«Modern Poetry in Translation»

Jean-Claude Renard, John Glad, Andrey Amalrik, Nina Berberova, Joseph Brodsky, Igor Ghinnov, Don Aminado, Ivan Elagin, Natalya Gorbanevskaya, Yury Iofe, Georgy Ivanov, Vyacheslav Ivanov, Yury Ivask, Vladislav Khodasevich, David Knut, Eduard Limonov, Lev Mak, Boris Nartsissov, Anatoly Steiger, Marina Tsvetaeva, Pierre Reverdy, Yvan Goll, Nina Cassian, Mehdi Akhavan-Sales, Takagi Kyozo, Dilip Chitre

Modern Poetry in Translation

/ compiled by John Glad
// London[?]: «Modern Poetry in Translation», No.31, Summer 1977,
paperback, 28 p.,
dimentions: 265⨉205⨉3 mm


* * *

Eduard Limonov

As if a quiet branch drew a line
so in memory the southern Alpine meadow
with a tree growing in it tenderly inclines
like the footsteps of a beloved person
on water

The little old house
built on the whim of fortune

Scattered sunlight
The lacy blouse hangs on one shoulder

The cheerfully inclined meadow
moves aside to show the lower view

of the polished peaks, mountain terrors
and severe clouds
make the hair stand on end

The effect intensifies with the growl of wild animals
and freedom-loving tigers.

Leather-footed hunters humming roughly
set out after meat
The girl sits near the window filled with expectation
the soft parts of her body tremble
Far up ahead the frog-beast
sings his cool song
and here in a carriage the guest drives up

The guest is full of good feelings and infelicitous plans
he’s lightwinged and his roughnecks accompany him
The guest stands out against the background of one of them
and turns out to be the forgotten relation
He and one fellow settle in the house
they walk to the small waterfall for water
Their leather armchairs rarely see them
rather, the bright flowers do, often
Sometimes the guest is mysteriously quiet
and then the girl invents her hopes
So in July both of them
put on a performance

Shaggy music, shaggy flowers
The deaf gardner — monument to times past

In the heart all time is trouble. The occasional rain
intensifies everything. Her dresses are characterized
by unchecked fantasy. She tears them wiggling through
the bushes.

What could be more mysterious and beautiful
than July shifting into August

When you walk toward the old trees and
the liquid vinyard plasters your eyes shut
suffering you will remember
the grief of God. the divine shame

that’s how it was. how it will be again. Who dares
say she didn’t tear her dresses. It was
a pretty face that tore them often
laughed out loud laughed laughed . . . and left . . .

translation Mary Jane White

^ наверх