Voronezh Notebooks Page 5
For what I’m saying, please forgive me...
Read it over to me quietly, quietly...
March 15, 1937
76
A living being is incomparable; don’t compare.
With a sort of tender fear
I embraced the plain’s monotony,
The circle of the sky my enemy.
I appealed to my servant, the air,
Waited for its favors, fresh rumors,
Gathered for a journey, floated in an arc
Of journeys that refused to start...
I’m ready to wander where my sky is greater,
But a limpid sadness will not let me leave
The still raw hills of Vorónezh
For the clearing, all-human hills of Tuscany.
March 16, 1937
77
Rome
Where the frogs of the fountains croaked
And splashed, they sleep no more.
Once wakened, overcome with weeping,
With all the power of their throats and shells
They water the city, toady to
The mighty, with amphibious tears—
Summery, cheeky, a light antiquity,
With fallen arches and a glance of avidity,
Like the untouched bridge of Sant’Angelo
Flatfoot over the yellow flow—
Light blue, unformed, ashen,
In a tumor of houses like a drum,
The city’s a swallow, made into a dome,
A cupola of paths and drafts—
You’ve turned it into a murder-nursery,
You—you brown-blood mercenaries—
Italian Blackshirts—
Vicious whelps of departed Caesars...
They’re all your orphans, Michelangelo,
Shrouded in marble and shame:
The night soaked in tears and the
Fleet young David, faultless,
And the bed on which Moses
Lies like a cataract, without motion—
Freedom of power and a lion’s portion
Fall silent in slavery and sleep.
Yieldings of the furrowed stairs,
Of flights of rivers flowing to the square:
Let those steps ring out like deeds,
Let the somnolent citizens of Rome arise,
But not for crippled joys like these,
Like idle sponges of the sea.
The pits of the Forum are dug up anew,
And Herod’s Gate opened at last—
And over Rome hangs the heavy jaw
Of the dictator-outcast.
March 16, 1937
78
That a friend of wind and rain
Might guard within their bit of grit,
The Tsars scrawled multitudes of herons,
Made bottle after bottle lip,
The shame of the Egyptian body politic
Covered itself in select dog skins,
It gave the dead all kinds of things,
And built those little pyramids.
How much better, my belov’d blood brother,
The singer, comforting in sinfulness,
The grinding of your teeth still heard,
Of careless dust the advocate.
Disentangling in two testaments
Your clutch of idle impediments,
You returned the earth, a cavernous skull,
In chirps of birds and in farewells—
He lived beside the mischievous gothic
And spat on all the spider’s rights,
Insolent schoolboy, thieving angel,
François Villon, the incomparable!
Thief of the celestial choir,
To sit beside you is no sin—
And larks will ring out before
That very world, coming to an end...
March 18, 1937
79
Dark blue island, famed for its potters—
Crete the green. Baked, their gift
To the surrounding earth. Can you detect
The powerful fin-beat under earth?
The gentle sea is brought to mind
In the clay rejoicing in the pit,
And the power of that frozen vessel
Into ocean and eyes has been split.
Give me mine back, blue island,
Crete on the wing; return me my work
And from the breasts of the changing goddess
Fill the fired cup...
This was, was sung, turning blue,
Long before food and drink
Were called “my own” and “mine”—
Long, long before Odysseus.
Then get well, grow radiant,
Star of ox-eyed heaven,
And flying fish, and fortune,
And the water saying “yes.”
March 1937
80
Guilty deadbeat with a bottomless thirst,
Smart-ass pimp of water and wine:
The goat kids caper on your sides,
The fruit swells under music.
Flutes wheeze, swear and get into it,
The chip in your lip’s
A dusky red—and there’s no one
To pick you up and fix it.
March 21, 1937
81
Oh, how I wish,
Perceived by no one,
To fly after a beam
To where I’m nothing.
You! Shine in a circle—
No better fate—
And study from a star
How light is made.
And to you I’d like
To say what I now whisper,
That in a whisper I deliver
You, child, to light.
March 27, 1937
82
My Nereids, sea goddesses!
Your food and drink are our laments,
For daughters of the Mediterranean offense
My compassion is offensive.
March 1937
83
The theta and iota of the Greek flute—
As if all this chatter weren’t enough—
Unformed, unacknowledged,
It matured, suffered, passed over the fosse...
To abandon it, impossible,
Or to silence it, gritting the teeth,
Or to advance it further, into words,
Or with the lips dismember it...
The flautist will know no peace of mind:
It seems to him he is alone,
That once upon a time he formed
With violet clay his native sea...
With the brassy whisper of the ambitious,
With the whisper of lips that still recall,
He’s in a tearing hurry to be thrifty,
To gather sounds—punctilious and stingy...
We who follow will not repeat his essence,
Clods of clay in the hands of the sea,
And when I myself was filled with sea—
My measure became pestilence...
My own lips don’t please me—
Murder is in their root—
And I bend, unwitting, down
And down, the equinox of the flute...
April 7, 1937
84
As through the streets of Kiev the evil-eyed,
God knows what little woman searches for her guy,
And down her waxen cheeks
Falls not one tear.
The Gypsies tell no fortunes for hot babes,
The violins don’t play in Kupechesky Park,
The horses tumble on Kreschatik Street,
The godly Lipki stink of the grave.
Red Army soldiers split the city,
Leaving with the last of trains,
And a sodden overcoat proclaimed:
“Get this straight—we will be back...”
April 1937
85
I’ll take this green to my lips—
This sticky oath of leaves,
This perjuring earth:
Mother of snowdrops, maples, oak trees.
Look how I grow stronger, blinder,
To these humble roots obedient,
And isn’t this thundering park
Just too magnificent?
And the frogs, like drops of mercury,
Bind their voices into balls,
And the twigs come together as branches,
And the mist as milky fantasy.
April 30, 1937
86
The buds congeal in a sticky vow,
“Look!—a falling star...”
That’s what mother told daughter
So she wouldn’t run far.
“Hold on,” distinctly whispered
Half the sky,
And a rolling rustle in reply:
“If only I’d a son...”
I’ll become
Something completely new,
To rock the cradle
The slightest touch will do.
A husband! Upright and arrogant,
Made obedient and harmless,
Without him—like a black book—
Horrible world—airless...
The summer lightning, winking,
Stumbles on its words,
Older brother scowling,
Younger sister complaining.
Velvet, a winged wind
Pipes a piccolo—
That the kid’s own forehead grow,
Spread wide, like both his kin.
The thunder will inquire of his friends:
“Hey thunders, don’t you see?
You gave the lime in marriage
Before the cherry...”
And from the lonely forest,
Fresh, the cries of birds,
Matchmaker birds who sing
Natasha’s flatteries.
Such oaths stick to the lips:
That for honor’s sake and side by side
The eyes should push headlong to die
Beneath trampling hooves.
Everyone’s always telling her to run:
“Clear-eyed Natasha, come!
For our good health, for our own
Happiness—take the plunge!”
May 2, 1937
87
The pear—and the cherry—took aim at me,
Hit me—with their fragile power—perfectly.
Flowers with stars, stars with flowers—
What’s this double force? Where’s truth’s inflorescence?
With a flower, a fist, they struck the air,
An air done in by pure white flowers, entire and evanescent.
Insufferable sweetness of that double scent:
It struggles, spreads—is mingled—rent...
May 4, 1937
88–89
I
Hitching slightly over the empty earth,
Unconscious, with a sweet, uneven gait
She goes, little by little gaining ground
On her coeval male, her rapid female friend.
The uneasy liberty of her animating fault
Compels her, and maybe it’s that
A clear conclusion wants to be refused
In her step—that for us, this spring season is
The ur-mother of the sepulchral vault—
And that this will be eternally renewed.
II
There are women born of the humid earth,
Their every step is steeped in sobbing,
Their calling to be with the resurrected
And to be the first to greet the dead.
Transgression to insist on their caresses,
Exhaustion to attempt to part from them.
Today—angels. Tomorrow—maggots.
And the next day—only faintest sketch...
What was—a step—it will end beyond us.
Immortal flowers. The sky a single dome.
And all that will be—only promise.
May 4, 1937
Index of First Lines
A day reared up on five heads. For five whole days →
A living being is incomparable; don’t compare →
All praised, all black, all cosseted and coddled →
All the disasters that I see →
Alone, I look into the face of the cold →
Amid the noise and scurry of the people →
Armed with the eyesight of skinny wasps →
As a star-stone somewhere whacks the earth awake →
As feminine silver, burning →
As through the streets of Kiev the evil-eyed →
Breaks in round bays, and shingle, and blue →
Dark blue island, famed for its potters →
Dead lashes frozen on St. Isaac’s →
Deep in the mountain the idol rests →
Distant banners of a passing column →
Goldfinch, friend, I’ll cock my head →
Gotta keep living, though I’ve died twice →
Guilty deadbeat with a bottomless thirst →
Having stripped me of my seas, my flight, my running start →
Headphones! My little squealers →
He still recalls my worn-out shoes →
He’s up and off, the imp with soggy fur →
Hitching slightly over the empty earth →
How dark the River Kama seems →
I beg of you, France, your honeysuckle and earth →
I don’t want to blow my soul’s last cent →
I hear, I hear the early ice →
I live in big-time gardens →
I’ll marvel at the world a little more →
I’ll perform the reeking rite →
I’ll sketch this out; I’ll say this quietly →
I’ll take this green to my lips →
I love a frozen exhalation →
I’m in the heart of the century. The road is dim →
Ingots forged of Roman nights →
Into the fastness, into the lion’s pit I pitched →
I saw a lake stood on end →
I sing when my throat’s wet, my soul—dry →
It’s the law of the pine forest →
It’s true, I lie in the earth, moving my lips →
Let this air be witness →
Like a postponed present →
Like Rembrandt, that martyr to chiaroscuro →
Like wood and copper, Favorski’s flight →
Maybe this is it, the point of madness →
Me, right now, I’m in a spiderweb →
My dream defends a dream of the Don →
My Nereids, sea goddesses →
Near Koltzov I →
Night. A road. First dream →
Not as a butterfly, white as flour →
Not mine, or yours—but theirs →
Now the day’s some kind of callow yellow →
Oh, how I wish →
Oh, this airless, indolent expanse →
On a game board, scarlet, crimson →
One by one they fell into the deep →
Out of the houses, out of the forest →
Release me, restore me Vorónezh →
Smile, angry lamb, in Raphael’s canvas →
Talking from a soaking sheet →
That a friend of wind and rain →
The buds congeal in a sticky vow →
The extra length of Paganini’s fingers →
Their vision was keener than a sharpened scythe →
The master, factor of armaments →
The pear—and the cherry—took aim at me →
The sky of evening fell in love with a wall →
The theta and iota of the Greek flute →
Though she’s died, can I still sing her praise →
Wave follows wave, breaks the back of a wave with a wave →
We’re still completely, totally alive →
What street is this →
What to do?—I’m lost in the sky →
What to do?—I’m lost in the sky →
What to do with the slaughter of the plains →
When a child first begins to smile →
When a sorcerer introduces →
When the goldfinch, in his airy confection →
Where am I? What’s wrong with me →
Where can I hide in this January →
Where’s the strangled, shackled cry →
Where the frogs of the fountains croaked →
With the skinny blade of a Gillette →
Yeast, precious, of the world →
You’re not alone. You haven’t died →
Your pupil, with its cortex like the heavens →