They bring a bouquet of thistles
And put it on the table.
Before me, a fire, a turmoil.
The purple dance of flames.
These sharp-pointed stars,
These splashes of northern lights.
Tambourines thunder and moan.
Lanterns burst from inside.
This too is a way of making worlds,
An organism woven of light.
It is the heat of unfinished battles,
Raised swords ablaze.
These are towers of fury and of glory
Where spear leans on spear,
Where bunches of flowers are bloodyheaded
And cut right into my heart.
I dreamed of a high prison
And bars black as night.
Behind them — a fairytale bird,
That one for whom there is no help.
I too, it seems, live badly
For I have not the strength to help.
And the wall of thistles rises
Between me and my joy.
The wedge of the thorn reaches
For my breast. Surely for the last time
The sad and beautiful glance
Of her inextinguishable eyes
Beckons to me.
Принесли букет чертополоха
И на стол поставили, и вот
Предо мной пожар, и суматоха,
И огней багровый хоровод.
Эти звезды с острыми концами,
Эти брызги северной зари
И гремят и стонут бубенцами,
Фонарями вспыхнув изнутри.
Это тоже образ мирозданья,
Организм, сплетенный из лучей,
Битвы неоконченной пыланье,
Полыханье поднятых мечей,
Это башня ярости и славы,
Где к копью приставлено копье,
Где пучки цветов, кровавоглавы,
Прямо в сердце врезаны мое.
Снилась мне высокая темница
И решетка, черная, как ночь,
За решеткой — сказочная птица,
Та, которой некому помочь.
Но и я живу, как видно, плохо,
Ибо я помочь не в силах ей.
И встает стена чертополоха
Между мной и радостью моей.
И простерся шип клинообразный
В грудь мою, и уж в последний раз
Светит мне печальный и прекрасный
Взор ее неугасимых глаз.
«I like it that you're burning not for me, / I like it that it's not for you I'm burning / And that the heavy sphere of Planet Earth / Will underneath our feet no more be turning / I like it that I can be unabashed / And humorous and not to play with words / And not to redden with a smoth...»
«These my poems, written so early / That I did not know then I was a poet, / Which having tore, like droplets from a fountain, / Like sparks from a rocket, Into a sanctuary, where there is sleep and incense / Like little devils having burst, / These my poems about youth and about death, / ...»
«They cut / Ashberry / Keen. / Ashberry — / Is bitter / Fortune. / Ashberry — / With gray-haired / Descents. / Ashbery! / Fortune / Russian.»
«Dirt flies / From under the hooves. / Shawl like a shield / Over the face. / Newlyweds, have fun / Without the young! / Eh, carry them out, / Disheveled stallion! We didn't have freedom / Under mother and dad, / The whole field for us / Is marital bed! Full without bread and wi...»