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.
«In every church bell there is spite / In every red ribbon there is fire / In every young woman shivering / In every young man his own steed.»
«I love at times to look out the window / And to observe other people's concerns. / I love at times to look out the window / And through this leave behind my work. For a long time I stare very intently / Into the face of a young Jewish girl / Seeking to decipher in her expressions / The ...»
«I thought of eagles for a long time / and understood such a whole lot: / the eagles soar above the clouds, / they fly and fly and touch no one. / They live on cliffs and on mountains / and are intimate with water sprites, / I thought a long time about eagles / but confused them, I thi...»
«Ivan Ivanych Samovar — / A pot-bellied samovar, / A three-bucket samovar. / There inside him boiled water, / Puffed with steam that boiling water, / In the fury boiling water / Into cups pour'd through the tap, / Through the hole, then the tap, / And to cups right through the tap. ...»