Translated by Diana Lewis Burgin
138.
To L.V.E
Is it thinkable taming a lynx,
So why play the feline with me?
How you soften your fateful face
With your smile so skillfully!
Thus an actress should play spoiled girls:
By training a gold, gypsy eye
From under her lashes downcurled
She looks at you while looking aside.
Oh that ominous calm before storms:
It’s just like the quietude when
Don Jose says, “The Devil himself,”
And Carmen replies, “So I am.”
142.
To L.V.Erarskaya
On its delicate stalk droops a flower…
Oh beloved, all I have ever loved
And will leave on this earth when I go,
Finish loving, beloved, in place of me,
These petals as soft as a kiss,
This fire splashed over the heavens,
These tears (which only a poet
Understands!) – The anguish in bliss.
And a lonely grave mound in the steppe,
And majestic recital of verses,
But wild gypsy tambourines
Love in this life no less…
In the twilight the cupolas pink
As the pigeons fly out over Moscow.
Oh beloved, please love above all
The bells tolling eventide!
145.
It’s not passion’s bed that is sacred,
But bread a guest shares over victuals
At moments of feeling like friends.
Forgetful girl, fond of good eating,
From whose hands have you only not nibbled,
My chirruper, tidbits of seed?
Yet, as in a church for a feast day,
At home I lit all of the candles
The night you came flying to me…
146.
If you should cry out in your sleep,
And your voice should begin to sound angry,
I’ll gently take hold of your finger
And whisper, “So talk about me, –
Just tell me, my love, how you love me,
Just tell me, my dove, how you touch me.”
And doors which were shut until then
Will burst terrifyingly open,
The pain lying hidden and dormant
Will gush in a torrent of words,
And your heart as it weeps will be shaken
At the furiousness of its hatred.
December 24, 1919
147.
They won’t come and it’s really no matter, –
They’ll recall me in joy or in wrath;
In the ground I shall not be more homeless,
Than I was when I walked on the earth.
And the wind, my un-hired mourner,
Will twirl up over me snowy lees…
Oh my path, sorrowful, distant, somber,
Predetermined uniquely for me.
1917
148.
Nobody’s had, ever has or will have
The least thing to do with anyone else.
Under a sky turned to ice rush trains
– Where are they rushing? People know where! –
Trains that breathe fire.
No time, no time, no time – thus,
The wheels’ iron patter’s in time
With the heartbeat of the world!..
Roar louder, you thundering hell:
Soon in darkness the ultimate trumpets
Will blare out the wonderful news!..
149.
My life! My unleavened chunk,
My miracle-less feat!
Here I am – with a bodiless body,
And a Muse who cannot speak…
Was it worth milling
So many fiery seeds,
For my daily ration
To lack so in yeast?
O Lord! What happiness
To sacrifice my soul,
To trade the wine of Eucharist
For a Castallian flow!
150.
I’ve prayed sincerely, – why, then, has
A darkness like this overcome me,
My heart, just like a frightened hedgehog
Bristles at each one it meets?
Don’t pester me, don’t torture me:
There’s no sky here, above this roof.
Through the frightful swoon of my soul
I cannot even listen to music.
151.
To Mashenka
Oh my God, I don’t deserve such fortune!
Light in my tenebrous heart!
You are like a little stalk, kissed
And disturbed by the wind.
I can’t remember hopelessness
More blissfully in my heart.
Me, sinner that I am, how did I deserve
Tenderness beyond my wildest hope?
February 26, 1916
[1]The Russian texts and the numbers of the poems come from Sofia Parnok,
Sobranie stikhotvorenii (St. Petersburg: Inapress, 1998).
Copyright © 2019 Diana Lewis Burgin. All Rights Reserved. Please credit when quoting.
