Your name – how impossible, it
is a kiss in the eyes on
motionless eyelashes, chill and sweet.
Your name is a kiss of snow
a gulp of icy spring water, blue
as a dove. About your name is: sleep.
1916
2
Tender – spectre
blameless as a knight, who
has called you into
my adolescent life?
In blue dark, grey
and priestly, you
stand here, dressed in snow.
And it’s not the wind
that drives me through the town now.
No, this is the third
night I felt the old enemy.
With light blue eyes his
magic has bound
me, that snowy singer:
swan of snow, under
my feet he spreads his feathers.
Hovering feathers,
slowly they dip in the snow.
Thus upon feathers
I go, towards the door
behind which is: death.
He sings to me
behind the blue windows.
He sings to me
as jewelled bells.
Long is the shout from
his swan’s beak as
he calls.
Dear spectre of
mist I know this is dreaming,
so one favour now, do
for me, amen: of dispersing.
Amen, amen.
1916
3
You are going – west of the sun now.
You will see there – evening light.
You are going – west of the sun and
snow will cover up your tracks.
Past my windows – passionless
you are going in quiet snow.
Saint of God, beautiful, you
are the quiet light of my soul
but I do not long for your spirit.
Your way is indestructible.
And your hand is pale from holy
kisses, no nail of mine.
By your name I shall not call you.
My hands shall not stretch after you
to your holy waxen face I shall
only bow – from afar
standing under the slow falling snow, I shall
fall to my knees – in the snow.
In your holy name I shall only
kiss that evening snow
where, with majestic pace you
go by in tomb-like quiet,
the light of quiet – holy glory
of it: keeper of my soul.
1916
5
At home in Moscow – where the domes are burning,
at home in Moscow – in the sound of bells,
where I live the tombs – in their rows are standing
and in them Tsaritsas – are asleep and Tsars.
And you don’t know how – at dawn the Kremlin is
the easiest place to – breathe in the whole wide earth
and you don’t know when – dawn reaches the Kremlin
I pray to you until – the next day comes
and I go with you – by your river Neva
even while beside – the Moscow river
I am standing here – with my head lowered
and the line of street lights – sticks fast together.
With my insomnia – I love you wholly.
With my insomnia – I listen for you,
just at the hour throughout – the Kremlin, men
who ring the bells – begin to waken.
Still my river – and your river
still my hand – and your hand
will never join, or not until
one dawn catches up another dawning.
1916
8
And the gadflies gather about indifferent cart-horses,
the red calico of Kaluga puffs out in the wind,
it is a time of whistling quails and huge skies,
bells waving over waves of corn, and more
talk about Germans than anyone can bear.
Now yellow, yellow, beyond the blue trees is a
cross, and a sweet fever, a radiance over
everything: your name sounding like angel.
9
A weak shaft of light through the blackness of hell is
your voice under the rumble of exploding shells
in that thunder like a seraph he is announcing
in a toneless voice, from somewhere else, some
ancient misty morning he inhabits, how he
loved us, who are blind and nameless who
share the blue cloak of sinful treachery
and more tenderly than anyone loved the woman who
sank more daringly than any into the night of evil,
and of his love for you, Russia, which he cannot end.
And he draws an absent-minded finger along
his temple all the time he tells us of
the days that wait for us, how God will deceive us.
We shall call for the sun and it will not rise.
He spoke like a solitary prisoner
(or perhaps a child speaking to himself)
so that over the whole square the sacred
heart of Alexander Blok appeared to us.
1920
6
Thinking him human they
decided to kill him, and
now he’s dead. For ever.
– Weep. For the dead angel.
At the day’s setting, he
sang the evening beauty.
Three waxen lights now
shudder superstitiously
and lines of light, hot
strings across the snow come from him.
Three waxen candles.
To the sun. The light-bearer.
O now look how
dark his eyelids are fallen,
O now look how
his wings are broken.
The black reciter reads.
The people idly stamp.
Dead lies the singer, and
celebrates resurrection.
1916
10
Look there he is, weary from foreign parts,
a leader without body-guard
there – he is drinking a mountain stream from his hands
a prince without native land.
He has everything in his holy princedom there
Army, bread and mother.
Lovely is your inheritance.
Govern, friend without friends.
1921
A kiss on the head
A kiss on the head – wipes away misery.
I kiss your head.
A kiss on the eyes – takes away sleeplessness.
I kiss your eyes.
A kiss on the lips – quenches the deepest thirst.
I kiss your lips.
A kiss on the head – wipes away memory.
I kiss your head.
1917
from SWANS’ ENCAMPMENT
Little mushroom, white Bolitus,
my own favourite
The field sways, a chant of ‘Rus’
rises over it.
Help me, I’m unsteady on my feet.
This blood-red is making my eyes foggy.
On either side, mouths lie
open and bleeding, and from
each wound rises a cry:
– Mother!
One word is all I hear, as
I stand dazed. From someone
else’s womb into my own:
– Mother!
They all lie in a row,
no line between them,
I recognise that each one was a soldier.
But which is mine? Which one is another’s?
This man was White now he’s become Red.
Blood has reddened him.
This one was Red now he’s become
White.
Death has whitened him.
– What are you? White? – Can’t understand!
– Lean on your arm!
Have you been with the Reds?
– Ry -azan.
And so from right and left
Behind ahead
together, White and Red, one cry of
– Mother!
Without choice. Without anger.
One long moan. Stubbornly.
A cry that reaches up to heaven,
– Mother!
1917–21
Yesterday he still looked in my eyes
Yesterday he still looked in my eyes, yet
today his looks are bent aside. Yesterday
he sat here until the birds began, but
today all those larks are ravens.
Stupid creature! And you are wise, you
live while I am stunned.
Now for the lament of women in all times:
– My love, what was it I did to you?
And tears are water, blood is water,
a woman always washes in blood and tears.
Love is a step-mother, and no mother:
then expect no justice or mercy from her.
Ships carry away the ones we love.
Along the white road they are taken away.
And one cry stretches across the earth:
– My love, what was it I did to you?
Yesterday he lay at my feet. He even
compared me to the Chinese empire! Then
suddenly he let his hands fall open, and
my life fell out like a rusty kopeck.
A child-murderer, before some court
I stand loathsome and timid I am.
And yet even in Hell I shall demand:
– My love, what was it I did to you?
I ask this chair, I ask the bed: Why?
Why do I suffer and live in penury?
His kisses stopped. He wanted to break you.
To kiss another girl is their reply.
He taught me to live in fire, he threw me there,
and then abandoned me on steppes of ice.
My love, I know what you have done to me.
– My love, what was it I did to you?
I know everything, don’t argue with me!
I can see now, I’m a lover no longer.
And now I know wherever love holds power
Death approaches soon like a gardener.
It is almost like shaking a tree, in time
some ripe apple comes falling down. So
for everything, for everything forgive me,
– my love whatever it was I did to you.
1920
To Mayakovsky
High above cross and trumpet
baptised in smoke and fire
my clumsy-footed angel –
Hello there, Vladimir!
Carter and horse at once
justice and whim together.
He used to spit on his palms –
Hold on, carthorse of glory!
Singer of gutter miracles,
grubby, arrogant friend –
Hullo there, you who prefer
topaz to diamond!
Now yawn, play your trump card
my thunderbolt of cobbles,
and rake this horse’s shaft
once more with your angel wing.
1921
ON A RED HORSE
No Muse – I had no Muse
to sing by my shabby cradle,
no Muse to warm my hands
or cool my feverish eyelids.
No Muse – combed the hair from my face,
No Muse – led me into the fields.
There was no Muse. No braids,
no beads, no fables – only
tufts of brown hair cut
short over male eyebrows:
a figure in full armour.
A sultan.
He did not lean over my lips.
He did not bless me at bedtime,
still less, grieve with me over
a broken doll. Instead,
he set all my birds free.
On a red horse, he rode off
with pitiless spurs over
navy blue mountains
into a thundering blizzard.
*
Firemen! – A scream
wide as the blaze – Firemen!
Is that our house burning? –
No, a soul is on fire!
Loudly, the tongue of alarm bells
swings backward and forward –
a soul makes a huge fire –
Firemen! My soul is burning
in a dance of fierce beauty,
red torches woven together.
Applause – screams – whistles.
A roar as sparks scatter.
I am lost in a dream
and can’t wake up. I’m only
wearing a nightdress –
ankle length – and a necklace.
Listen to the flames howl,
and the sound of glass shattering.
Our eyes are glowing orbs.
We are burning burning burning.
Firemen! Who cries arson?
Who wants the fire to go out?
I long for these supporting
girders to collapse.
But what is being destroyed here?
Not columns, but desperate hands,
small hands held up to the sky –
I recognise my doll.
Who races in at a gallop?
Who jumps off a red horse?
With a haughty glance at me,
he enters the red house.
Another cry. Louder still.
A cry, and a thunderous blow
He holds up the doll like a shell
And rises like fire itself.
Like the Tsar, among surging flames
he declares with a frown: I saved her
for you. Now smash her…
Let your love go.
And has the world collapsed?
What approaches through the blizzard?
Two arms – stretched after the horse –
The girl – without – her doll.
*
An evil moon through the window:
I am dreaming again.
My lover and I stand close
in a deep embrace. Below us,
the noisy flow of a river.
The foam reaches up to our feet.
Speechless in our embrace
we observe the splashing foam.
I – am all his harems.
He – all my knightly heroes.
We stand, closely holding each other.
Side by side, hand in hand,
The foam reaches our feet.
Then I suddenly ask him to swear
that if I should drop a flower
or a scarf, from the bridge,
he would dive into the river…
To my horror, he does so at once.
I am left on the bridge, shaking,
My blood moans as I see
in terror – dumbly – watching:
my whole life drowning with him.
Now who with the sweep of a cloak
has thrown me up in the air?
Who is it – splashed with red –
throws me into a fire?
With a splash, and triumphant cry
in a smooth jump out of the water
he rises like the river itself
with a body in his arms
like a Tsar in the midst of the surges
he rises to say with a frown
I saved him for you. Now kill him!
Let your love go!
And now what moves in the blizzard?
Two arms – stretching – after
the man on a red horse.
The girl – without – her lover.
*
Now through the window crack
I dream another dream
.
Darkness over a track,
and I am with my son.
The blood congeals in my veins.
Let some guide lead us on!
Be brave, my child, the spirit
of the mountain is single.
Only eagles, and Dawn here
– while there are two of us.
A whirlwind! Gods would turn back.
Eagles would be afraid. But
my firstborn inches higher.
We shall reach the heights together.
That’s why I had a son, in pain,
in the dust of the earth, so that
from under an eagle’s wing
this should be mine – God’s thunder.
Black height. Barren slope.
Handholds for small hands.
Is that Zeus above us in his cot
holding an eagle?
Laughter – a violent splash.
Some creature with wings and claws.
Who is pursuing me – with lightning
and eagle thunder?
A hoarse roar splits wide open
The stony breast of the mountain.