Where can I hide in this January?
Wide-open city with a mad death-grip...
Can I be drunk from sealed doors? —
I want to bellow from locks and knots...
And the socks of barking back roads,
and the hovels on twisted streets —
and deadbeats hurry into corners
and hurriedly dart back out again...
And into the pit, into the warty dark
I slide, into waterworks of ice,
and I stumble, I eat dead air,
and fevered crows exploding everywhere —
But I cry after them, shouting at
some wickerwork of frozen wood:
A reader! A councillor! A doctor!
A conversation on the spiny stair!
Куда мне деться в этом январе?
Открытый город сумасбродно цепок...
От замкнутых я, что ли, пьян дверей? —
И хочется мычать от всех замков и скрепок.
И переулков лающих чулки,
И улиц перекошенных чуланы —
И прячутся поспешно в уголки
И выбегают из углов угланы...
И в яму, в бородавчатую темь
Скольжу к обледенелой водокачке
И, спотыкаясь, мертвый воздух ем,
И разлетаются грачи в горячке —
А я за ними ахаю, крича
В какой-то мерзлый деревянный короб:
— Читателя! советчика! врача!
На лестнице колючей разговора б!
«Without obstetrician, in darkness, unconscious, / The towering Urals, hands clawing the night, / Yelled out in travail and fainted away, / Blinded by agony, gave birth to light. In thunder, the masses and bronzes of mountains, / Accidentally struck, avalanched down. / The train went on pa...»
«The rain cleans the willow dung / Off the meadows with its wet brooms. / Go ahead, wind, spit your clumps of leaves. / I’m a hooligan just like you. I love it when your blue woods, / Like oxen with heavy steps, / Soil the knees of the trunks / With their foliage-wheezing bellies. Her...»
«For Marienhof I’m the last poet of the village. / The wooden bridge is modest in my songs. / I’m attending the farewell night service / Of birches hemorrhaging foliage. The wax candle of flesh / Will burn its last golden flame, / And the moon’s wooden clock / Will wheeze out my t...»
«Since ancient times, a special measure / Has existed for all living things. / If I hadn’t been a poet, I probably would / Have been a thief and a conman. Thin and short, / Always a hero among boys, / How often I came home / With a busted nose. To my frightened mother / I hissed thr...»