Life goes on, defying common sense.
Old men chatter in the southern sun:
“Moscow ballrooms… The weather in Simbirsk…
The War… Kerensky… We had freedom then…”
Before you know it — forty years in France,
a buzzing in the head, chill in the bones.
“Masonic plot… The Jews, all their infernal…
Ah, you were published? Where? Which journal?”
…In the dull sunshine there is peace and grace.
They wait and wait, but hope it won’t be long
before the old Cyrillic script regains its place,
before that age of gold re-dawns.
Жизнь продолжается рассудку вопреки.
На южном солнышке болтают старики:
— Московские балы… Симбирская погода…
Великая война… Керенская свобода…
И — скоро сорок лет у Франции в гостях.
Жужжанье в черепах и холодок в костях.
— Масонский заговор… Особенно евреи…
Печатались? А где? В каком Гиперборее?
…На мутном солнышке покой и благодать,
Они надеются, уже недолго ждать —
Воскреснет твердый знак, вернутся ять с фитою
И засияет жизнь эпохой золотою.
«I blurred at once the chart of trite routine / by splashing paint with one swift motion. / I showed upon a plate of brawny glutin / the slanting cheekbones of the ocean / Upon the scales of tinny fishes / new lips summoned, though yet mute. / But could you / play / right to the finis...»
«The buzz subsides. I have come on stage. / Leaning in an open door / I try to detect from the echo / What the future has in store. A thousand opera-glasses level / The dark, point-blank, at me. / Abba, Father, if it be possible / Let this cup pass from me. I love your preordained desig...»
«February. Take ink and weep, / write February as you’re sobbing, / while black Spring burns deep / through the slush and throbbing. Take a cab. For a clutch of copecks, / through bell-towers’ and wheel noise, / go where the rain-storm’s din breaks, / greater than crying or ink emp...»
«The noise dies. I walk on stage. / Leaning on the door’s frame, / from the far echo I try to gauge / what they’ll put against my name. Night’s shadow is focused on me, / through a thousand opera-glasses. / Abba, Father, if it may be, / see that this cup passes. I love your stubbo...»