Leonid Martynov
The seashore

Have you seen
A passerby in the town?
Have you met
A passerby in the street —
Probably a stranger, unlike us?
Now far, now near,
Seen in a cafe, glimpsed in the post office,
Dropping a coin in the public phone
Running a finger round its shaky dial,
And always saying the same thing:
“Don’t worry, take comfort — I won’t stay long!”
It is I.
I am just thirty-three.
I got into your flat by the back door,
Slept on the broken-down sofas of friends
Resting my head on family albums.
In the morning, as I came out of the bathroom,
“It’s a guest”—you recalled—“a guest not uninvited,
Though one, on the whole, that we’re not too delighted
To have —
But no matter: we live in confusion.”
“It’s a guest” — you explained to your neighbor in passing,
And you struck up with me, too, as we were walking:
“And are you with us for long, this time?”
“No, I’m leaving soon.”
“But why? Stay with us: why not come and dine?”
“No.”
“But why hurry? Do have some tea —
Relax — and give us a tune on your flute.”
For I had a flute, a magical flute,
I wouldn't have sold it for untold loot.
But only one song had I learned, no more:
“A magic castle by the far seashore."
In the evenings, I played that tune
And I urged them: Pass the word to your friends:
Whisper to your neighbors; and do understand —
But hurry, friends, hurry — I’m leaving soon!
I'm off to the place where emeralds glow
Where precious ores lie buried below
And the sea is heavy with globes of amber.
To the Seashore — come with me there!
There's no place more wonderful, anywhere.
And the people responded, aroused by my song —
All kinds of people, an absolute throng.
One after another they came to the doorway.
I remember a builder inquiring severely
“Where’s this castle? And what are its principal features?
I remember, too, a history teacher
The whole time inquiring: “Who is its master?”
But I could not then give him a proper answer.
And there appeared too a Planner, affirming
That the Seashore’s resources were not so great
As to sing songs about them, or play on the flute.
And an old man Hew in, with a tuft of hair
On his head: he was linked with the Palace of Books.
“You’re calling on people to go to the Seashore?
You'll find the Seashore only in folklore!”
And a loafer guffawed; he was wearing a pair
Of striped pajamas: “Castles in air!”
And avoiding all part in the quarrel, the neighbors,
Behind the wall, gossiped:
“Well?”
“What?”
“The Seashore?”
“The Seastall?”
“What freestall?”
“What are you talking about? What on earth?”
“Peashell? Really —”
“Don't lie on the floor —”
“Listen! Someone’s playing the flute next door.”
How I loved to play my flute
As small boys strung their bows at my feet
All dragged away by their scowling mothers:
“The talcs may be yours, but the kids are ours!
Why don’t you learn to bring up your own
Before you go luring them off with your flute?”
And I hid the flute. But why did I never
Set off for the Seashore by express train —
After all, I’d have long ago reached the hills,
Have come out long ago on the wide plain.
So whisper to your neighbors, and please explain
To your friends: don’t worry, I'm leaving soon!
I’ll leave: and the old men’s anger will cease,
With her children the mother no longer be cross
The neighbors' talk stop, the bathtub gurgle,
The sofa springs come back to shape with a twangle.
But admit: I summoned you not in vain.
Along boulevards, avenues, when the time came
You all followed me, set out after me,
You’re all here — even the old man with wings.
In his striped pajamas I see the loafer,
The innocent children, and there is that woman
Who scolded us so, and the bug from the sofa—
O the cold clear light in the castle of dawn
And the voice of ocean: its measured boom.
So: we’re together —
No magic at all —
For all sorts of reasons you follow me on.
Don’t worry, take comfort; and don’t be afraid
I’ll lead you along on a broad clear road
And not to disaster, of that be assured.
Like a runner he leads you, the passerby,
The one too shy to come in through the hall,
The stranger, unlike you, who smells of brown leather
Awkward but strong, in a bearskin jacket...
woods, plains, and a riverbank sadness.
See? In the mist the foothills glow red,
the mountains, the sea stirs, somewhere:
the mountains, the sea... But where is the Seashore?
When is the Seashore, your Seashore?

Translated by J. R. Rowland