It’s not your love I seek tonight.
It’s in a safe place now, it’s hidden…
Believe me that I haven’t written
Resentful letters to your bride.
But take this sensible suggestion:
Give her my poetry to read,
Give her my portraits for protection —
The groom must always be this sweet!
And yet, these fools, they need and chase
The sense of utter victory,
Much more than friendly company
And memories of first sweet days…
And once the last of bliss is spent
With your beloved in this heaven
And for the sated soul again
All suddenly becomes repellent —
In my triumphant night, don’t stray
Back to me. I won’t let you enter.
How could I help you anyway?
I have no cure for your contentment.
Я не любви твоей прошу.
Она теперь в надежном месте...
Поверь, что я твоей невесте
Ревнивых писем не пишу.
Но мудрые прими советы:
Дай ей читать мои стихи,
Дай ей хранить мои портреты —
Ведь так любезны женихи!
А этим дурочкам нужней
Сознанье полное победы,
Чем дружбы светлые беседы
И память первых нежных дней...
Когда же счастия гроши
Ты проживешь с подругой милой
И для пресыщенной души
Все станет сразу так постыло —
В мою торжественную ночь
Не приходи. Тебя не знаю.
И чем могла б тебе помочь?
От счастья я не исцеляю.
«To My Sister / / I dreamt of the old house / where I spent my childhood years, / and the heart, as before, finds / comfort, and love, and warmth. / / I dreamt of Christmas, the tree, / and my sister laughing out loud, / from morning, the rosy windows / sparkle tenderly. / ...»
«With both knees pressed down on the still, / Mouth fixed like a fish’s to the pane, / I breathe, ant then breathe in again: / So, clinging to life, a body will / Suck from a greyish sack: so the heart bounds / Insistently: it’s time, it’s time to go! / The firmament is heavy on the...»
«To Faina Grigorievna Ranevskaya I forgive you almost all your sins / Only two of them I can’t allow: / Poetry you whisper to yourself, / And you kiss out loud. / / Sin, have fun, and blossom with the years. / Only heed my mother advice — / A kiss, my darling, isn’t for the ears...»
«To Khodasevich / / A childhood memory: those pears, / wrinkled, little, tight, / and hidden inside / tart flesh that puckered the mouth: / exactly so my delight / in the bitter shards of your verse. »