Аннотация: Bulat Okudzhava. Collection of Poems. Translated from the Russian by Alec Vagapov
Bulat Okudzhava
* * *
Unyielding, raged and free,
burn, fire, burn on, please...
Decembers tend to be
replaced by Januaries.
We've anything at all:
smiles, joys and everything,
one common moon for all,
one summer and one spring.
We'd live and go to grass
then, come what may, we will
for all the wrongs of ours
stand trial by ordeal.
We do not care, since
we know: when life is gone
for all of our sins
the reckoning is one.
Unyielding, raged and free,
burn, fire, burn on, please...
Decembers have to be
replaced by Januaries.
1946
***
I'll take a bag, a helmet and a ration,
a jacket of protective coloration,
I'll tramp about the streets, a barracks lodger,
it's easy to become a real soldier.
I will forget my daily cares and pledges,
I do not have to think of jobs and wages.
I'm playing with my gun, a barracks lodger,
it's easy to become a real soldier.
If something should go wrong, I do not care.
It's, so to say, my Motherland's affair.
It's great to be a simple barracks lodger,
an innocent and inoffensive soldier.
1957
The Last Trolley Bus
When I'm in trouble and totally done
and when all my hope I abandon
I get on the blue trolley bus on the run,
the last one,
at random.
Night trolley, roll on sliding down the street,
around the boulevards keep moving
to pick up all those who are wrecked and in need
of rescue
from ruin.
Night trolley bus will you please open your doors !
On wretched cold nights, I can instance,
your sailors would come, as a matter of course,
to render
assistance.
So many a time they have lent me a hand
to help me get out of grievance...
Imagine, there is so much kindness behind
this silence
and stillness.
Last trolley rolls round the greenery belt
and Moscow, like river, dies down...
the hammering blood in my temples I felt
calms down
calms down.
1957
* * *
You're not drunkards, you're not vagrants,
round the table of seven seas,
sing the praises, sing the praises
to my woman, if you please!
Look at her as if she were
your salvation in sea storms,
you compare her, you compare her
with a shore that's very close.
We are earthly, don't you tell us
Tales of gods, they're are not for us!
We just carry on wings of ours
what you carry in your arms.
You just ought to put your trust in
the blue lighthouse on the rock,
then the shore, all over sudden,
will emerge out of the fog.
1957
The Song Of The Trampling Jackboots
Now do hear the sound of trampling boots?
And do you see the birds fly off like mad
and women stare scrutinising routes?
I think you know what they are staring at.
Now do hear the sound of drum-beat bass?
The soldiers have to say their good-byes...
The squadron leaves to vanish in the haze...
The past appears clearly in the eyes.
What happens to your soldier's fortitude
when you return to your old neighbourhood?
It's women's trick who steal it from your chest
and keep it like a birdie in the nest.
What happens to your women, man of war,
when you come home and open the front door?
They welcome you and kindly let you in
but in the house there's a smell of sin.
The past is gone -- who cares about that!
We look into the future, for the light!
And in the fields the carrion-crows are fat,
the roaring war pursues us like a plight.
Again you hear the sound of trampling boots
and see the frenzied birds fly off like mad,
and women stare scrutinising routes...
It's our napes that they are staring at.
1957
The Happy Drummer
Get up early
when the birds begin to clamour,
when the caretakers turn up in the yards.
You will see the happy drummer
yes, you'll see the happy drummer
take his drum and maple drumsticks in his hands.
There will be another day of fuss and tumult,
streams of people and the rambling of a tram,
you just listen, you will hear,
and you'll see the happy drummer
walking lively down the pavement with his drum.
Night will come, -- the wicked plotter and the shammer,
streets will sink into the darkness, growing calm;
take a good look you will see, yes,
you will see the happy drummer,
walking lively down the pavement with his drum.
Roll of drum... now fading in, now fading out,
coming through the midnight, bustle, fog and hum...
Can't you hear the happy drummer,
make the loud rhythmic sound
can't you see him carry proudly his drum?!
1957
***
Here we stand, in desperation,
folding our arms in pride,
on the brink of separation,
at the threshold of a plight
where clocks with measured paces
stick precisely to their course,
and we keep our smiling faces
under lock and key, like doors.
Days of reckoning are close, and
time has driven us to bay...
We are nailed to our crossroads
in a careless, slipshod way.
1959
The Yard In Arbat Street
...Like songs, years go by very quickly.
I've changed all my views and my mood.
The yard is too small for me, really,
I'm going to leave it for good.
I want neither honours nor riches,
nor anything else for the road
except for my neighbourhood which is
the only big thing that I've got.
Into my rucksack I put it
preparing myself for the stroll,
the yard, not so highly reputed,
but with a human soul.
I'm kind with it, strong, safe and sound.
What else do I need for once?
I touch its affectionate ground
to warm up my frozen hands.
1959
The Paper Soldier
Once there lived a soldier-boy,
quite brave, one can't be braver,
but he was merely a toy
for he was made of paper.
He wished to alter everything,
and be the whole world's helper,
but he was puppet on a string,
a soldier made of paper.
He'd bravely go through fire and smoke,
he'd die for you. No vapour.
But he was just a laughing-stock,
a soldier made of paper.
You would mistrust him and deny
your secrets and your favour.
Why should you do it, really, why?
`cause he was made of paper.
He dreads the fire? Not at all!
One day he cut a caper
and died for nothing; after all,
he was a piece of paper.
1959
The Artists
Artists, dip you badges brushes in the visage
of the bustling Moscow yards and sunrise glaze.
so that brushes might resemble autumn leafage,
whirling leaves that fall
to mark November days.
Dip your brushes by the city's old tradition,
dip them in the paint of light blue colour tint,
do the painting with devotion and ambition
like we do the walking down Tverskaya street.
Let the pavement stir up as if coming round !
Let what hasn't started yet begin right off !
Keep on painting, it will pass to your account...
We don't care
if it hasn't quite come off.
You depict our lives and fates like fair judges,
paint our summer, our winter, our spring...
never mind that we are outsiders,
you just paint,
and I'll expound everything.
1959
***
Will you please be so kind as to pull down the blinds, and,
Nurse, you needn't prepare for me any dope.
Here they are, right in front of my bed, keeping silent,
My old creditors: Love and Belief, and great Hope.
Now the short age's son has to settle accounts,
But the light empty purses drop out of my hand...
Please don't worry, Belief, don't be sad, and don't frown
For you still have a lot of your debtors around.
In a helpless and delicate way, feeling sorry,
And touching its hands with my lips, I will say:
"Please do not be upset, mother Hope, do not worry,
for you still have your sons that are here to stay."
Open-handed, to Love empty palms I'll extend, and
I will hear its soft penitential voice:
"Don't be sad for the memory hasn't yet faded,
I have given myself all away for your cause.
But no matter whose hands may have ever caressed you,
And no matter how ardent your passions have been,
People's gossip has trebly paid off all your debts, so
You are even with me ... You are upright and clean!"
I am lounging, clean, in the fade-in of sunrise,
Right before the emergence of forthcoming day...
Three benign fair judges, three sisters, three spouses
For the last time they trust me till I can repay.
1959
* * * to G. V.
Darkness has covered the room an'
it's quiet and still as can be.
Good heavens! Your Majesty Woman,
you really want to see me?
Lighting is muddy in here,
the walls have a leakage trace...
Your Majesty Woman! Oh dear!
How did you get to this place?
My goodness! You came like a fire.
Smoke makes me gasp, I can't breathe...
Now do come in, I desire.
Don't stand in the doorway, please.
Where do you come from, my pretty?
How funny! I must be on edge...
You have mistaken the city,
the door, and the street and the age.
1960
The Old Jacket
to Zh. B.
I have a shabby jacket on,
It's rather old and quite worn out.
I ask the tailor to come round
and alter it before too long.
I tell him playfully: "You see,
the jacket needs an alteration,
the art and skill of dress creation
will bring the best of luck to me".
I say it playfully, in fun,
but he is serious, not laughing.
He worries fearing that something
may come amiss. A funny man.
He is exceedingly intent
on mending it, and seems to like it;
he wants the renovated jacket
to make me happy and content.
And this is how he sees the plan:
when he has done with alteration
I will believe in your affection...
But he is wrong. A funny man.
1960
The GRASSHOPPERS
Two grasshoppers putter, knitting their brows, in the grass.
Over them blue foggy clouds to all sides are flowing past.
Beneath them are purple flowers and some sticky golden burs...
Two grasshoppers are engaged in writing poems in blank verse.
The grasshoppers dip their pens into the clouds and white milk,
so that their lines of lyric may be visible, distinct.
They synchronically scratch their heads and move their legs with jerks.
but they do not let each other get a peep of their works.
Like a lady, running to them is a little creeping bug,
but they do not feel like petting, they don't care for love and hug.
Other tempting creatures, too, approach them wishing to seduce
but the grasshoppers don't see them, they are writing their verse.
They endure snowfalls, heats and drizzling rain week after week,
at the turning point the world gives an abominable creak...
Summer, winter, joys and sorrows, come and go, and in between
that creative work acquires a clear-cut prophetic meaning.
And, despite their resentment, down will go in history:
bread (a poem), life (a poem), line (the branch of poplar tree).
1960
* * *
I've sung all my songs.
I'm out.
So don't talk about it now.
Though, maybe, a line, or a sound,
has been left out somehow.
The wheels spin above and around it,
and though it can't swing at one dash,
naive and quite simple-minded,
it's eager to dazzle and flash.
There's still room for hope, oh my dear,
spread out your nice little sails,
you' are like a shell much too sheer
to sail through the city waves.
Wherever the waves cast you out
don't call anybody for aid;
there's no need to give an account,
keep sailing, do not be afraid.
You'll be like the instant picture
of silver midnight and yard,
a boy with guitar as a feature
of neighbourhood
in Arbat.
1961
THE SONG OF THE OPEN DOOR
When, like a beast, the snow storm roars,
when, in a rage, it howls,
you do not have to lock the doors,
of your residing house.
When on a lasting trip you go
the road is hard, supposing,
you ought to open wide your door
leave it unlocked, don't close it.
As you leave home one quiet night,
decide, don't pause a minute:
mix up the burning pinewood light
with that of human spirit.
I wish the house you live in,
were always warm and faultless..
A closed door isn't worth a thing,
a lock is just as worthless.
1961
* * *
All night the roosters uttered cries,
and swayed their necks like crazy,
as if they were reading rhymes
declaiming in a frenzy.
And in those cries there was the kind
of bitterness, aroused
by the unwanted man's defiant
appearance in the house.
Far-far away the crowing rang,
inept and unavailing,
like the caressing of a man
who has become an alien
when she's unable to caress
and chary of refusing...
And thus the night dragged on like blessed,
unending
and confusing.
1961
THE MAIN SONG
Wherever I go I can hear
the song that has turned me on,
the best one I heard over here,
I listen again to the song.
The singing requires more effort,
it's raw and unripe, in fact.
However, the music is perfect,
the lyric precise and exact.
Through times yet unseen and unknown
through transient tears and smiles
I hear a trumpeter blowing
the tune in the best of styles.
Unusual, light and so pleasant,
it whirls over roads in a spin,
this main song which up to the present
I haven't been able to sing.
1962
HOW I SAT ON THE TSAR'S THRONE
It's eighteenth century. The actors
play on a lawn, in open space.
I'm Paul the First, that is I act as
the Russian ruler of those days.
I listen to the sound of piano
and feel my head to music sway,
I raise my hand in regal manner,
but this is what I want to say:
"Away with finery and polish!
The brittle heels you should forget...
Parades and marches I abolish...
Roll up to visit bars instead...
Drink hard and make no bones about
rejoicing, marrying for fun...
Come on, grandees, have a look round!
Come on, cash down, everyone!"
And, menacingly, I am going to draw my rapier, in a rage... But I'm Paul the First, the sovereign. A mutiny I cannot stage.
I still can hear the music linger.
And once again I want to cry:
"My dear fellows, lift a finger,
you'll work it out, if you try:
we'll kick the hateful monarch out,
and spit upon gendarmerie,
I'm sick and tired of that crowd...
I'll take the lead... Just follow me..."
And, menacingly, I am going to draw my rapier, in a rage... But I'm Paul the First, the sovereign. A mutiny I cannot stage.
The music plays which I must follow,
and yet I am about to say:
"For your distress, your pains, your sorrow
I want to give my life away!
Don't be afraid of accusations
or you'll end up in a bad way.
I look ahead through generations, --
I'm quite aware of what I say!"
And, menacingly, I am going to draw my rapier, in a rage... But I'm Paul the First, the sovereign. A mutiny I cannot stage.
1962
The Song Of Moscow Nights
to B. A.
When all at once the sound of trumpet
resounds, yet unclearly heard,
the word impetuously flushes
escaping lips like a night bird.
And music, like a casual shower,
meanders rumbling up above,
the little orchestra of wishes
conducted by the force of love.
In years of partings, fights and battles
when rains of iron, steel and lead
came down slashing us like fury
so that no lenience we'd expect,
and the commanders lost their voices...
it came as power from above,
the little orchestra of wishes
conducted by the force of love.
The clarinet's crushed, the trumpet's pierced
bassoon's worn like a walking stick,
the drum has burst at seams collapsing...
the clarinettist's looking chic!
The flutist, like a prince, is graceful,
agreeable over and above,
the little orchestra of wishes
conducted by the force of love.
1963
In The City Park
The eyes of fear are big,
while those of happiness are round,
festivities and injuries cause wrinkles on the face...
They started playing Bach
as the conductor quietly came out,
and everything calmed down, and all was back in place.
So all was back in place as soon as Bach resounded.
If we did not have hope,
the world would not make any sense.
This vanity of line and wine and sign --
we would forget about it,
and for your first-rate fancy shoes
you wouldn't care less.
"It doesn't matter where you go
and where you tread the ground.
It doesn't matter if a fisherman
brings home big fish or small.
It doesn't matter if you're dead
or come home safe and sound,
and who assists you, friend or foe, --
you do not care at all..".
For goodness sake, we wish such things
would never happen. Never !
Perhaps that is the reason, maybe, that is why
the ordinary orchestra
plays with the usual flavour,
we follow it with ease or cannot do it though we try.
My dear musician, now you play,
and you are not aware
that guilt and happiness and illness disappear at once
the instant you, my dear musician,
dear clarinet-player,
just grip your instrument
in your tobacco-smelling hands!
1963
***
The tune swayed up and down, forward, backward,
reminding of a boat on raging waves;
the old street-organ playing in the backyard
presented me with sadness and great pains.
I was about to begin to cry
when suddenly I clearly made out
the happy, joyous and delighted sound
of a hilarious crazy note, oh my!
Though we are in a state of agitation,
confused by the disharmony of pipes,
but in the face of mortal inundation
we want to live.
We have no other rights.
All tricks and duperies of the intriguer
have given nothing in return for love...
...so many, many times I've pulled the trigger
but it's been nightingales that have gone off.
1964
My Portrait Drawn In Pencil
The squeaking pencils softly roll
for peace and quiet of my soul.
They squeak incessantly, with care,
but give a cry they do not dare.
My soul is burning , getting hot,
but what's a pencil worth? Yes, what?
Abiding by the rule
it will tranquil my soul.
...One final stroke, -- and there it is:
my drawn image, if you please.
I've been immortalized...
but I can't fall and rise;
my temples look unhealthy, dry,
although my forehead is quite high,
I stare with indifference
ahead into the distance..
What shall I call this masterpiece ?
"The Teacher", "Worker" or "Artiste" ?
"Numb Witness of the Era?" --
I'm not a rude believer.
I'm mortal. I am all aflame
while it's eternal in the frame,
a prize winner, it is...
...but it has got no tears.
1964
* * *
The word is instant, and life is short.
Where does man find his dwelling spot?
Where in the world, where in nature's lap
do the roses of his living soul spring up?
How does he manage to find a way
to keep to himself, and to have his say,
to sing his songs, walk around the world,
turn his heart from iron to gold ?
How does he manage a funny man,
on fairs of kisses and fuss and fun,
amidst flattery, shots and strife,
to pick out nothing else but love ?
A splinter will draw his blood to jeers :
"Did you want love ? Now here h it is !"
A slap in the face in the paradise :
"Did you want love ? Now here's your price!"
And yet he contrives, a funny man,
on fairs of kisses, wrangles and fun,
amidst flattery, feasts and strife,
to pick out nothing else but love!
1964
The Song Of Artist Pyrosmani
to Nikolai Gritsuk
What happens to the many
who dream about it all,
when artist Pyrosmani
comes our of the wall?
Out of simple settings
and boring livelihood,
he goes to sell his paintings
to buy himself some food.
He's thin and pale as ever,
but tries to keep his head,
the deer he paints, however,
look healthy and well-fed.
There's Margaret, the beauty,
lying in grass, at rest,
a mole stands out cutely
upon her open breast.
The world rejoices, bragging,
amidst the cheerful cries,
meanwhile he paints his Maggie
and waits till she arrives.
He cared much for life and
held it in high esteem...
but there was not enough of
soup in the world
for him.
1964
FRANCOIS VILLON'S PRAYER
While the world is still turning, and while the daylight is broad,
Oh Lord, pray, please give everyone what he or she hasn't got.
Give the timid a horse to ride, give the wise a bright head,
Give the fortunate money and about me don't forget.
While the world is still turning, Lord, You are omnipotent,
Let those striving for power wield it to their heart's content.
Give a break to the generous, at least for a day or two,
Pray, give Cain repentance, and remember me, too.
I know You are almighty, and I believe You are wise
Like a soldier killed in a battle believes he's in paradise.
Like every eared creature believes, oh, my Lord, in You,
Like we believe, doing something, not knowing what we do.
Oh Lord, oh my sweet Lord, my blue eyed Lord, You're good!
While the world is still turning, wondering, why it should,
While it has got sufficient fire and time, as You see,
Give each a little of something and remember about me!
1964
THE CIRCUS
to Yury Nikulin
This is not a park you visit to relax and meditate.
In a circus one has got to fall and rise, not sit and wait.
Sliding round, round, round right beneath the top
one must not have any doubts, think of something like a flop.
Dressing up for the occasion doesn't really mean a thing,
our smile is insincere, and it isn't worth a pin
in the face of purple plumes worn by the horses on the hop,
in the face of daring actors who don't fear but cherish hope.
Human Hope, you are a creature on the wing, you are so sweet!
Your old holy substance is amazing, beautiful indeed.
Even if we lose all hopes ( or we have never had such things )
you are great at spreading out your amazing magic wings
over circus rings and stages, over fairs, shows and balls,
over horror of spectators and alarm of know-it-alls
you appear as if risen from the dead, alive again,
to the eye of those who fall and rise, -- not sit in vain.
1965
* * *
To P. Luspekayev
Look here, your Majesty, Mrs. Separation,
I am feeling cold with you, that's the revelation.
Letter from the darling,
wait, don't tear it off...
Out of luck in dying,
I'll have luck in love.
Look here, you Majesty, Mrs. Alienation,
ardent was your hugging but with no affection.
In silky nets you're trying
to catch me, now lay off...
Out of luck in dying,
I'll have luck in love.
Look here, your Majesty, dear Mrs. Fortune,
you are good to some of us, to others you're a torture.
Nine-gram piece of iron
for the heart's enough...
Out of luck in dying,
I'll have luck in love.
Look here, your Majesty, dear Mrs. Conquest,
I haven't finished singing as you should have noticed.
Wretched things, stop lying,
don't swear an oath on blood...
Out of luck in dying,
I'll have luck in love.
1967
THE SONG OF A LONG ROAD
To V. Zolotukhin
You will forget your feast and
your loss, your joys and sorrows
the minute as the moon-disk
its track of travel follows,
the minute as the owl's
shade comes into your view,
the minute as the cricket's
romance engrosses you.
You let the fading beauty
stand at the door and watch us,
now proud, now malicious,
now deaf and blind, now virtuous...
What do you care about
her ardent arms in bed ?
My friend, let's disavow,
let's soar, my dear friend.
The wife will find another
beloved one, if she wishes,
some bad one or some good one,
like you, not very precious.
As for the road you're fated
to take it as your due,
it's like your like mother's tears,
eternally with you.
As long as it is night and
the carriage keeps a-rolling
this endless winding road will
suffice us both for roving.
Why should you beat your bosom
in token of remorse ?
You'll never find, my dear,
what you have never lost.
A pine begets sweet fragrance
the sky gives healing radiance
while meagre love engenders
a pallid child to parents;
as for the road that stretches...
as for the road that stretches...
as for the road that stretches...
1967
MY CITY IS ASLEEP
My city is asleep now, but I don't care a bit.
I was its baby-sitter, I was its little kid.
Its soldier and its worker, too, I used to be.
It always had the feeling of striking love for me.
Its helping hand it stretched me in an estranging way
remembering my week-days, but not my holiday.
And if I am to perish, and if I cease to be,
as it wakes up next morning will it remember me?
Will it send charming women late in the afternoon
to pay me their tribute, cry over me and mourn?
And yet I love it fiercely, I love it more each day,
and out of my love I model gods some way.
I don't need anything now, and I have no regrets
for there's my guitar and a pack of cigarettes.
1967
GEORGIAN SONG
To M. Kvilividze
I shall bury a grape stone in the warm fertile soil by my house,
and I'll kiss the vine twig and gather sweet grapes, my reward,
and I'll call all my friends to the feast, and love in my heart I will rouse...
Otherwise, what's the purpose of living in this lasting world?
Dear guests, come to table, I extend you my kind invitation,
tell me straight in my face the opinion of me that you hold,
God almighty will send me forgiveness for my transgression.
Otherwise, what's the purpose of living in this lasting world?
Dressed in purple, my charming Dali for me will be singing,
dressed in black, I'll sit bending my head without saying a word,
I'll be listening enchanted and I'll die from deep love and sad feeling...
Otherwise, what's the purpose of living in this lasting world?
When the sunset starts swirling and searching the corners around,
May the images float, as if real, again, may them swirl
right in front of my eyes: a blue ox, a white eagle, a trout...
Otherwise, what's the purpose of living at all in this world?
1967
The Old Students' Song
He who will dare our union mar
deserves e the most severe sentence,
I wouldn't give a grey guitar
for his damned life and his repentance.
So fervently the age intends
to knock us down with a feather...
Let's join our hands my dear friends,
we won't get lost, if we're together.
At alien feasts on festive days,
amidst the shaky truths and fairness,
before we hear the words of praise
we will spruce up and preen our
feathers.
While our stupid plume portends
a lasting journey, full of care,
let's join our hands my dear friends,
let's join our hands, friends, I declare!
When the partition day arrives
we will not covet bread for gratis
and we won't get to paradise,
instead, Ophelia will bless us.
Before the crucial day descends,
before we for the road prepare
let's join our hands my dear friends,
let's join our hands, friends, I declare!
1967
Mozart
to I. B.
Mozart is playing the old little violin,
Mozart is playing while his violin sings.
Mozart does not choose, for living, a motherland,
simply, he plays all his life, as it is.
Well, never mind, that's the way we are destined,
such is our fate: now we feast, now we fight...
Keep up your diligent efforts, maestro,
keep meditating and feeling inspired.
Somewhere around our last destination,
maybe, we'll thank our fate anyway,
only I wish that our homeland's transgression
wouldn't be turned to an idol some day.
Well, never mind, that's the way we are destined,
such is our fate: now we feast, now we fight...
Don't give up hope, hold it out, maestro,
keep meditating and feeling inspired.
Short are the years of our blithe adolescence,
off they will fly and disperse, in a flash...
Camisoles, cuffs, golden shoes, silver laces,
snow-white perukes, and a colourful splash.
Well, never mind, that's the way we are destined,
such is our fate: now we feast, now we fight...
Well, let it be, don't pay any attention, maestro,
keep meditating and feeling inspired.
1969
***
To Yury Trifonov
Let's shout and rejoice, admire one another.
About high-flown words we do not need to bother.
Let's live in mutual praise, make complimentary comments
For these are, after all, love's great and happy moments.
Let's grieve and cry without concealing feelings, whether
We're by ourselves or whether we're together.
About vicious tongues we do not have to bother
For love and sorrow always accompany each other.
Let mutual understanding attend us at conferring
So that we prevent our old mistakes recurring.
Let's get along indulging and pleasing one another
For life is very short, there won't be any other.
1975
* * *
Sound of trumpet over cities
made us weak, as tired as dogs,
we were on the run like sprinters,
and we hit the ground like rocks.
Just a set of keys and buttons,
valves, the beauty of the brass;
the explosion, like white cotton,
seems to be quite safe to us.
Just a single chord of tonal
notes of sound, long and short,
puts an end to the eternal
earthly life and common lot.
Shall we let the trumpet bravely
make its lovely loud noise
talking to us in a friendly
confidential tone of voice?
Golden, with the tint of ear,
reddish, with the tint of brass,
its rejoicing voice we hear,
to live and die it calls on us.
As if bursting into action
I'm following it again,
I, a tempted man of passion,
man of fifty, blind but sane..
Shall I disregard the sound,
feeling bad will be the best?..
Make pretence?
Or face about?
Tear it out of my chest?..
1982
THE MUSICIAN
To I. Schvarts
The musician played the violin, and I looked into his eyes.
It was not that I was curious, I was flying in the skies.
Not because I found it boring, I just tried to understand:
how on earth such sounds could be ever made by human hand
from a simple piece of wood, and from a string, a cord of a kind,
from a fantasy, ideas, he was true to, in his mind.
One at least must be aware of how to press the fingers right,
so that the majestic sounds might not vanish in the night.
He must also penetrate us, light a fire, burn our soul...
After all, why should he care, why should he spare us at all?
Happy is a home where violin puts us wise and bids us best,
give us hope and inspiration... We'll take care of the rest..
Happy is an instrument that to the clumsy shoulder's pressed,
now I happen to be flying by its magic music blessed.
Happy is the one whose path is short, who plays by sleight of hand,
the musician that has made out of my soul a burning brand.
And a burnt soul, as is known, (there's no doubt about that),
is more righteous and more fair, more benign, in point of
fact.
1983
* * *
After rain the sky
is so vast and clear
both the brass and dew
are as bright as day.
Sounds of flute and horn,
flowing, reach my ear,
the conductor is
up to fly away.
Brass-bands of the past
in my heart resound,
not the war time bands,
but from peaceful days;
vanished is the tune,
spreading all around
but the vocalist
doesn't show his face.
We have women here,
they are all dressed out,
and the cherry-trees
are in blossom now.
Taken by surprise,
maybe, we'll luck out
and we'll meet again
in the park, somehow.
But from bygone days
and from bygone hazards,
I complain, lament
and solicit, but
those nostalgic tunes,
splitting up in currents,
flow like somber, murky
streams into my heart.
(stage performance, 1985)
The Omen
If a crow flies around,
then a war is to break out.
If we let it whirl in flight,
if we let it whirl in flight,
then we're all to go to fight.
To prevent the bloody war
we just have to kill the crow.
And to kill the vicious crow,
and to kill the vicious crow
we must charge the guns of war.
Once we charge the guns, we will
want to go to shoot and kill.
Once we open fire and shoot,
once we open fire and shoot
stupid bullets will make good.
For a bullet all is one.
It will hit just anyone,
friend or foe, -- just anyone,
all and every singe one,
All and sundry, everyone!
Now there isn't anyone,
any woman any man,
there is nothing, there is none,
just a crow, all on its own
and no one to shoot it down.
1986
* * *
The music of the soul is flat,
the music of attack is loud;
but make no haste about that,
you may be wrong in making out
that music of attack is loud,
and music of the soul is flat.
The louder is the attack,
the sweeter are the lights around;
and that's the way it was, in fact,
when I was wandering about:
the sweeter are the lights around,
the louder is the attack.
It's been believed for ages long,
and up to now it's true as ever:
the louder's the winner's song
the bitterer's the loss and favour
for up to now it's true as ever
what's been believed for ages long.
We think it runs in our blood
it's not what we have learned or borrowed
the purer's the tune of love
the louder's the tune of sorrow;
the louder's the tune of sorrow
the higher is the tune of love.
(from sound recording, 1986)
***
I cannot gather birch-trees for a ball.
The firs are silent in a chilly chorus.
The cry of a cuckoo is rolling to the forest,
despaired, like a tiny little ball.
And yet I'm waiting for some words to range,
some precious words beyond evaluation
(it's like an actor's perfect estimation of someone's words
he brings onto the stage).
For hope will always have a happy hue,
reliable and sort of magic,
particularly so when you imagine
and see there isn't any hope for you.
(from sound recording, 1986)
Music
The clear notes of organ jolting
now two by two, now note by note,
and silky running knots of hangman's halter
are ruthless, tightening on my throat.
In front of me the music dances, supple,
and every little thing awakens and revives:
the guilty smile of speck, so subtle,
adorns the depth of her majestic eyes !
The night mosquito is as slim as hussar,
there is a woman, no one cares who she is,
(she holds a book of poems to her bosom),
an aged man goes down on his knees.
and every motion seems to be tremendous,
the dying twig is still alive and light...
I feel ashamed for all my small endeavours
and for the words that cannot be set right.
...it's power of music. You can hardly
dispute with it in such a simple way,
as if the trumpets were calling hotly
for a campaign somewhere far away..
The fast impetuous flesh of music scatter
and float and shout to somebody on the shore:
"Where are you off to? Does it really matter?"
What is it? Why on earth? What for? ...
Hell, aren't you sick and tired of this patter?
(from sound recording, 1986)
* * * to F. Iskander
Youth goes by, and very quickly, stealing our happy days.
What is fated to befall us will inevitably happen:
maybe, something great and wonderful will come all of a sudden
Maybe, something worthless, something vain will come in an embrace.
So don't save your love and kindness in a storehouse for reserve,
don't save charity and mercy for a rainy day. It's useless,
for your bitter futile efforts will be lost as vain and worthless
Early wrinkles will be all that you will have for all your nerve.
It's a pity youth passed swiftly, and old age is quickly spent.
All is plain to see and clear: injured soul and sweaty forehead...
But there won't be any riddles, any errors, grave and horrid,
nothing but the road that stretches, straight and even, to the end.
(from sound recording, 1986)
* * *
Tell me, what is the shipping route of your boat
to the very last day and with all its might?
When I breathe my last and I come to naught
you will ask me whatever I lived for, right?
I will stand the trial on Judgment Day,
with my soul in smoke and my head ablaze...
Where's my land? It's my home where I stay,
I'll assume all your sins, as an act of grace.
Through tears and wars, and through roses and grass
I have carried your sins on me all the way
Though my life has been playful and funny, per chance,
but somebody needs it, too, anyway.
(from sound recording, 1986)
THE LUCKY DEVIL
Alexander Pushkin is quite all right!
He's fine, he's made it!
The wheel of the mill is buzzing outside,
the pain has faded,
The nan peeps out from the hut near side,
there are larks up in air,
it's only ten minutes' ride
to the nearest fair.
Whatever he does he does it well,
his trade is exciting.
A thick-lipped man, he's learned like hell
and his quill is biting.
He'd been to Odessa and the Crimea,
he'd ride in a carriage,
he'd borrow money from near and dear
until that challenge.
Exceedingly quiet and polite at times,
tired of working too hard,
the cops would read his beautiful rhymes
and learn them by heart.
Even the tsar would kindly extend
his invitation,
he'd call the poet with the intent
to make conversation.
He loved beautiful women and girls,
his love wasn't "duly",
and he was killed, as the story goes,
by a handsome bully.
He wielded a witty pen,
to crackle of candle he'd scribble it.
He had something to die for then
on the bank of the rivulet.
(from sound recording, 1986)
Alexander Pushkin
to S. Shipachev
I cannot imagine Pushkin without snow a-falling
I mean the bronze Pushkin with a raincoat on.
When snowflakes fall from the sky a-whirling
it seems that the bronze softly clinks dong...dong...
I can't imagine my homeland without this sound.
It has taken root deep in its heart
along with his shabby worn green gown,
his walking stick and a quill in his hand.
Keep clinking, bronze. You'll get warm, keep clinking
Snowflakes, fall on his shoulders of bronze...
Some people carouse, some indulge in feasting
Pushkin, to a house-party he goes.
And while we are hurrying towards prosperity
giving up hope for glory and fame,
His Majesty's Guards arrange a celebrity,
and the guests are invited to table by Dame.
Everyone there, without exception,
is right in the face of the world and love.
Why are we cautious? That's not the discretion.
Can we be formal with our age? Not half.
Excitement is flaring on Pushkin Square
with chirping of trams, tears, smiles and all.
Now don't you be fussy! No fortune is there...
The poet really remembers us all.
(from sound recording, 1986)
* * *
Constructor, build a home for me,
I' m serious, no kidding,
around the house there should be
green woods with birds a-singing.
Please, build the house, loving me,
with shrewd deliberation,
and see to it that it should be
quite a unique erection.
Don't build it following a scheme,
but let it be non-standard,
build using feeling and day dream,
be genuine and ardent.
Just build it like you write a verse,
or like you paint a picture
running the risk for all you're worth
use sketches of your nature.
(from sound recording, 1986)
Pyrosmani, Nikolai (1862-1912) -- Georgian artist, primitivist, known for spontaneous, naive and poetic vision of the world, created majestic paintings characterized by strict composition and austere colouring.
VillonFranзois. 1431-1463?. French poet. His satirical lyrics are contained in Le Petit Testament (c. 1456) and Le Testament (c. 1461).