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.
С детства помню: груши есть такие —
сморщенные, мелкие, тугие,
и такая терпкость скрыта в них,
что едва укусишь, — сводит челюсть:
так вот для меня и эта прелесть
злых, оскомистых стихов твоих.
«I do not like the empty vocabulary / Of love, its shabby phrases — “You’re mine,” “Yours,” / “I love you,” or “I’m yours forever.” / I do not like slavery. With a free glance / I look into a lovely woman’s eye, / And say, “Tonight, yes. But tomorrow / Is a new a...»
«A blizzard sweeps the streets, / Coiling and staggering. / Someone gives me a hand, / Someone smiles at me, Leads me until I see a deep, / Enclosed by somber granite, / And this deep flows and sings, / And calls like an accursed spirit. I draw near, I withdraw, / I stand stock-still,...»
«Beyond the town a sterile quarter grew / On swampy and unsteady ground. / Here lived the poets — and each one met / The others with a supercilious smile. In vain upon this dismal swamp / The bright-eyed day arose: / The inmates devoted their time / Only to wine and heavy work. When d...»
«The winter day is cold and snowy, / White is the harbor, hard the ground. / A heavy liner, outward bound, / Is moving carefully and slowly. One yellow solitary lamp / Sways in the wind its ghostly halo, / The outlines of the crane and silo / Are blacker than the sky, and damp. Look how...»