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.
«Before a mirror, where there's fog / And turbid sleep, your way / I want to try - where it will lead / And where there is the quay. I see: the mast upon a ship, / And you — on deck, standing... / You — in the smoke of train... the fields / In lament of evening The ravens flying ov...»
«The clock — what time it is? / Rang out. / Hollows of giant eyes, / Watered satin of the dress.. / I just about see you, I guess, / Just about. The neighboring porch / Has turned off the light. / Somewhere they love too much.. / Your face's sketch / Is a scary sight. It's semi-...»
«Through love, through loves, as legends state it / Two kindred souls seek fusion true / Forever more to be related; / Ideal communion –destined, fated. / But fate locks them in combat too. And in this combat one soul’s fires / Always burns with love more pure. / It suffers more, to ...»
«Hush, my little sleepy-head. / Mama’s gone — to Paris fled. / Ah-Ah-Ah, please don’t you weep. / There were reasons, go to sleep. / Over there beneath the couch / Crawls a sleek and shiny roach. / Where’s his wife? In Paris, too? / No, she isn’t; that’s not true. / Life h...»