Poets Translate Poets: A Hudson Review Anthology (33 page)

Th

e goods from underneath, and thus discover

If the Pontiff is a Pope or a Pop
ess
.

Th

e Sovereigns of the Old World

A King there was, who once upon a time,

Sent forth this edict to his huddled masses:

“I am I, and you are no more than slime,

You lying scoundrels, so just shut your faces.

“I make straight the twisted, and I twist the straight;

You
are what
I
could sell off by the lot,

And if I were to hang you all—so what?

You rent your lives and stuff from Me, the State.

“If you don’t have a title to your name,

If you’re not Pope or King or Emperor,

You haven’t got the cards to play the game.”

With this decree there came a hangman who

Asked all, Did they—or did they not—concur?

And all as one replied, “It’s true, it’s true!”

Th

e Spaniard

A Spaniard claimed that everything in Rome—

Its churches, castles, its antiquities,

Its fountains, columns, palaces—all these

Were equaled or improved upon at home:

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Rom a n e s c o

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To put him down and keep myself amused,

I one day went and bought at the bazaar

Inside the Pantheon a heft y pair

Of testicles a sheep had lately used.

I boxed them up quite nicely and I had him

Take a good look. I said: “Th

ese very ballocks

Are the same two that once belonged to Adam.”

At

fi rst I thought him well and truly gaff ed,

Until he said: “Th

ese
are
impressive relics,

But in
my
country, we’ve got Adam’s shaft .”

Th

e Good Soldiers

As soon as any earthly sovereign

Receives a slight in his own estimation,

“You are the enemy—” he tells his nation,

“—Of this or that king! Go and do him in!”

His people, eager to avoid the pen

Or some such pleasantry I will not mention,

Hoist muskets and ship out with the intention

Of making war on French or Englishmen.

So, for some martinet’s fantastic whims,

Th

e sheep come stumbling back into the stall

With broken skulls and mutilated limbs.

Th

ey toss their lives as children toss a ball,

As if that old whore, Death, who lops and trims

Th

e human race, comes only when we call.

Th

e Coff ee-House Philosopher

Men are the same, on our little sphere,

As coff ee beans poured in the coff ee mill;

G. G. Be l l i
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One leads, one follows, one brings up the rear,

But a single fate is waiting for them all.

Oft en they change their places in the parade,

Th

e greater beans displace the weak and small,

And all press toward the exit with its blade,

Th

rough which, ground into powder, they must spill.

Th

e hand of Fortune stirs them all together,

And that is how men live here with their fellows

Going around in circles with each other,

Lost in the depths, or struggling in the shallows,

Not comprehending what or why or whether,

Until Death lift s his little cup and swallows.

Th

e Day of Judgment

Four angels, all with upraised trumpets fi xed

Against their lips, each from his corner plays;

And then, in a thunderous voice, each angel brays,

“Come out if it’s your turn, whoever’s next!”

Th

en from the earth will come what once were men,

A row of skeletons crawling from the grave,

Each one resuming the shape he used to have,

As baby chicks surround a brooding hen.

Th

e hen here will be God, who’ll separate

Th

e dead into two groups, one white, one black,

And the cellar or the roof will be their fate.

A vast array of angels all in fl ight

And looking like they’re headed for the sack

Will put the lights out, and that’s all:
Good night!

Charles Martin, 2009

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Rom a n e s c o

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R u s s i a n

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F yodor T y u tche v
(1803–73)

At the Imperial Village

Autumn advancing to the close,

Th

at garden draws me: stilled

In its neither sleep nor waking,

Th

e apparitional twilit white

As swanshapes, never breaking

Th

e lake’s dull calm,

Loom on its glass

In a delight of dumbness.

Shade settles there

On palace porphyry,

In the October early evening

Climbs Catherine’s stair;

And, as the garden darkens like a wood,

Star-lit against its deepened ground

Th

e past’s gold image

Refl ects from a still-emerging cupola.

Above, the dissolving clouds

Lucent in heat. Glints

From its steel and steady mirror

Run with the river. Heat

Densened each hour, shade

Fled to the wood-cool under oaks,

And from the fi elds

White in their fl owered and sunlit acres

Th

e breath of honey.

Order perpetual

Governs this passing,

Th

is changeless change

F yod or T y u t c h e v
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In fi eldfare by riverfl ow.

Neither thought nor threat,

But a limp and sullen sleep

Th

is night-sky gloom

Clouded from every quarter.

Only the intermittent fl are as

Lightnings, deaf-mute demons

Converse with one another.

And now hangs lit

As by a preappointed sign

Th

e whole stretch of sky,

Fields in the fl ash, far woods

Breaking from dark. Th

ey remerge

And the dark once more

Hushed, listens about them

As if it were aware

Of a decision taken

In the secret convocation

At the central height.

Th

e Past

Tsarskoe selo—site of the imperial palace

Place has its undertone. Not all

Is sun and surface.

Th

ere, where across the calm

Gold roofs stream in,

Th

e lake detains the image:

Presence of past,

Breath of the celebrated dead.

Beneath the sun-gold

Lake currents glint. . . .

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Ru s s i a n

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Past power, dreaming this trance of consummation,

Its sleep unbroken by

Voices of swans in passing agitation.

Charles Tomlinson, 1959

F yod or T y u t c h e v
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A nn a A k hm atova
(1889–1966)

Under the Icon

Under the icon, a threadbare rug,

It’s dark in the chilly room.

Th

e wide window is overgrown

With ivy, thick, dark-green.

A sweet scent streams from the roses;

Th

e icon lamp creaks, barely aglow.

Here are the chests, gaily painted

By the craft sman’s loving hand.

Near the window, the white lace frame . . .

Your profi le is delicate, severe.

Under your shawl you conceal, ashamed,

Th

e fi ngers he has kissed.

Your heart began to beat so wildly;

It’s full of anguish now . . .

And in your dishevelled braids

Lurks a trace of tobacco smell.

Kiev,

Th

e ancient city, as though deserted . . .

My arrival is strange.

Over its river Vladimir raised

A black cross.

Dark are the rustling lime trees,

And the elms along the gardens,

And the diamond needles of the stars

Are lift ed out toward God.

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Here I will fi nish my journey,

My path of sacrifi ce and glory,

And with me only you,

My equal, my love.

For Us to Lose Freshness

For us to lose freshness of words and simplicity of feeling,

Isn’t it the same as for a painter to lose his sight?

Or an actor, his voice and the use of his body?

Or a beautiful woman, her beauty?

But it’s useless to try to save

Th

is heaven-sent gift for yourself.

We are condemned—and we know this ourselves—

Not to hoard it, but to give it away.

Walk alone and heal the blind,

Th

at you may know in the heavy hour of doubt,

Th

e gloating mockery of your disciples,

Th

e indiff erence of the crowd.

Ah! You’ve Come Back

Ah! You’ve come back. You’ve come into this house

And the look you give me is not the look

Of an enamoured youth, but of a man,

A daring, stern, infl exible man.

My soul is frightened by the lull before the storm.

You ask me what I’ve done with you,

Forever entrusted to me by love and by fate.

I have betrayed you. And to have to repeat—

Oh, if only you’d get tired!

Th

is is how a dead man speaks,

Disturbing the sleep of his murderer.

A n na A k h m at ova
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Th

is is how the Angel of Death waits by the bed.

Forgive me now. Th

e Lord has taught us to forgive.

My fl esh is tormented by sorrow and pain

And my spirit, freed, already sleeps, serene.

I remember only the garden,

Tender, autumnal, so easy to walk through,

Th

e black of the fi elds, the cry of the cranes . . .

Oh, how sweet was the earth for me with you!

Th

e Twenty-First

Th

e twenty-fi rst. Night. Monday.

Th

e outlines of the capital are dim.

Some idler invented the idea

Th

at there’s something in the world called love.

And from laziness or boredom

Everyone believed it and began to live

As if it were so: they wait for meetings,

Fear partings and sing the songs of love.

But the secret, revealed, will be diff erent,

And a hush will fall on them all . . .

I stumbled on this by accident

And since then have been somehow unwell.

Judith Hemschemeyer, 1982

From
Rosary

1913

We will not drink out of one single cup,

Neither water nor a sweet champagne,

Nor kiss by morning as the sun comes up,

Nor look by evening through one windowpane.

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I breathe by moonlight, you breathe by the sun,

But we are living only to love one.

My fond, true friend is with me every day,

And with you always is your merry friend.

But clear to me is fear in eyes of gray,

And you are the culprit in my discontent.

Our brief encounters we do not repeat,

Th

us it is judged for us to rest in peace.

In your voice only are my verses read,

And in your poetry, my own voice lingers.

O, there is the fi re against which neither dread

Nor oblivion dares to lift a fi nger,

And if you only knew how I love now

Th

e rosiness and dryness of your mouth!

As One Falls Ill

Spring 1922

As one falls ill, delirious and burning

With fever, I again meet everyone

Walking through the wide
allée
, and turning

Th

rough seaside gardens fi lled with wind and sun.

Th

ese days, I welcome in my home the exiled,

Agreeable would be a very corpse.

Hand in hand, bring to me the child

Whom, long ago, I found to be a bore.

Watching while the waterfall cascades

To wet, gray beds of rock, with frosty wine

For drinking, I will dine upon blue grapes,

And be with those beloved who are mine.

A n na A k h m at ova
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Epigram