Снусмарла Зингер
*
Stars were racing; waves were washing headlands.
Salt went blind, and tears were slowly drying.
Darkened were the bedrooms; thoughts were racing,
And the Sphinx was listening to the desert.
Candles swam. It seemed that the Colossus'
Blood grew cold; upon his lips was spreading
The blue shadow smile of the Sahara.
With the turning tide the night was waning.
Sea-breeze from Morocco touched the water.
Simooms blew. In snowdrifts snored Archangel.
Candles swam; the rough draft of 'The Prophet'
Slowly dried, and dawn broke on the Ganges.
1918
Translated by Lydia Pasternak
Winter Night
It swept, it swept on all the earth,
At every turning,
A candle on the table flared,
A candle, burning.
Like swarms of midges to a flame
In summer weather,
Snowflakes flew up towards the pane
In flocks together.
Snow moulded arrows, rings and stars
The pane adorning.
A candle on the table shone
A candle, burning.
Entangled shadows spread across
The flickering ceiling,
Entangled arms, entangled legs,
And doom, and feeling.
And with a thud against the floor
Two shoes came falling,
And drops of molten candle wax
Like tears were rolling.
And all was lost in snowy mist,
Grey-white and blurring.
A candle on the table stood,
A candle, burning.
The flame was trembling in the draught;
Heat of temptation,
It lifted up two crossing wings
As of an angel.
All February the snow-storm swept,
Each time returning.
A candle on the table wept,
A candle, burning.
1946
Translated by Lydia Pasternak
White Night
I keep thinking of times that are long past,
Of a house in the Petersburg Quarter.
You had come from the steppeland Kursk Province,
Of a none-too-rich mother the daughter.
You were nice, you had many admirers.
On that distant white night we were sitting
On your window-sill, looking from high on
On the phantom-like scene of the city.
The street-lamps, like gauze butterflies fluttering,
Had been touched by the chill of the morning.
My soft words, as I opened my heart to you,
Matched the slumbering vistas before us.
We were plighted with timid fidelity
To the very same nebulous mystery
As the cityscape spreading unendingly
Far beyond the Neva, through the distances.
In that far-off impregnable wilderness,
Wrapped in springtime twilight ethereal,
Woodland glades and dense thickets were quivering
With mad nightingales' thunderous paeans.
Crazy resonant warbling ran riot,
And the voice of this plain-looking songster
Sowed derangement, ecstatic delight
In the depth of the mesmerised copsewood.
To those parts Night, a barefoot vagabond,
Stole its way along ditches and fences.
From our window-sill, after it tagging,
Was the trail of our cooed confidences.
To the words of this colloquy echoing
In the orchards beyond the tall palings
Spreading branches of apple and cherry trees
Swathed themselves in their pearly-white raiment.
And the trees, like so many pale phantoms,
Waved their farewell, along the road thronging,
To White Night, that all-seeing enchanter,
Who was now to North Regions withdrawing.
1953
Translated by Raissa Bobrova
There'll be no one in the house
Save for twilight. All alone,
Winter's day seen in the space that's
Made by curtains left undrawn.
Only flash-past of the wet white
Snowflake clusters, glimpsed and gone.
Only roofs and snow, and save for
Roofs and snow-no one at home.
Once more, frost will trace its patterns,
I'll be haunted once again
By my last year's melancholy,
By that other wintertime.
Once more, I'll be troubled by an
Old unexpiated shame,
And the icy firewood famine
Will press on the window-pane.
But the quiver of intrusion
Through those curtains folds will run.
Measuring silence with your footsteps,
Like the future, in you'll come.
You'll appear there in the doorway
Wearing something white and plain,
Something in the very stuff from
Which the snowflakes too are sewn.
1931
Translated by Alex Miller
Spring (Fragment 3)
Is it only dirt you notice?
Does the thaw not catch your glance?
As a dapple-grey fine stallion
Does it not through ditches dance?
Is it only birds that chatter
In the blueness of the skies,
Sipping through the straws of sunrays
Lemon liturgies on ice?
Only look, and you will see it:
From the rooftops to the ground
Moscow, all day long, like Kitezh
Lies, in light-blue water drowned.
Why are all the roofs transparent
And the colours crystal-bright?
Bricks like rushes gently swaying,
Mornings rush into the night.
Like a bog the town is swampy
And the scabs of snow are rare.
February, like saturated
Cottonwool in spirits, flares.
This white flame wears out the garrets,
And the air, in the oblique
Interplace of twigs and birds, is
Naked, weightless and unique.
In such days the crowds of people
Knock you down; you are unknown,
Nameless; and your girl is with them,
But you, too, are not alone.
Гроза моментальная навек
А затем прощалось лето
С полустанком. Снявши шапку,
Сто слепящих фотографий
Ночью снял на память гром.
Мерзла кисть сирени. B это
Время он, нарвав охапку
Молний, с поля ими трафил
Озарить управский дом.
И когда по кровле зданья
Разлилась волна злорадства
И, как уголь по рисунку,
Грянул ливень всем плетнем,
Стал мигать обвал сознанья:
Вот, казалось, озарятся
Даже те углы рассудка,
Где теперь светло, как днем.
Импровизация
Я клaвишeй стaю кopмил с pуки
Пoд xлoпaньe кpыльeв, плeск и клeкoт.
Я вытянул pуки, я встaл нa нoски,
Pукaв зaвepнулся, нoчь тepлaсь o лoкoть.
И былo тeмнo. И этo был пpуд
И вoлны. - И птиц из пopoды люблю вaс,
Кaзaлoсь, скopeй умepтвят, чeм умpут
Кpикливыe, чepныe, кpeпкиe клювы.
И этo был пpуд. И былo тeмнo.
Пылaли кубышки с пoлунoчным дeгтeм.
И былo вoлнoю oбглoдaнo днo
У лoдки. И гpызлися птицы у лoктя.
И нoчь пoлoскaлaсь в гopтaняx зaпpуд.
Кaзaлoсь, пoкaмeст птeнeц нe нaкopмлeн,
И сaмки скopeй умepтвят, чeм умpут
Pулaды в кpикливoм, искpивлeннoм гopлe.
1916
Stars were racing; waves were washing headlands.
Salt went blind, and tears were slowly drying.
Darkened were the bedrooms; thoughts were racing,
And the Sphinx was listening to the desert.
Candles swam. It seemed that the Colossus'
Blood grew cold; upon his lips was spreading
The blue shadow smile of the Sahara.
With the turning tide the night was waning.
Sea-breeze from Morocco touched the water.
Simooms blew. In snowdrifts snored Archangel.
Candles swam; the rough draft of 'The Prophet'
Slowly dried, and dawn broke on the Ganges.
1918
Translated by Lydia Pasternak
Winter Night
It swept, it swept on all the earth,
At every turning,
A candle on the table flared,
A candle, burning.
Like swarms of midges to a flame
In summer weather,
Snowflakes flew up towards the pane
In flocks together.
Snow moulded arrows, rings and stars
The pane adorning.
A candle on the table shone
A candle, burning.
Entangled shadows spread across
The flickering ceiling,
Entangled arms, entangled legs,
And doom, and feeling.
And with a thud against the floor
Two shoes came falling,
And drops of molten candle wax
Like tears were rolling.
And all was lost in snowy mist,
Grey-white and blurring.
A candle on the table stood,
A candle, burning.
The flame was trembling in the draught;
Heat of temptation,
It lifted up two crossing wings
As of an angel.
All February the snow-storm swept,
Each time returning.
A candle on the table wept,
A candle, burning.
1946
Translated by Lydia Pasternak
White Night
I keep thinking of times that are long past,
Of a house in the Petersburg Quarter.
You had come from the steppeland Kursk Province,
Of a none-too-rich mother the daughter.
You were nice, you had many admirers.
On that distant white night we were sitting
On your window-sill, looking from high on
On the phantom-like scene of the city.
The street-lamps, like gauze butterflies fluttering,
Had been touched by the chill of the morning.
My soft words, as I opened my heart to you,
Matched the slumbering vistas before us.
We were plighted with timid fidelity
To the very same nebulous mystery
As the cityscape spreading unendingly
Far beyond the Neva, through the distances.
In that far-off impregnable wilderness,
Wrapped in springtime twilight ethereal,
Woodland glades and dense thickets were quivering
With mad nightingales' thunderous paeans.
Crazy resonant warbling ran riot,
And the voice of this plain-looking songster
Sowed derangement, ecstatic delight
In the depth of the mesmerised copsewood.
To those parts Night, a barefoot vagabond,
Stole its way along ditches and fences.
From our window-sill, after it tagging,
Was the trail of our cooed confidences.
To the words of this colloquy echoing
In the orchards beyond the tall palings
Spreading branches of apple and cherry trees
Swathed themselves in their pearly-white raiment.
And the trees, like so many pale phantoms,
Waved their farewell, along the road thronging,
To White Night, that all-seeing enchanter,
Who was now to North Regions withdrawing.
1953
Translated by Raissa Bobrova
There'll be no one in the house
Save for twilight. All alone,
Winter's day seen in the space that's
Made by curtains left undrawn.
Only flash-past of the wet white
Snowflake clusters, glimpsed and gone.
Only roofs and snow, and save for
Roofs and snow-no one at home.
Once more, frost will trace its patterns,
I'll be haunted once again
By my last year's melancholy,
By that other wintertime.
Once more, I'll be troubled by an
Old unexpiated shame,
And the icy firewood famine
Will press on the window-pane.
But the quiver of intrusion
Through those curtains folds will run.
Measuring silence with your footsteps,
Like the future, in you'll come.
You'll appear there in the doorway
Wearing something white and plain,
Something in the very stuff from
Which the snowflakes too are sewn.
1931
Translated by Alex Miller
Spring (Fragment 3)
Is it only dirt you notice?
Does the thaw not catch your glance?
As a dapple-grey fine stallion
Does it not through ditches dance?
Is it only birds that chatter
In the blueness of the skies,
Sipping through the straws of sunrays
Lemon liturgies on ice?
Only look, and you will see it:
From the rooftops to the ground
Moscow, all day long, like Kitezh
Lies, in light-blue water drowned.
Why are all the roofs transparent
And the colours crystal-bright?
Bricks like rushes gently swaying,
Mornings rush into the night.
Like a bog the town is swampy
And the scabs of snow are rare.
February, like saturated
Cottonwool in spirits, flares.
This white flame wears out the garrets,
And the air, in the oblique
Interplace of twigs and birds, is
Naked, weightless and unique.
In such days the crowds of people
Knock you down; you are unknown,
Nameless; and your girl is with them,
But you, too, are not alone.
Гроза моментальная навек
А затем прощалось лето
С полустанком. Снявши шапку,
Сто слепящих фотографий
Ночью снял на память гром.
Мерзла кисть сирени. B это
Время он, нарвав охапку
Молний, с поля ими трафил
Озарить управский дом.
И когда по кровле зданья
Разлилась волна злорадства
И, как уголь по рисунку,
Грянул ливень всем плетнем,
Стал мигать обвал сознанья:
Вот, казалось, озарятся
Даже те углы рассудка,
Где теперь светло, как днем.
Импровизация
Я клaвишeй стaю кopмил с pуки
Пoд xлoпaньe кpыльeв, плeск и клeкoт.
Я вытянул pуки, я встaл нa нoски,
Pукaв зaвepнулся, нoчь тepлaсь o лoкoть.
И былo тeмнo. И этo был пpуд
И вoлны. - И птиц из пopoды люблю вaс,
Кaзaлoсь, скopeй умepтвят, чeм умpут
Кpикливыe, чepныe, кpeпкиe клювы.
И этo был пpуд. И былo тeмнo.
Пылaли кубышки с пoлунoчным дeгтeм.
И былo вoлнoю oбглoдaнo днo
У лoдки. И гpызлися птицы у лoктя.
И нoчь пoлoскaлaсь в гopтaняx зaпpуд.
Кaзaлoсь, пoкaмeст птeнeц нe нaкopмлeн,
И сaмки скopeй умepтвят, чeм умpут
Pулaды в кpикливoм, искpивлeннoм гopлe.
1916