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Yevgeny Yevtushenko

Collection of Poems

й Translated by Alec Vagapov

HUMAN BEINGS
THE PRAYER
THE TROUBADOUR'S SECRET
Beware of Grecian false endearment
WeТre stiff and numb when seized with feeling
Human life in this century
Snow flakes are falling
The Pskov Turrets
I'm burying my friend, I suppose
Our children, too, are liars...
MY DOG
TO WOMEN
Which of contemporary writers
I'm out of love with you... It's such a trivial story
The house swayed and creaked a choral hymn composing
At times of seeming drastic changes
CAREER
THE CATKIN FROM AN ALDER-TREE
NEFERTITI
Should the clover rustle in the meadow
In indiscriminate temptation which fills our minds in daily life
Do not tell lies to children, who are trusting
You are big and courageous at loving
You haven't given all my letters yet
INDIFFERENCE CENSORSHIP
My ma is getting old, to my dismay
Don't disappear... for if you go away
I donТt give up, although I do give in
CONFESSION OF THE POWER LOVING MAN
THE LIMIT
GRATITUDE
Many times I have been wounded badly
For people I have greed
I want to be a little bit old-fashioned
Age Deasease
WINGS
They told me, somewhere in India
Like the four points to a ship
ANGER
Great talent is alarming, alien
A genuine poetТs instant rhyme
When poetry is self-assured
SELF-PITY
You must be capable of facing
THE SNEER
OUR LIBERTIES
ROCKETS AND CARTS
THE SCOUNDRELТS ADVICE
Enchantment is a wonderful sensation
BEFORE WE PART...
I AM AN ANGEL
THE MONOLOGUE OF THE BEATNIKS
When suddenly I saw you rise
THE THIRD MEMORY
THE KNOCK AT THE DOOR
THE PALACE
ON TRANSLATION
THE BALLAD OF THE SWALLOW
MOTHER

HUMAN BEINGS

To S. Preobrazhensky

All humans are noteworthy. Their lives

Resemble those of planets in the skies.

Each is specific and unique indeed,

No planet is identical to it.

If someone lived an unobtrusive life,

And unobtrusiveness was in his line,

People took interest in him because

Such an uninteresting man he was.

Each human has his own inmost world

With the happiest moment to be recalled,

With the most frightful moment to shake off;

But those are things that we know nothing of.

And when a person draws his final breath

Everything goes the way of all the earth

For with the death he takes along with him

First snow, first kiss, first battle Ч everything.

ItТs true that bridges, paintings, books, machines

Remain, along with other things,

ItТs true that many things are here to stay,

But something is to perish anyway.

Such is the rule of game, in other words,

ItТs people that decease, not their worlds.

We have remembrances of people, well, then

What did we actually know about them?

What do we know of our brothers, friends,

Of our only one, whom heaven sends?

And, knowing our own father on the whole,

We donТt know anything about him at all.

Thus people pass away, and they will not return.

Their inmost worlds will never be reborn.

And every time my heart just screams

About this irretrievable course of things.

THE PRAYER

They intimidate and slash us,

They reduce our souls to ashes,

Put out in us the light of God.

Should we our pride abandon,

Like grey mire we'll be found then

Under coach wheels on the road.

Our body we can cage in

So that it cannot engage in

Flying off above the sky.

But our soul will break away,

Somehow it will find a way

To God Almighty it will fly.

Life from death I don't distinguish,

Someone dares death diminish.

Death is often more fragile.

Teach me, oh, my Lord Almighty,

Should death come before me quietly,

How to give a placid smile.

Help me, pray, my Lord,

To bravely face the world,

Hide not stars from visions.

Thou canst grant, I bet,

A little piece of bread,

Crumbs to feed the pigeons.

Our body may get cold, or

Be unhealthy, burn and moulder

And then perish in the shades,

While our soul does not surrender,

After death there is remainder:

Something more than just ourselves.

We remain as bits and pieces:

Some as books or sighing whispers,

Some as children, or a song.

Even in those bits, however,

Somewhere we live for ever,

Though we die, we get along.

What will you, my soul, tell God,

What will bring you to His threshold?

Will you be from Hell released?

We all have a sinful moment,

But mostly he fears atonement

Whose transgression is the least.

Help me, pray, my Lord,

To bravely face the world,

Hide not stars from visions.

Thou canst grant, I bet,

A little piece of bread,

Crumbs to feed the pigeons.

THE TROUBADOUR'S SECRET

Apart from that fine, charming lady

that has a clavichord at the ready

to play majestically scales,

generally, a troubadour

has got a hidden paramour,

a stupid maid with a loving face.

He is ashamed of her a little,

but she's got legs that will beat all

and make up for repute and brains.

The stupid maid may not look pleasant

but she is touching and complaisant

when he a casual visit pays.

She takes her skirt off, understanding

the troubadour's pangs of loving,

responding to his acts of cuddling,

sometimes she blushes, in a state.

And she obeys him in excitement...

HeТs pleased. When sheТs beside him

he is himself, which makes him great.

***

WeТre stiff and numb when seized with feeling,

we just restrain it, more or less;

we are incapable of living,

incapable of facing death.

Wishing to save this world of ours

make friends with rascals we must not,

itТs just like entТring a hostile house

where we have to fire a shot.

What shall we do Ч just hit the target

or let them bring us tea on a tray,

leave the revolver undischarged,

say our good-byes and go away?

And, breathing freely, think it over

and find an instance, as Сn excuse,

and, turning round, throw the revolver

into the water, still unused.

***
Human life in this century has a

very smal value, as it were...

Beneath the wings of the dove of Picasso

thereТs a war going on everywhere.

We give a hug to our kids in a hurry,

and we hastily kiss our wives,

and we leave them to fight in the war of

human passions, emotions and vibes.

We fight with the earth and the heaven,

with sands, heavy snowfalls and hails,

we fight with dishonest behaviour,

with our creditors, fools and ourselves.

When we die you should not be ingenuous

in believing itТs a natural death,

heart attack or some serious illness,

no, we die in this big war of nerves.

Every day, standing close by the windows,

our sweethearts, like soldiersТ wives,

watch their husbands, guilty though guiltless,

go to join in these rigorous fights.

***
Snow flakes are falling
sliding round and round...

I would keep living... always...

but I probably can't.

Human souls fade dissolving

and leaving no trace,

like snowflakes theyТre going

from earth into space.

Snow flakes are falling...

Some day I shall go...

About death I'm not worrying

I'm mortal, I know.

I do not believe in

any miracles, no,

and IТll never be living,

unlike snow, anymore.

A sinner, I'm thinking

who on earth I have been,

what is most I've been keen on,

in this world I live in.

It's Russia that I love so

with my backbone, my blood,

its rivers when iced, or

when lively they flood.

its spirit of houses,

its spirit of pines,

its Pushkin and Razin,

its old men, so kind.

And in my hours of worry

I didn't take it too bad.

I mayТve lived in a flurry,

I've lived for my land.

Deep in heart, feeling anxious,

I hope against hope

that I did help my Russia

to the extent I could cope.

It may once and for ever

forget me, with ease,

but I wish it would never

ever cease to exist.

Snowflakes are falling,

as they do at all times,

times of Pushkin and Razin

and the time that yet comes.

Sliding like crystal beads,

light and bright as can be,

flakes wipe out the footprints

left by others and me.

I do not believe in

immortality... well...

If Russia keeps living

I'll keep living as well.

THE TURRETS

Having resigned, the artist put on,

decorously, a leather apron,

and took the title of a smith.

It was for fun, not ostentation

that on his head, in exaltation,

he put a heavy hammered wreath.

A stout man and quite unbalanced,

the artist happened to drink hard,

he was the guardian of turrets,

a zealot with the loving heart.

He rose against the brutal order

when the Pskov turrets at the border,

were just disgraceful heaps of stones,

by love of Russian craft-work governed

clad in unseen brocaded garment,

he would cast pearls of pros and cons.

He'd say the turrets were neglected,

unflagged and rather devastated,

looking like coffins made of stone.

Catching the pen-pushers on porches

he'd lecture them on the importance

of iron ensigns and so on.

лRag-flags are bad! Ч the artist argued.

We have our laundries all surcharged,

whereas ensigns are made of flame.

They're hammered carefully and molded,

they last for ages, forged unfolded,

without a single crease on them.

Livonian foes would sneeze inhaling

the smoke of forge shops, badly smelling,

which boded ill as a bad sign,

when from a stubborn piece of iron

whose quality was just divine

the forefathers forged an ensign.

That's how our land was being founded,

when, to wild shouts on all sides,

the hostile arrows just rebounded

from our tiny little ensigns.

The iron flag is not the same as

the timid weather-vane that tremors

and in the wind so humbly waves.

We have them but they don't avail us,

our Motherland, my dear fellows,

needs iron flags, not weather-vanes!╗

The artist argued., brave and fearless,

descendant of the race of heroes,

a fighter and a bearded lot,

he went through pen-pushes' answers

whose pens were like czarist lances, Ч

his own weapon was his thought.

And now exerting every effort

the high rank guardian, dressed in rags,

was hammering a furious leopard,

and a gracious deer, Ч iron flags.

And smiling blissfully, so curious,

some Japanese and other tourists,

young and old people from all sides,

and even bureaucratic tyrants

admire ancient Pskovian turrets

and the victorious ensigns.

Thank all the guardians of Russia!

Thank their skillful, masterly hand.

Like iron ensigns, never crashing,

they're keeping watch on Motherland.

And, standing by the ruins of panels,

in hope of glory and good times

I hear the clank of forge-shop anvils:

it's Russia, hammering out ensigns.

Pskov Ч a city in the North Western part of Russia (with the population of 200.000), dating back to the 10^th century, known for its historical monuments of architecture: church buildings, chapels, monasteries, cathedrals and fortresses, among them are the famous Mirozh Monastery, the Kremlin and the Izborsk fortress with its turrets and iron ensigns (Alec Vagapov)

аа

***
I'm burying my friend, I suppose,

It's a secret I never disclose.

Others think that he's still alive,

Others know that he has a wife,

that we still have got friendly ties,

for we dine out together sometimes.

And I don't want to tell anyone

that my friend is a living dead man.

It's not cleanness I'm talking with,

I'm talking to a void and filth

It's not friendship that's raised a glass

not openness, Ч emptiness has.

I do not condemn what you do,

I'm silent, I'm just burying you.

Well, what's that ? Do I get it right?...

After all, no one has died,

and I haven't lived long as yet

But so many friends are dead.

***

Our children, too, are liars...

They, too, can be pretentious.

A war they see in films

is ice-cream on a tray,

They have respect for rank,

they're callously tenacious

and smart at pushing others

out of their way.

And when I see in them

the germ of cruel habits

I certainly do not

blame children anyway

that sometimes they can be

wild wolves, not humble rabbits

although their food is not

yet that of beasts of pray.

It's not an old yes-man

but it's a little demon,

a seven year old sneak

that scares me most of all.

My son, be what you want, -

a football player even., -

but be a decent man!

And that will settle all.

You do not have to be

Ashamed of daddy, dear,

You will not understand

Until you're old and wise:

it 's out of despair,

and it 's out of fear

that father lied about

the children being liars...

MY DOG

Clinging to the window pane

he's waiting for someone, in vain.

I dip my hand into his hair,

I'm also waiting, as it were.

You do remember, doggie, dear,

a woman used to live in here.

But who on earth was she to me?

My sister, or my wife, maybe?

Sometimes I think that it could be

my daughter who needs help from me.

She's away. You're quiet, my dear.

There won't be other women here.

My dear dog, you're nice, I think,

but it's a pity you don't drink.

TO WOMEN

Women, you are certainly the weaker vessels!

It's your nature, you are built that way.

And the statues of you with a sheaf of hazel

are not really you, I dare say.

When I see you bent over the railing,

working with a heavy iron crow,

it just breaks my heart, it's passed all bearing.

How can you endure it? Ч I don't know.

And the women, armed with crow-bars, shout:

лLook, the man feels sorry for us! Very nice!╗

And mischievous, smiling eyes stick out

from beneath their kerchiefs, bright blue eyes.

Women tend to flood geology these days.

Why does it appeal to you? Ч I wish I knew.

It's ascribed to us, not you frail females,

and the thick wild forests are for men, not you.

Yet you bite your lip and go, defying

Wrinkles, weather-beaten hands and tan...

As you get a light from brands of camp-fire

You will crack a joke to cheer up the men.

Nervous housewives, at times you feel resentful

grumbling angrily over the house-chores:

washing, cooking, cleaning up et cetera...

Kitchen work is a hard on you of course.

But along with the exceeding nervousness

which at times makes tears break trough

there is so much majesty and tenderness

so much genuine heroism in you !

I do not believe in weakness of you women,

you are not like that from birth, I know.

Women's womanhood is doubly feminine

for your doughty and strength do make it so.

I adore you, women, tenderly, devoutly

but I look with enviousness on you.

women are the best of men, undoubtedly.

You may rest assured for it's true.

а***

Which of contemporary writers

is most acute and up-to-date?

Perhaps, as a judge I am not righteous, Ч

it's Shakespeare, I estimate.

And, like a wave, the theme of Hamlet

dashes upon one's temples now

that fools and men of perfect talent

are puzzled and confused, somehow.

And wringing their hands but slowly

to sounds of jet whistle and drone

trying to catch a train or trolley

crowds of Hamlets are on the run.

The voice of actors drown humbly

in roaring storms and trouble sea

when the whole world to-day, like Hamlet,

decides: лTo be or not to be╗.

аа

***

I'm out of love with you... It's such a trivial story,

as trivial as life, as trivial as death.

I'll break off the romance without feeling sorry,

and smashed be my guitar! Why make pretence at length?

Our shaggy ugly dog does not appear to catch us,

he doesn't understand what we have got in mind

for when I let him in at your front door he scratches,

and when you let him in he'll come to scratch at mine.

The way he runs about, he can go quite mental...

You sentimental dog, you're too young, my friend.

Me, I shall not let myself be sentimental,

I'd just prolong the torture by putting off the end.

Sentimentality's a crime and not just human weakness.

When you give in again, you promise once again

and try to stage a show, albeit without willingness,

choosing a silly name, something like "Love Regained".

True love should be protected, kept safe from the beginning

against the ardent "never!" and childish "once for all!".

Don't promise! Ч the train whistle's in our ears ringing,

Don't promise! Ч comes the mumbling from the wire call.

The heavy smoky clouds as well as damaged foliage

have many times admonished and warned us ignor'nt snobs:

excessive optimism is caused by lack of knowledge,

and we should draw the line at cherishing big hopes.

The vergers had good sense, they checked the chains for heaviness

before putting them on, they were wise enough

to give the earth instead of promising the heavens,

give instant love instead of eternal love above.

When we're in love it's not humane to say "I love you".

It's hard to hear, escaping the same lips, afterward

abusive empty sounds, lies, rudeness, sneering, laughing,

the world's deceitful fullness will be an empty world.

We shouldn't make a promise for love is not compliance.

Why do we clothe our lies into a wedding dress ?

A vision is all right until it melts like ice.

It's better not to love if love eventually ends.

Our poor little dog whines, getting puzzled, maddened,

dashing from door to door, you should have seen him prance!..

For having ceased to love you I do not ask your pardon,

I ask to pardon me for having loved you once.

а
***

а

You're quite sincere and have no pretence

when you keep silent looking tense and bitter,

you are like silence that, to all intents,

has no pretence in a burnt down city.

This city's gone for ever, it's your past.

You almost never laughed while living there,

you 'd be engrossed in sewing or in oblivion lost,

now you'd be calm, now you'd break out and flare.

To get along you did your double best

but, turning down all the living beings,

the city made you sad and feel oppressed

with gloomy contours of its buildings.

All houses in it were under lock and key.

There was some wicked subtlety about it.

It was all broken, which was plain to see,

and hated those who weren't broken hearted.

And then one night, without much remorse,

you set it all to fire, recoiling from the sparkles.

I was the first one whom you ran across

when, fearing the flame, you shrank into the darkness.

You trembled, as I took you by the hand,

and cuddled up to me, submissive, blushing,

you didn't love me yet and didn't understand

but were grateful to me for compassion.

So we set out... Where did we flee?

We took a random path and didn't care

but now and then you would look back to see

your burning past enveloped in a glare.

It was incinerated. But there is

one thing that torments me and makes me anxious

as if bewitched, you cherish memories

of what is now just dust and ashes.

You're by my side, and you are not...

Have you deserted me, I wonder?

A torch of light in hand, all lost in thought,

about the ashes of the past you wander.

Why long for it? It is deserted, dark!

This magic power of the past! My Goodness!

You didn't love it, and were glad to see its back,

but somehow you have come to love its ruins.

The dust and ashes are quite powerful things.

They have a mystery of their own.

And, like a child, the arsonist sheds tears

over what she has zealously burnt down.

***
а

The house swayed and creaked a choral hymn composing;

it was a burial service chorale for you and me.

The creaking house felt that we were not just dozing

we were dying slowly, unobtrusively.

лWait, do not die!╗ Ч a neigh resounded in the meadow

and echoed in the howl of dogs and fairy wood;

yet we were dying to each other and for ever

which was the same as dying to the whole wide world.

We didn't want to die! A bird pecked in the pine wood,

a hedgehog ran around in the grass beneath,

and like a shaggy dog, the black, wet night flowed onward

holding a water-lily, a star, between its teeth.

The darkness breathed the smell of raspberries through shutters;

behind my back I saw Ч without turning round Ч

my worn-out sweetheart sleep quietly with Plato's

spiritual girl-friend, a sister she had found.

I thought about marriages being made in heaven,

about how mean we all liars and traitors were:

I used to love you, dear, like thousands of brethren,

and like as many foes I drove you to despair.

Yes, you have changed a lot. Your angry look is arduous;

you sneer bitterly, as you put out a claw.

Isn't it we ourselves who turn our beloved ones

to kinds of hateful creatures we can't love anymore ?

The fount of eloquence is obviously worthless

when wasted on a row, a stupid petty scene,

I wanted to bring happiness to all the earthlings

but couldn't make it with a single human being.

Yes, we were dying but I couldn't just believe in

the end of you and me, the end of both of us.

Our love had not yet died, it was alive and breathing

the trace of it imprinted upon her looking glass.

The house swayed and creaked amidst the nettle, stinging,

as if it were offering restraint and will of life.

We were dying there but we were still living.

We loved each other still which meant we were alive.

а
Some day ( oh, God forbid, I still hope for salvation )

when I fall out of love and when I really die

my flesh will make a point, with hidden exultation,

of whispering at nights: лso you are alive!╗

Belated man of wisdom in our world of passions,

I'll come to realize: my flesh does tell a lie;

I'll tell myself: лI'm dead. My love is turned to ashes.

I used to be in love. I used to be alive.╗

***
а

At times of seeming drastic changes

don't waste your energy in vain

hanging your head in face of danger,

jumping for joy, as if insane.

When you see someone being trampled

and torn to pieces, to jeers and cries,

don't make a fuss about the wrangle,

do not make much of it, be wise.

Our age is known to be wayward

but all its jerks and jumps are vain

for history flows smoothly onward,

and harmony it will maintain.

And that's what everybody knows about:

amidst the ballyhoo and noise

an augury is never loud

and prophecy has a low voice.

CAREER

The pastors claimed that Galileo

was an unreasonable man,

but time has made it crystal clear

that lack of reason is a good sign.

A scholar from that same era

who was as smart as Galileo

knew that the earth was turning round

but he'd his family on hand.

Riding a coach, with near and dear,

after he'd done the traitor's act

he thought of making a career

but he had ruined it, in fact.

Nobody wished to risk, for knowledge,

but scholar Galileo did,

the greatest man he was acknowledged...

лCareerist╗ he was indeed!

Long live the notion of career

if it implies making the grade,

like the career of Shakespeare,

Homer, Pasteur, Tolstoy the Great.

I wonder why they were trodden.

A gift will always be a gift!

The slanderers are now forgotten

while those who were slandered live.

Those who explored the stratosphere,

the docs that perished for the good, Ч

they were лseeking a career╗,

and I should like to follow suit!

Their holy faith in their idea

inspires me with fortitude.

So I'm following a career

without trying to follow it.

THE CATKIN FROM AN ALDER-TREE

а
To D.Batler

а
The instant a catkin

falls down on my palm from an alder

or when a cuckoo

gives a call, through the thunder of train,

attempting to give explanation to living

I ponder

and find it impossible

to understand and explain.

Reducing oneself

to a speck of a star-dust is trivial,

but certainly wiser

than being affectedly great,

and knowing one's smallness

is neither disgrace nor an evil,

it only implies our knowledge

of greatness of fate.

The alder-tree catkin is light

and so airy and fluffy;

you blow it away, Ч

and the world will go wrong overnight.

Our life doesn't seem

to be petty and trifling

for nothing in it is a trifle

and nothing is slight.

The alder-tree catkin

is greater than any prediction,

and he who has quietly broken it

won't be the same.

We cannot change everything now

by our volition,

the world tends to change anyway

with the change of ourselves.

And so we transform

to assume quite a different essence

and go on a voyage

to a desolate land, far from home,

we don't even notice

and don't realize our presence

on board an entirely different ship,

in a storm.

And when you are seized

with a feeling of hopeless remoteness,

away from the shores

where the sunrise amazed you at dawn,

my dear good friend, don't despair

and please don't be hopeless, Ч

believe in the black frightening harbors,

so strange and unknown.

A place, when remote, may be frightening

but not when it's near.

There's everything there:

eyes, voices, the lights and the sun...

As you get accustomed

the creak of the shadowy pier

will tell you that there're can be more

piers and harbors than one.

Your soul clears up,

with no malice against the conversion.

Forgive all your friends

that betrayed you, or misunderstood.

Forgive your beloved one

if you don't enjoy her affection,

allow her to fly off your palm

like a catkin, for good.

And don't put your trust in a harbor

that gets too officious.

An endless and harbourless vast

is what you must have on the brain.

If something should keep you pinned down

just get off the hinges

And go

on a lasting disconsolate voyage once again.

лWhenever will he come to reason?╗ Ч

some people may grumble.

You don't have to worry,

you know that one cannot please all.

The saying that лall things must pass╗

is a treacherous babble

if all things must pass,

then it isn't worth living at all.

What can't be explained

isn't really absolute nonsense.

So don't be embarrassed

by revaluation of things, Ч

There won't be a fall nor a rise

in the prices of our life since

the price of a thing of no value

remains as it is

...Now why do I say it?

Because a cuckoo, silly liar,

predicts

that I'm going to live a long life

Now why do I say it?

Well, there is an alder-tree flower,

a catkin, which, quivering,

rests on my palm as if live...

NEFERTITI

You may have doubts,

be persistent,

yet Nefertiti

was existent.

She lived a long, long time ago

with an Egyptian pharaoh,

she slept with him, he loved her beastly,

but she, in fact, belonged to history.

He suffered from the wretched feeling

that his possessing her was seeming.

He had

bombastic, pompous features

and made

incriminating speeches.

He thought of his imperial duty,

but Avicenna once asserted

that in the face of genuine beauty

a ruler's power is imperfect.

It made the pharaoh feel inferior...

at dinner

he would look austere;

thinking about it he'd frown

and throw the crumpled napkin down.

He had an army, troops and chariots,

while she had eyes and long black eyelids,

a starlit forehead, nice as heck

and an amazing curve of neck.

And when they floated in procession

the onlookers' all attention

was focused, which they were aware of,

on Nefertiti, not the pharaoh.

When he caressed her he was moody,

at times he'd treat her rather rudely

for he was conscious of fragility

of power, beside her femininity.

Meanwhile

the sphinxes

slowly faded,

beliefs were horribly collated,

but through events and through ideas

through all

that had deceived the ages

her neck stretched out, it appears,

until it's reached the present stages.

We see her

in a schoolboy's drawing

and on a broach on women's clothing.

She frees some women from foreboding,

she's always fresh,

and never boring.

And, like before, some feel inferior

beside the grace of her exterior.

We fuss about, full of care...

While Nefertity...

Well, she's there:

through cares, faces,

and whatever,

she stretches out her neck, as ever.

You may have doubts,

be persistent,

yet Nefertiti

is existent.

***
а

Should the clover rustle in the meadow

or a pine-tree in the wind should sway

I will stop and listen and remember

that I, too, will pass away some day.

When I see a boy, a pigeon-fancier,

standing on the roof, right on the brink,

I believe that death is not the answer,

dying is a ruthless thing, I think.

Death is what we ought to be aware of.

We shall perish but our world survives;

those who will replace the dead, however,

cannot substitute for their lives.

It was not in vain that I was trodden,

I have learnt my lesson, as I find.

What I bore mind I have forgotten,

what I did forget I bear in mind.

Now I know that snow is very special,

and the hills are greener, when you're young,

and I know that life implies affection,

for we live because we love someone.

Now I know that secretly I happened

to be bound to so many lives,

and I know that man is so unhappy

just because for happiness he strives.

Happiness, at times, is rather silly,

takes of things a vacant, flippant view,

whereas trouble stares, frowning grimly,

hence, its power of seeing trough and through.

Happiness is distant and unreal.

Trouble sees the earth in its true light.

Happiness has somewhat of betrayal,

trouble will be always by man's side.

It was thoughtless of me to be happy,

but, thank God, it failed me anyway.

I desired the impossible to happen,

and I'm glad it didn't come my way.

People, humankind, I love you dearly,

for a happy life as ever you may strive.

As for me, now I 'm happy, really,

because happiness I do not seek in life.

What I want now is the taste sweetness

of the clover on my lips to stay,

and I want to have my little weakness:

my unwillingness to perish right away.

***
а
а
In indiscriminate temptation

which fills our minds in daily life

one day, without contemplation,

we come to think that we're in love.

We later come at the conclusion

and see what we once failed to see

that our лlove╗ was a delusion,

it wasn't what it seemed to be.

But there are tremors in the line,

and the emotions are sincere.

We were deceived, Ч well, never mind,

the inspiration's always real.

It may dispirit us or gladden ,

if only it would come to pass!

It's not our sentiments that matter

but what they generate in us.

***

Do not tell lies to children, who are trusting,

do not convince them of a lying word,

do not assure them that there is nothing

except for peace and quiet in the world.

Do not deceive the kids, by any means,

by building for them castles in the air.

Don't try to teach them to believe in things

which we do not believe in, as it were.

He who deludes a child will make him isolated,

confuse on purpose honor with disgrace.

Let children see both what will happen later

and what, in fact, is going on these days.

A nice sweet lie is poison in the ladle.

Don't pardon puppies a mendacious whine.

and our kids will not forgive us later

for our being forgiving down the line.

***

You are big

and courageous at loving.

As for me, at each step I get shy.

I shall not do you harm, oh, my darling,

and I can't do you good, though I try.

I imagine,

you're leading me down

through a wood with no path and no way.

In waist-high wildflowers we are drowned,

I'm wondering:

лWhat flowers are they?╗

All my skills are quite useless and shaky.

I don't know what to do

and how.

You are tired.

You want me to take you

in your arms. There! I've taken you now.

лThere are birds in the wood,

can't you hear?

Can't you see,

the sky is so blue?

Now, come on,

carry me somewhere, dear!╗

Yes,

but where shall I carry you?...

***

You haven't given
all my letters yet

and haven't thrown out the trash,

but you're receding

like a floe

that breaks in two and crashes, in a flash.

A sinless woman, you're asleep,

and seem to be so close,

within my reach,

the grinding sound

of the deadly white starched bed-sheet fills the breach.

You are receding,

and I am frightened that you're doing it

as slowly as you can.

And like my soul

you're separating

from my body,

from a living man.

You're taking all away:

so many common years

and both of our sons.

And like the living skin

you're getting stripped,

ripped off my living bones.

The pain of separation

cuts to pieces,

rages,

breaks my heart and all,

with blood

along the crack of souls

which almost have been turned into a single whole.

This almost insurmountable лalmost╗

Ч may it be cursed and plagued!

How can

what has

or almost has been crucified

be saved?

Like a piranha,

leaving the skeleton behind,

with ease and skill,

have trivialities devoured

one more love, against our will.

Devouring

is contagious,

it is like plague, unsafe,

and love that was betrayed

commits a treachery

itself.

Some kind of howling thing,

puts out a claw

to catch at kids.

Love

is a monster

that hungrily its own children eats.

For banqueting

and eating up the best of years of yours

I bring apologies

and beg you, please,

don't eat me in response.

There is a trivial saying

that a woman has a present but no past.

I am your past,

so I do not exist

I am my own dust.

I'm filled with horror

carrying, my remains to the unfriendly bed.

It isn't easy for a non-existent man in our world

not to be dead.

My love,

I am your child,

revive me, if you please.

Do mold me,

from yourself,

from all remains

and

from nonentities.

You are

my future

my instantaneous and eternal star,

perchance, a loving one,

having forgotten how to love...

for good, by far?

INDIFFERENCE CENSORSHIP

We shouldn't wait for thanks from people.

Big is the coffin without flowers in it.

Filth will be washed away with spittle

when on the coffin haughtily they spit.

And yet we'd rather be disliked and envied,

than grab and have it for our very own,

or open mouth on the sly and strain it

attempting to suppress the sluggish yawn.

The censorship we had was like asphyxiation,

it's been kicked out, it appears, passed away,

but now we have indifference suffocation,

a censor much more frightening, in a way.

We're cheating ourselves, is it not silly?

It's been acknowledged for innumerable years:

a nation has at its disposal, willy-nilly,

the kind of literature that it deserves.

As dense as taiga trees is our ignorance.

Excuse us, Russian literature, don't

be strict to us... For our indifference

with your indifference do not respond.

а ***

My ma is getting old, to my dismay.

She rarely gets up at the break of day

on hearing the rustle of the paper heaps

with no consoling news she badly needs.

The air is getting bitter with each breath,

the floor is getting slippy like iced earth,

the kerchief on her shoulders, once so light,

is getting heavier, as if out of spite.

When she walks quietly along the street

the snow falls gently, softly, to her feet,

the rain licks, like a pup, her boots and gown,

the wind takes care not to knock her down.

And going through the restless times of late,

she has been getting lighter, losing weight,

and I am terribly afraid that someone may

blow her off Russia, like a fluff, some day.

How can I have the living water then

from mother's feeble footprint, to ease pain?

My darling, I should ask you, will you, please,

be like my ma, to some extent, at least?

***
а

Don't disappear... for if you go away,

transfigured, you will leave your own essence.

Once and for all your own self you will betray

and that will be dishonest, downright treacherous.

Don't go...You can depart quite easily, of course.

But you and I will not revive. We wouldn't.

Death has a an extraordinary drawing force,

and dying, even for a moment, is imprudent.

Don't go... Forget the shade in our way.

Love is for two. A third one doesn't count.

We shall be flawless on the Judgement Day

when trumpeters call us for account.

We have atoned for our sin... Don't say good-bye.

No one can censure us or make an accusation,

and we deserve to be forgiven by

all those whom we have hurt, with no intention.

Don't vanish... You can do it in no time.

How can we subsequently see each other?

And can there be the double, yours and mine?

Exclusively in our kids, I gather.

Give me your hand... Don't disappear, please.

You've got me on your palm engraved distinctly.

The frightening truth about final, last love is

that it's the fear of loss, not love, to put it strictly.

***

I donТt give up, although I do give in.

Of late I havenТt written anything,

and frightening dumbness, giving me the creeps,

descends to rest on my worn out lips.

But lying here in my bed I hear

the snow-storm whisper something in my ear,

I also hear in the snow-storm heave

the trams a-ringing, each over its own grief.

The bits of posters try to whisper, too,

the roofs attempt to shout a word a two,

the water in the pipes attempts to sing,

the wires mumble that they canТt do anything.

Likewise, the human beings, when in grief,

cannot tell others everything, to have relief.

When they are all alone they just keep mum

or mumble something as if they were numb.

IТm at my desk again, my work is under way.

It feels like giving them a chance to have their say.

To speak for others sharing their grieves, Ч

thatТs what the gist of self expression is.

CONFESSION OF THE POWER LOVING MAN

to L. Paley

Perhaps, all is power struggle in this world:

flirt, friendship, passion and a solemn word.

A rooster is engaged in power struggle.

The rule of nature is scientistsТ goal.

Without power struggle nature canТt but fall.

Over control of sand-box children wrangle.

Through centuries all poets, in the main,

have looked on power struggle with disdain

but tried with moral principles to bungle.

I do not want a post from anyone,

however, I am a power-loving man:

for power over peopleТs hearts I struggle.

THE LIMIT

All has its limits in this world of ours:

love, patience, heart and mind, and human powers,

as well as seeming endlessness of vastness.

You, poet, shouldnТt be tormented by

the limit of your strength and years that fly.

ItТs not a cause for shame and fussiness.

A scoundrel may sneer in your face

that as a writer you have seen your days.

You keep away from it, just donТt believe it.

YouТve reached the limit but youТre strong.

To say that talent is unlimited is wrong.

ItТs human baseness that has got no limit.

GRATITUDE

She said: лHe will be sleeping well all night╗, Ч

as she arranged her sonnyТs bed with care;

and as she clumsily switched off the light

her dress slipped smoothly down on the chair.

We didnТt want to talk about love.

She whispered something, slightly drawling,

and, like a grape, her лr╗Тs were rolling

behind her white teeth: down and above.

лAbout my life I didnТt care a bit,

and then, all of a sudden, it fell out!..

A worn-out man-like toiler, I turned out

to be a woman. Funny, isnТt it?╗

I thought I had to thank her in some way.

In search of safety in a helpless body

I found shelter, like a wolf at bay,

in snowy bed-clothes of my female buddy.

But, like a hunted down wolf, forlorn,

she talked my head off whispering in tears,

she was obliged to me, which made me burn

with chilling shame of her sincerest cheers.

I should besiege her with my rhymes of praise,

get shy and blush, turn pale and redden...

Instead, I have her thanks! What a disgrace!

A woman! thanks a man! for fondling! Heaven!

How could it happen? How can it be done?

Without thinking of the essence of the woman

we have removed her. We have brought her down

to the equality with the male human.

In human history itТs an amazing phase,

prepared by the vicious, crafty ages:

men have become somewhat of women nowadays

while women are quite mannish, poor angels!

My Lord! How ardent was her shoulder bend

that strained against my pressing finger-nail,

an how impressive was the way she turned

from an asexual thing into a female!

Then her transfigured eyes were plunged in gloom,

they flickered with the light of candleТs coolness...

A woman needs so little to assume

the reputation of the fair sex! My Goodness!

***
а

Many times I have been wounded badly,

crawling home, my soul and body stiff;

not that IТve been beaten angrily, Ч

you can wound one even with a leaf.

I have wounded some with unavailing

transient caress, alluring eyes,

and I know it can be very ailing

and as painful as the touch of ice.

Why on earth, do I offend my brothers,

tread on ruins of my dearest friends,

I, the one who easily wounds others

and the one whoТs quick to take offence?

а ***
а

For people I have greed,

my greed is strong indeed.

ItТs greed for employees,

a minister, a tender,

for their smiles and tears,

their wretchedness and splendour.

Like a young judge I would

conceal my final word;

I eavesdrop every man

and spy on everyone.

And to my great dismay

I havenТt got a chance

to see all right away

and hear all at once!

I want to be a little bit old-fashioned,

(or else I shall be washed away alive),

in order that the dead might not be bashful

with me, who knows the good old sense of life.

I want to be meticulous and simple,

polite and nice in good old manner, too;

but , being courteous, yet on wicked people

I want to have my own good old view.

I want to be refined, well-read and conscious,

mistrusting all thatТs pompously done,

and listening only to the voice of conscience! Ч

the good old voice will never let me down.

I want to be a green young man as ever,

remembering the lessons of the past,

and giving counsel to youngsters, like a clever,

wise, good old granny usually does.

And so IТm writing, lost in contemplation.

For me to tell you all and make it good

there comes the iamb, on transfiguration,

the same old iamb, that poetic foot.

AGE DESEASE

I've fallen ill. For once it's age disease.

I don't know how it came about but

when something happens to me it appears

as though I had already been through that.

Indeed, I'm sick and tired of hugs and rows,

I only hope it's transient and fleeting.

Some day I'll gape at something in surprise

the way a rustic gapes around in a city.

My life experience is like an armor plate,

so that a bullet, not just a pill, for certain

will hit another bullet, which to date

has been inside me as a painful burden.

Delight has flown in for light into my hall,

and, desperately shaking off its spangles,

dashes against my limpid armored soul

resembling a moth that in the lampshade struggles.

I can't restore myself although I try.

Love and all that my flesh has outgrown;

it makes my blood run deadly cold when I

feel that all this to me is not unknown.

Well, it's the same old age, and here I go

stepping upon the same old silhouette,

and snow falls, hissing, on my cigarette,

the same old cigarette, the same old snow.

The repetition is our payment for cognition,

and women are like cities, I suppose,

which I have visited on this or other mission

though I do not remember when it was.

I'm still alive, and I should like to have

the power of sensitivity and feeling,

but I repeat myself, when flying up above

or falling prone bump on the stone, all bleeding.

Is this the answer to the question raised

that life, where ample space is just a vision,

has got its limits while cognition is replaced

by the phenomenon of repetition?

Shall I blow up like an explosive or

fade out in a gradual transition

assuming I've already died before,

and die again -- which means a repetition?

WINGS

Ignoring mother's prudent urges

above the city noise, on high,

the little bird approached the edge of

the house roof amidst the sky

which lured with its blue spring colour

and booming winds that blew so high,

but where can one find magic power

to lift oneself into the sky?

It seemed that no such power was there,

but now and then it came in view

of little fledglings that would dare

jump off the roofs into the blue.

They flew up straight into the air,

up to the sun across the sky,

while it sat by, still unaware

that it had also wings to fly.

Shaking off doubts, all of a sudden,

courageous, daring it grew,

of force of wings so far uncertain,

believing in them, Ч up it flew.

***
а

They told me, somewhere in India

thereТs a church of pardoned sins.

A sparkling hoary road will lead there,

the road of ages, clouds, and things...

There come young people to the temple

for absolution to obtain,

and aged, wise, grey-haired people

plod on the temple to attain.

They walk a long way, in a flurry,

and stop in reverence by the gates,

smear their foreheads with some slurry

and wait till it comes off and fades.

I somehow mingled with the crowd

and shuddered at the sight of place.

And there I stood, my heart torn out

and holy slurry on my face.

But up to now I canТt get over it.

The clay has stuck like a burned brand,

I canТt remove it from my forehead,

I just canТt do it with my hand.

I run across the sleepy forests

where grass is hot, like in a dream,

across the villages and boroughs

I run around, shout and scream.

I see textiles, sea-shells, and rivers,

the interlacing roads and ways,

and everybody pokes his fingers

to stripe of stigma on my face.

а
а

Like the four points to a ship,

youТre my four directions.

I love you. My love is deep,

vast, immense

and spacious.

On the first, the closest side

youТre my dear wife and bride.

On the second, Ч

mark my word, Ч

youТre my sister.

On the third

youТre my daughter helping me

feel as young as I can be.

On the fourth side of my life

youТre my mother...

in my wife.

ANGER

а
а

I hear people say

with discontent:

л You are an angry man,

you might as well relent╗.

Once I was kind

but for a short duration.

Life crushed me down,

drove me to frustration.

I was a silly little cub,

a freak.

Slapped in the face,

IТd turn the other cheek.

Somebody cut

the tail of flabbiness

to make me angry

and get rid of humbleness!

IТll tell you now about

real anger,

itТs when you sit at table

feeling rancor,

hold staid and priggish

conversations,

use sugar-tongues,

your manners gracious.

But when you offer me

a cup of tea

I donТt feel bored,

I watch you carefully.

I humbly drink my tea,

giving the hosts their due,

and, hiding claws,

extend my hand to you.

IТd like to tell you more

about anger...

ItТs when they whisper to me:

лYou are younger

and less experienced,

youТd better write

and take your time, Ч

donТt fuss and fight╗.

But I do not give in,

I have my own mind!

For being angry with a lie

means being kind.

I warn you:

I have not just had my say.

And I can tell you

I am angry anyway.

IТm not as humble

as I used to be,

when IТm cross

life is more intТresting to me!

а ***

Great talent is alarming, alien:

turning oneТs head, making it hot,

it isnТt rather a rebellion

but the beginning of revolt.

And like a humble bear, really,

you joined the world, doing your best,

you were a rebel willy-nilly

because you were unlike the rest.

You fell the victim of a tangle,

you were a fighting-man for most,

and, following a bitter wrangle,

you were mysteriously lost.

You found shelter in your freedom,

and never were in someoneТs way;

it looked as though you were hidden

under the sea where you could stay.

And then, with pompous exaltation,

you were taken out, in years;

the world received with admiration

what youТd piled up beneath the waves.

But those who childishly as ever

believed in you in your bad times,

expecting your support and favour, Ч

to-day lament and change their minds.

You get along in peace and quiet,

youТre fond of being praised, extolled;

it shows that talent is expired

when itТs unable to revolt.

а ***

A genuine poetТs instant rhyme,

the burst of his poetic feeling

is the sensation of a crime

committed by a human being.

The guilt may lie with someone else,

and yet he feels he should repent it,

so closely with the human race

in bonds of kinship heТs connected.

Beside himself, he runs ahead,

away from fame and exaltation,

remorseful, yet he keeps his head,

defying self-humiliation.

A broken branch, a poisoned stream,

a grievous loss or, or devastation,

arouse the sense of guilt in him,

his guilt, not that of generation.

Hard is the world heТs living in,

his life is full of sins, so frightful;

to him a woman is a sin,

a gift that is beyond requital.

He always feels ashamed somehow,

which fills his head with pipe-dream notions,

he paves the way by sweat of brow

in vain attempts to clear his conscience.

And on the very final day,

which is to come by GodТs volition,

heТll say: л My God, forgive me, pray !..╗ Ч

without hoping for remission.

And then his spirit will depart,

passed paradise, into the fire,

absolved by God Almighty, but

a sinner, at his own desire.

When poetry is self-assured,

withdraws into its own shell,

it is disgracefully secured

against the lively noise and smell.

IТm fond of poems that resemble

a tale, chaotic and insane,

a clamour and a noisy Babel

and lively dance of snow and rain.

I like the kind of rhymes that feature

fruit boiling in a golden pan

and an amusing purple picture

of dragon-flies stuck in the jam.

I like the rhymes that walk about

like women stirring all along the line,

and when there isnТt any doubt

about life being divine.

ItТs nice when poets make some copies

of their own vivid selves,

IТm fond of Chichibabin Boris

whose Russian writ is on his face.

To me the poet is a sort of

my homeland, RussiaТs current saint,

his eyes, like wells of living water,

watch out, keeping me enchained.

I like a writer and a poet

that drains the cup of woe and plight,

I like it when his greatest poem

is he himself, in his own right.

October, 1993

SELF-PITY

а
а

WhatСs the matter, really, what is it?

I am scared, I am sorry for my wrongs,

I have got the feeling that a blizzard

is inside me whistling in my bones.

Snow is falling. Embers dying out

burn my feet, like in old childhood days,

and thereТs not a single light around,

nor a single porch, nor door, nor face.

I donТt weep nor scream for IТm despaired :

both the heaven and the earth are deaf.

The appalling thing is not that I am scared

but the fact that I have pity on myself.

I have eaten humble-pie repeatedly,

now IТll never let it come to pass!

What humiliates us is self-pitying, Ч

not when other people pity us.

I was told once by a fortune-teller

that IТd live in tears, which I hate,

I had pitied others while IТd never

taken pity on myself to date.

I have given way to weakness, I admit it.

Conscience-smitten, I have hung my head.

Now my first offence I have committed :

I took pity on myself, in someoneТs stead.

And I tell myself : лWhy all these tears?

You should ground your complaints or else!

You had better pity those nonentities

who have only pity on themselves.

It is nice to be self-pitying and humble.

Everybody wants to be a saint.

You should pity lawn grass when itТs trampled.

When they trample you, make no complaint.

Like a withered bank-note youТll be crumpled

but you wonТt be trampled anyway.

Actually, a man cannot be trampled,

only he himself can do it, I should say.

When youТre burnt, just clench your teeth, donТt grumble,

and be happy, Ч youТve got burns of love.

He who hasnТt seen much trouble,

always keeps lamenting his hard life.

Some get on, indulging in self-pity, Ч

what a shameful and disgraceful thing to do!

ItТs like touring a leper city

and complaining of a cold and flu.

Any victory is Pyrrhic, Ч you should know it,

thereТs no other victory, you bet.

If you pity your good self, donТt be a poet.

Poets seeking lenience are dead.

All your torments are of no importance,

once your mother earth is all in blood.

Your achievements, happy gains and fortunes

obviously, didnТt come too hard.

I would break my back for not being a horror

and for not becoming ostracized.

What comes easily to-day, tomorrow

will be over-paid and over-prized.

***
You must be capable of facing

the whims of time, and do it well,

when history keeps alternating

between stagnation and a whirl.

Your fear of times you should renounce,

or else the bounteous givers may

convey you to a cattle-house

and gag you with a wisp of hay.

The fear of time is a transgression,

donТt run your head into the noose,

but be prepared to lose possession

of all you are afraid to lose.

If all collapses for some reason,

and downfall you canТt foretell,

just say the words of little wisdom:

лWe must get over this as well...╗

THE SNEER

The stupid creatures take delight

in humbling those who are not stupid,

but donТt give in, just show your pride,

and sneer at them instead of stooping.

It happens, when a game is on,

and лheads or tails╗ decides the dealing,

the winner always is the one

who has a better skill of sneering.

The knowledge of a truthful word,

self-confidence and self-assertion

are more appalling than revolt,

rebellion or retaliation.

Feeling himself an ugly лapes╗

the savage murderer will shudder,

when a superior smile escapes

the wounded lips, like a light shadow.

ThatТs how a humble slave, perhaps,

might give a priest a smile of wisdom,

and thatТs what lead to the collapse

of ancient Hammurabi kingdom...

OUR LIBERTIES

Our liberties are

premature.

Amidst the outrageous strife

with Russian wisdom, I am sure,

theyТd somehow do in our life.

Our liberties are foes of freedom,

they are incapable of love,

they brought humiliation with them

of which weТd had more than enough.

Our liberties are sots and minstrels,

now they tell lies,

now talk like witless;

maybe, they cannot show their paces,

or, perhaps, bewildered and mislead,

unwilling to unveil their faces,

they show their naked backs instead.

Now what I want

is rather simple:

freedom for me

and for the people,

but I donТt want it to turn out

to be an ode with tragic sense.

Can freedom really be without

a human face, to all intents?

ROCKETS AND CARTS

The grannyТs cart should not be humbled,

ItТs done its job, the good old cart.

But very often Ч well, God damn it Ч

I see it in the works of art.

IТm far from being glad and jovial

at seeing my colleagueТs cart, Ч

his novel.

WeТve launched those super lunar cars,

while our operas are Ч

carts.

The spirit of old tarry settings!

What we expose are carts Ч

not paintings.

And, like a battering machine,

a cart crawls out on the screen.

You cart-admirers and your kind,

you have the cart-like scope of mind.

And what you really want in art

is not a rocket but

a cart.

Your art for diligence is heartened,

endowed with ranks, for glory groomed,

yet itТs as squalid as a cart, and

at times of rockets it is doomed!

THE SCOUNDRELТS ADVICE

The scoundrelТs advice

is devilishly humble.

YouТve done a lot of trouble,

you scoundrelТs advice!

Wild giggles, phony sorrows,

false sweat, deceitful eyes...

There are so many followers

of scoundrelТs advice.

You wanted to renew

your life, and be so nice...

Why did you listen to

the scoundrelТs advice?

How come you took it? How?

Why were you so unwise?

So your advice is now

a scoundrelТs advice.

а ***

Enchantment is a wonderful sensation.

But it can also be a menacing temptation...

However, we donТt care and donТt mind:

amidst the vanity itТs our revelation,

and we are save and happy since weТre blind.

We bravely put ourselves through our paces,

The sighted think weТre silly, but theyТre wrong,

we hold our heads and our enchanted faces

amidst the nonchalant and disillusioned throng.

We flee from the routine and daily cares,

from feeble skeptics and optimistic freaks,

we have a longing for some distant flares

transfiguring the world with gleaming streaks.

But disillusion brings about enlightenment,

and all the things around us all at once

appear before us in a different light and

take an new shape, quite unfamiliar to us.

We see the world unveiled, clear-cut and luminous,

without anything particular in view,

but it appears that this seeming truthfulness

is false, while what we saw before is true.

It isnТt wisdom, nor oneТs power of judgement,

nor life experienceТs doubtful pride,

itТs human fascination and enchantment

that show the world to us in its true light.

When we catch sight of someone on the way

towards a distant shimmering light, delighted,

we donТt think that he is a blind man anyway Ч

we tend to think ourselves to be shortsighted...

BEFORE WE PART...

My love,

can it be you and me,

as if worn out by a fight and illness,

not by a fight with our лenemy╗

but by a lasting strife between us?

Before we partЕ

(our sleeping sonny cries!)

Before we doЕ

(the wind, like crazy, rages outdoors!)

please come, just once, and look into my eyes,

look with the same old loving eyes of yours.

Before we part, as you now beg of me,

I ask you not to go for good advice,

to places

where emptiness pretends to be

a garden cherishing the moon, so лnice╗.

Before we part, as you now beg of me,

just listen to the sobs of ice at night, and

the blue will suddenly turn out to be

the green, which will transform into enlightenment.

Before we partЕ

Our life was outrageous! Bother!

We should be buried live for that!

When did we actually alienate each other?

When did we lose our ability to chat?

I hear you reply: лDon't call me "love"Е╗

It serves me right.

So I keep silent, but

I beg you in the name of our crumpled life:

my darling,

please before we partЕ

You stare at me, like lifeless,

in a trance,

I beg you on my bended knees

(I do not call you лlove╗ for once):

лMy dear old friend, don't leave pleaseЕ╗

I AM AN ANGEL

а
а

I do no drink.

I love my wife.

My own wife Ч

one ought to know it.

Indeed, I live an angelТs life Ч

to quote from Shchipachev, the poet.

This way of life has made me sick.

I shut my eyes to girls and women.

My shoulders bind me, so to speak,

I may have wings,

as if inhuman!

IТm at a loss.

My heart may break.

The wings are growing!

I canТt like it!

What I shall have to do is make

two holes for wings in my new jacket.

IТm an angel.

ItТs no joke.

Yet with my life IТm not offended.

IТm an angel.

But I smoke

for IТm

nicotine-dependent.

The angelТs life

is queer and hard.

You have no flesh

but only spirit.

There are nice women all around,

IТm an angel,

and they feel it!

They disregard me, leave me flat,

as long as IТm at heaven level,

but, mind,

it is a former angel that

will make the most appalling devil!

THE MONOLOGUE OF THE BEATNIKS

Our century has often told us lies

imposing them on us like tolls and taxes.

Our ideas spread, as fast as dandelions,

blowing in the wind of our realities.

And irony, with an implicit sense,

not so well hidden but quite clear,

became our reliable defense,

as powerful as a teenagerТs sneer.

It was a sort of dam, a bank, or weir,

that gave protection from the flood of lies,

and when applauding , our hands would sneer,

and our feet, when on the march, would smile.

TheyТd write about us telling our story,

theyТd screen our trash Ч we didnТt care a thing,

but somehow we reserved the right to allegory

and irony, in spite of everything.

We rose above the rest for we were rigid.

But take a careful look and you will see:

from our savior our irony transfigured

into the murderer of our entity.

Our love is hypocritical and reticent,

our friendship timid and of any size;

it seems to us that our present

is nothing but our past life in disguise.

We rush about life, and we appear

to be like Faust, guilty in advance.

And irony, like MephistophelesТ sneer,

as ever, like a shadow, follows us.

WeТd give it up, but we canТt work it out.

There is no way: our boats we had to burn.

WeТve sold our souls to irony, without

receiving lovely MargТret in return.

You irony have buried us alive,

we know the bitter truth, but we canТt help it;

our irony has managed to survive,

it laughs ironically, weary and decrepit.

***
а

When suddenly I saw you rise

over my miserable living

at first I came to realize

that all I had was void of meaning.

Your face, however, like the sun,

lit up the forests, seas and boroughs

and let me uninitiated man

into the world of magic colors.

IТm scared that there may be

the end of sudden revelation,

and tears and joys and admiration,

but I donТt struggle with my fear.

This fear is nothing else but love.

I foster it thought I canТt do it,

and, putting up with fears I have,

I guard my love from being ruined.

IСm bound down by this fear.

The colours wonТt last long, you bet;

for me they all will disappear

if, like the sun, your face should set.

THE THIRD MEMORY

We all have got the moment of

despair and miserable feeling,

when our life, having stripped off,

appears to be void of meaning.

Our heart will sink, depressing us,

but stubbornly we look for remedies,

like a sick person calls a nurse,

we call for aid our memories.

But sometimes weТre so torn apart,

at heart we have such a disturbance

that neither memory of heart,

nor that of mind can really help us.

Our eyes grow dim, our movements weary.

Our speech is dull, we donТt feel fresh.

But there is yet another memory

and itТs the memory of flesh.

Our feet recall the touch of dust

on a warm road of country route, and

the coldness of the morning grass

we used to tread on barefooted.

Our cheek well gently recollect

the tender act of consolation

when, after fight, our clever pet

licked up our tears of dejection.

Our forehead will recall the bliss

of kiss that lay upon it, blessing,

the quiet gentle motherТs kiss

with loving warmth of her caressing.

Our fingers will recall the pitch

of pines, the rye, the misty drizzle,

the trembling sparrow and the twitch

of horseТs withers in the mizzle.

Then weТll express apologies:

лI blamed you, life, with no intention,

remit my stupid anger, please,

like a most serious transgression.

The world is fine, and if I have

to pay for that severely,

well, let it be, itТs fair enough

IТll pay the price quite willingly.

But ups and downs of our fate

and our big or little losses, Ч

is it a high price to be paid

for all your beauties, charms and glosses?!╗

THE KNOCK AT THE DOOR

лWhoТs there?╗

аааааааааааалIТm Old Age.

ааааааааааааааааааааааI've come after you.╗

лNot now.

ааааааааааааIТm busy.

аааааааааааааааааааааааIТve got things to do.╗

I did some writing,

аааааааааааааeating.

аааааааааааааааааааааThen I made a call.

Iopened up the door.

ааааааааааааааThere was no one there at all.

Perhaps, it was a friend of mine?... Just playing?...

Or I just didnТt understand what She was saying?

It wasnТt Old Age.

ааааааааааааааааааMaturity came by

which couldnТt wait

ааааааааааааand left me

аааааааааааааааааааааааwith a sigh...

THE PALACE

There is some idea behind a fairy tale, and
I recall the dream I had long, long ago:
I sit on a sea-shore, IТm a daring fellow,
leaning on my axe, downhearted, feeling low.а

Our good old tsar had asked me to come over,
and he said the following to me:
лYou are poorly dressed, your clothes are patched all over,
and your shoes are quite worn out, as I see.

HereТs my word: you'll be a big man, quite important,
and I promise : shabby clothes you'll never wear.
Go lay out green gardens for me on water
and erect a white-stone palace there.

Come along, you footmen, get this daring fellow,
take him to the place along the bright blue sea,
if, by morning, he does not do as I tell him
he will lose his reckless head. So may it be!
а

Show him to the sea, and make no bones about it...╗
Gratified and reverent, I made a low bow.
And they grabbed me, holding tight, and lead me out,
and they brought me to this steep, where I am now.
а
I was broken-hearted, in a state of bother,
I just wondered what I was supposed to do.
Suddenly, I saw you burst out of water,
as a fair nymph you came into my view!
а

You looked at me, as if encouraging and cheering,
then you trod upon the surface of the sea,
and you stamped your foot... You were wearing
stylish boots with gold-embroidered filigree.

As you raised your beautiful black eyebrows,
pointing to the waves, they turned to a garden plot.
Then, you cast a pearl down on the ground,
and a white-stone palace sprang up on that spot.
а
I stood there, stunned and overwhelmed with wonder
watching you make islands, with a gracious smile,
playfully, from one ear, then from the other,
you withdrew a garden in a splendid style. а

You let out birds, laid bridges here and there,
then you said : лCalm down! Go and have a sleep╗.
Like a shadow, you slipped off and faded in the air
leaving me, for the time being, on this steep. а

In the morning I was roused by a hubbub sound.
Looking out I saw people stand and gape.
Then I saw a huge acclaiming crowd,
And they took me to the palace gate.

Our tsar is kind to me and always takes me welcome.
(though I know, of course, it cannot last for years),
for the present, like a worthy man, I wear a tail-coat,
and musicians glorify me, playing songs of praise. а

It does not occur to people, blinded by the marvels,
that the genuine creator isn't really me,
that IТve neither built that white stone palace
nor laid out those gardens on the sea...

ON TRANSLATION

A free translation is not a fault.

A loving man has a poetic license.

But if a melody is spoilt, Ч

It will corrupt its gist and essence.

The skill of cheats is not what I'm for.

I'm for the poet's right to free activity

The accuracy a wretched student strives for

Is not the same as that of creativity.

Do not let pedantry restrain your style.

More freedom, music, inspiration!

I do believe in poems, while

I don't believe in sheer translation.

THE BALLAD OF THE SWALLOW

It was day break. O'er the Lena a fir smell hovered.

The vast was blue, then red, chirps filled the air.

Sysoyev, the crane driver, had a bad hangover.

And he expressed his feelings with a swear.

He was engaged in lifting up containers

Onto the river barge called лDiogenes╗

The things that he was handling with for once

Were long black trunks and lilac underpants.

He was recurring to the wood. It had been damp

(With bottles, sprats and midges on the stump).

And the wretched red-haired girl, the marker from the site,

WhoТd wavered, shilly-shallying all night!

She strained beneath her dress, resisting,

When, after a great deal of drinking,

Sysoyev tried to resort to force,

She made an adequate response.

A village lass, a rebellious chick!

(Perchance, she did it with good intent)

She marked the worker's blatant cheek,

With a heavy slap of her peasant's hand.

Sysoyev had bad feeling, his spirit broken,

He thought he was a Hamlet, as it were.

He crushed the cardboard cigarette-end, smoking,

And again expressed himself with a swear.

As he was lifting up a pack of roofing slate,

(Couldn't they find a better place to store it?),

Sysoyev startled falling silent, in a state,

A cold sweat standing out on his forehead.

Over the cranes, the barges, high up in the air

Or right below the hook, to be exact,

A swallow fluttered peeping in despair,

A mother's cry over her child it was, in fact.

Sysoyev saw that he was shaking

A nest on the upper plate, about to slide.

A living, tweeting nest was swaying

Over the store-house at a mortal height.

It seemed, Sysoyev didn't care a bit.

For he wasn't sentimental at all.

But he took pity on the nestling and the bird,

HeТd been a foster child once, after all.

Handling the load with utmost care,

Without swearing and cursing now,

As if it were TNT or chinaware,

He put it down on the roof, and how.

Down on the site, in great surprise,

Or, perhaps, enchanted, very intently,

The wretched marker stared, all eyes,

Watching the hook release so tenderly.

Sysoyev had done it neatly and with grace,

And, with the crane rumbling high up in the skies,

He raised himself, and all the human race,

In the girl's green highly sensitive eyes.

And when he took her out again

Beneath her dress she didn't strain.

He didn't have to, as before,

To resort to force now any more.

She whispered: лDarling╗, her voice so pleasing,

What was the matter? He didn't comprehend.

He didn't realize: the swallow was the reason.

But he had saved the bird with no intent.

MOTHER

A mother, child in arms, is beautiful indeed.

But the little boy is striving for release.

A lovely dare-devil, an indomitable kid,

With golden chips curling round his ears.

As he absorbs his milk and soup and grated fruits

He reaches out for pickles, and sour foods.

And then one day, as solid as a church-house,

A snow-white tooth springs up in his mouth.

The motherТs happy, a lump in her throat,

When, her imperious ruler, occupying the pot,

Sits on that throne with a solemn air,

Czar Peter the Great, as if he were.

But where is it, that subtle bound,

When, wile on his face, the cunning boy

Pretending he is an innocuous toy,

Starts playing on his mom and fools around?

When making a hysteric scene

The little villain does it with intent:

He knows: by vexing mother heТll get anythinТ

And really gets it in the end!

If necessary, heТll make it with caress

Hanging on motherТs neck as if quite unawares,

While in his little mind a pharmacist is

Measuring off the amount of honey or tears.

The mother takes it all in real earnest:

The mutinies, pretended snivels, cries...

Somebody elseТs children can be dishonest,

As for her own child he canТt tell lies.

One day heТll suddenly tell a lie

And the most sacred thing in life will shudder.

The childТs dishonesty, like acid or like fire

Will burn the loving heart of mother.

We all start telling lies at one time or another

But no matter how many women we deceive,

At present or in future, I believe

There is the first deceived one: mother.