Chase poems of the night away,
No need for preemies of the spirit:
Since night assists you at their birth,
And night is an atrocious midwife.
You madman! If you really do
Aspire to exalted singing,
Outstubborn, try to overcome
Your momentary excitation.
Know this: the chatter of the night
Will never ever sound like music
Until the lines can feel the coolness
Of day which brings all things to light.
Гони стихи ночные прочь,
Не надо недоносков духа:
Ведь их воспринимает ночь,
А ночь — плохая повитуха.
Безумец! Если ты и впрямь
Высокого возжаждал пенья,
Превозмоги, переупрямь
Свое минутное кипенье.
Пойми: ночная трескотня
Не станет музыкой, покуда
По строкам не пройдет остуда
Всеобнажающего дня.
«I am a page for your pen. / I will take everything. I am a white page. / I am a steward of your wealth: / I will increase and return it a hundredfold. I am the country, I am black earth. / You are a ray of sun and rain's moisture. / You are Lord and Master, and I — / I am black soil ...»
«I am happy living simply: / like a clock, or a calendar. / Worldy pilgrim, thin, / wise — as any creature. To know the spirit is my beloved. To come to things — swift / as a ray of light, or a look. / To live as I write: spare — the way / God asks me — and friends do not.»
«1 Poet — from afar starts a speech. / A poet - far away starts the speech. With planets, with marks, with roundabout / Tales' hollows... between yes and nay / He even having swung from the belltower / Took out the hook... For comets' way Is poets' way. The scattered chime of purpose —...»
«2 There are the extras, the unneeded / That do not fit within the norm. / (Not counting in your dictionaries / To them the landfill is their home). There are the hollow, the pushed-down, / There are the mute — like dung, / Nail — to your silken skirt hem! / Dirt from under the whe...»