The stoop of oaks lifts up the chrome of clouds.
Cliffs harbour alcoves, niches, grottos deep.
And rain and wind and heat have left their traces
Into these stones engraved. A sketch is grooved
Onto the slope, crayoned by lichen, framed by moss,
And walls of rock rise up as icon-cases.
The cinnabar and niello here, yonder —
Vestiges of gilding and of icons
The cryptic visages time-worn...
Дубы нерослые подъемлют облак крон.
Таятся в толще скал теснины, ниши, гроты,
И дождь, и ветр, и зной следы глухой работы
На камне врезали. Источен горный склон,
Расцвечен лишаём и мохом обрамлён,
И стены высятся, как древние киоты:
И чернь, и киноварь, и пятна позолоты,
И лики стёртые неведомых икон.
«With both knees pressed down on the still, / Mouth fixed like a fish’s to the pane, / I breathe, ant then breathe in again: / So, clinging to life, a body will / Suck from a greyish sack: so the heart bounds / Insistently: it’s time, it’s time to go! / The firmament is heavy on the...»
«To Faina Grigorievna Ranevskaya I forgive you almost all your sins / Only two of them I can’t allow: / Poetry you whisper to yourself, / And you kiss out loud. / / Sin, have fun, and blossom with the years. / Only heed my mother advice — / A kiss, my darling, isn’t for the ears...»
«To Khodasevich / / A childhood memory: those pears, / wrinkled, little, tight, / and hidden inside / tart flesh that puckered the mouth: / exactly so my delight / in the bitter shards of your verse. »
«I shall not lie to find a lurid rhyme, / Honoured master, no harsh words from you: / Since the cot your choice has not been mine, / I can only do what I can do. / / How heartily I thank relentless Fate / For the prickly Muse that I’ve been given: / The path we walk is ours, though i...»