Four words, heavy as a blow:
"...unto Caesar... unto god..."
But where can a man
like me
bury his head?
Where is there shelter for me?
If I were as small
as the Great Ocean,
I’d tiptoe on the waves
and woo the moon like the tide.
Where shall I find a beloved,
a beloved like me?
She would be too big for the tiny sky!
Oh, to be poor!
Like a multimillionaire!
What’s money to the soul?
In it dwells an insatiable thief.
The gold of all the Californias
will never satisfy the rapacious horde of my lusts.
Oh, to be tongued-tied
like Dante
or Petrarch!
I'd kindle my soul for one love alone!
In verse I’d command her to bum to ash!
And if my words
and my love
were a triumphal arch,
then grandly
all the heroines of love through the ages
would pass through it, leaving no trace.
Oh, were I
as quiet
as thunder
then I would whine
and fold earth’s aged hermitage in my shuddering embrace.
If,
to its full power,
I used my vast voice,
the comets would wring their burning hands
and plunge headlong in anguish.
With my eyes’ rays I’d gnaw the night —
if I were, oh,
as dull
as the sun!
Why should I want
to feed with my radiance
the earth’s lean lap!
I shall go by,
dragging my burden of love.
In what delirious
and ailing
night,
was I sired by Goliaths —
I, so large,
so unwanted?
Четыре.
Тяжелые, как удар.
«Кесарево кесарю — богу богово».
А такому,
как я,
ткнуться куда?
Где мне уготовано логово?
Если бы я был
Маленький,
как океан, —
на цыпочки волн встал,
приливом ласкался к луне бы.
Где любимую найти мне,
Такую, как и я?
Такая не уместилась бы в крохотное небо!
О, если б я нищ был!
Как миллиардер!
Что деньги душе?
Ненасытный вор в ней.
Моих желаний разнузданной орде
не хватит золота всех Калифорний.
Если б быть мне крсноязычным,
как Данте
или Петрарка!
Душу к одной зажечь!
Стихами велеть истлеть ей!
И слова
и любовь моя —
триумфальная арка:
пышно,
бесследно пройдут сквозь нее
любовницы всех столетий.
О, если б был я
тихий,
как гром, —
ныл бы,
дрожью объял бы земли одряхлевший скит.
Я если всей его мощью
выреву голос огромный, —
кометы заломят горящие руки,
бросаясь вниз с тоски.
Я бы глаз лучами грыз ночи —
о, если б был я
тусклый, как солце!
Очень мне надо
сияньем моим поить
земли отощавшее лонце!
Пройду,
любовищу мою волоча.
В какой ночи́
бредово́й,
недужной
какими Голиафами я зача́т —
такой большой
и такой ненужный?
«Blue heaven, but the high / Catholic domes are more blue. / Forgive me, happy boy, / The death I brought you. / / For the roses from the stall, / For the foolish letters you sent, / That your dark and impudent / Face grew pale. / / I thought, a cadet’s pride / At becoming a...»
«I won’t beg for you love: it’s laid / Safely to rest, let the earth settle… / Don’t expect my jealous letters / Pouring in to plague your bride. / But let me, nevertheless, advise you: / Give her my poems to read in bed, / Give her my portraits to keep — it’s wise to / Be k...»
«For Alexander Blok / / I came to him as a guest. / Precisely at noon. Sunday. / In the large room there was quiet, / And beyond the window, frost / / And a sun like raspberry / Over the bluish-grey smoke-tangles. / How the reticent master / Concentrates as he looks! / / H...»
«So many stones are thrown at me, / They no longer scare. / Fine, now, is the snare, / Among high towers a high tower. / I thank its builders: may / They never need a friend. / Here I can see the sun rise earlier / And see the glory of the day’s end. / And often into the window of m...»