Poets Translate Poets: A Hudson Review Anthology (34 page)

Summer 1957

Komarov

Could Beatrice like Dante have conceived,

Or Petrarch’s Laura glorifi ed love’s heat?

I have instructed womankind to speak . . .

But, God, now how to make them hold their peace!

Jennifer Reeser, 2012

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Osip M a ndel sta m
(1891–1938)

“Insomnia. Homer. Taut sails.”

Insomnia. Homer. Taut sails.

I’ve read down the ships to the middle of the list:

the strung-out fl ock, the stream of cranes

that once rose above Hellas.

Flight of cranes crossing strange borders,

leaders drenched with the foam of the gods,

where are you sailing? What would Troy be to you,

men of Achaea, without Helen?

Th

e sea—Homer—it’s all moved by love. But to whom

shall I listen? No sound now from Homer,

and the black sea roars like a speech

and thunders up the bed.

Tristia

I have studied the science of good-byes,

the bare-headed laments of night.

Th

e waiting lengthens as the oxen chew.

In the town the last hour of the watch.

And I have bowed to the knell of night in the rooster’s throat

when eyes red with crying picked up their burden

of sorrow and looked into the distance

and the crying of women and the Muses’ song became one.

Who can tell from the sound of the word “parting”

what kind of bereavements await us,

what the rooster promises with his loud surprise

when a light shows in the acropolis,

dawn of a new life

the ox still swinging his jaw in the outer passage,

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or why the rooster, announcing the new life,

fl aps his wings on the ramparts?

A thing I love is the action of spinning:

the shuttle fl uttering back and forth, the hum of the spindle,

and look, like swan’s down fl oating toward us,

Delia, the barefoot shepherdess, fl ying—

o indigence at the root of our lives,

how poor is the language of happiness!

Everything’s happened before and will happen again,

but still the moment of each meeting is sweet.

Amen. Th

e little transparent fi gure

lies on the clean earthen plate

like a squirrel skin being stretched.

A girl bends to study the wax.

Who are we to guess at the hell of the Greeks?

Wax for women, bronze for men:

our lot falls to us in the fi eld, fi ghting,

but to them death comes as they tell fortunes.

“We shall meet again, in Petersburg,”

We shall meet again, in Petersburg,

as though we had buried the sun there,

and then we shall pronounce for the fi rst time

the blessed word with no meaning.

In the Soviet night, in the velvet dark,

in the black velvet Void the loved eyes

of blessed women are still singing,

fl owers are blooming that will never die.

Th

e capital hunches like a wild cat,

a patrol is stationed on the bridge,

a single car rushes past in the dark,

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snarling, hooting like a cuckoo.

For this night I need no pass.

I’m not afraid of the sentries.

I will pray in the Soviet night

for the blessed word with no meaning.

A rustling, as in a theater,

and a girl suddenly crying out,

and the arms of Cypris are weighed down

with roses that will never fall.

For something to do we warm ourselves at a bonfi re,

maybe the ages will die away

and the loved hands of blessed women

will brush the light ashes together.

Somewhere audiences of red fl owers exist,

and the fat sofas of the loges,

and a clockwork offi

cer

looking down on the world.

Never mind if our candles go out

in the velvet, in the black Void. Th

e bowed shoulders

of the blessed women are still singing.

You’ll never notice the night’s sun.

“Armed with the sight of the fi ne wasps”

Armed with the sight of the fi ne wasps

sucking at the earth’s axis, the earth’s axis,

I recall each thing that I’ve had to meet,

I remember it by heart, and in vain.

I do not draw or sing

or ply the dark-voiced bow.

I make a little hole in life. How I envy

the strength and cunning of the wasps!

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Oh if only once the sting of the air and the heat

of summer could make me hear

beyond sleep and death

the earth’s axis, the earth’s axis.

W. S. Merwin and Clarence Brown, 1972

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M a r in a Ts v eta e va
(1892–1941)

Poem of the End

Prague, February 1—Illovishchi, June 8, 1924

1

In the sky, rustier than tin,

A fi nger, a pole.

Risen in our appointed place,

Like fate.

—
Quarter to. Right?

—
Death wouldn’t have waited.

Smooth. Exaggerated.

He tosses his hat.

In every eyelash—challenge.

His mouth—clenched.

Low. Exaggerated.

He bows to me.

—
Quarter to. Sharp?

His voice rings false.

My heart sinks: what’s wrong?

Brain speaks: watch out!

Sky of ugly portents:

Rust and tin.

He’s waited at our usual place.

It’s six.

Our kiss is soundless:

Stuporous lips.

As one might kiss the hand

Of a queen or corpse . . .

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Some hurrying idiot

Shoves an elbow—into my side.

Boring. Exaggerated.

Some siren begins to wail.

And wails,—like a howling dog,

Long-drawn, raging.

(Th

e exaggeration of life

At the point of death.)

What yesterday rose to my waist

Is risen—beyond the stars.

(Is exaggerated, that is:

At fl ood-stage.)

To myself: darling, darling.

—
What time is it? Past six.

To the cinema, or? . . .
—

His explosion:
Home!

2

Wandering tribe,—

See where this brought us!

Th

under over our heads,

A drawn sword,

All the ghastly

Words, lying in ambush,

Like a house collapsing—

One word:
Home
.

Wail of a lost, spoilt

Child:
home!

A one-year-old’s grunting:

Give me
and
mine!

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My friend in dissipation,

My chill and fever,

Much as others long to stray,

You want to go there!

Like a horse, jerking its tether—

Up!—so the rope breaks.

—
Th

ere’s no house, is there?!

—
Th

ere is,—ten steps more:

A house on the hill.—Any higher?

—A house on top of the hill.

A window set under the eaves.

—“Lit, and not by a single morning’s

Sun?” Th

en, back to life, again?

—Th

at would be the simplicity of poetry!

House, that means:
out-of-the-house

Into the night.

(O, to whom shall I breathe

My sorrow, my misfortune,

My terror, greener than ice? . . . )

—
You’ve thought too much
.—

A thoughtful reply:—
Yes
.

3

Th

en—the embankment. I follow

Th

e water’s edge, as if it were solid and thick.

Semiramis’ hanging gardens—

So this—is where you are!

Th

e water’s—a steely strip,

Th

e color of a corpse—

Which I follow, as a singer

Follows her sheet music, as one blind

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Follows the edge of a wall—
Come back!?

No?
If I crouch—will you listen?

To the quencher of all thirsts

I cling, like a lunatic

To a gutter . . .

And I’m not shivering

From the river—for I was born Naiad!

To follow the river, as if it were your hand,

Of a lover, walking beside me—

And faithful . . .

Th

e dead are faithful.

Yes, but not everyone dies in a squalid room . . .

Death to the left , and to the right—

You. My right side numb, as if it were dead.

Shaft of stunning light.

Laugh, like a cheap tambourine.

—You and I need to . . .

(Shivering.)

—Will we have the courage?

4

A wave of fair-haired

Mist—a fl ounce of gauze.

Much too stale, much too smoky,

And, above all, too much talk!

What does it reek of? Extreme haste,

Indulgence and peccadillo:

Inside information

And ballroom powder.

Men with children, acting single,

Wearing their rings, venerable youths . . .

Too many jokes, too much laughter,

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And above all, too much calculation!

Prominent and petty, alike,

Top to bottom

. . . Inside trading

And ballroom powder.

(Half turned away:
is this
—

Our house?—No, I won’t be your hostess!
)

One—bending over his checkbook,

Another—over a tiny kidskin glove,

And another—over a little patent leather pump

Works unobtrusively.

. . . Advantageous marriages

And ballroom powder.

Silver notches at the window—

Like a Star of Malta!

Too much caressing, too much petting,

And above all, too much pawing!

Too much pinching . . . (
Yesterday’s

Left overs—don’t be so picky: they are ripe!
)

. . . Commercial intrigues

And ballroom powder.

Do you think this chain’s too short?

But then it’s not just plated; it’s platinum!

With their triple chins

Trembling, they chew their veal

Like calves. Over each sweet neck

A devil—a gas burner.

. . . Business failures

And some brand of gunpowder—

Bertold Schwartz’s . . .

He was so—

Gift ed—such a philanthropist.

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—We need to talk.

Will we have the courage?

5

I detect movement in his lips.

But know—he won’t speak fi rst.

—You don’t love me?—No, I love you.

—You don’t love me!—But I’m tormented,

And wasted, and worn out.

(Like an eagle surveying the terrain):

—You call this—a home?

—Home is—in my heart.—How very literary!

Love is fl esh and blood.

A fl ower—watered with blood.

Do you think love is—

Idle chat across a table?

An hour—and then we both just go home?

Like these ladies and gentlemen?

Love is . . .

—An altar?

Sweetheart, to that altar bring scar

Upon scar!
—Under the eyes of waiters

And revelers? (I think:

“Love is—a bow drawn

Taut: a bow: separation.”)

—Love is—a connection. When

Everything we have is separate: our mouths, our lives.

(I did ask you: not to speak of it!

Our hour that was secret, close,

Th

at hour on top of the hill,

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Th

at hour of passion.
Momento
—like smoke:

Love is—all one’s gift s

Into the fi re,—and always—for nothing!)

Th

e shell-like slit of your mouth

Goes white. No smile—an inventory.

—First on the list, one