Like an ungraceful little girl you appeared before me.
Sappho
«Like an ungraceful little girl you appeared before me» —
Ah, one line of Sappho pierced me like an arrow!
At night I mused over your curly little head,
Passion trading places with a mother’s tenderness in my frantic heart, —
«Like an ungraceful little girl you appeared before me» —
It came to me, how you avoided a kiss by a trick,
I recalled those eyes with an impossible pupil…
Into my house you stepped, happy with me, as with a new toy:
As with a belt, a fistful of beads, or colorful sandals —
«Like an ungraceful little girl you appeared before me» —
But you under the blow of love — what soft gold!
I bent towards your face, pale in passionate shadows,
Where it was as if death had rubbed a snowy puff….
I thank you even for that, sweet one, that in those days
«Like an ungraceful little girl you appeared before me.»
Девочкой маленькой ты мне предстала неловкою.
Сафо
«Девочкой маленькой ты мне предстала неловкою» —
Ах, одностишья стрелой Сафо пронзила меня!
Ночью задумалась я над курчавой головкою,
Нежностью матери страсть в бешеном сердце сменя, —
«Девочкой маленькой ты мне предстала неловкою».
Вспомнилось, как поцелуй отстранила уловкою,
Вспомнились эти глаза с невероятным зрачком...
В дом мой вступила ты, счастлива мной, как обновкою:
Поясом, пригоршней бус или цветным башмачком, —
«Девочкой маленькой ты мне предстала неловкою».
Но под ударом любви ты — что золото ковкое!
Я наклонилась к лицу, бледному в страстной тени,
Где словно смерть провела снеговою пуховкою...
Благодарю и за то, сладостная, что в те дни
«Девочкой маленькой ты мне предстала неловкою».
«The cocked-arm gesture of the philosophical lyric is worth a ruble, / its punch is worth a penny, it’s small. / Perhaps we should make do with the empty and contemptible / — what’s its name? — soul? Let the philosophers do their philosophizing. / Let them look for ways / to persua...»
«Sins are forgiven for poetry. / Great sins for great poetry. / Even mortal sins are forgiven / when I write poetry with my whole soul. But if people don’t forgive me while I’m still alive / Later they’ll smite oblivion from me. Even though they’re evil-doers / let them remember [...»
«Real people have children. We only have cacti / standing there speechless and cold. / The intelligentsia, where is it rolling away to? / Learned people, where are your sons? I have lived in an environment where there are many fewer / nieces than aunts and uncles. / And not a single Flemis...»
«Hatred! A special added taste to the soup. / The soup’s just soup. Simple stock really, / but with a pinch of salt or pepper / from the heart that hates in vain. Hatred makes the bed, / hatred corrects the notebook, / sweeps the floor and wipes away the dust: / and never lets you out ...»