Clear Voices | Page 3

open?couples the steel heart's tremor?to the wings' whirring?and uncouples them again.?Impatiently cicadas?beat their eager wings:?are they glad, is happiness near?an end to their suffering?…?They have so much to say,?so far to go…?Ah, our ways, cicada,?separate so!?Our friendship here's a miracle,?you and I, we?are only together a moment?till the lid opens on the sky.?It will tinkle and slam?and you'll be far away…?in a moment she'll silently return?to be with me - Anguish.
Konstantín Bál′mont (1867-1943)?'Sin Miedo'?If you're a poet, and want the power?to live for ever in human minds,?strike hearts with imagination's music?temper your thoughts in passion's fire.?Have you seen old Toledan daggers??They're the best wherever you go.?The motto on the blade's: 'Sin miedo':?'Be without fear' - tempered by fire.?When they fashion the red-hot steel?they inlay the gold design, with niello,?and the twin mated metals, once separate,?gleam, living beauty, down the years.?So that your dreams will always glow,?so that your soul will live for ever,?inlay the steel in your poems with gold,?pour molten fire into words that echo.
Aleksándr Blok (1880-1921)
The Stranger
At evening, above the restaurants,?the sultry air is savage, heavy,?and the breath of spring, corruption,?holds the sound of drunken shouting.?Far off, over the dusty streets?the boredom of suburban houses,?the bakery's gilt sign glitters, faintly,?and there's the noise of children, crying.?And every night, beyond the toll,?the expert wits, in bowler hats,?tipped at a rakish angle, stroll?along the ditches with their ladies.?On the lake oars creak,?and somewhere a woman shrieks,?while the moon's orb in the sky?inured, leers mindlessly.?And every night my only friend?is reflected in my wine-glass,?quiet like myself, and stunned?by sour mysterious drink.?While nearby waiters half-asleep?round the neighbouring tables pass,?and drunks with their rabbit eyes?cry out: 'In vino, veritas!'?And each night at the appointed hour?(or is it only in dream I see it?)?the form of a girl, clothed in silk,?moves across the misted pane.?Passing slowly through the drunks,?and always on her own,?sits down by the window?scattering mist and perfume.?And her stiff silk brocades,?and her hat with its dark feather,?and her slender hand, clothed with rings,?breathe the air of ancient stories.?And bewitched by mysterious nearness,?I gaze through a shadowy veil,?and see an enchanted shoreline?and an enchanted distance.?Hidden secrets are given to me,?someone's sun is for me to hold,?and the sour wine has entered?in the labyrinth of my soul.?And the soft ostrich plumes?nod gently in my brain,?and blue unending eyes bloom?in some distant place.?A treasure's buried in my soul,?and the only key to it is mine!?You're right, you drunken fool!?I know: 'There's truth in wine.'
On This Sad Earth
O courage, O achievement, O fame,?I forgot all those on this sad earth,?when, in front of me on the table,?your face shone in a simple frame.?But the hour struck, you left the house.?I flung the dear ring into the dark.?You put your fate in another's hands,?and I forgot your lovely face.?Days went by, circling, a cursed swarm…?Passion and drink tormented my life…?I remembered you before the altar,?I called to you, as if to my youth…?I called but you never looked back,?I wept, but you didn't relent.?You wrapped yourself, sad, in a blue cloak,?from the house, to the wet night, you went.?O dear and gentle one, I don't know?where you found shelter for your pride…?I sleep, I dream of that blue cloak?in which you entered the wet night...?I no longer dream of tenderness, fame,?that's all over, my youth is past!?From the table, with my own hand,?I removed your face in its simple frame.
Ravenna
All that is fragile, all that is transient,?you have buried in the centuries.?Like a child you sleep, Ravenna,?in the drowsy arms of eternity.?Slaves no longer bring mosaics?through the arches built by Rome.?On the walls of cool basilicas?golden fire is dying down.?The rough sepulchral vault has softened?to the moisture's lingering kiss,?where a green film coats the graves?of monks and empresses.?The burial vaults are silent,?their doorways dark and cold,?lest black-eyed Galla's holy gaze?wakes, and burns through stone.?The bloodstained track of war and hurt?erased, all memory gone,?lest Placidia's voice, stirred to life,?sings the passion of times long done.?The sea's receded, and the roses?cling round the rampart's stone,?lest Theodoric dream life's storms?as he sleeps soundly in his tomb.?And the vine-set wastes, the houses,?and the people - all are tombs.?Only noble Latin, cut in bronze,?sounds like music from the stones.?Only in the intense quiet gaze?of Ravenna's girls, regret?for the sea that will not return?still shyly flickers on, as yet.?Only at night, bent over the valleys,?taking stock of the centuries to be,?Dante's spirit, with aquiline profile,?sings of the New Life to me.
To The Muse?In your secret music,?are messages of dark disaster.?A curse on all that's holy,?happiness's desecration.?And so seductive a power?I'm ready to repeat?that you drew angels from heaven,?enticing them to your feet.?And when you scorn faith?that grey-blue halo,?I once saw before,?begins to glow above you.?Are you good or evil? - You are - inhuman.?They tell strange tales about you.?For some you are