15 June 1967 616. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). «Вот стоишь, такая родная…»[277] In your plain little coat and kerchief, so familiar and dear, you stand, the key to our promised heaven you hold in your empty hand. Let's set out once again together! The hills ever darker grow. Does it matter that we are tired? We've so little left to go. If only we're never parted in the lonely course of our fate, if we only have strength together to reach the Highest Gate! Once again, let us bless each other as we used to, and never fear — they will let us enter together, that's long been decided, dear. July 1967 617. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). «Легкокрылым гением ведомы…»[278] Guided by some lightly winging spirit far beyond the sea the birds have flown. On this dark and bleak November morning, why do you and I stay home alone? Maybe we should follow — take a knapsack, staff and flask, some good and trusted books, and pursue the swiftly flying swallows over woods and meadowlands and brooks? Only those who linger are un able to partake of joys on Earth arrayed. Every turnpike, boundary and barrier we would pass, unseen and unafraid. Surely then, at break of day tomorrow you and I would reach the rosy haze over gleaming rocks and crested breakers, slender palms, and golden blessed days! And as surely, to the fullest measure, we who dared would be repaid indeed for the grain of utter faith within us, for that single mustard seed! [1960s] 618. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). Царскосельские стихи[279] When I was a boy I used to be your friend, beautiful town of parks and lonely statues, dense lilac groves and empty palaces, — you hadn't yet been visited by grief. Your Gumileff was still a carefree youth, Akhmatova — a schoolgirl and in love, and Innokenti Annensky had not died suffocating at your railroad station; even your Pushkin used to seem to me not dead, but living, not yet grown up, but just another of my noisy classmates. Decades have passed. Impossible to count your losses. All your palaces now lie decaying. All your poets have been killed by silence, bullet, or complete contempt. Alone the name of Pushkin, as of old, still shines above you like a glorious promise — a token of the coming future truth. [1960s] 619. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). «Как много есть прекрасного на свете…»[280] There s such a wealth of beauty in the world: a maiden’s breast, a flying eagle's wing, loaf of a maple, sunrise in Rialto, a lily-of-the-valley in the spring; a leaping doe; the Milky Way, a sail, the Volga's great expanse, a child's eyes… You see yourself: too many things to mention for you and me to count or to surmise. And yet is life not easier for knowing that everywhere around you children roam, and maples grow, and there are waves, and maidens, or simply someone's garden and a home? You say to me: All that is transient, passing! But you are wrong! Next spring, in that green bower, another doe will leap again, as lightly, and underfoot will bloom another flower! Our world is ill. It whispers invocations and tries to smother what in life is true. But nowhere in it stands a ruined building where grass will not come up anew. [1960s] 620. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). «He камешком в мозаиках Равенны…»[281] No pebble in ravenna's sculptured tomb, nor crimson paint-dab in the Vatican, — I merely was a wisp of merry spume upon the ocean's blue and distant span. But when a sail came toward me, I would swirl to meet it; I have played with reefs near land, caressed the body of a sun-tanned girl, and, tired, dug into the golden sand. My fleeting course no great event did jar; for one chance moment was my fate unfurled, yet I was happier and richer far than all the tombs and castles of the world. [1960s] 621. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). «Высох ключ, струившийся в овраге…»[282] Dry the source that ran in the ravine. Hot the noon. But take a look again: in the hollow stump, some moisture still — fusty water left there by the rain. Playing with your twig — be very careful not ot splash it out around the brink — even though it's pitifully scanty, someone still may need it for a drink! After dawn tomorrow some small creature — squirrel, hedgehog — may come by this rill and may drink. You too — who knows what happens? — yet may taste it in a final thrill. вернуться From the collection След жизни, Frankfurt-on-Maine, 1950. вернуться From the collection След жизни, Frankfurt-on-Maine, 1950. вернуться First part of a poem from the collection ,Неуловимый спутник, Frankfurt-on-Maine, 1956 вернуться From the collection Прикосновенье, Munich, 1959 Variant in the first line of the last stanza: «Our world is sick. It whispers invocations». вернуться From the collection Прикосновенье, Munich, 1959. вернуться From the collection Навстречу небу, Frankfurt-on-Maine, 1952. |
