I'm not afraid of life. With its exciting sound
It gives to you to burn and to your thoughts to glow.
Disquiet but not thought grows in a manless mist,
And it is cold at nights for flowers crystal with.
But moments scattered are in unemployment mine,
When any touch to soul is painful never mind
I am exciting you among for private peace,
As match in a keen wind enclosed hand mine with…
Let be just this blink… But don’t touch me at next blink,
I’m going by the touch my way avoiding link…
Do notice absent-minded look in silence mine
And don’t prevent around me just to be alive.
That’s better. Just would not me notice other people
In fog, perhaps, and also a creative grief in.
Я жизни не боюсь. Своим бодрящим шумом
Она дает гореть, дает светиться думам.
Тревога, а не мысль растет в безлюдной мгле,
И холодно цветам ночами в хрустале.
Но в праздности моей рассеяны мгновенья,
Когда мучительно душе прикосновенье,
И я дрожу средь вас, дрожу за свой покой,
Как спичку на ветру загородив рукой...
Пусть только этот миг... В тот миг меня не трогай,
Я ощупью иду тогда своей дорогой...
Мой взгляд рассеянный в молчаньи заприметь
И не мешай другим вокруг меня шуметь.
Так лучше. Только бы меня не замечали
В тумане, может быть, и творческой печали.
«Come, don't I know that, stumbling against shadows, / Darkness could never have arrived at light? / Do I rate happy hundreds over millions / Of happy men? Am I a monster quite? Isn't the Five-Year-Plan a yardstick for me, / Its rise and fall my own? But I don't quiz / In asking: What shal...»
«The cubbyhole I lie in is a box / Of candied orange-peel. / Soiled by hotel rooms till I reach the morgue — / That's not for me, I feel. Out of pure superstition I have come / And settled here once more. / The wallpaper is brown as any oak, / And there's a singing door. I kept one ha...»
«A flock of keys I had feeding out of my hand, / To clapping of wings and croaking and feathery fight; / On tiptoe I stood and stretched out my arm, and the sleeve / Rolled up, so I felt at my elbow the nudging of night. And the dark. And a pond in the dark, and the lapping of waves. / And t...»
«Romantic youngsters, drunk with dreams of triumph, / They've pedalled off to continents unknown, / Two angels on two bicycles fast-flying — / My love and youth, and left me all alone. And now trying to retrace their route / With here a punctured tire and there a fall.... / But steady! H...»