Bella Akhmadulina
Lyrics about the Rain

1

All morning I’ve had this Rain around me.
Rudely, I kept on saying: Leave me alone!
So it drew back, but soon there it was again
as sad and loving as a little daughter.

Rain. On my back. Stuck there like a wing.
I reproached it: Here, you
shameless, useless thing!
Think of the tears of some market gardener
and water the flowers.
What do you find in me?

Meanwhile a heatwave was burning everywhere
which the rain ignored. And kept on until
there were children whirling all around me
as if I were some kind of water-sprinkler.

Then I became crafty. Went in a cafe.
Sat myself down at a quiet corner table.
But there was the Rain again. Through the glass.
Motioning towards me, like a beggar.

So I went outside. And at once my face
felt a wet slap. Immediately
(sorry and bold together) the Rain licked
my lips, smelling warm as a wet puppy.

I must have looked stupid. As I
tied a damp headscarf round my neck.
The Rain sat splayed on my shoulders like a monkey.
And the town was embarrassed by the whole thing.

While the Rain was delighted to find me helpless.
It tickled my ear gently with a child’s finger. And
all the while everywhere else dried out.
Except me. I was soaked to the skin.

2

Bur I had an invitation to a house, where
decorous people would he waiting for me,
a house with flours of amber water and
a candelabra like a moon above them.

And I wondered: What shall I do with this Rain?
It doesn’t seem to intend to go away.
It will make a mess on the floor. And ruin the carpets.
They won’t even let me in if I bring it with me.

So I spoke to it firmly: Look, as you imagine
I’m kind, bur everything bas a limit.
Absolutely: You can’t come any further.
At this the Rain looked up at me like an orphan.

— Damn you then. Come! I said:
Though I don’t understand what love holds us together.
A curse on this most peculiar weather!
Forgiven, the Rain went skipping on ahead.

3

My host’s invitation was something of
an undeserved honour. However, I
appeared, dripping water like a beaver,
and rang his bell at six o’clock precisely.

The Rain was hiding somewhere at my back.
Tickling as it sadly breathed down my neck.
Steps. Peephole. Pause. A lock turns.
I began to apologize: I’ve brought this Rain.

Do you think perhaps it could wait outside in the porch?
since it’s much too wet, and too long anyway
to get into a room?
— What? said my astonished
host, and went white in the face.

4

And I had loved that house, always, for
the dance of lightness that was everywhere
and because elbows caught on no sharp corners
there, and no knives slashed at people’s fingers.

I loved it all. The slow rustle of
the hostess’ silk, and the scarf over her face,
And best of all, I loved that sleeping beauty
captive in the sideboard: crystal glass,

there, with the seven colours of the spectrum; it was
lifeless and lovely in its transparent coffin.
Bur I could not dream of that ... The ritual of
greetings, began, formal as any opera.

5

To put it mildly, the mistress of that house would
never have bothered to hide her dislike of me,
except for the fear of being thought old-fashioned.
That restrained her, which was perhaps a pity.

— How are you? (And how could
so haughty a slender throat hold back the thunder?)
— Thank you, I answered hastily: I feel
like a sow that’s been wallowing in the mud.

(I don’t know what came over me. I meant
to say, with some polite
gesture:
— Things are rather busy, but I’m fine
And much better for seeing you again.)

But she began to speak at once:
— You know, it’s a disgrace, for someone like you, with so much talent
to walk so far. In all this rain!
Then everyone started to shot together.
— Bring her up to the fire! To the fire with her!

And once upon a time in another age
it could have happened to a beating drum
in the market place, with music perhaps and jeers
you would have cried:
To the fire, with her, to the fire!

Hello then, and leap up at me, Fire!
Brother dog of many tongues, now lick
my hands in your great tenderness.
For you are the Rain also. Your burn is wet!

— Your monologue is rather peculiar,
my host said tartly.
— But never mind, blessings on green shots!
There’s always charm in a new generation.

— Don’t listen to me, I’m delirious, I said.
It’s all the fault of the Rain. All day it’s
been pursuing me everywhere, like a devil.
It’s only the Rain that’s getting me into trouble.

Then suddenly, through the window I saw
my faithful Rain, sitting alone and crying.
And two tears swam into my eyes, and they
were the last traces of water left in me.

6

Now, glass in hand, another woman guest, who
looked as vague as a pigeon un a cornice,
asked me in a voice refined and waspish
— Tell me, is it true your husband’s rich?

— Is he? I don’t know. Not specially.
Yes, I suppose, work comes so easily
to him. But may I tell you a secret?
There’s something incurably poor in me.

And then my tongue ran away with me,
— Did you now? I’ve taught him to cast
spells, on anything of value, so it turns
into a circle of water, a weasel or grass.

I’ll show you how it’s done. Give me your ring.
We’ll soon take that star out of its setting.
(But of course, she wouldn’t let me have it
and turned away from me like a stunned thing.)

And I want you to know something else,
I yelled after her, my tongue on fire.
(as though the rain still had control of me)
— My deepest urge is to fall dead in the gutter.

8

Meanwhile to amuse the guests, some
new family show was about to begin;
they were letting into the sitting room
a lace clad silver cloud of children.

Hostess, please forgive me! I am evil.
I’ve lied and behaved badly. Now I see
from your lips, like those of a glass blower
a bottle of the purest glass appear,

a wholly filled vessel of your spirit:
your child, who is most delicately cast,
the outline of his body firm and even.
I knew nothing, do not judge me harshly.

Your savage genius must be falling, hostess,
into despair, day and night to be
forced to lower that monstrous head of his
over this child, over this son of yours.

The Rain summoned my lips down to her hand
and I wept:
— Forgive me, please forgive,
your eyes are pure, and you must understand.

9

Meanwhile the children struck up in chorus nearby

In rues like these we have
to have some kind of laugh.
Ha. Ha. There was a certain Jew
and this Jew had a wife.

His wife would puff and blow
and laboured hard and long
to make a little penny grow
the size of a great house.

New little metal piece
you ripen like a fruit
and rise up as the sun must rise
to decorate the sky.

All this is just in play
our turn and party trick.
What fun! And yet how grim to be
brought up in this century.

We’re only children now
but grow up in our sleep
as little copper coins grow
inside the treasury.

All our parental sins
we have redeemed you’ll find.
Vulgarity is not a sin,
it brings a cosy mind.

From anger and from pain
it proves our saviour:
and so wed bend to kiss your
velvet hem, great Queen.

10

Then laziness like an illness unfolded me
and my arms moved strangely from my shoulders,
as I kept my glass warm in my hand like a bird
and its open beak went peep-peep. Straight at her.

Hostess, have you ever felt remorse
bending over your son, asleep in the morning
as you fed the milk of your poisoned breast
into his greedy mouth that open wound?

Suppose that in him, as in an egg of pearl,
slept a coiled spring of music
hidden like a rainbow in a white bud?
Or like the muscle of beauty in a face?

As in Sashenko, slept unawakened Blok?
You she-bear, to give yourself what pleasure
did you go hunting with your hungry teeth
into your cub’s fur to crack God like a flea?

11

The hostess poured me out another cognac.
— You’re feverish. Warm yourself at the fire
Farewell, my Rain!
It is so sweet and so full of pleasure,
to feel the tip of my tongue in this cold tingle.

How strangely this wine smells of roses.
Wine — I think only you are blameless.
The atom of the grape is split in me
and so begins the war of the two roses.

Spirit of wine, I am your delinquent
prince, tied between two bent trees.
Tear me apart! Without fear! One crack
and death will separate me from myself.

And now I am bigger and more tender.
Look — I am as kindly as a clown.
I am cast at your feet and bowing down
and already your doors and windows feel like cages.

Lord, what strange goodness, I feel now.
Hurry! While I weep here. On my knees.
I love you. Only a cripple’s shyness
whitens my cheeks, and gives my lips their twist.

How can I serve you by one action?
Please hurt me, at least spare me no plain.
Here is my skin, stretched out with space for wounds, and
waiting as a canvas for paint.

I love you without measure, without shame.
And my embrace is round, as the sky itself.
We all share the same source. We are brothers.
Rain, my child. Come here, straightaway!

12

Then a shiver ran down every spine
and in quiet darkness the hostess screamed
as orange marks like rust suddenly
appeared in streaks upon that white ceiling.

And down poured the Rain. They caught at it
with tins, pushed it with brooms and brushes.
It escaped. And flew up in their cheeks
or formed like liquid cataracts in their eyes.

It danced a strange and surprising can-can,
and rang playfully on the restored crystal.
Than the house snapped its vicious jaws
over it. Like a man-trap, tearing muscle.

The rain with a look of love and longing even as it
soiled the floor crawled to me on its belly;
even while men, lifting their trouser legs,
kicked at it, or jabbed it with their heels.

They captured it with a floor-cloth and then
squeamishly wrung it out in the lavatory.
Until in a voice made suddenly hoarse and wretched
I shouted out:
— Don’t touch. It belongs to me.

It was alive, like a child or an animal.
Now may your children live in torment and misery.
Blind people,
whose hands know nothing at mystery
why have you chosen to stain the Rain in blood?

The lady of the house whispered to me:
— Remember,
you will have to answer for all this.
I burst out laughing:
I know what I shall answer!
You are disgusting. Now please let me pass.

13

I looked so wretched — passers by were alarmed
So I kept on saying
— Never mind. Forget it.
Even this episode will soon pass.
And on the parched asphalt
kissed the last drop of water.

For now the bare earth bad become white hot,
and the sky-line around the city was pink.
The panic- stricken bureau of weather forecasts
made no promise of any other downpour.

Translated by Elaine Feinstein