And of all the things you did, the wisest
was that all day long till night would fall
you were always able to protect me
from myself, most dangerous of all.
March 1960
612. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). В лесу[273]
Hot as a bonfire is the summer noon,
but in this wood relief awaits you still,
the morning freshness will not leave it soon,
and it is all suffused with early chill.
Stay for a while. Sit in the nut-grove bower
upon this hidden moss-grown stump, and hear,
while drinking in the languor of the hour,
the wondrous tale unfolding for your ear.
A leaf is wafted to the mossy ground;
fragrant, the little mushrooms upward reach;
a sigh, a rustle, whisperings… the sound,
insatiable, of creation's speech.
28 Feb. 1961
613. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). Всевышнему[274]
By the starry sky and my own soul
You proclaim that You indeed exist.
As an infant blind from the beginning,
never having known his mother's face,
yet remembers whispering and singing,
hands caressing tenderly and bringing
gentle warmth and never-ending grace,
so do I, not having ever seen You,
know You, feel Your breath from where I stand,
hear Your song, Your whisper understand,
and against all human earthly reason
recognize the warmth that is Your hand.
13 Mar. 1961
614. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). Наш мир[275]
Of course, it's fair! Not in the present
the end of which it cannot see
and not in that which it bewails
or does not have the strength to be.
But in the changing succession
of suddenly bedazzled days,
its gift of momentary gladness
the transient kindness of its ways.
So all around us, and forever:
under a dagger's constant aim
people will kiss and gather flowers
and build their houses just the same.
In spite of all the grief of partings,
of all the hands wrung in despair,
of all premeditated falsehood,
it still will be forever fair!
17 July 1965
615. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). Звезды[276]
Children are taught in textbooks
that stars are so far away —
I somehow never believed them,
those things they used to say.
I used to love as a child
to stay awake in bed:
and stars would ever so lightly
rain tinkling round my head.
From the blackened boughs of chestnuts
I would shake them down to the sand,
and, filling my pockets with them,
could buy the wealth of the land.
Since then I've been mean and stingy,
— oh heart! — but, forsaking youth,
I never forgot, growing older,
my childhood's merry truth.
We live low down on the ground
and the sky is so far, and yet —
I know that the stars are near us
and can be easily met.
15 June 1967
616. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). «Вот стоишь, такая родная…»[277]
In your plain little coat and kerchief,
so familiar and dear, you stand,
the key to our promised heaven
you hold in your empty hand.
Let's set out once again together!
The hills ever darker grow.
Does it matter that we are tired?
We've so little left to go.
If only we're never parted
in the lonely course of our fate,
if we only have strength together
to reach the Highest Gate!
Once again, let us bless each other
as we used to, and never fear —
they will let us enter together,
that's long been decided, dear.
July 1967
617. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). «Легкокрылым гением ведомы…»[278]
Guided by some lightly winging spirit
far beyond the sea the birds have flown.
On this dark and bleak November morning,
why do you and I stay home alone?
Maybe we should follow — take a knapsack,
staff and flask, some good and trusted books,
and pursue the swiftly flying swallows
over woods and meadowlands and brooks?
Only those who linger are un able
to partake of joys on Earth arrayed.
Every turnpike, boundary and barrier
we would pass, unseen and unafraid.
Surely then, at break of day tomorrow
you and I would reach the rosy haze
over gleaming rocks and crested breakers,
slender palms, and golden blessed days!
And as surely, to the fullest measure,
we who dared would be repaid indeed
for the grain of utter faith within us,
for that single mustard seed!
[1960s]
618. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). Царскосельские стихи[279]
When I was a boy I used to be your friend,
beautiful town of parks and lonely statues,
dense lilac groves and empty palaces, —
you hadn't yet been visited by grief.
Your Gumileff was still a carefree youth,
Akhmatova — a schoolgirl and in love,
and Innokenti Annensky had not
died suffocating at your railroad station;
even your Pushkin used to seem to me
not dead, but living, not yet grown up,
but just another of my noisy classmates.
вернуться
275
From the collection
вернуться
279
First part of a poem from the collection