They gave themselves to sad monotonous
tasks, until their strength was spent.
Half-dead among them, only I
distracted their predicament.
They looked at me and they forgot
their bubbling kettles boiling dry,
the boots of felt that scorched on stoves
— all listening to my poetry
Then in sepulchral Russian dark
a flowery herald-girl took my hand;
and music's concord was revealed
to me, knocked sideways in the wind.
Mad with visions, over the sheet-ice
on the canal, I'd reach the bank
and slither up the crumbling steps
clutching a piece of cod that stank,
and driving every verse through prose
disjointed in the pull and push,
somehow I grafted the classic rose
to the Soviet briar bush.
Напастям жалким и однообразным
Там предавались до потери сил.
Один лишь я полуживым соблазном
Средь озабоченных ходил.
Смотрели на меня — и забывали
Клокочущие чайники свои;
На печках валенки сгорали;
Все слушали стихи мои.
А мне тогда в тьме гробовой, российский.
Являлась вестница в цветах,
И лад открылся музикийский
Мне в сногсшибательных ветрах.
И я безумел от видений,
Когда чрез ледяной канал,
Скользя с обломанных ступеней,
Треску зловонную таскал,
И, каждый стих гоня сквозь прозу,
Вывихивая каждую строку,
Привил-таки классическую розу
К советскому дичку.
«I cried and I even repented, / Let the sky thunder and groan! / My dark heart just couldn’t stand it / In your forsaken vacant home. / I know a pain that is unbearable, / The shame of returning stunned… / How frightening it is, how terrible, / To the unloved, to the quiet one. / ...»
«At the new moon, he walked out, / The friend I loved. I’ll be okay! / “Tightrope dancer,” He joked loud, / “How will you survive till May?” As to a brother, I replied then, / Without gripes or jealousy, / But four new cloaks just aren’t likely / To replace this loss for me. ...»
«There’s an owl sewn — don’t stir — / Onto the pillow near us, / O, gray Moorka, do not purr, / My grandfather will hear us. / Nanny, candles will not burn, / Mice are scratching, fearless, / Why was that owl ever sewn? / I’m scared of his appearance. »
«Farewell, farewell, great unwashed Russia, / All lords and slaves who are our nation, / And you, blue-uniformed oppression, / And you, conformant population. Behind the Caucasus’ tall wall I’ll / Hide from your sultan’s officers, / From their all-seeing eagle eyes / And sensitive...»