Bad times are good because
they help the qualities of the soul to show themselves,
— executions, war,
famine, pestilence, bad times.
While you’re still in one piece, while you’re fed and healthy,
haven’t been summoned to the courts, haven’t called the doctors,
your ceiling and purpose are unknown,
your parameters are unclear while you’re still in one piece.
When you’ve been hit, when you’re being shaken up,
lice eating at you, court tormenting you,
you would rather have everyday life than higher being.
It all becomes clear when you’ve been hit.
But sometimes your entire being
nonetheless prefers higher being
and disaster loses its power over people
when this happens, sometimes.
Плохие времена тем хороши,
что выявленью качества души
способствуют и казни, и война,
и глад, и мор — плохие времена.
Пока ты цел, пока ты сыт, здоров,
не зван в суды, не вызвал докторов,
неведомы твой потолок и цель,
параметры — темны, пока ты цел.
Когда ты бит, когда тебя трясут,
и заедает вошь, и мучит суд,
ты бытию предпочитаешь быт.
Все выясняется, когда ты бит.
Но иногда все существо твое
предпочитает все же
бытие,
и власть теряет над людьми беда,
когда бывает это иногда.
«Snow is falling, falling down. / The geraniums are trying / To befriend the sparkles flying / Past the window’s woven bound. Snow is falling, all’s in action, / Smitten, taking off the ground: / The black stairs, the intersection, — / All is being lost and found. Snow is falling...»
«Snowing on, snowing on. / On a windowsill, the flower / Of geranium's reaching out for / Starlets of the snow beyond. Snowing on and all’s in chaos, / All's engaged into a twirl: / Wooden footsteps of back stairs / And a snowbound crossroad turn. Snowing on, snowing on. / Like inst...»
«Beneath the willow wound round with ivy / we take cover from the worst / of the storm, with a greatcoat round / our shoulders and my hands around your waist. I’ve got it wrong. That isn’t ivy / entwined in the bushes round / the wood, but hops. You intoxicate me! / Let’s spread th...»
«Dear, I ventured out of the house late this evening, merely / for a breath of fresh air from the ocean not far away. / The sun was smoldering low like a Chinese fan in a gallery / and a cloud reared up its huge lid like a Steinway. A quarter century back you craved curry and dates from Sen...»