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“So age after age — will it be soon, O Lord? —
Beneath the scalpel of nature and art,
Our spirit screams, our flesh depletes itself,
Giving birth to an organ for the sixth sense.
("The Sixth Sense")”
― Silver Age of Russian Culture
Beneath the scalpel of nature and art,
Our spirit screams, our flesh depletes itself,
Giving birth to an organ for the sixth sense.
("The Sixth Sense")”
― Silver Age of Russian Culture
“To a Poet"
Let verse of yours be flexible, but strong,
Strong as a poplar under valley's cover,
Strong as the earth under a plough, long,
Strong as a girl, who never knew a lover.
Reliably preserve severity at length,
Your verse need not be fluttering or booming,
Although the Muse has very easy steps,
She's not a dancer, but a goddess, ruling.
Frolicsome din of interrupted rhymes --
Temptation for decline, so free and so easy --
Just leave for use by jokers in a dance
On city streets for people who aren't busy.
And going out on the sacred paths,
Bring to melodiousness your chosen damnation.
You know, she's a mistress of the mass,
She craves embraces, as a dearth -- donations.”
―
Let verse of yours be flexible, but strong,
Strong as a poplar under valley's cover,
Strong as the earth under a plough, long,
Strong as a girl, who never knew a lover.
Reliably preserve severity at length,
Your verse need not be fluttering or booming,
Although the Muse has very easy steps,
She's not a dancer, but a goddess, ruling.
Frolicsome din of interrupted rhymes --
Temptation for decline, so free and so easy --
Just leave for use by jokers in a dance
On city streets for people who aren't busy.
And going out on the sacred paths,
Bring to melodiousness your chosen damnation.
You know, she's a mistress of the mass,
She craves embraces, as a dearth -- donations.”
―
“
Жираф
Сегодня, я вижу, особенно грустен твой взгляд,
И руки особенно тонки, колени обняв.
Послушай: далёко, далёко на озере Чад
Изысканный бродит жираф.
Ему грациозная стройность и нега дана,
И шкуру его украшает волшебный узор,
С которым равняться осмелиться только Луна,
Дробясь и качаясь на влаге широких озёр.
Вдали он подобен цветным парусам корабля,
И бег его плавен, как радостный птичий полёт.
Я знаю, что много чудесного видит земля,
Когда на закате он прячется в мраморный грот.
Я знаю весёлые сказки таинственных стран
Про чёрную деву, про страсть молодого вождя,
Но ты слишком долго вдыхала тяжёлый туман,
Ты верить не хочешь во что-нибудь, кроме дождя.
И как я тебе расскажу про тропический сад,
Про стройный пальмы, про запах немыслимых трав...
Ты плачешь? Послушай... далёко, на озере Чад
Изысканный бродит жираф.
The Giraffe
O, the look in your eyes this morning is more than usually sad,
With your little arms wrapped round your knees and body bent in half.
Let me tell you a story: far, far away, on the distant shores of Lake Chad,
There roams a most majestic giraffe
Blessed with a handsome build and graceful carriage
And a coat painted hypnotic, magical patterns,
With which none but the moon above dare compare
When her light falls down to be scattered and rocked on the waters,
Passing like a blazing sail far out at sea
As she runs by, nimble and carefree as a bird in flight.
I hear tell the earth has seen many wonderful things
When the giraffe hides herself away and the sun sets into night.
I know fabulous tales of far off, alien lands,
Of a dark maiden, of a young captain’s burning desire, all this I know,
But you’ve breathed in the damp marsh air for so long
You don’t want to believe in anything but the rain out your window.
I still haven’t told you about her tropic garden, with the slenderest palm trees,
The sweetest wildflowers, meadows of unbelievable grass . . .
Are you crying? Let me tell you a story: far away, on the distant shores of Lake Chad,
There roams a most majestic giraffe.”
―
Сегодня, я вижу, особенно грустен твой взгляд,
И руки особенно тонки, колени обняв.
Послушай: далёко, далёко на озере Чад
Изысканный бродит жираф.
Ему грациозная стройность и нега дана,
И шкуру его украшает волшебный узор,
С которым равняться осмелиться только Луна,
Дробясь и качаясь на влаге широких озёр.
Вдали он подобен цветным парусам корабля,
И бег его плавен, как радостный птичий полёт.
Я знаю, что много чудесного видит земля,
Когда на закате он прячется в мраморный грот.
Я знаю весёлые сказки таинственных стран
Про чёрную деву, про страсть молодого вождя,
Но ты слишком долго вдыхала тяжёлый туман,
Ты верить не хочешь во что-нибудь, кроме дождя.
И как я тебе расскажу про тропический сад,
Про стройный пальмы, про запах немыслимых трав...
Ты плачешь? Послушай... далёко, на озере Чад
Изысканный бродит жираф.
The Giraffe
O, the look in your eyes this morning is more than usually sad,
With your little arms wrapped round your knees and body bent in half.
Let me tell you a story: far, far away, on the distant shores of Lake Chad,
There roams a most majestic giraffe
Blessed with a handsome build and graceful carriage
And a coat painted hypnotic, magical patterns,
With which none but the moon above dare compare
When her light falls down to be scattered and rocked on the waters,
Passing like a blazing sail far out at sea
As she runs by, nimble and carefree as a bird in flight.
I hear tell the earth has seen many wonderful things
When the giraffe hides herself away and the sun sets into night.
I know fabulous tales of far off, alien lands,
Of a dark maiden, of a young captain’s burning desire, all this I know,
But you’ve breathed in the damp marsh air for so long
You don’t want to believe in anything but the rain out your window.
I still haven’t told you about her tropic garden, with the slenderest palm trees,
The sweetest wildflowers, meadows of unbelievable grass . . .
Are you crying? Let me tell you a story: far away, on the distant shores of Lake Chad,
There roams a most majestic giraffe.”
―
“
A Baby Elephant
Right now my love for you is a baby elephant
Born in Berlin or in Paris,
And treading with its cushioned feet
Around the zoo director's house.
Do not offer it French pastries,
Do not offer it cabbage heads,
It can eat only sections of tangerines,
Or lumps of sugar and pieces of candy.
Don't cry, my sweet, because it will be put
Into a narrow cage, become a joke for mobs,
When salesman blow cigar smoke into its trunk
To the cackles of their girl friends.
Don't imagine, my dear, that the day will come
When, infuriated, it will snap its chains
And rush along the streets,
Crushing howling people like a bus.
No, may you dream of it at dawn,
Clad in bronze and brocade and ostrich feathers,
Like that magnificent beast which once
Bore Hannibal to trembling Rome.”
―
Right now my love for you is a baby elephant
Born in Berlin or in Paris,
And treading with its cushioned feet
Around the zoo director's house.
Do not offer it French pastries,
Do not offer it cabbage heads,
It can eat only sections of tangerines,
Or lumps of sugar and pieces of candy.
Don't cry, my sweet, because it will be put
Into a narrow cage, become a joke for mobs,
When salesman blow cigar smoke into its trunk
To the cackles of their girl friends.
Don't imagine, my dear, that the day will come
When, infuriated, it will snap its chains
And rush along the streets,
Crushing howling people like a bus.
No, may you dream of it at dawn,
Clad in bronze and brocade and ostrich feathers,
Like that magnificent beast which once
Bore Hannibal to trembling Rome.”
―
“No era el primer cop
No era el primer cop, no serà l'últim cop
en la nostra batalla sorda i obstinada:
al principi, com sempre, has renegat de mi,
demà ho sé prou, tornaràs a mi, submisa.
Més, per això, no t'estranyis, hostil amic,
rival meu, aferrat a aquest amor obscur,
si els gemecs de l'amor després són de suplici,
els besos es pinten de color de la sang.”
― Poesia russa contemporània. Antologia
No era el primer cop, no serà l'últim cop
en la nostra batalla sorda i obstinada:
al principi, com sempre, has renegat de mi,
demà ho sé prou, tornaràs a mi, submisa.
Més, per això, no t'estranyis, hostil amic,
rival meu, aferrat a aquest amor obscur,
si els gemecs de l'amor després són de suplici,
els besos es pinten de color de la sang.”
― Poesia russa contemporània. Antologia
