(Aria for a broken voice)
My head's a dark lantern with shattered panes
And open to the winds on every side,
I wander around with drunk women of nights,
In the mornings doctors inspect my insides.
I'm a boil on the seat of Russian verse's fine name.
Let thunder burst me in four hundred parts,
I'll strip naked and win a scandalous fame
And squat like a blind beggar where several roads part.
I love oranges and things that happen to rhyme.
I've a macaco monkey's spirits. I've got nerves of steel.
Should any fool strike an envious pose
And angrily scream ... "It's not poetry but crap!"
It's all lies. I'm the boil on verse's worn seat,
A glossy pink crimson, a harmonious spot
Whose head is whiter than a burned magnesium flare:
I'm a mannered galant, a familiar but broken-down fop.
Oh, you garrulous, resonant hocus-pocus:
I'll peck you and kick you, I'll bite at your arm,
If you don't understand then you're ignorant fools.
To hell with you all. I scorn the crowd and will write...
All the same I shall write, with my belly and legs,
With my nostrils I'll write, with my heels and my head
I'll give free range to my twopenny ideas,
I'll rhyme it all up with two scrambled eggs;
For the sake of good style. I'll crawl up the wall
And stand on my hands with shame.
(Ария для безголосых)
Голова моя — темный фонарь с перебитыми стеклами,
С четырех сторон открытый враждебным ветрам.
По ночам я шатаюсь с распутными, пьяными Феклами,
По утрам я хожу к докторам.
Тарарам.
Я волдырь на сиденье прекрасной российской словесности,
Разрази меня гром на четыреста восемь частей!
Оголюсь и добьюсь скандалёзно-всемирной известности,
И усядусь, как нищий-слепец, на распутье путей.
Я люблю апельсины и все, что случайно рифмуется,
У меня темперамент макаки и нервы как сталь.
Пусть любой старомодник из зависти злится и дуется
И вопит: «Не поэзия — шваль!»
Врешь! Я прыщ на извечном сиденье поэзии,
Глянцевито-багровый, напевно-коралловый прыщ,
Прыщ с головкой белее несказанно-жженой магнезии,
И галантно-развязно-манерно-изломанный хлыщ.
Ах, словесные, тонкие-звонкие фокусы-покусы!
Заклюю, забрыкаю, за локоть себя укушу.
Кто не понял — невежда. К нечистому! Накося — выкуси.
Презираю толпу. Попишу? Попишу, попишу...
Попишу животом, и ноздрей, и ногами, и пятками,
Двухкопеечным мыслям придам сумасшедший размах,
Зарифмую все это для стиля яичными смятками
И пойду по панели, пойду на бесстыжих руках...
«A monument not hand-made I have for me erected; / The path to it well-trodden will not overgrow; / Risen higher has it with unbending head / Than the monument of Alexander. No! not all of me shall die! my soul in hallowed lyre / Shall my dust survive, and escape destruction — / And famo...»
«Not for flattering chausibles, frocks of lies — / I was born in this world with loud voice! Wide awake — not the night dreams for me! / I don't live, like you, whisperingly! From you, whisper-whisper, I have — / Lyre, lyre, a swan's curve! With laurel, with dawn, with winds one / I...»
«Woman's chest! The soul's frozen breath — / Woman's reason! Wave, that by surprise / Was caught — and always by surprise / Having caught up to you — seen by God's eyes! Playpen of the despising and despised / Has quieted. — Woman's chest! — Yielding was / An armament! — I...»
«1 Not with silver I came, / Not with amber I came, / Not as a king I came, / As a shepherd I came. Here's air of hills of mine, / Here's of two eyes of mine / Sharp gaze — and of fires / Red glare and of dawns of mine. Where's wax — that is the fur? / Through hole I won't turn!...»