1 Nov. 1966 649. Василий Сумбатов(1893–1977). Видение[305] The street lamps shed their meager light, mist wove its wisps about the town, a chilly twilight shuttered tight all windows, drawing curtains down. Then, growing white, not vapor-soft but heavy, like a lowered load, dusk let a fragile hoarfrost waft onto the sidewalks and the road. November midnight: winter's eve, a helpless longing, taut distress of autumn strings in mute reprieve, leave-taking, but without redress… A sketch from nature? — No: the time was filled with flowers, springlike-bright, when suddenly the poet's mind envisioned this November night. About him warm th and sunlight shone, young foliage gleamed, birds flitted, gay, everything bloomed, — his soul alone had left this blossoming of May. He roamed along deserted roads, where street lamps shed their meager light, where mist in pungent smoke-rings rose, where hoarfrost tinged sidewalks white. 5 Dec. 1967 650. Василий Сумбатов (1893–1977). Памяти юности[306] We parted at an early date, — youth, — in the blackest year of war, though we had been fast friends before, still, friendship cannot conquer fate. Our parting came at night, when skies were dark above the steppe. Your way was down the trail to yesterday, and never once you raised your eyes. Night quenched the heat, and scattered far the glare of sunset; and the grass, its strings by twilight winds harassed, moaned in the steppe like a guitar. And from afar I could discern a voice that sang for me alone that all my happy days were gone, that you were never to return. 1967 651. Юрий Терапиано (1892–1980). «Куда ни погляжу, везде…»[307] No matter where I look, I find dimensions perfect everywhere: a star is wondrously designed, crystals are regular and fair. Foolish, the beating heart, alone, is not concerned with star or beam; it will not cease to long and moan, it's built on quite a different scheme. [1960s]
652. Юрий Терапиано (1892–1980). «Поднимись на высокую гору…»[308] Climb atop of the loftiest mountain, gaze about from the peak where you stand toward the sheen of the sunset in autumn, and the sweep of the far land. There is soundless music around you, contemplation and stillness are deep. It is evening. Mountain ranges darken, waiting for quiet and sleep. [1960s] 653. Марина Цветаева(1892–1941). «Черная, как зрачок, как зрачок сосущая…» Black, like the pupil of an eye, like the pupil, sucking light — I love you, vigilant night. Give me voice to sing of you, oh original mother of songs, holding the reins of four winds in your palm. Calling you, glorifying you, I am only a sea-shell, where the sound of the ocean has not yet been stilled. Night! I've already looked long enough into the pupils of man! Now reduce me to ashes, oh black sun, — night! [1960s] 654. Марина Цветаева (1892–1941). «Знаю, умру на заре! На которой из двух…» I know I will die at dawn, or at sunset — which of the two, at which of the two — this cannot be foreordained! Oh, if it only could be that my torch would be dimmed both at sunset and sunrise, together, at once! Dancing I walked over Earth! — the sky's own daughter! Full of roses, my apron! Never a broken twig! I will die at sunset or dawn! God won't send the night hawk for my soul — the soul of a swan! Moving the unkissed crucifix gently aside with my hand, I will rush toward the generous sky for the ultimate greeting. A slit of the dawn — and a slit of my smile in reply… … In the hiccough of death, a poet still, — I! [1960s] 655. Марина Цветаева (1892–1941). «На кортике своем: Марина…» On your dirk you etched «Marina» when rising for the strife. I was the first and only one in all your splendid life. I see the army boxcar hell, that night, your radiant face… Your curl I scattered to the winds, your patch I laid in a secret place… [1960s] 656. Марина Цветаева (1892–1941). «Кто уцелел — умрет, кто мертв — воспрянет…» Не who survived will die, who died — will rise, and when recalling olden days, a son will ask «Where were you?» — like a roll of thunder, so will answer thunder, «On the Don». «What did you do?» — «We merely suffered tortures, then we grew weary and lay down to sleep». And pensively the sons, opposite «Duty» will enter «Don» into the book they keep. вернуться From the collection Прозрачная тьма. Стихи разных лет, Livorno, 1969 вернуться From the antology Содружество, Washington, 1966. вернуться Poem not found in a collection of this poet, presumably translated from a publication in a Russian emigre newspaper. вернуться Poem not found in a collection of this poet, presumably translated from a publication in a Russian emigre newspaper. |
