He has a photo of himself
next to a girlfriend, friend and neighbor;
at leisure and in tireless labor;
holding a flute, a ball, a saber;
himself — raising glass of wine;
himself — receiving a diploma;
himself — in front of roofs and walls,
at gates of Sodom and Gomorrah;
himself — next to a dappled steed,
a monument, a tomb, a castle;
next to a grotto or a fountain;
dwarfed by a highrise or a mountain;
after a night out and before;
himself, himself, himself...
Whatever for?
He writes, poor man, not quite a sage,
his unsophisticated story.
Without awareness, still less glory
he keeps a record of the age.
And all this time he's in the midst
of stars and storms, of rains and snows,
of smiles and joys, of gasps and woes —
a single gasp, and he is dust.
Preserved on film (himself now laid
to rest) is he who labored, quietly,
to conquer life immortal via
lenses and negatives and slides.
But he had cosmos for his crib,
and was himself a tiny cosmos
of God's design, complete and flawless..
but much too simple, that's the rub.
And now he's one in a downpour
of raindrops... Who taught him to long for
the immortality of splendor
while knocking at its humble door?
Фотографирует себя
С девицей, другом и соседом,
С гармоникой, с велосипедом,
За ужином и за обедом,
Себя — за праздничным столом,
Себя — по окончанье школы,
На фоне дома и стены,
Забора, бора и собора,
Себя — на фоне скакуна,
Царь-пушки, башни, колоннады,
На фоне Пушкина — себя,
На фоне грота и фонтана,
Ворот, гробницы Тамерлана,
В компании и одного —
Себя, себя. А для чего?
Он пишет, бедный человек,
Свою историю простую,
Без замысла, почти впустую
Он запечатлевает век.
А сам живёт на фоне звёзд,
На фоне снега и дождей,
На фоне слов, на фоне страхов,
На фоне снов, на фоне ахов!
Ах! — миг один, — и нет его.
Запечатлел, потом — истлел
Тот самый, что неприхотливо
Посредством линз и негатива
Познать бессмертье захотел.
А он ведь жил на фоне звёзд.
И сам был маленькой вселенной,
Божественной и совершенной!
Одно беда — был слишком прост!
И стал он капелькой дождя...
Кто научил его томиться,
К бессмертью громкому стремиться,
В бессмертье скромное входя?
«Half turning round, O sadness, / she glanced at the uncaring crowd. / The pseudo-classical shawl / falling from her shoulders turned to stone. The dire voice, hopelessly intoxicating, / unfetters the depths of the soul: / thus Rachel used once to stand — / an indignant Phèdre. »
«The Greeks gathered for war. / The breath-taking island of Salamis / that hostile hands had torn from them / lay in view of the Athenian harbour. Now friends from another island / have come to fit out our ships. / The English have never much liked / the sweet soil that is Europe’s. C...»
«One night I was washing in the yard, / above me a sky of jostling stars — / like salt on an axe, each beam — / the barrel near-frozen to the brim. The gates were shut and locked; / believe me, the earth is strict. / You won’t find a principle cleaner / than the truth there is in f...»
«I’m back in the city I’d walk till I cried, / that I knew to my veins and glands as a child. Back now in Leningrad. Quicker and quicker, / gulp down the fish oil in the lamps by the river. Make friends with December’s daylight fast, / where a yolk is mixed into the sinister tar. Peter...»