To Alla
1
You will be innocent, gorgeous,
Refined — and to all alien.
A striving, aspiring mistress,
An enticing Amazon.
Your braids of hair, most likely,
To wear like a helmet you'll choose,
You will be the queen of the ballroom —
Of all the poems of our youth.
And your vicious blade of humor
Will pierce through many, queen,
And you will have at your feet
All of which I can but dream.
All will be obedient to you,
And all before you will be quiet.
Like me, you will indisputably
And better poems write.
But will you press tight and deadly
Those temples of yours — who knows —
Just like your young mother
Is pressing her temples now.
1
Ты будешь невинной, тонкой,
Прелестной — и всем чужой.
Пленительной амазонкой,
Стремительной госпожой.
И косы свои, пожалуй,
Ты будешь носить, как шлем,
Ты будешь царицей бала —
И всех молодых поэм.
И многих пронзит, царица,
Насмешливый твой клинок,
И всё, что мне — только снится,
Ты будешь иметь у ног.
Всё будет тебе покорно,
И все при тебе — тихи.
Ты будешь, как я — бесспорно —
И лучше писать стихи…
Но будешь ли ты — кто знает —
Смертельно виски сжимать,
Как их вот сейчас сжимает
Твоя молодая мать.
«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...»
«Hum has died away. I’m going out / On the stage, and leaning on a post, / Sensing in an echo's distant sound / What there is to happen down the road. Through the oodles of focused opera glasses, / I‘m confronted by the gloom of night. / If it is an option, Abba! Father! / I implore ...»
«It's February. Weeping take ink. / Find words in a sobbing rush / For February, while black spring / Burns through the rumbling slush. And take a cab. Ride for a rouble / Through wheel racket and bell's throbbing / To where the downpour makes more din / Than the sound of ink and sobbing...»
«Dreadful! It drips and it listens — / whether it's all alone in the world / crushing a twig like lace at the window, / or is someone watching? Palpable, though, is the pressure / of porous earth's taut swellings, / and far off, audible as in August, / midnight ripens in fields. No, n...»