge.
Overture
Princess’s necklace — chords of a lyre,
Garlands of constellations and pouring bands,
And we, aesthetes, we — jewelers,
We jewelers of this necklace.
Princess’s necklace — palace of heavens,
Mockery, love, sins, woe,
Grimace of pain in the clown’s face…
Princess’s necklace — my poems.
Princess’s necklace, princess’s necklace…
But who is princess, but what is she —
To whom all anthems, to whom all masses?
My princess — my dream!
It Took Place At The Sea
It took place at the sea, in the foam of the ocean,
Where the carriage of city rarely arrives.
In the tower of a palace the queen was playing Chopin,
And to sound of Chopin the page fell in love.
It was all very simple, it was all very dear:
The page asked her to cut pomegranate in half,
And she gave him a half, and the page she did tire,
And to sound of sonatas the queen fell in love.
And she later submitted, submitted with thunder,
Like a slavegirl the queen slept the night till the day.
It took place at the sea, where the turquoise waves wander,
Where the page’s sonatas and azure foam play.
Zizi
Noiselessly went the motor landau
On the ‘islands’ to green ‘pointe,’
And sight of Zizi, singing rondo,
Slipping in lorgnette, languished knees of a dandy…
The highway arrogantly crunches from tires,
And full of spring suffocation is the air,
And in soul are fragments of lines of Musset,
And the offensive heartlessness on the face.
Zizi, Zizi! Don’t you pity yourself?
Don’t pity yourself, budded and mild?
Or, maybe, table of whole soul
And lily cannot be a cocotte?
Stop the engine! Take off the coat!
And silk of linen, dishonor’s cobweb,
Break the necklace, and, leaving landau,
Wash with nakedness the moire algae!
What till that, what will say Emptiness
Under the hats, cylinders and kepi!
What to it! — Such nakedness
More beautiful than all beauties!
In Limousine
She went into the motor limousine,
Passion of sketch in proper cavalier,
And in the frailty of rubbers dancing
She had restored the voice of Cavalieri.
Who knew her on the stairs: ‘Manon?’
And legs for her in the chilly lobby,
Though she had thrown: ‘mais non’ —
That hands with fur shod masterfully?
And he was empty, like a chanticleer —
Ribbed, framed burr.
To many a desired cavalier —
Used by many, a good-looker.
O woman! Call him in the tour,
Please take him in the boudoir…
Bud do not take Masset with yourself:
Letter to Masset… It’s not for a guitar!..
Grandiose
All pleasure and all excesses,
All stars of the world and all planets
Proudly to pearl in their sonnets, —
My sonnets — princess’s necklace!
I put on, under explosion of orchestra,
Necklace of sonnets (measure the amplitude!)
Yes, I dress with the hand the maestro
On Maiden’s neck. She — Immortality!
She without world, she without ground,
Without end and without beginning…
Nothing is her sacred conception…
Who will doubt — so be gone!
She is placeless and ubiquitous,
She is innocent and a sweet sinner,
Yes, sweet sinner, as if abyss,
And like abyss — she is without shore.
Under the drums, under castanets,
All the shudders and all excess
Proudly pearl in princess’s necklace,
Not knowing soil of any planet…
The Sun And The Sea
Sun adores the sea, and sea adores the sun —
Ocean waves the clear luminary are caressing,
Loving, like a dream in amphora they drown —
And then in the morning: Sun shines, incandescent.
Sunshine will approve you, sun won’t judge you ever,
And again will trust him sea that is his lover…
This has always been, and this will be forever,
Only sea will never measure the sun’s power!
Almost a Gazelle
And roses, and dreams, and lightning — in glasses!
We’ll fill the glasses — we’ll dry the glasses!
Ring, like strings, like moon’s strings,
The glasses with an icy drink!
Splash, like gray sea breakers,
Splash with nectar, glasses!
Twist mysterious delight’s runes,
Glasses with incandescent ice!
And will flare up fiery Peruns in blood,
When the glasses vaporize!
Revelry
Let me, let me recall… I was in head of yours
Trimmed with forget-me-not hood hood of fur…
And still you said: ‘Ah, how agile you are:
Cabinet has been readied, and, so is camp, of course.’
You had ordered the ‘nail file’ — thus you had called the sterlet —
And the sauce of Kapoor people, and the Rhine wine’s cone…
I want to make a masterpiece, I want to operate
All that is tied to you — even, know, the sauce…
And the needles of Chartreuse? And the bowls of Champagne?
And the glass beads on windows? And the flowers? And Romanians?
We wanted each other… Escape love we did not…
We in confluence of sweet jasmine tenor heard.
But… you are in sorrow? Ah, Lucy, forgive me —
I can correct it… You whispered, ‘arrangement’?
Well, dear one! For ‘patches thread there is’, —
At the entrance smokes troika of hurricane!
July Noon
Cinematograph
Elegant carriage, in electric pulse,
Elastically on highway sand rustled,
In it two virgin dames, in rapture fast-paced,
In scarlet-meeting rush — as bees to petal.
And around ran the pines, equality’s ideals,
Sailed the sky, sang the sun, somersaulted the wind,
Under tires of the engine dust smoked, jumped the gravel,
Coincided with wind bird on roads without roads…
Stupefied evilly monk at the monastery fence,
Hearing in frailty carriage’s sounds ‘moral loss’…
And, with fright brushing off the awakened sands,
With harmless sight the playful carriage he cursed.
Laughter, fresh, like the sea, laughter hot, like a crater,
Chilling in height of spheres, like lava from carriage did pour,
Lightning-fast trembled under the wheels the channel,
And went drunk, with wine of delight, the encouraged driver.
Russian
Laces up, is purple forest in morning.
Spider has climbed up on the cobweb.
Happy dew shines…
What air! What beauty! What light!
It is good to walk in morning on the oats,
See the bird, the bee and the froglet,
To hear sleepy shout of the cock,
To exchange ‘ha-ha-ha’ with echo far off.
Ah, I love to aimlessly shout in morning.
Ah, I love in birches to meet the maiden.
To meet and, leaning on the fence,
Before-morning shade chase from face.
Her sleepy dream to awake.
To tell her, as in dreams I’m raised.
To embrace her chest as it shivers,
Somehow push her apart for the living!
You Will Not Return To Me
You will not return to me even for Tamara,
For our little daughter, that sweet little thing:
You have summer houses and you eat lobster now,
You are under protection of a raven’s wing.
You will not return to me: Velvet dresses you wear,
They the winglessness of tired shoulders disguise…
You will not return to me: on the cards the soothsayer
For a ruble put out the flash of final rays…
You will not return to me, even to say so long —
On the casket you’ll wet the shawl in offense…
You will not return to me in a dress made of cotton —
Like a cheap flower, a quiet, joyful-pitiful dress.
Like a flower… recall roses of muslin paper?
Living have not a half word at a grave plate.
You will not return to me: dreams are mages no longer —
I will die all alone, do you understand that?
Gourmet
You draw the swallows on a menu,
Whipping the cream to grated chestnut.
I will not betray you for this
And never loving you will I cease.
All the fat that threatens I’ll become,
In your paddock. I do not blame,
That you don’t know the cock by Roston,
And you don’t know at all about swine.
But when your favourite Arab
Will give the partridge with pressed caviar,
Sterlet from Sheksna and pitcher of Chablis,
Piquantly pressing refined nostrils.
You’ll startle thus, as will smile the sisters,
Accepting for spring winnowing the shivers…
Amber Elegy
Village, in which Eugene was bored,
Was a beautiful corner.
    — Pushkin
The beautiful corner do you recall —
The autumn park in amber-scarlet light?
And marble of the urns, placed like a glass
On intersection of pale-yellow roads?
Do you recall the icy glass
Of the trout river’s green jets?
Do you recall comic honey agarics
Under the cedars, bending heads?
You will recall over river chalet,
How I had called the three-room dacha,
How I had cried from happiness,
I’ll cry once more of warmth and tenderness?
You recollect… Oh no! I can’t forget
Him, who does not recollect…
I want to fulfil you in the dreams
And humbly ask you to be my friend.
At the Premiere
Fanning the wish with dreams’ sail,
Shining with oral necklace,
Countess hit with ostrich fan
Of chevalier taken aback.
Orchestra melody flaunted in pink
Over white velvet foyer.
Countess with dragonfly’s grace
Bit the chocolate-kaye.
Scurried absentmindedly shining public
From the neckline and tail of tailcoats.
And tomorrow with critique of worldly rubric
We will mark the beautiful noise.
Electrosonnanse
What is electrosonnanse?
It is lightning and lightning bug.
Dream and tale. Hexameter and stanza.
Thought and dream. Saw and fiddlestick.
Equal blood and evil misalliance.
Secret of night and woman’s pupil.
The creation — electrosonnanse!
Sonatas In Storm
On Your affected nerves sounded all night sonatas,
And you lay in the tower on lily of valley carpet…
Crackled, scorched the storm, and the amber ropes,
As if titan-strings, sounded the whole corvette.
But is it your business that somewhere they weep and moan,
That rumbles the mad storm, throwing at rocks the frigate,
You mutinously drank wine. You took the Mont Blanc note!
Shined agates of the brooches, brighter was eyes’ agate!
Crackled, scorched the storm. Moaned pier of the palace.
People screamed and died. Ship a ship chased.
And you, seed of grenade, laughing kissed the actor…
He sat by piano — like genius — and like slave ended the game…
Spring Madrigal
In the white-rose pea, fragrant,
Play two crumbs cambric.
The feet knock upon the road,
The bonne shows to children the horns.
O, fraulein! You and pair of our crumbs —
The fragrant pea of white rose.
Spring Day
This day of spring is hot and golden —
The city’s blinded by the sun!
I’m me again! I am emboldened!
I’m in love, happy and I’m young!
The soul sings and bursts for the fields and
I come to strangers and say ‘hey.’
What spaciousness I feel! What freedom!
What songs and flowers in my way!
Soon — vanish into the young meadows!
Soon — into snowdunes, full of bliss!
To look in pink faces of women,
Like friend, an enemy to kiss!
Make noise, the springtime forests mighty!
Bloom, lilac bushes! Grow tall, grass!
No sinners: Everyone is righteous
On a day so divinely blessed!
On Trout River
On trout river, in area northern,
In a boat, don’t shoot the ducks in blue evening:
Blissful are autumn evening reflections
In area northern, on trout river.
On trout river, in quivering aspen
It is good over sharp oars to dream.
It is evening, it is chilly. Blurrily sleep raspberries.
Slippery boat jumps by the grown reeds.
On the shore with mimosas blossomed the flaxes,
And trouts in the river rustled with graces.
Rocking Chair Of Dreamer
How good it is for you to dream
In the hammock made of reeds
Under mystic eye — in bestial pond!
Like dreams — surprises
Under rocking chair of dreamer
Wearily peel off — Verlain, then Prudhomme.
What the marvel and wonder!
You are — lady Godiva,
In a moment — Iolanta, in a moment — you are Sappho,
It is worth for you to turn around —
And boots up the heart.
All in world is possible, all for you nothing!
To the left you swing —
The queen’s queen,
Mistress of planet of blue antelopes,
Where, from smell of gillyflower,
Is such rapture,
That will dream with porphyry the ordinary serf!
You will swing to the right,
To you glory will smile —
And will die your name, like flowers of heavenly flower beds,
Your name will thunder,
And in smoke of tar
You will come to Earth — the Creation’s Columbus!
And into height you will swing,
Where there’s flickering beads,
You will fathom the secret of eternal life’s process.
And dreams-surprises
Over rocking chair of dreamer
Will come true in capricious but immortal excess!
Excesses
You have come in a chocolate hat,
Raised the veil of gold,
And, looking at squares of parquet,
Place on piano the boa.
You went quiet on pale yellow armchair,
With the heel hammering the parquet…
Why did you pull: ‘and if?’
And the face dipped in the bouquet.
By the window alporoses in the basket
Barely sighed — and the breath is ornate…
The cousins I did not see
And it I am guilty barely…
You looked subtly-drunk
With pupil pinching my heart…
And plunged arrow, like Diane,
Having sharpened with the tongue the edge…
And I sailed, inhaling cigar,
Weaving gray and swinging tulle.
To load into Niagara of yours,
Your haymaking’s ripe July.
Brindisi
More full fill the glass
And to bottom drink it,
Under the thunder’s clash
Pale and weary!
Your soul, aeolian,
Will update rose flower.
Mignol, you are a gondola,
And I — your gondolier.
May all around be gray
From the cawing flocks, —
In excessive one’s embraces
Let melt the snow!
Oh, in a grape’s drop
Is wisdom of all planets,
Directing on the blimp
Flirtatious lorgnette!
And, the eyes having made violet,
Devoutly a dream…
Dope’s everywhere, Mignol,
Everywhere — and there, and here!
Poem Without A Name
Prince took you as janitor. The kids
Are dressed in silk, convenient for ‘blind man’s buff.’
He did not leave for you from regiment,
But played and stopped, just like a cigarette butt.
With the luxury he had you charmed
And dimmed the weak mind with liqueur.
And you returned into a dear cellar
Lover not with reproach having judged.
The poet came. To heed you he began,
And took for himself the pitiful mansard.
But he had had a mother-hag,
Caustic for the previous cockade.
And to nativity scene you came second,
The poor poet ‘got off, in angst, to grave’.
With labor you could not obtain your bread,
But in cellar you had no strength to live.
And, bowing, you went into the street,
Before ‘evil fate,’ with open price-current
And dream was left to you — the prince
With soul of who had warmed you with a talent.
Prologue
Fragment
Alas! It’s empty on the margin
Of Olympus’s dreamy woods…
For us Pushkin became Derzhavin
We are in need of voices new!
Now dirigibles everywhere
Fly, muttering with propellers,
And, like swords, assonances
Rashly have cut down the rhymes.
We live sharply and momentarily —
Our spoiled caprice:
To be icy, but inspired,
And what the word — it is surprise.
The cheap spears we do not bear
Of tones familiar,
And the magnificent utopias
We await like pink elephants.
The soul subtly goes stale,
Like Roquefort the culture rots…
O century of delight unreasoned,
The leafing-trembling spring,
Modernization of Hellas
And the decrepit novelty!
Flower of Ladies’ Bouquet
In ladies’ bouquet the Amiens’ beau mond
Louder than all rhymes the reseda.
Bronze-oxide blonde Exalarmonda,
Blooming with the balsamic star.
She’s sharp, like quintessence of species,
To her bravura needs the resonance,
And she takes lovers ‘master with trapeze’
And, so to say, savours mesalliance.
To convention she always throws: ‘schoking!’,
Lets out the waist extravagantly,
Vulgarly each tuxedo placed in lorgnette,
But not on each tuxedo the caliph.
Like oyster, swallows with appetite
The orderly’s sparkling tribute…
With all this — with taste wears the title,
To other cheek imparting his hand.
In Autumn-Cut July
July is brilliantly autumn-cut.
Ah, he leaves! Hold! Hold!
I lie on silk of green land,
Around — blondes, the rye’s braids.
O sky, sky! Ethereal your way!
O field, field! You — shipyard of dreams!
I’m one of a kind! I’m heavenly!
And God is equal to me, and is worm!
Elementary Sonata
O dear how I am sad! O dear how I am in woe!
I want to see you — sad and blue…
Sad and blue, I want you to hear,
I want to touch you, loving and dear!
I feel, as I dim, and comes near my silence,
I feel, that soon-soon will end my suffering…
But, God! I forget my torment with which mourning!
But, God! With which pain I fathom my oblivion!
It seems, better to hope, although hopelessly,
Than to dead, in which dreamlessness, to rest tenderly — passionlessly…
O, spectres of hope — strange — and sweet, sick-passionately,
O, luminous ones, dreamer with scorching soul do not leave!
I don’t need to see you, dear and beloved…
I won’t need to hear of you, blue and sad…
Ah, I fear to scatter my wished suffering,
We’ll see — it will disappear, wonderful — in awaiting.
But still better are meetings, than eternal aspiration,
But more lovely is beating of centuries’ oblivion!
Kenzel
In noisy moire dress, in noisy moire dress,
On moonlit alley the sea you do pass…
Your dress is exquisite, your talma is azure,
And patterned with leaves is the road of sand —
Only spider’s paws, only fur of jaguar.
For refined woman always cloudy is night…
Lover’s rapture is ordered for you by fate…
In noisy moire dress, in noisy moire dress,
You’re so aesthetic, you’re so full of grace…
And who into lovers! And will you find a pair?
Wrapping legs in plaid expensive, jaguar,
And, sitting comfortably in gasoline car,
You trust life to a boy in mackintosh of rubber,
And with your jasmine dress close his eyes —
With noisy moire dress, with noisy moire dress!
Airy Yacht
I jumped in Stockholm on a flying yacht,
On flying yacht from birch of Karelia.
Captain, my lover, stood with smile on guard, —
Circled propeller of white night of April.
Leaning on the tiller, singing from Grieg,
He promised me lands where bloom apricots,
We arrogantly followed evolution of brig,
And I opened, like sail, the bronze braids.
Pestered Venus, pestered Saturn,
Two hours we walked on the icy Moon.
There in garden urn with bliss, take to me urn in the garden —
On the moon all are familiar, because all are dumb…
Flew around all the worlds, sang all songs,
Were glad to visit the very Palladin…
And when we saw that propeller is broken,
Our yacht lowered in swimming ice floe…
MIRRATA
In a birch evening corner
I sit with you on a linden bench.
And heart beats like a rabbit in snare
Moon shades, just like snakes,
On the sand, on the dense alley
In birch-jasmine corner.
Jasmine — my friend, my loyal favourite:
It breathed, baby, in your heart, —
Fragrantly now it speaks,
Like grasshopper it chirps tenderly.
And will be sanctified pale yellow evening —
And you, jasmine, blooming favourite!
Lyre Fable
Turns white the bell-shape rustling —
Joyful is the summer wind.
We are passing by the field, half-silent,
Felt on your head.
And on body the green silk, and — barefoot,
Quietly tear off leaf and, throwing
Little bits,
You laugh, with the sun having touched forehead,
… Flock of blue antelopes
Covered hillocks, covered grass.
But the stepdaughter of the deacon
Wriggling, like a lizard,
The illusion violates…
What lawlessness!
If you want to go to Andalusia,
Do not go to Poshekhonye…
——
Smiling, we go to the rails:
The wire of the telegraph
Has buzzed,
Storms the cloud, —
Deed to the storm.
——
Try here, get mad!
In The Restaurant
Hustle in the road sparrows,
Green are curls of crotecus.
They brought from Ostand oysters
And from Cherepovets sterlets.
Listen, you, with a napkin,
Cover my table under linden,
And I will advise you
Not to stand like lump of stone,
But to treat me to the fish,
Asparagus and artichokes.
You understood? ‘Spare, even
Very
And I’ll be precise.’
On The Islands
In motor landau, in gorgeous landau
I am riding past the Islands,
Drunk with the meeting vulgar face
Amid dames simply and ‘these’ dames.
Ah, in each ‘fairy’ I saw a fairy,
Sometime earlier. Not this now.
And from which do I come afire,
When coat glistens nearby?
How unanswered! How without question!
How sarcastic! Pain — everywhere and all!
Weedy in alleys, dewy in curtains,
And in each dandy lives Rocambole.
And what here beauty? And what here vileness?
Shameless and mournful is the night’s point.
To whom to throw the cheeky insolence?
To whom to tenderly correct the bow-knot?
Elegy
You, of a child of the school age’s mother,
And your husband will be general in a year…
But for what reason on the tired face
The indelible trace of voiceless angst?
Necessary is the fracture for the heart:
To catch up… To return… The word to utter….
And terrible for You, that was in the past,
And past cannot be discerned from the future.
It Is All For The Child
Oh, my dear! It is still autumn, it is still autumn…
And to see you I dream of spring, turquoise spring…
What to answer my heart, inconsolable heart, if heart asks suddenly,
If heart moans: ‘Do you dream with green dusk? With dense woods do you dream?’
Till spring we are in parting. We can’t meet. We can’t meet.
If only by accident. If only in theatre.
If only in concert.
And it is without words. And it is relentless. And it’s radiant
And we’ll hurry to change brilliant sight…
Like, in envelop, a word…
You are always under guard. You are always under oversight.
You are always under custody.
It is all for the child… It is all for the child… It is all for the child…
I see girlfriend in you. I see woman in you. I see in you a person.
And dear to me is your cross — like your tear, like your hair comb…
Fantasy of Sunrise
It’s morning. The fish headlong lunges
On hook in prattle of the dawn.
Like music appears the Sun, and
Like lilies awaken the swans.
The Sun over a marble villa
With blush of meeting turns red.
Transparent singer of Seville is
Singing ‘Titania’ overhead.
The devotees of Russian poetess
Burn flowers for her like incense.
The dreamers are always homeless…
The dreamers in a patched dress…
In face ingeniously sculpted —
The untold beauty of goddess!
Hymn to the sun sung by the master —
‘Hosanna’ after ‘Hosanna’!
Singing by exquisite ladies,
Toasts sound after toasts.
Garlands of smiles on their faces,
Their figures swaying like stalks.
All nests in muttering, mumbling —
Trembling with diamonds is grass —
Your palms clap daringly, lovingly —
And to the sun swans will rise!
Courtesan’s Carriage
Courtesan’s carriage, in a brown horse,
Along coniferous slope lowers unto the beach.
That feet do not get wet, they need to get in shoes,
To keeper of the health is marked the young page.
The curly musicians must perform
Bravura mazurka. To lectern, maestro!
Will it be possible to make silent ladies’ souls
With resort orchestra from the melodious zither?
Cylinders shine in sun, brushed glossy,
And ladies’ toilets for shop windows are fit.
Courtesan laughs. She’s echoed by sun splashy,
How good it is to drink ‘mandarin cream’ in buffet!
What has become the deed? To buffet, black coachman!
Garcon, improvising in five-o-clock to shine…
Courtesan’s carriage, still harder, harder, again,
And page to lady’s shoes, like fox-terrier, did lean…
From The Letter
I wait — can’t wait — for May and spring,
For flowers, smiles and thunder,
When have pulled, limping,
To dacha carts the furniture!
At, under mountain, a mill,
In luminous dacha, a table behind,
Parting with capital ‘mink,’
You will brighten with a forehead.
How it will be happy for you to jump
To the pond, in sickening shop,
Children to dinner loudly to call,
Whisper to someone: ‘Come I will…’
And thus amusedly till dinner,
When fearsome are the rays,
To call the neighbour — the dreamer
With you to the distant keys…
In Birch Cottage
On the northern trout river
You live in the birch cottage.
Like Mother of God of the great Correggio
You’re blessed. In wig of silver
The dust from tapestry reliefs sweeps away
Your palace. You are dreaming, Madeleine,
With ostrich fan in hand.
Your fragile son of eleven years
Drinks milk upon a marble terrace,
In strawberry he painted his nose,
It’s sickening to you! In prison you wrap yourself
And, frowning with disgust of black brows,
Annoyed, losing composure,
You suddenly see the diamond bracelet,
Like marriage chain, hanging on a brush
Of own hand, to you soon… many years,
You’re married, you’re mother… All joy — in the past…
And future seems to you banal…
For what to wait? But morphine — or shot?
Salvation — and madness! Kindle,
Love me, the past giving,
Mother and wife, as if to her needle,
Ask to love! Braver in your whim!
Hopeless is sin — the shaking of hands
To him, who gives youth and bliss…
My trace to you alone on the snow
On the trout river’s shore!
Oblivion in Sin
All joy — in the past, irretrievable and evanescent
But in the present — prosperity and despair.
The heart is tired and thirsts in fire at sunset
Of love and passion — it’s lured by freedom from care.
The heart is tired of prosperity’s narrow confines,
It’s in despair, in chains, in complete distress…
Despairs to dream, and to trust, and in darkened numbness
It pulses with sadness, in cast of laziness…
And life charms and conjures, and with the trail
Of family weekdays lures somewhere…
To heart’s chagrin: it fears with its betrayal
To end its prosperity in sunset hour.
It is empowered with motherhood and with loyalty,
It fears to leave his loved ones like piteous orphans…
But there’s no unison, and it beats in loneliness
And life passes, and it might tear the cold coffin.
Oh heart, oh heart! Salvation is in your madness!
While you can burn and beat, burn and keep beating!
Sin braver! May do-gooder come way of mummies:
In sin — oblivion! And there — no bullet or rail can reach me!
You’re loved, sick heart! You’re loved, loved all out!
Love in response! In greeting! Yes, love in ardor!
And be at peace: Live — rightly! And vanquish doubt!
Be joyful, heart: You’re young! Beat loud and harder!
Nelly
In boudoir of angsty rouge Nelly,
Where under powder is ordinal, and on it Paul De Koch,
Where there’s Brussels lace… on the kerchief of flannel! —
Young teacher dreamed upon the couch.
Learned in opera and fell in love like a nobleman,
Ready to get married, he for all did decide.
Before her he holds, like a boy, on a string,
With her in the park he plays hoop and does ride.
He reads to her Schindler, devotes the cocktail,
Praising aviation, judges China,
And, in jealous unbelief, secretly aims at the constable…
Nelly unwillingly hears — ‘Better not be riding…’
‘Philosophy of carnality’ — Nelly tartly is thinking:
‘I have lost faith in love, teacher Sir!
Oh, if on ‘Blerno’ the couch had fitted!
Introduction — Gauntman, and finale — Paul De Koch!
Kin-Cato
You had not been in a tea home
Against the villa of advocate?
And on the bamboo table
Drank you with tea Kin-Cato?
What in the flowers of Eastern sunset
She read to you in tome?
With sharp eyes, like rabbits,
Looked at you Kin-Cato?
In the blooming of Corylopsis
You did not sit aslope,
Waiting, like from wishing was popping
With vial bush Kin-Cato?
Tell me, with which topics
You wife of frigate carried off?
Oh, probable, with golden daisy
Your torso was beautified by Kin-Cato!
Cousin Lydia
Lydia, you — soundless, Lipkovskaya. Lydia, you — a beautiful girl.
Slender, tall, graceful, you — crumble, you are — the smile.
From what are you short-lived? For what in ice is your ear?
Only for what so much pearl? Sooner scatter, my dear!
Red and white grasshopper, they don’t come to you, lilies of the valley:
They don’t come to you, believe me, lilies — for the whiteness thee…
Poppies, roses cheeky-insulting, and creepers curl like snakelings —
Hard to bouquet your girl’s waist, that herself it would be.
Fern in emerald shine, snow purple-white and fiery,
Elastic fir needles — it’s to you only attire,
To girl with old smile, silenced, but like sun, sincere
Like berries in forest, unnoticedly dying.
Autumn Berceuse
Day is ALOSIZ. Lemon-leafed forest
In foggy tunic the trunks drapes.
I go to wilderness, under autumn berceuse,
I take mushrooms and bitter cranberries.
Who told me that I have a husband
And oatmeal child thrice?
This is nonsense! This is humbug!
Losing five combs, I lie on the grass.
The soul sings under autumn berceuse,
Hopefully waits and sweetly-sickly believe,
That he will come, my gallant Excess,
Will take me and brutalize maidenly.
And having satisfied hungry instinct,
Will return me to reality aimless,
Returning to me the invisible hyacinth
Lighter than willows and craftier than chrysanthemums…
I walk, I walk under autumn berceuse,
The place from dreams I can nowhere find.
I want that will die, that will disappear
Your home, where I — am a married bride!
Ego-Polonaise
Live, the living! Under sun the diamonds
Are braver, people, in their polonaise!
Like the fruit-bearing, like with golden pipes
My poetry’s rye sheaves!
In them waterfall Love and Bliss,
And Satisfaction, and Gorgeousness!
In name of Ego are world’s victims!
Live, Living — sing the lips.
In the whole Universe there’s two only,
And these two — one always:
I and Desire! Live, the living!
To you is decided the deathlessness!
In Spreading Maples
In these spreading maples all summer we live,
In this lilac dacha let unravel the comforts!
How drunkenly to unite! To wait for amulet of love!
To believe, that to us in pleasure sing leaves and birds!
In these spreading maples there’s waterfall of inspiration,
Sun of mutual feeling, stars of languor of night…
I hear, my dear, beating of heart of lyre,
Know, that one wished not with you to depart!
You say, ‘I am tired.’ You pray, ‘O, take pity!
Petting tire me, and from bliss I am sick…’
Is it all possible, if the waltzes of green
In these spreading maples makes brave the spring?!
Suicide
You ran out of the hall on the wind veranda,
Beautifully hanging over abyss and stream.
Made difference the roll of delight, remembered Ariadne,
Garland of white narcissuses they crumpled with dark arm.
You’re tired of the people, but can’t get away anywhere.
Abyss wheezed and howled. In river fisherman drowned.
From windows laughed the speech. In interim played orchestra.
Your face had become pale, and turquoise-violet the sight.
Like a shot, reeled the doors. Like wings rushed the tailcoats,
Crouped the dandy’s gang, but showed you — gorillas.
Like a chased fox, trembling in shiny darkness,
You bit someone and jumped from rails into abyss!
Be Calm
Be calm, my soft and delicate one,
Coyly loving and loved indeed:
You’re my fragrant autumn,
Tender, sorrowful, one I need…
Only you give me balm and heal
Soul full of question and sin
And I into your spring-like fall
Will reach with my fall-like spring…
Coquette
In black hat in tea rose
Before mirrors you waltz
With the grace turquoise
And the reserve caressed…
Don’t want to count the years in metric,
And you look — but fourteen years.
With tea rose and the hat black
Deathless you are! World-woman you are!
And denunciatory tirade
Of envious ladies — let them be mad!
I ignore. With a tea rose
In black hat, you — deathless!
Ladies’ Club
I am in comfortable carriage, on elliptical springs,
I like to ride in golden noon into tea cup in club of ladies,
Where tastily ladies gossip about society quarrels and squabbles,
Where dumb is not known as dumb, but smart one is surely a dumb one.
O, fashionable themes! Of you my angst will dissipate!
Ironically lips tremble, like strawberry jelly…
‘Indians — like pineapples, and pineapples — like Indians…’ —
The Creole lady jokes, of exotic land remembering…
The lady mayor yawns, on the piano leaning,
And looks into the window, where languidly intoxicating July raves.
Suddenly cobweb turns gold, like lazy prison of gloom, and
I, comparing you to all, love ladies’ club not because?
Evening Sketch
She walks along a trail into a mountain,
The sunset reflection on the face.
And on a wedding ring
The orange slides. White of the gates
Of shirt perforating.
Bewitched by spring,
She walks into the purple home,
Over the river having become thoughtful.
In languor now is her soul,
And on the face there is calm.
Rolls of butter and tea chilled,
They meet at the table.
And on her faded face
On the prosaic earth
I read the contempt tender,
The slightly wily sadness.
The shawl off she throws,
And with lilac me she pours over.
Grateful Poem
You have swollen with child! You — the bud of the spring!
Soon a gold-haired daughter will be with me,
Why motherhood to know do you not fear?
Spit on all condemnation, like on vile piggery!
Rejoice boundlessly, with paradise baptised,
Be a good girlfriend and such a mother!
To corrode the child — do you with me agree?
It is still, to destroy the nights with the spring,
Flower of fruits to unwind. This thought relentlessly
Worries me: thus criminal it will not be!
Seamstress
You come tired, unhappy, away fading,
And you sit in exhaustion, without wishes or words…
Open the newspaper — you frown, from yourself discarding,
Here not for the politics! Here not for the balls!
You worked the shining day for messaline bonnet,
(Here’s irony! For woman from the ‘messaline’ kind!)
Ah, on your strawberry lips the grin caustic
Ran before the customer, whose ideal is — ‘pancake’…
In workshop — from quarrelsome girls — noise such as in a meeting,
The head aches and circles from chatty mistresses…
And you dream, my dear, of Valkyries and Vikings:
Working to the day, in evening — to the queens!
Rondo
Your perfume is poisonous like a nymph,
And daring, like my poems.
The dew is the delight of tasted Aphrodite —
Your perfume!
They languish, like the flesh’s sins,
On lapel of the frock poured by you,
Ignited the mosses of the feelings.
Your perfume!
My eyes — they are aerolites!
In furs of the lover they are overthrown,
How voluptuous is the sting, just like the termites,
Your perfume!
Cautionary Poem
The artists, fear the ‘bourgeois’:
Your gift of talent they’ll deprive,
Your sleepyhead from birth
With the hand-organ’s organism
They will sand the fire
In the soul, where law — is Lawlessness.
Beware of the apathetic girls,
With the smiles beamless — of the steel,
With face constant, like marble:
Their faces, from pseudo-antique,
From your bally-sick soul,
Threaten with unquestioning horror.
They do not forgive mistakes,
They despise with an impulse,
They count him as indecency,
‘Appearance of an idiotic mistake…’
And genius — in the eyes — abscess,
Filled with the foul greatness!
Sea Memo
How much of secret sadness, hopelessness and emptiness
In the growing sea, running to me,
In the symphony silence, in malachite tenderness,
To me kissing the feet in silence faded-noisy.
Only here, at the surf, drowning the birds’
Unpretentious singing, illuminating the woods,
I will know, enlightened, the advantage of greatness
Of amphibious depth in the depth of the skies…
Ice Cream From Lilac
Ice cream from lilac! Ice cream from lilac!
Of half portion ten cents, four cents more.
Ladies, Sirs, is it needed? Not dear — debate without may be…
You sing delicately, square: goods will come to the soul!
I have the creamy, the pistachio having sold…
Ah, citizens, do you not crХme brulee demand?
Time to popularize delights, to refine tastes of people,
On the streets of kitchen’s spices, in verse having sung excess!
Lilac — voluptuous emblem. In purple-pampered bank,
Get cold, waterfall heart, in sweet and fragrant down…
Ice cream from lilac! Ice cream from lilac!
Try, boy with drink! And friend, praise to God!
Champagne Polonez
Champagne in a lily! Champagne in a lily!
With health and with wisdom it sparkles and shines!
A shot of Mignon with one of Escamillio
Champagne in a lily — a sacred wine.
Champagne in a lily bursting and sparkling
The wine contained in a flower’s cup.
I glory in rapture the Christ and the Antichrist
With soul deified in delight of a gulp!
A hawk and a mourning dove! Reichstag and Bastille —
The sleep and the wakefulness! Demon and Lord!
Lily in champagne and champagne in a lily —
The lighthouse of oneness in sea of discord!
* * *
I’m genius Igor Severyanin
Intoxicated with my victory
I’m universally put on screen
I am approved heartily!
From Bizet to the Port-Arthur
I did catch the persistent line.
I conquered Literature,
Blew up, thundering, on the throne!
And — year behind — ‘I will,’ did say
The year had flashed, and here — I am!
Dissonance
In yellow living room, from gray maple, with silk upholstery
Your Highness loves on Tuesdays the languid reception of guests.
In lady’s coat of comic color, brown-white one,
You offered to fine society an iris cake.
Tenderly breathed in the smoke the violet outline of archduke.
Your highness in your young age of thirty years
You have universal body… like bas-relief…
The fragrant soul, thoroughly hidden in silk rustle,
Is very convenient for prostitutes and for queens.
However, forgive us, Your Highness, the scarlet pranks…
To your spouse, ambassador of Harlequin, bright is the government:
Highest qualities are thought and talent of diplomate…
But for me, like madman, is his Aristotle’s…
Like my poems for him, but eccentricity…
The best in him — Your Lordship!
Rehabilitation
You judged me because, hurrying,
To beloved woman, tired in labour,
I quit my tour, that with frantic pain
The whole soul to her did tear!
You also judged me because
I met the stranger on way home
That to love tenderly to her I did respond,
Like, maybe, no one!
But what in response will I say to thee?
I’m again with first — only and eternal.
How, so cordial, could you have judged me,
For that I am a poet?
In Luminous Darkness
Tuxedoed, attired immaculately, the high-society gentlemen
Stupefying their faces, brought themselves into a room,
I gave a forced smile, sarcastically ash and darkness remembering:
A new poetic motif unexpectedly breaking the gloom.
Every line — a slap on the cheek. My voice — torture, atrocity.
Rhymes come together happily. Tongue shows the assonance.
I despise you fiercely, O all you dim luminosities,
And, while despising, I count on global resonance!
With light you’re fogged over evilly, O the luminous audience!
Hidden from you, undeserving ones, is future’s horizon you’ve sought.
In Severyanin’s time, O all you dim luminosities,
It should be known that since Pushkin came both Blok and Valmont!
Poem About Fofanov
Take ‘Fofanov’ in your hands
And to spring garden walk with him.
Your languor, angst, torment
The tunes of his will heal.
Not understanding yourselves,
Like Mumm you will shine.
Under ‘May noise’ of poet of May
And under May’s noise green.
Singing the sloppy lines,
Where the pattern is ravishing,
You understand the hints of dusk,
And all of which he does enchant.
You won’t be short-sighted to the moment, —
Will shine the spring and sun!
Take ‘Fofanov’ into your hands
And with him run to spring garden!
May Song
Open up my hammock, pump it up!
We are two with you, alone we are,
And what is the business, that there,
Somewhere there, they don’t sympathize with us?!
May dares into window kindly.
It is fond and funny with thee:
(You do not fully understand me!)
Before poet curried favor May!..
He understands, that it may be,
That I, limitless strength concealing,
I will want — and I will fledge him,
Well, and no — about him nothing!
Pleasant to me in this year is spring,
And clear is the fame coming, —
Gloriously will May be sung!
Pump up the hammock! Swing!
Dacha Coffee
How tasty is coffee on summer morning
In dewy-twittering garden.
Behind the flock, behind the bull last
Walks the shepherd, piping the cigar.
The cow is running behind him,
Like a broom, wagging the tail.
And beautiful, and healthy
Gives anthrax the girl.
Striving to leave the nurses’ hands,
To run where can see the eyes,
Plays up every teen,
To governess showing the nose.
Here’s Finnish rickshaw: in the cake
Unrivalled one who bakes
He carries ‘French ladies’ and rolls —
Costing the five cent coin…
Cream into coffee I pour
And — dear, and young, and of kind heart —
I open the envelope of the morn
Upon the hem of calico…
Seine Of Dreams
For me, like in a hut of fisherman,
To sit in cottage — catch the fishes, try!
In hammock thrown and a canteen
Looking on May through window I lie.
Upon the window sunnies the purple
CrХme des Violettes. I — the pie boy.
And she, beloved, in the two words
Sings tenderly: ‘bayu-bye.’
Greenery goes green and goes gold,
And the leaves sing and tweet…
Whose bonnet is soft like a flannel?
Who with eyes will change the words?
Having made purposeless to you all goals,
I barely breathe, I’m barely alive.
With body, that drowned in my body
To bleed my veins — it is right.
And now, while the maples are leafy,
Tender, soft and smiling,
Sit in love and quietly,
By the hammock, right near me.
May is naughty in green and gold,
Give to it two liqueur shots —
And with purple magic will swaddle,
Falling, will give linden the cuffs!
Both Of You Are My Wives…
Both of you are my wives, and each has kids —
Both from me — girl and boy.
Girl’s mother in cabinet with dad,
And another I don’t know three thousand days.
Girl’s mother — is it hard or easy —
At me, with me, full in me,
And another’s mother is somewhere in freedom,
Maybe on the sea — on bottom, may be.
But her child, my boy little,
With mother is attached ‘for fifty three’,
Who will kiss his mouth’s coral?
Who is: I am innocent or guilty?
Ah, I would have taken the dear baby,
Little child into the cabinet close.
Girl’s mother! Word, word only!
It is cruel: you’re neither ‘no’ nor ‘yes.’
In Jasmine Bushes
On banana, on strawberry
Grows the creamy jasmine,
With dope luxuriously-sugary
Recreated orchestra of Romanians.
The sink of ocarina.
Multicoloured sewing.
Oysters and mandarins.
In place of life — dancing-living.
Puffy-cheeked bourgeois ladies.
Chest — melon, brooch like toad.
Talking hand-organs,
For the penny imperial walks.
With the sham tunic
Chansonette, in foulness of mines,
With banana, with strawberry
Had waved, all jasmine.
Southern Gaud
All in black, all — arrow, all — sterlet,
With a cold bloodless face,
Broke into me you, the gaud,
Of the great nothing keeping silence…
Above with feet you threw the armchair,
On the back and on the floor sat,
All — ghost, all — Daryal’s tale,
All — tenderness and all — highhandedness?
Dust crept on the skirt’s velvet,
Angrily pearl sorrowed on the chest…
We were in room, like in a felling,
Among the seas shoreless…
When the heart seizure
Suddenly had shuddered thee,
I was in the guesses’ power,
And somewhere did sink the ship…
And you had come into the feeling,
Knelt down before my feet,
And woefully whispered, ‘How empty
There — where is everybody’s heart’…
Chansonette Of The Maid
I — the maid with all conveniences,
Fifteen rubles do receive,
I do not steal, and I don’t bear malice,
And more honest than engineer.
Matter is this, that wife of engineer
Wants her husband to shortchange.
I’ll over her mock (I still dare!)
And I verbally give her a punch.
But she is with me cold-blooded,
She looks at me through five fingers:
I bear love letters of the beloved,
From her, and thereafter — for her.
What touches the master’s husband —
Sir engineer is very kind…
‘I don’t love’ — he says, ‘the Ultra-Scottish-
Here as example — for my wife’…
……………..
……………….
In results we quickly got along,
Here is month like husband and wife.
I get motherly confects
And Filip’s pies,
And — in envy of glycerin cook
Mister Nadson’s poems.
And long I counted and weighed,
That to her the post is convenient,
Here sated, and sweet, and happy,
Fifteen rubles we might add!
In Restaurant Over Kura
Georgian orchestra played in a restaurant,
It sang ‘Alaverdy!’ to feasters:
From boutonniere the nail having taken out,
I wanted the water to gather.
Helped open the window to me the wind —
Stuck frame with rib into the night…
And in my face, like a red cat,
Kura snorted of something vile…
Spitting and squealing, caught the nail
Her whiskered, brown jaw…
Georgians played and sang wildly…
Which girl is meant to fall?
Baltic Sea
Turns silver at the sea veranda,
Drowning in moon, not in the sea.
Swims the full-faced Skanda
In azure gallery to me.
Like sail — the open braids,
Somnambulant is Lycian opal…
Eyes make the question emerald,
Whose answer for which one is lost.
Lost, is forgotten, like an echo
In azure of the sky and waves…
And of the moon, faded laughter
Full at the sailing are the eyes.
Sails — sails through the galley,
To me — not to me — nowhere.
Moon — the golden sombrero,
And Skanda — moon and water.
Poem Of Spring Trills
With the spring wind blow the faces
And melt, sweetly smelling.
It’s easy and sweet for the bodies
For the amusements of the spring.
I once again feel the languor
And, without an end, tenderness.
Your lips, your knees
And sigh of the mimosa face, —
The face, for which are featureless
The elusive lineaments:
Snowgirl with sulphurous heart’s pace,
You — the snowy gazelle.
To look into your mermaid’s eyes
And in them to drown obliviously,
Tender violet flowers
Under them to notice precisely.
And to see the departing train
In way without stations, without platforms,
To read the tale without an end, —
The poet’s soul — without form.
In Hotel
In big and uncomfortable number of provincial hotel
I lie in insomnia on the cold evenings.
It’s terrible to me, it’s terrible, that my heart with woe
Will take out from its nest… broken in frame the glass is…
From restaurant is heard the quiet, music sorrowful —
Somehow well-worn the moon sonata,
That is such pomposity — truly, ugly — frequently —
With lily insulting the plethora of pomegranate…
And heard in this music is soul of women and girls,
Somewhere in the life in possible ways meeting.
And cries, without tear cries in measured pitch-black silence
Of music, of the girls, of all, that flower may be…
Awful Poem
O, unbearably sick places,
Where women, whom I lost,
To all, all time: the trembling of the leaf,
To sunny heat in the herbal gust,
In woods of aspen and lingenberry,
In moss’s whimper — their piteous cries…
How mournful is the screeching of the wheel!
How touching is the bleating of the calves!
On north are the meadows, and the groves,
And frets of souls, and villages inebriated —
Only to newcomer monotonous:
Easy for the northerners is their dissimilarity.
Sometime — it is so! — I will meet
The gloomy hag in the forest,
And she will bring close to my ear
The wily mouth. Later after fourpence
Will tell me the prophetic hand-organ
About their fate, my sacrifices.
Later I will accept the wood, like my last home.
You — my death, the gypsy accidental!
Rondo
For you yourself to read in lemon boudoir,
Like yacht of dreams, having accepted and loved…
Except untrue words, instead of formulated arias,
For you yourself to read.
To feel you in the purple negligee,
Crushing the future and the past, crushing
Secondary, and with the strong to hit.
To be assured, that world is concentrated in the steam:
Just me and you, just us! And only for thee,
And only of thee, your king’s sight crowning,
For you yourself to read.
In Carriage Of Esclarmonde
I ride in silver-spoked carriage of Esclarmonde
On the purple alley, falling onto resort,
And in the green suns the blonde locks radiate
Of evil-special Esclarmonde’s felt cake — hat.
Moet: crunchier wheels. Thoughtlessly and aimlessly,
The ocean absorbed for the sink-maiden.
He splashes in dessert — muscat-likely, —
Streams into brain and eyes, drunken like a man…
Blow up, like bomb, the sun! Tear, the blonde foams!
There is no more the ocean, has darted off in her!
Who carries name of sea and sun — of Esclarmonde,
Who lovingly changed the dream for me upon the earth!
Worthless
You have tormented me, maybe yourself not knowing:
Maybe consciously, maybe having suffered,
I see you in fits and starts, maybe I will dine again
On eyes of one and each — again angst-python.
O, kind ruthless one! You, the profile shading,
Maybe alien, or familiar, with nose straight-deadly!
We evil-mindedly drowned the sensibility virtuous
Somehow to eternally wait for dumb timpani…
Listen, my alien neighbor! The condemned far away lady!
Wanting to insult me for delights without thought!
Suppressing resentment, I want you simply,
Like eagle — in radiant azure, like current — to waterfall!
Valentina
Valentina, how much happiness! Valentina, how much horror!
Valentina, how much charm! Valentina, how much woe!
It was in a medicine college for a concert,
You sat in the vestibule for the sale of the posters.
Jumping from landaulette, by girls surrounded,
I strived upon a stage, but, stopping me,
Offering me program, and, with you spellbound,
Holding a moment, your twist beholding.
You came to me in interlude (don’t call it void)
With secret rose, with the red dream, with azure thunder
With eyes delighted and cheeky. You were in simple and white,
You spoke very quickly and like a dragonfly appeared.
This day! With it — a start. Telephones and postcards,
I was very merciful with beginning of poetess.
And then you had become favorite and candidate,
Conducted me daily upon the concert.
And later… Coupe. Village. Yuletide. Much snow, wood.
The frozen nights and the moon in epiphany.
Home. Tender and cozy. Epiphany without looking in return,
Thoughtless is Valentina, in love is Valentina!
All came, like it had come. And awkward was parting:
I’m ‘deceiver,’ you are grumpy, that is the stencil.
Valentina, rogue! The sharp-witted devil!
You turned the devilish poem into insanity pitiful!
Poem Of Days Of May
What days do now stand!
Ah, what is it for the days!
The garden blooms, rings, twitters,
Lord keep it!
To grasshoppers there is no count,
Flying to the east.
The spring herself has outgrown,
And cruel is her growth.
By the sea, in linden’s shade,
On the shore she did stand.
I cannot in such days
Work, I can’t!
Ah, what for me to do with you?
The full sloth I am:
In such days I’m not my own,
Lilac — not in these days!
Quiet is the sea. Blue-smoothed.
And sky — like it.
Nothing to dream, nothing to wish.
Is not given something.
I wait for something, I wait for someone…
Thus passionately I wait all day long…
Lilac, lilac in new garden!
Lilac in garden of mine!
Bloom, shine, flame, my garden,
Lord thee keep!
What days now stand!
Ah, what are days of these!
I Won’t Come Today
Today I will not come: when
I will come — I don’t know…
Her telegram
‘Today I will not come: when I will come — I don’t know…’
I rejoice in the spring, lilac, may, sun!
I rejoice that again the grass does grow!
‘Give me my engine. Driver, to the islands!’
May I be irresistibly drawn to you,
I would like to forget that I am by you loved.
To sharper feel this spring day,
That it’s sweeter to pine… ‘Driver, in lilac, in lilac!’
I thus love you, that to be with you together
It’s heavy for me: you to me, your bride,
Thus gave much happiness, having absorbed me with you,
What rest from you midst flowers and the grass…
Mercy for me, I pray! Mercy I demand!
I cannot see you, and I do not require…
‘Driver, can’t go to sea?.. Or on a star?..’
That somehow: ‘Today I will not come.’
Barberry Poetry
Governess-miss
Carries into cabinet
In porcelain cups
Hideout d’epine vinette.
The unfilled cups
Maiden at the sight.
In the golden stove
Is English bisquit.
Society in cabinet
Of ten men.
To garden are open windows,
In garden, where there’s speech’s stream.
Upon the birches shimmers
Of sky. O, caprice!
Waves, sky, mistress
The flowers of barberries.
And her highness
Has trained her lorgnette
Onto nature, becoming
CrХme d’epine vinette…
Poem About Thousand First Acquaintance
Lackey and St. Bernard — ah, two baritones!
Returning to the rings at the door us they meet.
Camelias. Carpets. The silver of the lounge room.
The couch and the pouf. And six noiseless feet.
We two had come to her. She had been another.
He knew her, but I am presented at this time.
My restrained hello, and to Joe the St. Bernard
The order is to leave and not to intervene.
The saloon talk, convenient for abbey,
For courageous bigots and for courtesans.
And we are not here: Alfred and Traviata.
And here is orchestra. And here is the parterre.
Thus: we involuntarily come into roles.
But the heart cuts for me the whetted compliment.
How sick is it to speak! How unbearably painful,
When you foresee another, another moment!
We know it ahead: and will be that, which is crumpled
Sometime, by someone, when an where — is not it the same?
And in horror, and in angst — Traviata and Alfred, —
We joke — how then! Cherishing our pain.
Overture
Pineapples in champagne! Pineapples in champagne!
Deliriously tasty, sparkling and bright!
I’m in something from Norway! I’m in something from Spain!
I’m inspired in bursts and I sit down to write.
Planes are screeching above me! Automobiles are running!
Express trains whistling by and the yachts taking flight!
Someone’s kissed over here! Someone elsewhere is beaten!
Pineapples in champagne — the pulse of the night!
Among nervous girls and in company of women
Tragedy I am turning to dream and to farce.
Pineapples in champagne! Pineapples in champagne!
Moscow to Nagasaki! New York to Mars!
When The Ship Will Come
You have dressed with cloth of evening
And stand at the pool in the garden.
Watching, as the marble goes to moon,
And the channel trembles in it with moire.
Ships have put their bays with their anchors:
Brought the tropical fruits,
Brought the colorful tissues,
Brought the ocean dreams.
And when comes Brazilian cruiser,
Lieutenant will speak of the geiser,
And will compare, but this is intimate…
Singing something like an anthem.
He will talk about azure of Ganges,
About curses of evil orangutangs,
About cynical African dance
And of eternal flyer — ‘Hollandaise.’
He will show you Kamchatka album,
Where there’s culture not in germ,
Of tender friendship with geisha he will hint,
Of further nearness having gone quiet.
Roaring after his dream of the sea,
Having let out the fan of the peacock,
You will press in tender trembling to him,
Loving him still more dearly.
Verbena
How smells the sea from the verbena
With the oysters, and the moon!
Your cells are, like veins,
With the boat-bearing wave!
Whether I kiss you on the eyelids,
Looking into the mirror of eyes,
I see the certain charming dream,
In which fresher is the sea.
With the insatiable coldness
There, where there’s speckled salmon,
Where erupted the seagull of Hellas,
I’m attracted to the sea across.
I will not only come to sea,
I’ll try the boats to rope in,
I’ll argue to flame with the charmed dream,
I’ll call to you before the sea!
Will blow before verbena wave,
With your blouse and your braid.
And, with unclear call vague
I will return to you with angst.
Torment Of The Storm
Pines swung, pines did sound,
In the white-gray the sea did weep.
We went quiet, like we had gone dumb,
The little home went quiet suddenly.
Leaning the windowsill upon,
I froze in the thoughtless thought.
The crazy horses in the wind gallop
Rushed somewhere — foam did shaft.
You thrilling lay on the bed
In semi-chill, in semi-insanity.
Thundered the pines, the sea wept,
It was for garden quiet and gloomily.
Cringed the leaves of yellow acacias.
Red puddles. The red sand.
Will we dare to laugh in the morning?
You are alone. I am alone.
Poem Of Opened Eyes
Harps the wind — further is Narva,
Blue is the sea, is golden the quiet.
Soul — like a sail, soil, like a harp.
Of what do you clank? What for you’re flying?
It’s fresh and torrid. It is light and brave.
You need something. For something you awaited.
The soul to commit cruelty did bear!
The soul to reject lie had dared!
In past — mistake. In past — uselessness.
In past — ugliness. In the past — the shame.
In the future — feelings of her pearliness.
And in the present — only the break.
Ah, for this harps the wind,
Further is shore, sings the tide!
Ah, for this I will live within the world
And passionately I thirst, opening eyes!
Poem Of Rejection
She had sent me a blue letter,
She sent me a letter blue.
And blow jasmines, and fly oboes,
And fly oboes, and pours moon.
Of what she writes? What sways in heart?
What sways inside my tired heart?
Calls to itself — and more does not write,
And does not write anything about…
But I won’t go on Wednesday or tomorrow,
Not tomorrow not on Wednesday will I return the answer.
I won’t come to her, I won’t answer her, —
She is late, I love another!
Poem Of Hopelessness
I’m depressed by something, I’m cramped by something,
No fitting words for the ringing songs.
And may in this year not formerly — wonderful,
And life — half-wake, half-sleep, half-madness.
I’m insulted by something, I somehow went tired,
I was disgusted by little people…
I dreamed of peoplelessness, as into wonder:
No one from them my dear did not tell!
How bitter from envy, from flattery, from intrigue,
From all imitation! From all beginnings!
From all crownings is debunked my genius!
It’s heavy to me, I reached them without mercy.
Uncalled retinue tormented all year
With its worries, dirt, gossips …
And, are they equal to ugliness
Hope of spiritual, mercantile worries?
Poem Of Blue Evening
I went with you in chaise
Wide and columnar.
The blue birds did fly,
Evening was blue-indigo.
The river from wood ran
And hid, the tail flashing.
O, river, river — fast flow!
O, ghost, with bush grown!
The gray foxes danced
On black paws pas de grace.
I went with you in chaise
And ranted — which one once?
Meeting with us no man:
Desertion dead and quiet.
And only hut of lumberman
Just like fir, just like mouse.
Look: turn blue your eyes,
And has turned blue pale face.
And only turn spring your lips —
That, I their malosity sang…
By habit — not by wishes…
I need to move with you,
And for this we ride in chaise
Country and columnar.
Don’t Fly Away!
Fly upon the blue sea
The white clouds, frolicking…
You come to the home slowly,
Half in sorrow, half-laughing…
Smile, going pink palely,
From lips like a moth does fly…
You get numb, morethea,
And your sight is near and far…
You see island, far-off island,
And the shuttles, and the sails…
Lightly and simply you are quiet, —
And you — wind from under the hand!
Do not fly, accept the languor
Come to me in the earth’s bond…
Fly upon the blue sea
The white clouds, frolicking…
Three-Star Triolet
Let’s go to park, Marussia, will dress in white color
(He comes thus to you! You’re beautiful in white!).
Quietly on the beach by the bay we will sit —
We’ll come, Marussia, to park, we’ll dress in the blue color.
And I will be with you — your knight, your poet,
And I will sing you delightedly-jealously,
Let’s go to park, Marussia! Will dress in color scarlet:
He is thus to you in face! In scarlet you’re beauty!
Poetry About Gogland
When, in the sunset hour, from the cliff
After the sun, and still before the stars,
Afar in the bay of Finland
Is seen Gogland after seven hundred versts.
I had not been to island any time,
Nothing did I hear about him.
Probable: rocks, the sky, the pines,
And fisherman huts the rocks between.
To neighbours, my dear, we will turn,
To silent, frowning fishermen,
We will ride on a boat with motor
Far, to barely visible shores.
I’ll take into the wavy road
Hundred rubles, you, my dreams.
But, you will take, trusting in God,
Barely taking yourself with thee!
Here and all. Bigger we didn’t need.
This all, that we must require.
Island. Home. Poems. Marussia near.
And for the bread I will exchange copper.
It Is Scary
It’s scary! — it is one and same:
Conversations, dinners, barbs,
Greengrocer, walk, sea, dream,
Gramophone, angst, mugs of the neighbors,
Mail, telegrams about victories,
And in the garden the same maple…
From window the brown arable land
With grandiose tile of the chocolate
Upon the green cloth of the grass.
Where today’s and where yesterday’s
Day? To whom delight from them will be?
I do not know? Do know ye?
Poem Of Annoyance
Not to calm down and not to get better
To me in this place, always another.
I am all ill, I don’t like all,
Of another landscape I dream still.
Here’s garden on the street, here’s multi-giving,
Here is pressed as a slave the home to home.
The neighbour with Boccaccio torments me, —
O, waltz of Boccaccio a hundred times!
Forest in alienation quite substantial,
And did not see the dear sea from afar…
I am in yearning, I am in tormenting,
All in polonation of a land another…
I wanted to jump out with the young mornings
From stifling room, on the grass to fall
And, in the rapture, rattling with the strings,
To shout ‘I’m alive!’ to the delighted soul.
To read silently the free verse,
My breath! My soul!
To kiss without tiredness nature’s face —
Bouquet of lily of the valley, breathing all!
But is it thoughtful in implementation
The fiery wishes to bring,
Since curious in ‘genius’s dacha’
Scurry about when cannot leave from them?
What The Happiness
What the happiness — to be eternally two!
And the unwanted visitors not to be awaiting,
And not to weave the surrounding conversations,
What the happiness — to be eternally two!
To be alone with another is not easy,
But with the dear is intoxicatingly sweet:
In the skirt is liked every crease, and
Sings the seltzer, like ‘Click!’
And ‘today’ for us — like ‘yesterday,’
But for us ‘tomorrow’ another I don’t need:
For us it is all happy, alert, healthy!
Sea, forest and fan of winds!
Poem From Afar
You with the icy eyes
For half a year are numbing me.
From the blue-leafed woods
Lives me familiar to me.
He’s full of what, with which I’m empty…
With what he’s empty, in me…
Like lumberjack, for me he’s waiting,
You wait for him, like forest sleep…
The spring will be changed with the spring,
And autumn — autumn. But I
And you, with me living,
All honor with additional I.
Poem Of What Was, May Be, Did Not Happen
With every day, fifth month, you’re thinner and thinner,
Still tenderer is the paleness, still sharper is sight.
Each day, fifth month, his toilet not having finished,
You, lying down, study the Ottoman design…
And on the tender sight and on the tender speeches
I do not know another answer like silence —
Quiet are the blooming bonds, quiet are spring’s chills,
Silence, in which so much wounding you hide…
And still not long ago, in bloom of lilac days,
In days of purple lilac and violet grapes,
You, like a furry squirrel, in gold illumination,
To moth upon the park, singing ‘Carmen’!
Fervently you had talked, kissed you gloriously,
Laughed so loudly and looked luminously!
You now do not breathe… And still recently
Was that which could not be, pitifully.
Poem Of Last Hope
Not strange are poetry evenings,
The carnivals of deathless art,
In land where ‘tomorrow’ is worse than ‘yesterday.’
To which, there maybe, there won’t be time,
In land, where after landslide — landslides?
But is not stranger than these evenings
Coming to them? For whom? — fools.
Shouting in heat of plague: ‘The feasts!’
Or straight the fanatics of gifts
Of poetry, goddess more azure than all!
Poet — always poet. But you! You!
Occasional or looking forward? Who are you?
I have only returned from Moscow,
Where applauded me people-lions,
Who are ready to give life for the arts!
What champagne, sparkling ecstasy!
What in trembling inspiration of faces!
You, thousands of inflamed eyes —
Incensed, mournful — I believe in ye:
Eyes of wounded Russian youths!
I believe in you, and that means — in the land.
Yes, I believe you, across the elements.
That grows the shaft, uplifting the wave,
Which will merge in one,
And then — I believe in Russia’s life!
By The Stage
We went by Narma under convoy,
Having been under ‘arrest’ two days.
Narva with the ‘wail’ had carried,
Having freed the run from ice.
Closed in the freight carriage, —
Through Vesenburg and through Tans —
In some nightmare forgetfulness,
All time we heard about ‘Shnans.’
We stiffened. Feet were freezing.
A hundred men of us had been.
What for the horrible roads
In the less awful century!
Farewell, the wiles of Russia:
We’ll drive into another land…
We cannot run: around — rifles.
The world’s concluded, we are in prison.
Yamburg
Always dirty and cynical,
Soldier’s, drunken, areal,
With foreign age of a culture,
You die before the puddle wave.
And, not sorrowing of silk of meadow,
Delights of plow not having recognized,
You, for whom mirrors the Meadow,
You peer into ditch’s turbid shine.
Ten moans of the living iambus,
Vituperative and mean
I throw magnanimously, Iamburg,
Blurry among blurry, to thee!
To you, who by the stage tomorrow
Will send me to Eastland,
I beat on shoulder, I shape on paw…
Crawling! You to me gave flight!
Candy Daughter
German lieutenant with the candy daughter
Comes to the meadow to have a picnic,
Sarcastically the bee with the spot of amber
Soars above him, like a double evil.
They admire the bed lawn,
There, where the grass under, and where, and above.
And — the junker coat with the baize caring
Or factory passion — into sweat does drive one.
Thus in the smouldering noon upon the meadow smouldering
To smoulder gathers the candy daughter…
Like the July Soch she is full of desires:
In her eyes, lips, in all — complete Soch…
Here passion is saturated, and wiped accurately
The Romanized German the moisture and the dust…
And at confectionary will meet the confectioner —
With the open pride — like bandage and contacts…
Taffey
Where are you now, soul sad and overwrought
With smile that’s snide but also is merry?
How in this newness, sorrowful and blurry,
Can you exist, and breathe, and be in thought?
Your lips adorned with tapestry that stings —
Your eyes in which there’s laughter and there’s sorrow —
All draped in furs, are close to my soul
And closer to my soul’s silver strings.
O strange one! O the sorrowful! In thee
There’s something luring! Yes, you are illumined
With lyricism of soul in perfume,
O lily in a Bacchus revelry!
Rescreen Of A King
My purple cloak from now,
In silver the velvet of beret,
I’m chosen by the king of the poets
On the tedious midges’ envy.
The luminaries do not love me,
To them is inconvenient my talent:
The lumberjacks had betrayed me
And more do not weave garlands.
To me the delight and adoration
And glory’s fragrant incense.
Mine — love and the song-singing! —
With the unreachable poems.
I am so great and I am so certain
In me — I’m convinced so,
That I will forgive all and each conviction,
I will give the honorable bow.
In soul — of impetuous hellos
There is no count.
And chosen from the kings of the poets,
And will be for the subjects light!
On The Skis
To the east, straight, to Udreas,
And to the left — to Isenhoff and Marts,
Dressed in the sun, like in cuirass,
I love to slip the steps with skis.
The wheels of sticks, resting against
The blue-shining March crust,
Give racing, and — a stork black —
I slip, frequent in movement of the skis.
O, sport of skis! And sing will I
Your passion, freedom and boldness?
It’s sultry for me in March, like in July!
Leaf senses through the branches’ goal!
And, cheerfully moving the sides,
I flatwise clap with the snow of skis,
And all mother, mother with hands,
As if with the two wings!
Yury’s
Where’s Embach, drooping his shore,
Pours with the ground Livonian,
Like cultural centre Yuri did grow,
Thus alive and cordial.
He, having been from Tartu called,
Did not extinguish German spirit.
In my poems is found a band
And Yuri’s, in the measure of the strength.
Oh you, hundred-year-old nettle,
Tell us about the previous feast,
About the taste of the student beer,
About the clang of rapiers of students,
Tell us about the eyes of Gretchen,
Blue sentimentally,
About the arbor in the park decrepit,
About horses, deeds with thee…
About the romantic epoch,
About the knighthood of the former times,
And intoxicated are the former sighs
And so serene had been the dream!..
Berceuse Of Lilac
When lilac sea, having purpled its horizon,
Will think, in evening mirror having reflected lemon moon,
I pose question to nature, but, it me not having answered,
Shines in numbness of sleep, and beautiful is its dream.
Night, fanned with white lily, flies, like a white swan,
And disappears as a white fairy, like white in the spring,
What thirsts pitiful planet with its music to kill,
Fraternizing golden sunrise, ruddy bells.
These aromatic paints, like filigree of moods
I feel with white night at sea, sleeping in the glass,
When, not drowning, in lilac drowns lemon of the moon
And, exhausted of itself, lilac caresses all on earth.
Alexander IV
Yes, he is a poet! Yes, he is a fanatic,
Idealist stile decadence!
Upon the rope the clown tragic,
But ideality — is not balance.
Parting Prayer For Petrograd
Beyond decrepit Narva, after two hundred versts,
Like the bloodied pirate,
All stomps upon the refined place
Ending Petrograd.
Awful city — ghost!
Rebellious slave! Live corpse!
Fulfil predestination:
Accept your fearful end!
In prayers of your liturgy
There’s no request for your salvation.
You’re dead with death of Peterburg, —
Dreams of Sunday abandon.
Epoch of this parade —
In shining of holiday palaces
There’s nothing for Petrograd:
Oh, city — crypt of corpses!
Your frightening nearness —
Knife raised above us.
Your illness, city, your dampness —
With what we’ll multiply your powers!
You’re cursed. Above you curses.
You’re schooner without steering.
Open refined embraces,
Earth for you holding.
And let with another foundation
The granite of beautiful city
Let be: another way
Russia will keep thee.
Introduction
I’m nightingale: no traits I carry
And without special depth I sing.
But everyone, from crone to baby,
Will know me, singer of the spring.
I’m nightingale, I am a graybird,
But like a rainbow is my song.
I only have a single habit:
To other lands to lure the throng.
I’m nightingale! What for, then, so
Is godless critic with his scorn?
Seek, swine, the treasure in a trough,
And not in garlands made of thorns!
I’m nightingale, and, beside singing,
No other use can come of me.
I am so wondrous beyond reason
That Reason bows before my feet!
Est-Toyla
Two hundred versts from Petrograd,
From a station seven versts,
The poet’s soul is to you glad,
The village in the fir forests!
There shimmer evening dawns,
There near are tones to pearls,
And tenderly the ocean comes
To the dizzy shores.
Like the seductive swill, —
Sorcerous nectar of sea fairies —
Pours me to itself Est-Toyla
With sea branches and waves.
Greetings to you, salmon and sprats,
And shells, and voice,
Knowing me on the escarp, —
Oh, my dear forests!
For long I know the area,
And I see frequently in dreams…
Oh, heart! To sun! To sea! To May!
To Est-Toyla in fir forests!
Then And Now
In evenings of matiola
She made us drunk, like wine,
And with lines to ease of Aeolus
It was judged to turn round.
We went to picnic in the night,
At the bonfire crawfish caught,
Pulled the hood and barely went
To bed at dawn.
At resort, the second summer
With them I did spend.
These were the days, when candy-maker
For the cake did have angst.
When to ride in the carriage
Still risked the child,
When in guesthouse Herr Bryuckman
Openly sold the wine…
Day stood for thirty papers,
And three silver rubles,
That may now appear
The kings in the palace!
By the Sea
From sea blows the Finlandean gale —
The penetrating wind of north —
And does mean magic on the sail,
Tipping the edge of simple boat.
Seeing the waves, I walk alone
Over the cliff that overhangs,
All is green, and there is snow.
I look at pink skin-colored sand.
The snow covers entire foothills
From mountain tops until sand dunes.
And after him screams with the distance
The sadness of the color blue.
The green above, beneath — blue-yellow,
The in-between, chilly and white.
The sky is made sea to inhabit:
In desert, desert is imbibed.
Leitmotifs
All day to dreaming I surrender,
I give my life over to dreams.
I am no soldier, salesman, dandy —
I only sing and sing and sing!
What use is kingdom and porphyry?
What use is any role for me?
Beyond the supple fence of lyre —
I am the ever-reigning king!
What for, your cogitations’ cold?
What for, political dissents?
The spring day’s warm and full of gold —
And I look with a springtime gaze!
Be blessed, grass, grow tall and mighty!
And you, the green-appareled waves!
No sinners: Everyone is righteous,
Most righteous still — he who forgave!
Madis
Nightly from ‘Quo vadis’
The consumptive musician played.
To him heeded the sorrowing Madis —
Local colonists and fishermen.
‘How in the net goes the herring
And somehow expensive it will be?’
Shines the moon on gloss of lacquer
Of the boot that is chic.
‘And the salmon speckled
Will be caught in pood with the weight?’
White is the sail of the hat,
Trembles the spider fetters’ scrap.
‘And suddenly bony vinegar midst
The sturgeon sky to me will come?!’
And the pick promotes dreams,
In the sapphire-silver moon.
Bluer
Worrying, today the wind,
Like a dynamite explodes.
And, like the freight train, the sea
Going, heavily makes noise.
Thus blue, like the sky
Like sapphire, on south of south,
And don’t demand the blue light:
Bluer than it, it doesn’t know the earth.
So blue, dense,
Like night in the December stars.
So blue, so,
Like in the dawn the gazelle’s eyes.
‘None bluer,’ thus on the aspen
Twitter the foreign leaves:
‘Like cornflower, you, sea, are blue!
Like sky, you are bottomless!’
March
March — just like May: all snow has melted,
Dried are the roads, the fields
The ray of spring with warmth worn out, —
And anew the ground is green.
The sea and the day have desoldered,
Again in them was blue the calm,
All to creation was revived,
And again has moved the dust.
On sun of alder woods the stop
Shines, like the chalk in gilt,
And nightingale — ‘oopik’ Estonian —
Has the desire to sing…
Again rings and reigns
My poem, although it — old man almost!
In sunset hour is red again
The smile of Emarik full of woe.
And night — Night. White — with unheard
To us nears the crowd
In lilac cape luxuriant
And in the pale-blue hat…
The Final Glory
My equivocal glory
Is equivocal not why,
That I am wrongfully exhalted, —
Not on the talent mine, —
And because, the call clear
To conventions — in my poems
And exquisite surprises’ row
In the capricious words.
In me they sought out vulgarity,
Having let one from the sight:
Here’s who paints the square,
That with brush of square does write.
Scolded the styles’ mixing,
Though in mixing is the style!
That, with which you did not treat me!
Like me did not give ‘pastilles’!
The unanswerable dilemmas
I resolved, rumor despising,
My two-thought topics —
Equivocal by being.
Let the canon critical
Draw me into the law his own, —
I am the ironic lyrical:
Irony — is my cannon.
Drawing With The Needle
The nut harpsichords,
And reflected in the console mirror
The little cousin’s figure,
Twittering on their Ramo…
In corner with rocker of the pillow
Dadlo is more relaxed than Didlo.
On it is vial that dry went,
With which is flowering the heart…
Sailed barely the candles pity,
Like shoulders — pink, white forehead.
Window opened in the garden. There evening.
From curtains the heliotrope swims.
In tearful fog all the notes,
As if the points of silver…
And the girl’s heart — in the romance,
Furtively reading the evening…
In The Village
In village, where light and holy
I will to nature give the soul,
To me from perversion it is scary
Of acting dames of capital.
And here — where’s field, wood and books,
And by God alit home —
There are more disgusting intrigues,
Capital of Gomorra and Sodom.
And not the amateur to moan
And whine, but loving remember the wrong
Their triumphal lust
And like is lucky for him.
The morality not loving
And despising the moral,
I cannot without indignation
Remember their dirty commune.
At The Sologub
Lived Sologub in dacha of Magyar,
The beloved, old Sologub.
In them magic and bliss are covered,
Who’s poisonous and tender-rude…
Thus in Toyla he lived two summers
On distant dacha, on the fields
And cemeteries, and had been this
Living for me for many miles.
From Veymarne to him to come
I did not like in sunrise hour.
When, as it seemed to me, the comfort
To find the diamond in dew of grass…
And went from the station, reading
Poems to her, through the chill.
Blazed the young soul,
And I could not catch a cold…
I came, when sleeping were all
Still on the dacha, and in garden
He walked half day, and in the opal
He smelled the fog’s reseda…
Postman
Thus on the highway, with tires’ peg,
But on the trail through the linen,
Thus with the packed country road
On bicycle is the postman.
He’s known to all. He is old Pernick.
He serves thirtieth year here.
Letter from Schepkina-Kupernick
It gives me in the window.
I invite on the terrace
Him, tired, catch,
That would take out heresy or kvas
And bite in his ways.
He enters very delicately
And the chair to the table moves.
And sea is blissfully sunset,
Alike to the scarlet glass.
Concentrated and equal
The Tokay wine he drinks.
What writes Tatyana Lvovna?
But, anyway, it’s dark, it seems.
Love Is Causelessness
Love is a causelessness. Thoughtlessness even.
To love for a reason? I love for I feel.
Love is like a troika, demented and rabid,
Rushing toward a ship that is leaving to sail.
Where to? Does not matter. I like aimless journeys.
Magnolias blooming… Wandering ice…
Fly onward, my troika, in path of a snowstorm,
Where my ship gets ready for watery flight.
Stomp out, my dear troika, discretion and reason,
Smoke with a fire, flaming, foaming and white!
What for? For no reason — my heart’s drunk with freedom
From reason. The ship leaves. On it I’ll take flight.
Rondo XX
While it’s not late, give me the answer,
I pray you humiliated and in tears,
Far away, with mimosas staring:
Yes or no? Yes or no — answer?
Poetically ‘yes,’ and no — it is prosaic!
Merged dreams, but beat different
Our hearts: dims the sky light…
Oh, give me answering sign,
While it is not late…
Thus afar, life has turned to delirium.
And lightning, and thunder rumble menacingly.
And thus is late. And thus tens of years
You afar, but you’re menacing with me.
Give me the answer, while I’m not skeleton….
While it is not late!
Moon Glares
Moon tears, clinging light to linen of somnambulists,
Light linearity of lilies, in love with the prison
Of sticky green leaves. In waves flights of flounders,
Of flat, evasively-bodied. And from afar — Madeleine.
Laziness of ramifications of maple, faded scarlet.
Pale-yellow meadows, full of strengths sweet.
Ranunculus lutes. In veins the opal violet.
Dear white swan in light opening of wings.
Better to slide smoothly to sunny Graal.
The moon-glare rabbits it’s easy to catch in atlas
Of dresses violet in in sequins. Fiery likeness of real
And, swinging realism, I cry with sadness of eyes.
Painted Ones
They’re ‘red’ today, and they’re ‘white’ tomorrow —
Ah, no tapestry! No flowers, this!
Tiresome to me to the point of nausea,
Small people hideous and turned to beasts.
Lowly today and tomorrow lowly,
Today the thieves and tomorrow too.
Vile scoundrels now and vile scoundrels formerly,
Will provoke any revolt for you.
Ideas foolish, dreams, all in vanity,
That in their theory is way to god.
They all are colorless in their entity —
Today they’re ‘white’ and tomorrow ‘red’!
Poem of the Reason for Cheer
We live in astounded wonder
At change of contrasting events.
Vienna’s horrors and hunger
Threw us into chills and cold sweat.
And that, which we left on the east side —
Unfathomable to the mind.
In some times and dates you are trusting,
Not knowing yet how and why.
You aren’t weak in the soul, I am sure,
As you lean over life, like an urn:
In a republic miniature
The big order has been born.
Perhaps we are broken in hope
And thrown into an abyss:
We’re sated, we’re sated, and so
We’re ready for faith and for bliss.
We trust — we can’t not trust, I found!
We wait — we can’t not wait in our turn!
That world will in that measure be crowned
Which divine grace will return.
Poem to Luminous Brother
To birds and to poets the Lord all their sustenance gives:
I don’t reap or sow, but for a second year I exist.
And for kind song-poems the people who’re also kind
Will forgive your errors and sins, too, if any they find.
Who needs the art now? Who needs it — I do not know,
But to me it’s air, and I keep singing so.
And radiant someone — not Russian, Estonian — stranger —
An angel of God? Follows me and protects me from danger.
In art he believes, and to me he is brimming with love:
‘Be yourself, poet: Sing all your songs, stay alive!’
And like a poor bird, poet is glad of alms in his plight…
O luminous brother, I sing you with song of delight!
Poem of Despair
I know nothing, I trust in nothing,
I no longer in life see its brighter side.
I approach my friend as if he were a lion
I need nothing else. I am bored and tired.
Someone knifes someone, smothers another..
Everywhere, cheating, lying and greed.
Would eyes not see and would ears not hear!
Lermontov! Weren’t you right — ‘what in world is good?’
Even thought is corrupt, even love is deceiving.
There’s no fulfilled dream. All is smoke and mirrors.
I see no joy in living, see in life no meaning.
I’m feeling horror. I master fear.
Poem Of Heartache
From the dim revel newspaper,
Dry and tendential,
Like we, the bisquits’ warrior,
And afterwards — evil,
I will recall that in the world
There’s as former enmity,
And all the world forgot the world
For long and for all time.
All this little consoles
That, in whom melts intellect,
Exiled the earth the tongues of gods
Accepted prose’s dialect.
And here as a result I read,
That Sologubov was arrested,
That name in the thin aroma,
And in wisely-stingy in words
That Leonid Andreev had died,
To bottom cup of drink,
Having fanned with thought such a height,
That was called interplanetary:
That died of typhus Sologubov
The dumbest death of all,
Like yacht of joy — from reef,
And like from bullet — nightingale,
What he, whose ardor is magnificent,
And spirit, like flame, hoisted,
O, always Repin, old young man
In Finland is pawned.
Sufficiently and such news,
That interrupted the heart,
That in this blissful place
Blue air had become dark.
Mohicans, now leave,
Last one of dear country…
The coming — one in the fog…
Alas, gaps are not seen…
Although I further would not see
The dear Fedor Kuzmich?
The face I won’t near impetuously
To his face, love whispering?
What for to him then is my hope
On meeting of heavy years?
Decay, the final clothes!
You, wind, sweep up my trace!
In Russia there’s thousands of familiar,
But near. More ill is thus,
When they died in the thunders
And lightnings of cursed days…
Poem of Old Rhythms
O you the ancient rhymes and rhythms,
Seized on by many poets,
The banal, cheap, and puny ones,
Cliches overcooked and boiled!
You sound with the guitar strings,
With rhythms and rhyme impoverished,
Than all new things more beautiful
To my simplistic soul!
You were under Derzhavin,
You were under Nekrasov
You were under Nikitin,
And under Tolstoy too!
Oh you — just like an avalanche!
And though you were discarded,
And though new ones are written —
You burst into my book!
I greet you, my dear loyal ones,
The fully tried and tested ones,
The musical and flowerful
And most beloved by me!
Exemplary companions
You dear ones, you tender ones,
The happy and the sorrowful
The nightingale-like rhythms!
Poem Of Prosaic Soil
Ah, people live without poems,
Without music people live,
And spitefully call luxury
The skilful music of lines.
Ah, people live without icons,
In a godless soul without God.
For them it’s better the shades, —
Just gossip, gluttony and slumber.
And even — here, in my home, —
In holy idol of the poet —
I am here weighed down by a dream,
Seeks to make soundless my home…
Alas, even lady and this
Will not find compassion for me…
And nowhere will I leave:
Nobody loves the dreams.
And here just one profiteer, —
Thief, executioner, ‘ideate’ —
Eats the fruits of success,
Looking down for a talent.
Grow stale the hearts of women,
There’s no more lyricism in them —
People, dancers, groom…
Love — the vestige of a fool…
Life nasty-sober became,
And greed — the ideal of all.
Stomach trampled the shrine,
Offering his law.
Artist for all — man
Lazy, useless, empty.
O, sober worker, dry,
In art not believing for century!
Sonnet XXXI
Exquisite, like resident of Vienna,
In lady of Hungarian, in dress bleugendarme,
Spraying on herself vial of vervain
She walks — in her is especial charm.
In her approach golden caravans
To admirers with products of all firms…
Just Don Juans, just pockets torn,
Take with the eyes of the screens.
Graceful, Viennese, charmer,
Village before him and the duchess,
Something special is in there!
Sophisticated, gourmand, thin girl,
Erotomaniac with Vestal soul,
How it comes out: ‘I wait for you at seven…»
Poem of Feeling of Spring
You are ready from gloom to suicide,
Hang yourself, or shoot in the mouth.
Wait a while — and the spring will come to your side
After just three more snowy months.
Nightingales of the cherry will whistle,
Full of nightingales cherry will stand.
May go past you the shot from the pistol
And the rope fall apart in your hands.
With the fishing rods made of redwood
People will catch the fish on the hook,
And the swan with white breast and white feathers
Will swim lightly upon the lake.
Mounds will breathe with dampness and drown,
Will send redolence and be green,
And your neck, as it gives a way down,
Will become pouring with rain.
And the bushes under flooding river
Into lilac and cherry will bloom.
Noisy, singing, the spring will deliver
All your girlfriends and also — you.
And will love, and will bloom, and will spring again
All that dimmed in the winter from gloom.
All the dry will be cut by axe-wielding hand
And the juicy will bravely bloom.
Do not kill yourself, do not hang your head,
Rather let your fantasy play.
We will live through these months however we can,
And soon afterwards — it is May!
On The Contrary
Imagine yourself again
Such, as you had been always,
And in days, when damask steels shine,
Seek the floral paths,
Imagine yourself again
As an aesthete and not a rude broad,
Life, having swamp toad become,
In dreams, like a fairy, the dove.
All world — ahead, and you — round:
To prosaic nonsense do not yield …
Imagine yourself again
With final flower of poetry!..
Purple Bloom
Strive to catch Aeolus,
Child, in flowery net.
I’m intoxicated by mathiol,
The stream does chirp.
And in smell the nails
Of lilac, limply driving in,
Shines in the guest house
Her — violet cliff.
In blossoming of July
The bushes tilting,
The blooming singing,
The lilac with wings!
The Autumn Palette
Sad and naked is view of the field.
Sad and dismal is view of the wood.
On one roof — the pigeon white
And another — on other roof.
And sea — and thus somehow nude
At nude mountains is melancholy.
And the air, and the dampness, and the land —
All sorrow melts in despondency.
Ephemerides
He lay, all in gypsum,
He did lie bandaged,
And in his hand Ibsen
Indignantly trembled…
Where is the proud personbood?
Where is the ego of his?
The man’s excellence
From all another?
Is it not frail?
Is all dust?
And him gradually
Fright started to embrace.
Before window the skier
His circle of ephemerides…
And the great Norwegian
Fell on floor from the hands.
Rondel XVI
I love the lemon with the purple:
I love lilac buttercups among,
With violet I languish lemon.
With the spring word I sing the moon:
Purple, new, radiant!
Moon — just like a ship…
I love the purple and the lemon:
I love lilac midst buttercups.
For me to thus be in love
With night, with morning, evening, day,
And in half-light, and in half-shade
To be always admiring life,
The purple and the lemon to love…
Nona
O, silver-blue lace
Of sleeping snow street — alley!
How to for you ask words,
That in them express you more dearly?
In December liturgy, barely alive,
Nature sleeps. Sleep — whiter than lily.
Husbandless winter, you — like widow.
I walk in silver-blue azure,
Finding in all symptoms of dormancy.
Drawing
In seaside park there is pine above the river,
Looking in its shape like a lyre.
And in the orange sunset of October
A girl every evening goes there.
From forehead on the chest descend two braids,
The happy-blue eyes go crazy,
The freckles joyfully flutter on the face,
And the thin lips and the long arrogance…
In her, I know, the village is in love
(I think under ‘village’ man’s all).
To her it’s flattering to feel love from all sides,
But for the searches all intangible.
She is girlishly-rude and coquettish,
Such is for nature dear,
She is sensitive and sensual, but passion
Yields to her, and to impulse — not to her…
Poem For Gourmet
Berrin, Gourmets, Rabon, Ballet,
Ivanov, Kochukov and Kaestner
In darkness of Petersburg had shined —
Lighted the apical more gloriously.
The dream cake and the dessert bread
As if from the fresh strawberry —
Is not Ivanov with this proud,
The truly great confectioner?…
And drunkenness from Berrin?
The sugared chestnuts?
At first — tout, and now — rien:
That tore at left all the Satans!
Bonbons de viollettes Gourmets,
The brownie of the torn chestnuts —
To eat upon the stern of yacht
Or on beaumonde resorts.
Whose revolt, dreams the Grace
Chased in KURZAUL of Koslovodsk:
‘O, y Gourmets was boule de neige’
Like the mint-sugar dumpling…
From Nelly and Kestner not once
To buy ‘records from raspberry’
We drove: to forget us?
Like trill of Filin, you had melted!
And you are gloried, Kuchkurov,
‘Mocca’! To make the cakes
Ah, it was not without feasts
From the East to the West…
And Gessel? Rick? Rabon? Ballet?
Oh, what the rolls and what the puffs!
All this had been alive on earth,
And now they all — berths!
Fast And Feast
Your eyes, your azure eyes,
Your azure eyes,
In me uplift the stormy feelings,
Azure dragonflies.
Oh, I hear your eloquent
Silence, hear I…
And your body — is beautiful
Tropical scales…
And your elastic lips,
Your resilient lips…
I look in disarray and fear and
On them, crushing their eyes…
Thus all, thus all this team,
Snake, vampire and dragonfly.
Gold, scarlet, azure,
All — fast in the feast Bacchal…
Caviar And Vodka
Earlier with the pressing caviar we spread the rolls,
With the fat butter layer caviar clung to it.
Without caviar did not manage the picnic or the walks.
We sang about the sturgeon — for sturgeon’s girlfriend.
Nikolayev’s squirrel, the kingly redhead,
Our known treasury — what with it will compare,
With Russian bread monopoly? Will agilely pour in throat…
In it caviar was dessert better than all and tastier!
And in the silver paper, March, from Rostov,
With the lacquer roulette charming our eyes?!
As it can be forgotten, what dreaming is ready,
To her, whose tongue you caressed, to her, that clung, like atlas!
How did not get cold, how was you won’t get tired,
How was you will not wake up — you’ll go into cafeteria:
On crystal jug of vodka, on caviar in porcelain you’ll stare, —
You’ll cheer up, you’ll get warm, you will rest!
Poem Of Honourable Lady
How walks upon the street in dress
In yellow plush, conversing with a laundress
About the former fight in the market?
Honourable lady, lady with dog.
Who thus had gossiped skilfully
About local pharmacy, caught with sleep,
About the poetess, bravely laughing?
Honourable lady, lady with dog.
Who in the bedroom, opening the oracle,
Goes, with whom husband betrays, with the Pole
Go with the Jewess, that sinful on pole?
Honourable lady, lady with dog.
Who fills this whole day
With shouting, cards, chewing gum and snore?
Who walks with the white burden?
Honourable lady, lady with dog.
Poem to Refugees
In these miniature Russian colonies
Those who are hiding from lawlessness
Their sinful bodies and souls,
Interests are so pitiful
Feelings vicious and hypocritical:
They seek only food and warmth.
They all eat — it is only appropriate,
And the warmth in our time is important too,
Nobody will argue with that.
But apart from the warmth and the victuals
There are needs mental and spiritual,
Besides breakfast and wood and coat.
There is theater, symphony and poems,
There are paintings, and if in Estonia
There is no such delight,
My compatriots, Russian terribly,
It’s your fault that you see things narrowly,
And you lose your hearing and sight.
If you’ll find nothing like this within this land
And this village except the wheat bread,
Maybe at nights we will perform
Shows of music and poems, and vocalists
We will give majestic performances
And perhaps we will dance until dawn.
Maybe we’ll declaim aloud Gogol’s thought
(Fess up: you did not read a lot
Of his work in your life, dear friends).
Maybe take something from Nekrasov
And to know travels of Hatteras, if
Nietzsche, for one, the powers forbid.
But what are such pursuits to you
Calling nothing but curses out of you
Better revelry, maps and food!
Better gossip, intrigue and constant complaints
That for long the army should have advanced
For your sake to retake Petrograd.
Thu And Ani
Oh, Thu my dear!
Oh, Ani my dear!
Thu looks like a pear,
Ani — for in trap the squirrel…
Tiiu is taller a bit,
Ani — lilac-chestnut,
On the roof in the nights of the moon
Dreams, like chilly foam.
Ani, linen blonde,
Crowning with lilies of the valley
Hair, like spiderweb
I can think — quiet girl…
Girls are both arrogant,
Girls are both excessive,
Both, like May, inspired!
Both, like August, beauteous!
Legs in you, like in deer…
What, striving to cliff…
Give me the right hand, Ani,
With left only Tiiu will give.
Brilliant Poem
I do not want to live my life, like all,
Living like squirrels in a hamster wheel,
Walking around in circles, being slaves,
Afraid of storm and of the ocean waves.
I want to live uplifted like an eagle,
I want to live conceited like a Creole,
Smashing, threatening barriers, sliding by
Between the two ‘forbidden»s intertwined.
I want to live, a wise and brilliant man
Of all his peers a century ahead
And yet in other measures, to exist
A fifty years behind my time at least.
I want to live, as it behooves to live
To him who knows to conjure and conceive
New notes from ancient ones and from the past —
I want to live the way life lives, at last!
Cultivated Lilac Blooming
In violet and purple bloomed the lilac,
The lilac bloomed in pink and white and pale.
We headed toward it on a tortuous trail
Across an ancient fir and furrowed park.
Sea to the left, river ahead, and hills —
Behind, the blooming lilacs on the mounts
Weave from the gentle smell delightful clouds
And breathe the timeless redolence that heals.
The lilac bloomed, and to my love I told:
‘If only I could take pen in my hand!’
And she responded sharply in her stead:
‘The lilac blooms — large, and like ruby and like gold.’
The night is fickle, nervous, luminous.
The kisses, nibbles until lips turned blue.
There’s so much taste and elegance in you
The lilac bloomed — the bodies bloomed in us.
To Felissa Kruut
My dear Felissochka! My most exquisite!
I give you ‘Minstrel’ and all my dreams.
You are beloved by all that’s delicate,
My sweet Felissa — My violin!
May to the crude one you be an egotist —
I care not: You are most loved by me!
My most talented! My sweet Felissochka!
My one sought after! My destiny!
The hate of sin here is love of marriage:
You like it when I say ‘bride’ to you.
Symbol of Hestia! Little Hestochka!
In you again I will find my youth!
Poem to Death
In name of the Lord I forbid you to come
Into the house where Lord willed for life to bloom
In name of God I forbid you, death!
Is there not enough for you in the world
In cannon’s maw and in the steel of the sword?
In name of God I forbid you, death!
Go, go far away, whore! Do not stand at the door!
Do not warm poet’s home with your icy breath!
In name of God I forbid you, death!
Poem Of Loyal Fishing
We go to catch the trouts on the porches,
In forests after Aluoja, to May Rant.
Sarcastic but strict are your eyes.
You all in beauty. Pearly-bare are your feet.
And among two braids — the big green band.
And I with spacious black blouse
In patterned cap, in Russian boots.
Is it not true, Tiiu, in sight short-sighted,
Today is here, tomorrow in New York.
And certain anxiety at the feet?
Stopped at the crooked linden
And momentarily fishing rod to sprawl:
All types meet the trout here,
From dehydrated husky are the sobs,
And sometime here the salmon walks..
And silver, and the gold, and the bronze!
Wide and thin!.. Thus,
Let’s catch delightfully-seriously,
On equal: shoulder in shoulder and differently,
Like darkness at home would not chase us.
Coming home, we will turn fish into rings,
And we’ll boil, and we’ll turn them into soup.
And after dinner, on a Russian stove,
We will remember about our river
And basks upon the rabbit fur…
To One Different from Others
You’re in no way like other women at all:
You have laughter controlled and expressive,
You wear dresses measured and fashionably long
And you slip out from my embraces.
You do not cut your hair to look upscale,
Deepen brows or wear make up,
You have Smirnoff, but also a nightingale
Who in nature becomes his replacement,
You are able to see in the sugar the salt,
And in just uttered word, a full sentence.
In Akhmatova you value pain without halt
And in Gumilev — charm and cadence.
For you, connoisseur of all kinds of verse,
Sharpness of Sologubov means something,
And that you and Blok never did kiss
You are grieving sixth summer and counting.
And in your eyes, as they are now getting well —
Ocean breeze and a rye field in season.
You’re in no way like other women at all,
And you’ve become my wife for that reason.
Easter In Petersburg
It smelled with hyacinths in canteen,
With easter cake, Madeira and ham,
It smelled with the spring Christ Easter,
With the orthodox Russian faith.
It smelled of sun, the paint of window
And, from the woman’s body, lemon,
With the inspired-happy Easter
That around with bell ring did hum.
And at the monument of Nicholas
Before the very Big Sea
There was the pavement of the ends,
It smelled with the tarred boards.
From the washed out from Holiday glass,
From without sand and without cotton wool frames,
The city stomped, rang and clattered,
Kissing, with delight embraced.
For stomach and soul sweet it had been,
To catch the youth, flowers having pinned.
And though it was dry, at the elders,
Fur coats, cotton in boots and ears…
Poetry of religion, where are you?
Where’s religiosity of poesy?
Where the idle songs are sung,
‘The business’ now is serious…
Let absurdly, funnily, stupidly
My young ones in city had been,
But my heart had been embarrassedly…
That, which is peculiar to Russia only!
Praise to the Fields
My fields, my wave-like, foaming fields!
With autumn spinach, brown as if of bricks,
And lettuce, clover, heather and daisy.
How much the eyes can hear and ears can see!
I walk along the side of the river.
The wildflowers shine like sapphire
Leaning beneath the wheat’s golden frame,
I hear, as in the river splashes elm,
This splash like music gives its gentle sound.
And the blue storm of sea? A burst of sun?
And clouds within the sky, all white like sheep?
The life with its simplicity is deep.
While I am able still to touch your breath,
May it become and stay forever blessed!
And may the ground become the earth in bliss —
The fields, the fields, the life-begetting fields!
Fairy Eiole
Who moves across the fields in a moon shine
With eternal movement of the planets?
Ruler of Hestia, fairy Eiole.
In Russian ei ole is: not.
In ban is illness. There’s no pain in liberty.
For this the pain is for always.
Pain is intoxicating. Fairy Eiole
The contrast of approval: Yes.
She is in her autumn halo,
In own negation of all things
Drags inconceivably. Of fairy Eiole,
Taking all, that you will not give…
And in it delight. And in pain dust of liberty.
And even hope — vanity.
And with full image fairy Eiole
Affirms: ‘Beauty is only in me.’
Poem ‘Villa Mon Repos’
Meat has eaten meat, meat has eaten asparagus,
Meat has eaten fish and the wine poured.
And having paid off meat, in half-meat carriage
Suddenly rolled to meat in hat with big feather.
Meat caressed meat, and was by meat espoused,
And created meat on the copybook of the land.
Meat was ill, rotted and turned into mass
Of stinking decomposition, appropriate to meat.
I Dream…
I dream of what, of which there’s not
And which I do not know, may be…
I dream, like the real poet, —
Yes, like a real poet, I dream.
I dream, that in the glow of years
The earthly hell will be more like heaven.
I dream, a universal poet —
Like universal poem, I dream.
I dream, that Heaven from the woes
Will give to Russian land reprieve.
For that, I am — a Russian poet,
For this in Russian do I dream!
Mary
… Foggy woe has lit up
With Mary’s silver rhyme…
V. Bryusov
Silver name of Mary
Under mountain with ocarina sounds…
Silver name of Mary
Like swarm of flying pearls…
Silver name of Mary
Speaks of the cross, of Christ…
Silver name of Mary
Of the good beauty speaks…
Silver name of Mary
Shines to me with immortal star…
Silver name of Mary
With grizzle makes my temple silver…
Design On Canvas
On the sheer shore of sea of little Hestia,
Along rowan, piled up with bitter coral,
Where singing girls married the sight tenderly,
More virtuous than birch’s bark is the soul,
On alley, thrown on under black blackcurrant,
Tasted the foothills to water itself,
We walk other path, that not for us has been trodden,
And we seek all the hanging gardens of lace…
And we build airy impossible palaces,
And after the blue birds we tirelessly run,
Between them the same ones — the same swallows,
That in last times had tossed, swifts and foam.
No, you don’t look like a blue bird, swallow,
Doesn’t look to earthly palazzo hut.
A brush of rowan for me, beloved Hestia,
You, that the wind impishly and the jester swayed.
Will I Forget You?
Oh you, evenings of poetry,
Upon the stage that shines,
And on the meadow of bonfire,
Not money, but for art —
Appreciative, will I forget?
The happy hour is blessed,
When, turning and hiding fishing line,
Upon our soup we’ll dine,
We will return to our homes,
Through forest, where birches sleep,
Nightingales to sing, like psalms,
To sing, like can only we.
Reverently, inspiredly,
Following every trace.
Oh, life, simple like a flower,
Will you be blessed!
Bas-Relief
There is in Yurievo, in Yakovlevsky, mountain,
Wich, when I stand beneath
And I will stare above, for this not very vigilantly,
Lightly reminds me Tiflis.
And now I see: the bath’s marble,
The fast, screw, restaurant’s person and abuse
And the old duchess Orbeljani
Sitting upon the sun at the bath…
Smoke Of Ice
On wind the ice of the stream smokes,
Carry the smokes on the fields.
The powdered girl
Give chase to her skates.
She carries on the wriggles
Of the crystal smoking,
Crouching before the white manes,
Resurrected in the light dance.
On the white white is white —
All swirl, all air, all flight.
And ice still glows, glows, glows —
As if will flare up this ice!
Her Pets
She fed the winter birds,
Crumbs from the window throwing.
From the spring roll call
She laughed joyfully.
When she to the school had run,
Pets, hearing the snow’s crush,
With noisy and happy horde
They bore with her from bush to bush!
Mariinsky Theatre
Temple with velvet blue upholstery,
Cozy, smelling of melodies,
Where soft is snow — not sharp and not obscure —
I wanted to restore before me.
Let century pass, like Ljydoboj,
The minute’s lust and whimsy,
Let him with malicious net divide
Me, Mariinsky Theatre, from thee —
Let! Still, athwart the fate, is he,
Can’t tear the memory of thee,
Giving his own charm to me.
And, azure temple, I give thee
Art, having crossed to centuries,
The name of Lord’s Theatre to mercy!
Before The War
To Gumilev I paid a visit,
When he lived with Akhmatova in the Tsar’s,
In the big chilly quiet lordly house,
Snoring with his patriarchal life.
Poet did not know, that threatened death
Somewhere in Madagascar wood,
Not in the choking Sahara sand,
And in Petersburg, where he was killed.
And long, conquistador of soul,
Told me, of what the joy had told.
Akhmatova at the table stood,
With constant sadness tormented,
With unseen veil draped
Of Village of the Tsar as it rots.
Brunette In Pink
In alleys of larch trees I walk past the lake.
Transparent is water at the feet.
To meet me shimmers the girl in pink,
That to think sorrowfully the poet could not…
Alley is dark and with the gloom heavy,
And gloom is joyless, and gloom is empty.
And you shine! And you are happy!
And so intoxicated are thee!
Come up unhurried groupers
And motionless in the water stand,
As if they think of the curl blond,
Melting the dream of the pink dress…
Silver Sonata
I stand near a window in silver compline
And look from it upon the used fields,
Where straw bristled the feathers from removed rye
And pricked up with the chills the empty land.
Nothing! — not from us, leaves of white apple trees of childhood,
Not from you, refined feelings’ lace gondolas…
I wasted my gift — given to me inheritance by God, —
Impoverished, quiet and empty with plundered soul…
And evening — without words, hopes, wishes, dreams,
Mechanically looking, like from sea walks out the moon
And wanders my friend on October frozen meadow,
In vain struggling to help me in angst — by window I stand.
Poems To Moscow
The dreams watered my gaze:
Again — there, after Kremlin towers, —
To Russia inimitable
The unchanging earth.
To her wealthy is the sordid,
Full of meaning are the trifles:
Old duchess from Arbat
Reads Fet across the glasses…
And here in the cozy church
I drove up in a dandy’s coupe,
Courtesan apportions the circles,
Her own in the crowd with angst…
And you, walk in evening
On a troika past Moskva…
On the granite lane
The mansions genial.
And there, in which of them, where the flock
Of dreams slows the flight,
The hostess with the sun of Moscow
Melts the ‘Nieva ice’…
Dreams! You — barefoot wanderers,
Coming across the fields, —
To Russia that cannot be conquered
The unchangeable land!
Words Of The Sun
I saw many countries and not worse than her —
All land is loved by me tenderly.
But to compare to Russia? My heart with her,
Or is she incomparable for me?
How cosmic is the soul, that bad patriot:
Identical for me is the whole world…
I know, in what I’m strong and in what weak are my people,
I know the meaning of meaningless laws…
Judging the war, judging the pogrom,
Above each people violence,
I love Russia — my parents’ home —
Even with all the dirt and all the dust…
Unthinkable to me is thought, that darkness — over the dead…
I do trust, I do believe in Sunday.
With all strength of the soul, with flight of thought,
With fire of the inspiration of mine!
Know, trust: today’s holiday it’s near,
And not so over the mountains —
Will be announced space on villages dear
With the Russian Orthodox bells!
And will repent the dark, but wise people
In its sins the Lord before.
Stop first, that into church will enter,
Undecidedly before the shore…
And in delight waving like spear in air the ray,
Golden, all-good words,
Sun says from skies: ‘In own Monday
Russia all the guilty ones forgives!’
Sunday
To the east, where, in Ural mountains,
Scattered the strange country,
That not once, it seemed, had been dying
Like love, like sun, like spring…
And when the people severely went quiet
And, orphaned, went blind from tears,
With the God’s will again reincarnated…
Like spring, like sun, like Christ!
Who Are You?
Hey you, the mess’s kingdom!
You, complete carousel!
With the ill will of the hooligan
You drink blood like kissel!
The whole world at you marvels.
All cannot guess:
You — are the walking girl
Or are you divine blessedness?
It Will Be Soon
And soon will be the spring day,
And will go home, to Russia…
Put on the silken hat:
In it is beauty especially….
And will be holiday… big, big,
Of whom there had not been, pity,
From those times, where earth was created,
So laughable and so moldy…
And you will whisper: ‘We not in dream?..’
Will laughter you I shall pinch
And weeping, praying to the spring
The Russian land I do kiss!
Classical Roses
Once, when the dreams would bloom — the times were those —
In people’s hearts, transparent and aflame,
How fresh, how beautiful have been the roses
Of my love, of my spring, and of my fame!
The years have passed, many a tear flows —
The country and its people all are lost.
How fresh, how beautiful are now the roses
Of memories of my delightful past!
But days go by, and thunder’s in repose.
Russia is seeking pathways to go home.
How fresh, how beautiful will be the roses
That my country will throw upon my tomb!
On Earth In Beauty
I live in beauty for eight years
On the majestic height.
The blue bay is seen from the window.
In it — the moon’s overflow of gold.
And — with the wave of villages as it blooms
Lilac pours us in May,
And then all dachas and all homes —
The lilac mess entirely!
For that the dreams are sweet —
Are not the lilac flowers these?
For that the soul is not in ecstasy,
With lilac breathing constantly…
And in the winter — half a year — the snow,
Skies, sleigh, snowstorm, felt boots.
Heated hot is the Russian stove.
The precise speech of classic books.
Here are no torments, going insane:
With me is nature itself.
And ones that could to her come near
Become deeper and more clear.
No, it doesn’t draw me to the towns,
Where ‘golden horde’ reigns.
Madness of soul, soulless mind
I see from the backwoods of God.
With all in village I’m familiar:
With the fisherman, with the shoemaker.
And who is pulled by the joints,
Thus go fishermen to the poet.
It’s boring for man to live without newspapers …
They will let me cigarettes.
There is none for me.
If there is — mine I will give.
Without horse, and without the wheel
We go to the lake in the woods
To catch fish, taking bread in bag
Returning into the blue darkness.
And with me she is constant,
Who for me, like nature, is tender,
That the only true thought
The blue noise to noise squabble did prefer.
And with nature I live and breathe,
I write inspiredly and simply.
Dissolving with the soul in the space,
I live upon the earth in beauty!
Ray Of Sun
Into your dreamer jumped the sun
With the energy of fire,
And the cat chased, warming up,
Stripes of the coat of fur.
And splashed the ray in crystals
Of the Fraje’s flower vase,
On the coach rollers with a smile
Noticing the tomes of Bourges…
The ray will attempt to smell
Camelia, in futile fervour mettled.
Looking at the handiwork,
It will not show to you a fault.
Thereafter (understand, the young sun whole
Is empty, like a hoop!)
Barely he will want to give the gold
To curacao that has no end…
Oh, the March sun curiously
In it is joke and previous hemp!
Look, your neighbor gratefully
The deployed caramel…
And all aspires in the girl’s heart
Unceremoniously to see:
The line of Mitzkevich into rhyme’s chest,
Into the chest the line of Myusse?
And naughty in the dream,
Looking coquettishly in mirror,
Will hide the envelope little,
In which you will send the letter…
Dried Up Vial
The empty vials among,
Under the dust of closet decay,
I found the vial of Atkinson,
Sometime against Vervain…
Whose tender white neck
Was with the lemons fragrant?
Blowing with marine, whose hand
With batiste handkerchief had been waving?
Perfume, my perfume luminous,
Dried out along the wretched road!
Torturously dry are the vials,
And fill the heart — slighted by God…
But memory! She in the sun
Intoxicatingly with near jet
Of beloved perfume of Mopassan,
Perfume of English Henriette…
Reconciling Water
Self from the self — in foreign poseur’s days
In hop loving soulful delights
I go once a month to the lake
There, there — after thirty grounds.
The swamp is impassable almost.
Rotted dike. And suddenly — mountain wood.
Where pines — masts of the future fleet —
Are dressed in changeless cover for the head.
And ahead, to the right, to left, behind,
Wherever you will look, or step wherever,
Three grasses’ dishevelled braids
And all water, water, water, water…
How I love you, dry always,
And tender, and capacious, like dream…
I bless the crystal strings:
I am exalted, immersed in them.
I love to sit beside the lake for hours,
Following the bewitching float,
Over the woods thrown over into depth
And over the tumbling wind…
And rudd is shining like the sun,
Caught upon the hook’s edge.
Silver is the trembling mountain
Upon the shabby canoe bottom, roaches.
Under the squelching of the playing bream,
Still splashes, biting at the roots of grass,
Piously quiet are my dreams,
Withdrawn from the city frames…
And thus for me both sorrow and shame
To the needless the needing needs
Not to go to rest upon the lake
Water reconciling to give peace?
In The Snow
Deep snow in the mountain lies.
River in valley stopped the running.
All white, with snow the villa merged.
And we walk into the snow alone.
On lips the slow: ‘Ceased to love…’
‘Always will love!’ — hasty in the eyes.
Well, always… I know melted is the snow,
To ringing of timpani the river breaks the ice.
And in it will reflect the clouds anew,
And pearl of trills will shimmer in the groves.
Well — always! Of this the heart knows!
Now snow lies here — centuries!
In Hamlet By The Sea
In hamlet by the sea, where fox trot they don’t dance,
Where they don’t with broom chase politics from their homes,
Where they don’t kiss frequently, but because they then kiss,
In the kisses there are all with the virgin soul,
In the hamlet by the sea, where there is a little hut
Where they accommodate feelings, where — akin to one of beauty —
Where they come into the town with contempt and secret dread
On the urgent affairs, these days you are cursing:
In the hamlet by the sea, where for subscription for magazine
The literate fishermen will give savings
And which wrathfully chased the whole tavern,
Because with nature do not neighbour the taverns,
In the hamlet by the sea, drowning with the spring
In unforgettable lilac, incomparable aroma,
Thus in the hamlet, on the sheer cliff,
I live, glad at the sea, of my decision proud!
Piama
There is a strange woman’s name — Piama,
In which there’s hiatus, in which there’s sting,
And let this girl, let this great dame, —
Meeting with Piama — I would have trembled…
To me would have been painted gloomy hole,
Where in quicksand algae with leeches fussing,
Before the name of awful-wide Piama,
Presently, pushing away and teasing…
How to him is tied the drama
And what itself to it self does it mark?
But with my bottomless name — Piama —
Associated is deadly for my heart.
In all nativity and in the temple nothing,
In it is light, into full darkness shining,
With you in the past, Piama, we are tied,
But where and when — I do not comprehend…
No More Than Dream
Yesterday I dreamt an amazing dream:
I rode with a maiden, reading poems of Blok.
The horse went quietly. Rustled the wheel.
And tears dropped. And curled the blonde lock.
And more than nothing contained my dreams…
But, shaken with them, deeply worrying,
And all day I think, trembling anxiously,
Of ancient maiden, of Blok not forgetting…
Ten Years
Ten years — sorrowful years! — I’m thrown in seaside wilderness.
Corpse after corpse of ones dear. And I am myself half a corpse.
Ten years — awful years! — of stifling indifference
White, red — and pink — of Russia’s society groups.
Ten years! — heavy years! — of de-winging privation,
Of humiliation, and aching brain-crushing need.
Ten years — frightful years! — of satire lines
Of human inhumanity and eternal hostility.
Ten years — strange years! — repentance from many habits,
On the current sight — wise-sober — needless-evil…
But for the fishes, lakes, copses and the birds,
And meeting at the sea with incomparable spring!
But for so many years, innocent years, like white apple tree,
Unearthly flowers, growing on the land,
And poems from the soul, like nature, of brave and free,
And forgiveness in the eyes, as in tears, and — love on front!
Dream About Village
The grazing coquette,
On the horse prancing.
Bugle egret —
On beach Mediterranean.
Dancer the lady meeting,
Count slightly graying,
Athlete, flirt and fencer,
Making the beau-monde insane…
She, in the necklace of ermine,
Walks into the tickling flirt,
And a white flock of the seagulls
With contempt pours over resort.
The rapier king calls her
Five cups with the mandarins,
And special engraving laughter
With necklace is choked softly…
My Fishing Rod
This fishing rod of Munich construction,
Loyal companion of the life of mine,
Skilfully detracts me from ugliness
Of historical — and hysterical! — days.
This thin rod, like a reed,
Unfamiliar, subtle, like a dream,
Precisely girl — certainly blonde —
Delightful places opened for me.
Tenderly taking into hands and caressing softly,
Like with beloved, I walk with her in the woods,
Where we won’t meet scum of the people,
Where the skies shimmer in the lakes.
I walk with her long — morning to sunset —
On trails, that weaved difficult look.
We meet just the forester’s hut,
But we will meet with many lakes!
And in each of them, in trifles familiar,
We like to orchestrate quiet halt.
Each bush serves us with home ravishing,
That bliss to bottomless you to me did gift.
Bending over water and self admiring
In azure mirrors reflecting the skies,
Long looks into the blue my girlfriend,
Curiosity awakening in tiger perches.
And beckoning them with woeful-fragile bend,
Attracts the hook by worms hidden,
To credulous fish with woman’s cunning
Given wily — what to do: deadly — lesson.
Catching the perch, straightens
And, bending the mill, triumph’s light whistle
Publishing, discards, very happy,
My loot, splashing the face barely.
Thus my girlfriend gives to me sustenance,
Lures to nature, the dreams gives.
For this lovable to me is her wandering —
With the village attendant Beauty!
Narva
On the fast Narva, a river stately,
Where seems huge from stone the sheer shore,
Boulevard on the perch and garden, Dark named,
Where water is wide and houses are far…
Narva aspires among two ancient castles —
Peter’s and Swede — uplifting the towers gray.
Ivan-city quiet on the river, like yesterday’s master,
And now, like guest, why he doesn’t want to leave from guests.
On thin and loud streets I love the evenings,
When flashlights throw the spots radiant,
When to me soul of old Narva is especially understood,
And it is certain to me with the Peter’s shade…
But instead of her I meet laughter of maidens,
Beautiful faces, more shadow nicer…
I love among the young human plants,
In hothouse wrapped up in northern smarmy fur.
And long I, long I walk to limit, to behind.
Admiring reachable beauty, thus proud and strict,
I dream above the darkness of penetrating Narva.
Entering the public garden called Dark.
Appearance Of A Poet
Because appeared the wound of autumn
In the fallen leaf’s veins,
The girls felt themselves strangely
As if ready to become moms.
Because she thought from Fet
And with the intangible dragged,
The girl felt herself the poet
To roots of hair from the fingers’ end.
Let Whole Evening Play…
Play me from ‘the Queen of Spades,’
Barely from the sickest of operas,
So touching in herself
With rationally-stale Europe…
At first play the entrance for me,
In its kind the one and only,
Where only to the crime
Man is driven by the dream…
Dream! You’re rejected by the world…
Your sister — passion — in ridicule…
Where the heart, swollen with fat,
Madness of wishes can’t be found…
O, all, you know, that you recall,
Play to me, this evening play to me:
In northern May and by the sea
Tchaikovsky is especially cordial…
By Sea And Lakes
By sea and lakes, in my woods of pine,
I live lightly, alertly, joyfully,
Not to know politics, new dances not to see
And drink steamed milk instead of wine.
Especially is dear to me the village air
Under the autumn of winter late and long,
When I, like Lensky, become a dreamer,
When the people in dacha have gone home.
With citizens’ departure from the village of ours
They leave until the spring (how it is nice!)
All that is stilted and ‘on four paws,’
For this from the town I am gone…
Only, of what I am sad sometimes:
No sound of music and not a soul once,
Who could hear the old measure of the poem
Or new — all equally, who sorrowed of the verse.
There are no such ones here, and without them it’s empty:
Who fished all day long, who had plowed the fields…
How sorrowful without soul, the art seeking,
In love with music of the most refined verse!
Availability lies in my foundation,
But all the more akin with pride every day:
By the sea and lake in my forests of pine
I am glad with Muse, but we’re one in the joy.
They All Speak About The Same Thing
Nightingales of monastery garden,
Like all nightingales flying above,
Say that there is but one joy in living,
And that this joy comes in form of love.
And the monastery meadow’s flowers
With the tenderness just flowers possess,
Say there’s but one merit: Lovers
Touch their lips together and caress.
And, filled to the brim with blueness endless,
Lakes among the monastery wood,
Say: There’s no more azure glance
Than in those who love and who are loved.
It’s A Shame To Believe…
From the sloping mountain we rush to the river in skids,
And to the girls lovely, and to the girls funny.
Fright and bliss in beautiful eyes from the cold,
Commonly… in fact, not all for me equally!
To meet the oaks — we carry with the oak alley —
Hurry in mountains and shimmer headlong past.
Here’s river. And girls’ laughter crimson-pearly
From under the twirls, wily — gray from the frost.
I have trouble believing, in frost participants fools,
That these healthy children — not heavy is dream? —
Under upset old Mulbach will walk with the fellows.
To dance the night with hobbled dead Charleston!
Magnificent Woman
All here count her happy: lover is laborer,
Husband ‘climbs out of skin’ — enviable fortune for dames!
All call her beautiful here: and the meaning —
Nurse for the forms, for demons housemaid.
She for a smart girl passes lightly and freely:
Her thrift, is for intelligence reason?
And if the mind to surrender for fashionable to ones meeting,
In other, invoking envy, suit of the spring.
Her attitude to art costs one thing!
She even knows that wonderful poet Pushkin was!
Will it be sorrowful — calms my soul with ‘parting’
And loves to watch the ‘homeland’ of the lived years…
You and I, reader, meet every day,
Though we are living in different lands,
Magnificent woman, as speaks common man,
The one and the same, who is narrated in these poems…
Green Charm
Blossomed the green and gold,
Leaves are drunken with sunny juice.
The wry flock of spring dreams fluttered,
And again — young decrepit words.
Again — inexplicably and inconceivably —
Hopefully, experience across —
The whole unloved flock lovingly-tenderly
The charm’s unsure glance.
And vainly in the park you yesterday had twittered
Of the unspent love long:
Wherefore is the spring, like all, that was tired,
Sounded, like the quiet lips of yours…
Holidays
More vulgar than holidays it’s hard to conjure,
And their appearance I cannot bear:
Disgustingly it’s crowded everywhere,
That in marvellous holidays is hidden terror.
Here fancier pauperization
Looks through the pink glasses,
In the baths the steamed tradesmen
In clean collars are dressing.
How laugh the townswomen,
Bewitched with the mug of the lie, —
The meaningless kept women
Husbands, like their own, like alien…
Stupidity’s three daughters — Talentlessness, Envy
And Gossip — hang around, boasting, in crowd,
Where luxuriantly honored is mother of beauties,
Who in the holiday looks still more dumb.
Their lacquered cavaliers —
Rudeness, Startle and Perversion in lordly sight, —
Glad with themselves above all measure,
The bottles had lined up along the carpet.
With cinema and lemonade
Thus open into the body gates,
And Banality rejoices: ‘This is need’,
And Stupidity does its deeds…
To Contemporary Girl
You must, girl,
From nature take example:
Moon — while young still —
Wants to sleep early…
You must, girl,
From nature take example:
Spring — while spring still —
Will not fly…
And not wave — wave,
While — at sea will peer…
You must, girl
Take example from nature.
Orchid
To betray! Whom? An, not equal are all!
To the coming. To each. Clearly.
With whom? It’s not important. There’s one in the world
Betraying beautifully.
Surrendering to one, of another dreaming —
Untasted, untried,
Unfamiliar yesterday, who today with the sign
As the beloved tomorrow pretend…
To betray — and what didn’t become, so thusly,
If only to feel betrayal this!
In it there’s nothing bad. It’s trifle simply.
Exactly I will put on the new dress.
And in this way to deceive the lovers,
Thus in them put to sleep the jealousy,
That they could not dare to look askance, —
I could dare in the eyes directly!
Insolence, chill and lie — in it’s my essence.
On to the suffering returns my laugh.
I’m beautiful, slippery and sneaky, like a snake is,
And soullessly-dry, like an epoch.
Pines Of Her Childhood
When they accused you of stinginess,
In ‘to self in mind,’ in full soullessness,
I thought, ‘Whom did not squander the gossips?
Anybody might carry nonsense’.
And when husband-rogue, in piracy,
Axed down three pines two-hundred-year-old
In garden of her childhood and she didn’t oppose
I know, that true are rumors about her.
The Girl For Years…
For years the girl, callous already,
Is tough, prudent, practical and soulless.
And, decent to throw-up in indecency,
And all is weighed in her: and the words, and feelings.
Ah, such a head will not turn
For that all is poetic, all is alien…
Thus does not love anyone the woman,
But to love her, of course, is impossible:
All’s careful in her, wingless and negligible.
The crowd of lovers, and in her not one,
Of whom had thought anxiously and tenderly…
Ad this — woman, the earthliness divine!
The Crown Love
She, by no one replaced,
She, by no one surpassed,
She, beloved indiscriminately,
Thus in love illegibly,
She, the tidal freshness,
She, from sailor far north,
Like true miracle, miraculous,
Having chosen me, and me did trust.
And unnecessarily obliged
With one’s enthusiastic trust,
What with soul was not said,
Rejected and rejected.
And for this that to her crown
Is to me the burning love,
To her, who is surpassed by no one,
To her, who is changed by no one!
In That May
It was May. On the trimmed Arrow
Already the violets walked.
The children played in the burners,
And the ones horizontal basked.
And carriages’ tires crackled,
Disturbed the gravel pressed down.
It was May, and on the May bed
All was in Ostrov mount.
Whitish overnight the capital stayed
After Nevkas and after Nieva.
And faces were fanned
With in that May the lilac unloved…
With consumptive, white, swamp,
The white lilacs were fanned.
With Isabella breathed the lips —
With tart, perishable laziness…
There was fatality and death
In eyes, in Islands, in terror white,
And in every stone block
There was the tale of the last minute.
Faded were the burners
And unsteady were the horizontals
In this half-dead May on Arrow,
Where the violets have died…
Thrust To The South…
Is this not old age — I don’t understand, I don’t understand, —
Maybe tiredness — the soul’s gray spot.
Thus pulls me toward the faraway land,
Where there’s affectionate air and wave is more bright.
I want the blue and the warm,
Tropical fruits and large flowers,
And ringing songs, and ringing word,
And dreams without end, and feelings without horseshoes.
I love the North, I related with melancholy
To its pretty lakes and fields,
And something such happens in me,
But something my stare has seen.
That I get no rest, that I have no oblivion
In dear homeland, and pulled I am
By my awakened inspiration
To the foreign — blue — day.
Your Road
Fresher than the fragrant pea,
And — fresher than freshness, it means,
A bit more than a little bit,
You wanted to become mine…
And to fresh lakes I’m being pulled
In forest indispensability,
We accompany with your look,
We accompany with your spring.
He wilted, demon of capital delights,
Having caused not to one pain…
I will put on the fresher dress!
The fresh air I will inhale!
I — am yours! Drive me!
Road, found by you to me,
Fresher than the fragrant pea:
Fresher than freshness can be!
Twofold Silence
The moon stands high.
The frosts stand high.
Screech the far-off convoys.
And it seems that we hear
Archangels’ silence.
It is heard — it is seen:
The whimper of cranberry quicksand,
In it the bushes of the snowy canvas
In it the whiteness of the quiet wings —
Archangels’ silence.
To Dear Girlfriends
For me in each terrain — where I have been,
There is a young friend,
Her, whom delighted heat of poetic dreams
And the poet’s verse of gold.
These women remember and love me,
They rarely write sisterly-softly,
And in vast year there is no paltry day,
That did not recall Bacchus the prophet.
I’m not tied to the one bodily —
The tender hands, we will kiss —
But still remains with me,
We disturb each with the strange nearness.
In forests I live with moon by the lake,
On mountains, on sands by the bay.
Sometimes, deciding to broaden the outlook,
Noisily on Europe I do fly.
And then, in each city — where I’ve been, there,
As in it, where I sometime will be, —
To meet me, for whom I have been dear,
And such — everywhere, everywhere!
Terror Of Deserts
Among them melts steadily
The host of knights of days gone by,
Grows carelessly-wildly
The people’s new kind.
And those, who are thirty now,
Won’t understand the dreams of fathers:
At no time will conspire
With unrest that in epoch appeared.
An in the meeting with new young
Without shrines, without kindness,
Will fill the heart with trembling
And burning terror of the deserts…
My Acquaintance
You only had been at the rogue Z,
In sight of carnality still not extinguished…
You are from Houbigant! You’re all from Marquisette!
You’re all temptation! You’re all convulsion!
I sense in you fastidious judgment
And knowing, that than all to you is lie most dear,
I look at your voluptuous bruising
And catch the badly hidden shiver.
You quickly speak, not asked by me,
Aimlessly seeking another time to deceive,
And, a disloyal wife being,
You seek somehow the innocence to prove.
It’s strange and funny to me that you, another wife,
Forgotten, what in your tricks is nothing,
You’ll find needed to lie, ardently having gone white
In my eyes, and with shoulders to shudder…
And it is funnier, and it is annoying still more,
That you had long ago not recognized my peer
On all you. But not: with transparent thought rear
Selflessly you lie — and out of place frequently.
Stubbornly you speak about loyalty marital, —
And this, whose life — is the chronical case, —
And you dream, like on Thursday, in hour of day, armor all
Of shamelessness, to new lover you will pass!
It Could Have Been Thus…
It could have been thus: back twenty years,
There, on Nieva by Pushkin glorified,
Lightly was yellowing the green garden of Summer,
In autumn there had been blueness of the sky.
And stood in the ivy Marble palace,
Empty of Mars’s merry-making stood the field.
I in soft black hat and cloak
With one of these went along the roads…
And with a bonne with five year old girl
I met at Krylov then.
The child flashed along the way,
Like a star falling from the heaven.
It could have been thus… And here, You caressing,
I cannot rid myself of the thoughts:
It — one: your eyes’ shining
And — girls upon the Nieva’s shores!
Pigeons
Inexpressible sorrow in my soul
In this old city, full of pigeons:
There’s nothing birdlike in this bird, —
How much indifferent! Not motorcyclist,
Not figure of delivery screening barbarically,
Not pedestrian almost stepping on the tail —
Don’t frighten pigeon: it is unflappable,
It fenced off, having become all tame,
And he no more looks like the proud bird, —
What’s in it chickens, what will it smell out,
Does not of the dense woods yearn more,
Does not suspiciously soars in the free skies.
How he reminds me of the man:
The bird preferred electricity to moon!
Settled in city, stinking and rotten,
Unlearned to act with the given wing…
For this in the city, of the pigeons full,
There is inexpressible sorrow in my soul.
Without Us
From proud but strange feeling
It is not bitter sometimes:
Russia has anew been built
With others, not us, without us.
It is OK, if built poorly,
However it had been built:
You are strong without our warrior,
And our songs you do sing.
And we without homeland have remained,
And our view is pitiful and empty,
As if of the white blackcurrant
Gnawed is the bush that is spreading.
The Distance Shines…
The distance shines, and in its shining, there,
It is fast, blue and rapid,
The dear Suda in influence tender
Upon the ripe riparian bread.
Its tributaries — Andoga and Kumba,
Nelaza, Kemza, Kolp and Shuloma —
Discovery of eighty-year-old Columbus,
I see you from myriad crowds.
With you, rivers, is bound this,
Unforgettable for all times,
Reeking with gillyflower’s freshness
And saying the solid ‘Yes.’
In you so much fish is fished out in childhood,
On you my boat did slide:
My inflamed gratitude
To you, Old Novgorod lands!
My Sheksna, and Yagorba, and Suda,
Where shined the first love,
Where to become a poet, in lynching power,
Predetermined to me the chopped blood.
Again to see you — it is my desire,
Like spring, invincible…
The day shines, and in its shining, there,
Is blueness of my merged rivers.
Sperata
They tie us twenty years — third of life,
And you are for me dear especially,
And I wanted before you to die:
My love to the coffin truly.
Although of love you do not tell,
Your silence is more than fond.
Berlin, Sofia, Paris and Belgrade —
All this is ours, without a word.
Always favorable the sky has been
To us in the time when we were together:
Let from Serbia the railcar will drag into abyss,
Let shake the soil in Bucharest,
Let threaten, letting blackmail in the path,
With murder the hysteric in Chisinau —
Always light ends ours
Hard road, and happiness was new.
I am guilty unforgivably
Before you, poured with talent,
Distinct aroma from your poems pours,
Having from distance in the time swooped down.
I knew you, rejecting the lie,
In happy, spring dress of a teen.
Yours before me, with you proud entirely,
Ah, not one is caught the salmon!
And thus prayerfully my poems you love
With marginal provided beauty.
Your taste upon my poems does shine
With dew living before thee.
To you the nature the honor has ordered!
You are in her. The eyes OLAZORYA
The Baltic steel, thus you love to sit
Upon the shore, dreaming, the sea’s daughter!
With the soft smile, but steel with
She saw the poet’s gossip,
Against him in advance and as remains —
Already not long! — life’s all quirks…
One dream: to you to return,
O, irretrievable loss! In
My fate as it was saved by Lord
You’re Sperata, the heroine of Goethe.
Igor Severyanin
He’s good with that, he is not it at all,
That thinks of him the empty crowd,
Not reading poems by principle,
That there is no pineapple and no auto.
Fox trot, cinema and lotto —
Here, where does rush the human crowd?
And between them simple is your soul,
Like the spring day. But who knows?
Blessing the world, the curse to wars
He sends in verse, worthy of confession,
Lightly mourning, sometimes slightly joking
Over eternally leading planet…
He — in each song, sung from the heart, —
Ironic children.
Pallas
She was lean, like deadly sin,
And miniature unrealizably…
I remember only her mouth and fur,
Hiding all and shuddering in storm.
Laughter, like cough. Like laughter, cough.
And this mouth — urn of countless ashes…
I met with her the Bohemes — those,
Who lived selflessly-adventurous…
Ugly and faded Gumilev
Loves to lower before pearls the words,
Subtle George Ivanov —
To drink Jewish delights — throw on bonfire…
Was sharp each person,
Feeling the sophisticated Pallas.
Tyutchev
Dream of nature, thinking cane,
Slave in love with luxurious malaria,
In the soul hiding the worlds dumb,
Wilted to near heart, unclear.
Evening day superstitious kind,
In last love are the feelings,
Blissful hopelessness. Russia
Reached them. And Tyutchev reached them.
In silence sees long-suffering land,
Thus washes the weedy hamlets
With loudly boiling cup of rage of Hebe.
Bunin
In these poems — happy drops,
Shining with mica mountain slopes,
And by the young birch sung
And baptistry of spring waters. Song to sun.
Transparent poem, like April of the north.
And he runs with the transparent water,
Or he warms with the icy star,
In it is some alert, hop sober.
Comfort of manors in leaf fall’s time,
Good pleasure of loneliness.
Rifle. Dog. Oka of grey.
Soul and air are chained in crystal.
Stones. Wine. Feather from soft steel.
Sorrow for an alienated dame.
Verlaine
Absinthe, feeding the rudeness of Apache,
In it awoke tender shades.
Exterminated body walls
In flight the inebriated soul.
He, emptying with wine soul depth,
Likened to demi-monde itself,
Whom into patient took doctor Horror,
And put to death with smile, not hurrying.
With the musical veil he fans,
With ideal sadness he threatens,
In it the azure fog’s prison.
Untranslatable with refinements,
Not in it deep, dear in foreignness,
Unrepeatable Paul Verlaine.
Bryusov
He was ignited by invocatory cry,
Who had cried — innovator or Batyj…
At once the ambitious one dry,
Accepting mutiny, to reach him had hurried.
Over the routine flew frightful whip
Assuredly clamped in a hand,
With generous payment paid the novelty
In European style tailored Moscovite.
To be born trader and become a poet,
How often voice plucked in falsetto,
In to all lips insatiable!
All life dreaming of you, in pig iron,
Ready to sing the song to coming Huns,
He did not spare — himself — before all.
Kuzmin
In poems refined till flatness —
As if a chronic influenza,
In face the newborn’s outline,
In dreams the passion to the teens.
Strangled in nets of aesthetics,
Not without success he threw the knees,
And he had the baby’s spirit,
That in the doves made of mud withered.
He’s piteous, compassionate and pitiful,
But for what from all the vials
And vulgar roses smell disturbs?
And not because, that at him, poser,
Sorrow the eyes — lakes of autumn,
That he, — prodigal, — is brother of God?
Mayakovsky
With put off — in him planted — poems
Finding the sales in vagabond neighbourhood,
What mediocrity makes pads from them,
In divine sense he is, of course, rude.
He sings the hymns to all seven sins,
Unsurpassed in the throat of demonstration.
The whips of the historians in him yearn
To come for all the hymns.
In other conditions I myself, rather,
This naughty child, he was another,
Blasphemer, jester and Preskensy Apache,
In him there’s too much prowess and might,
How full are our groves since ancient times,
He is too much Russian, too much ours!
Gippius
Her lorgnette is merciless-arrogant,
Piercingly-shiny is her lorgnette.
In her lips equally with a curse ‘no,’
And blessing ‘yes,’ like folding.
Here creativity, which is not for the day
And for not ladies is the ladies’ cabinet….
I pour lie into her assigned sonnet,
Like pout into wineglass the ferment of the grapes.
And if in the lyric she is weak
(Her fate — is mockery!) —
In skill to see to her not equal weakness.
More transparent than ice is Scandinavian blood,
And storm upon the sea for all time is chained
With her autocratic surface.
Saltykov-Schedrin
Is it not awful — from provincial fools
And foolish women, natives of Poshehonye,
In final stages of the sleep chilled,
The undead pompadour is tenacious?
The troubadour sounds with indiscretion,
Whose voice, the lawlessness shaking,
Wished in the land the fruitless burial,
Whose sense is heavy, gloomy and spiteful.
Rots, stinks from the corpses that move
Eternally indestructible city of Glupov —
Russian, everywhere, wicked.
Judeans from each hole climb.
They overcome the country. Did overcome.
And there’s no hope. Where is another fate?
George Ivanov
In days of the school-warrior chase
He was two-faced and duplicitous:
With big flatterer and nonviolent friend,
Treacherous page and eternal epigon.
What to the heartless means the law
Of love, uncharacteristic jester’s capital,
To whom seemed decent to the soul
The third railcar’s class glorified.
And if this — all clear remains,
Feather, with which it’s enough pus,
Is dipped not in its own blood.
And thirst for other feelings, like fisherman — bite,
He looks ‘like Gumilev almost’,
What falls into the eyes, passing the brow…
Dumas
Childhood days. Novgorod winter.
The leaves of tomes, like leaves amber.
Ah, there are no brushes more ingenious,
Just as there are no more ingenious thoughts.
Exciting mess,
Three musketeers, the Monte Cristo’s fate,
You — knighthood, you — honor of unselfishness,
The brilliant Alexander Dumas.
All your life is like a tale rare,
With object of publicity of Homer,
You were forever, great magician.
Loving you, like in the time,
Before you I bow with my banners,
Target of grins of the workaday men.
Северянин Игорь
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