Èç È. Áðîäñêîãî, íåñêîëüêî ñòèõîòâ. , ñ àíãë
Íåò, ïåðåâîäû èç Áðîäñêîãî ðåøèòåëüíî íåóäà÷íûå.
Ë.Ä.
THE BERLIN WALL TUNE
This is the house destroyed by Jack.
This is the spot where the rumpled buck
stops, and where Hans gets killed.
This is the wall that Ivan built.
This is the wall that Ivan built.
Yet trying to quell his sense of guilt,
he built it with modest gray concrete,
and the booby traps look discret.
Under this wall that (a) bores, (b) scares,
barbed-wire meshes lie flat like skiens
of your granny's darning (her chair still rocks!).
But the voltage's too high for socks.
Beyond this wall throbs a local flag
against whose yellow, red, and black
Compass and Hammer proclaim the true
Masonic dream's breakthrough.
The border quards patiently in their nest
Through binoculars scan the West
and the East; and they like both views
devoid, as it were, of Jews.
Those who are seen here, thought of, felt,
are kept on a leash by the sens of Geld
or by a stronger Marxist urge.
The wall let them merge.
Come to this wall if you hate your place
and face a sample of cosmic space
where no life forms can exist at all
and objects may anly fall.
Come to this scornful of peace and war,
petrified version of either/or
meandering through these bleak parts which act
like your mirror, cracked.
{? Dull is the here by day. In the night
searchlights illuminate the blight
making sure that if someone screams,
it's not due to bad dreams.
For dreams here aren't bad: just wet with blood
of one of your like who's left his pad
to ramble at will; and in his head
dreams are replaced with lead.
Given that, it's only time
who has guts enough to commit the crime
of passing this place back and forth on foot:
at pendulums they don't shoot.
That's why this site will see many moons
while couples lie in their beds like spoons,
while the rich are wondering what they wish
and single girls eat quiche.
Come to this wall that beats other walls:
Roman,Chines, whose worn-down, falls
molars envy stell fangs that flash,
scrubbed of thy neighbor's flesh.
A bird may twitter a better song.
But should you consider abortion wrong
or that the quacks ask too high a fee,
come to this wall, and see.
ÏÅÑÍÜ ÁÅÐËÈÍÑÊÎÉ ÑÒÅÍÅ
(Ìíå îñòàëîñü êîå-÷òî íåÿñíî â ýòîé âåùè – ïðîñòî ïî ÿçûêó, ËÄ)
Âîò äîì, êîòîðûé ðàçðóøèë Äæåê.
Âîò òà ãðàíèöà, ãäå áàêñó "áðýê"
ñêàçàëè, ãäå Õàíñó ïðèøëà õàíà.
Âîò Èâàíîì âûñòðîåííàÿ ñòåíà.
Âîò Èâàíîì ñòðîåííàÿ ñòåíà.
Îí õîòåë áû çíàòü, â ÷åì åãî âèíà,
êîãäà êëàë áåòîí è âçëåçàë íà êðàí
è îãëÿäûâàë ñåé êàïêàí.
Ïåòëè ðæàâîé êîëþ÷êè, òîð÷àùåé òàì,
âàøåé áàáêè øòîïêó íàïîìíÿò âàì,
íî îò âîëüò, ïðîïóùåííûõ ñêâîçü ìîòêè,
íàäî äóìàòü, ñãîðÿò íîñêè.
Íàä ñòåíîé âàëüñèðóåò ìåñòíûé ôëàã.
Âîëüíûõ êàìåíùèêîâ íà íåì âûøèò çíàê,
äàáû âñÿêèé óçðåòü èõ ïîáåäó ìîã,
òî åñòü: Öèðêóëü è Ìîëîòîê.
Çäåñü äîçîðíûå, òî÷íî ãðà÷è èç ãíåçä
oçèðàþò â áèíîêëè ñâîè êàê Îñò,
òàê è Âåñò, è èì íðàâèòñÿ íàáëþäàòü,
÷òî æèäîâ íèãäå íå âèäàòü.
Çäåñü ëþáîé ïîéìåò, à êòî íå ïîéìåò,
òàê òîãî è òàê äî êîñòè ïðîéìåò:
÷òèøü ëè Ìàðêñà èëè íå ñòàâèøü â ãðîø,-
ýòó ñòåíó íå ïðîøèáåøü.
Ïðèõîäè ñþäà, êîëü íåâìîãîòó
æèòü ãäå æèë, è ëèöî ïîõîæå íà òó
÷åðíîòó ââåðõó, â êîåé íåò ïðèìåò,
ãäå èñ÷åçíåò ëþáîé ïðåäìåò.
Ïðèõîäè, ïîñòîé â õîëîäêå ñòåíû
(íîâîé âåðñèè ìèðà, íå òî âîéíû),
÷òî çìååé èçâèâàåòñÿ ïî çåìëå,
ëèáî - òðåùèíîé íà ñòåêëå.
Äíåì çäåñü ñêóêà. Íî ñ âå÷åðà äî óòðà
òåìåíü èëëþìèíèðóþò ïðîæåêòîðà,
òàê ÷òî ÿñíî: ÷åé-íèáóäü êðèê èëü ñòîí -
íå ïðîñòî áðåäîâûé ñîí.
Çäåñü âñå ìîêðî. Óñíåøü ëè, Õðèñòîñ ïðîñòè,
íà êðîâÈ òîãî, êòî ñîøåë ñ ïóòè,
è áðîäÿ ïî âîëå, ëèñòàòü ãîòîâ
ëèøü ïóòåâîäèòåëü ñíîâ?
Òîëüêî âðåìÿ îòûùåò äîâîëüíî ïîð
ïðîñî÷èòüñÿ, òåì îáìàíóâ äîçîð,
ïðåñòóïàÿ âñÿêèõ çàïðåòîâ âëàñòü,
èáî â ìàÿòíèê - íå ïîïàñòü.
Íî ñòåíå åùå äîëãî ñòîÿòü ñòåíîé,
ïîêà ëþäè ñïÿò íå ê ñïèíå ñïèíîé
íà òðàâå, â ïîñòåëè, â òèøè êàþò,
è äåâ÷îíêè ïîï-êîðí æóþò.
È îíà ïîêðó÷å èíîé ñòåíû,
ñêàæåì, ðèìñêîé, êèòàéñêîé: ãíèëîé äåñíû
íå ñðàâíèøü ñ êàëåíûì êëûêîì, ìîëîòü
íå óñòàâøèì íè êîñòü, íè ïëîòü.
Ïóñòü ñèíèöà íåæíåå áû ñïåòü ìîãëà,
íî óòèíûé êðÿê èëè ðåâ îñëà
òîæå ñòîÿò íàãðàäû: íå ïîëåíèñü,
ïîäîéäè ê ñòåíå - è âîççðèñü.
CAFE TRIESTE: SAN FRANCISCO
to L.G.
To this corner of Grant and Vallejo
I've returned like an echo
to the lips that preferred
then a kiss to a word.
Nothing has changed here. Neither
the furniture nor the weather.
Things, in one's absence, gain
permanence, stain by stain.
Cold, through the large steamed windows
I watch the gesturing weirdos,
the bloated breams that warm
up their aquarium.
Evolving backward, a river
becomes a tear, the real
becomes memory which
can, like fingertips, pinch
just the tail of a lizard
vanishing in the desert
which was eager to fix
a traveler with a sphinx.
Your golden mane! Your riddle!
The lilac skirt, the brittle
ankles! The perfect ear
rendering "read" as "dear".
Under what cloud's pallor
now throbs the tricolor
of your future, your past
and present, swaying the mast?
Upon what linen waters
do you drift bravely toward
new shores, clutching your beads
to meet the savage needs?
Still, if sins are forgiven,
that is, if souls break even
with flesh elsewhere, this joint,
too, must be enjoyed
as afterlife's sweet parlor
where, in the clouded squalor,
saints and the ain'ts take five,
where I was first to arrive.
ÊÀÔÅ ÒÐÈÅÑÒ: ÑÀÍ-ÔÐÀÍÖÈÑÊÎ
L.G.
Íà ýòîò óãîë Ãðàíò è Âàëüåõî
ÿ âåðíóëñÿ, êàê áóäòî ýõî
ê ãóáàì, êîòîðûå ñíîâà
ïðåäïî÷ëè á ïîöåëóé, íå ñëîâî.
Çäåñü íè÷òî íå ìåíÿþò ãîäû.
Íè ìåáåëè, íè ïîãîäû.
È ïîõîæå, ëþáîé ïðåäìåò
ìàòåðååò, ïîêà âàñ íåò.
ß íàáëþäàþ, çàñòûâ íà ìåñòå,
â òóìàííûõ îêíàõ - äâèæåíüÿ, æåñòû,
íàäóòûõ áàðàõòàþùèõñÿ ëåùåé
â òåïëîì àêâàðèóìå. Íî âîîáùå,
ðåêà, ê èñòîêó òåêóùàÿ,
äåëàåòñÿ ñëåçîé, à ñóùåå -
âîñïîìèíàíüåì; åãî æ
ðàçâå êîí÷èêîì ïàëüöà ïðèæìåøü,
êàê õâîñòèê ÿùåðêè þðêîé,
ïðîìåëüêíóâøåé â ïóñòûíå æàðêîé,
÷åé îáû÷íûé èäåàôèêñ -
÷òîá áðîäÿãó ïðèêîí÷èë ñôèíêñ.
Òâîÿ çàãàäêà, ìîé ðûæèê!
Ëèëîâàÿ þáêà, ëîäûæåê
õðóïêîñòü! Òâîé ñëóõ, íà äèâî
âîñïðèíèìàþùèé "read" êàê "dear".
Ïîä êàêîþ äûìêîþ áëåäíîé
òðåïåùåò òåïåðü òðåõöâåòíûé
ôëàã, íà ìà÷òó ïîäíÿòûé ñíîâà,
íàñòîÿùåãî-áóäóùåãî-áûëîãî?
Ê êàêèì áåðåãàì ïî ìëå÷íîé
âîäå äðåéôóåøü áåñïå÷íî,
áóñû ñæàâ, ÷òîá, ñëó÷èñü, ñ äàðàìè
ãäå-òî âñòðåòèòüñÿ ñ äèêàðÿìè?
Êîëü ãðåõè íàì îòïóñòÿò íàøè,
êîëè äóøè ñïîñîáíû äàæå
ñ ïëîòüþ â âûøíèõ ïîðâàòü - â ñåì ìåñòå,
â ñåì êàôå, êàê â ñàìÎì Òðèåñòå,-
âåðíî, òàêæå äîëæíà áûòü ðàäîñòü,
ñëîâíî âñòðå÷è ïîñìåðòíîé ñëàäîñòü
òàì, ãäå Ïåòð íà ÷àé íå áåðåò,
è ãäå ÿ ïîáûâàë âïåðåä.
A MARTIAL LAW CAROL. 1980.
To Wictor Woroszylski
and Andrzej Drawicz
One more Christmas ends
soaking stripes and stars.
All my Polish friends
are behind steel bars,
locked like zeroes in
some graph sheet ot wrath:
as a discipline
slavery beats math.
Nations learn the rules
like a naughty boy
as the tyrant drools
manacles in joy.
one pen stroke apiece,
minus edits plus
helping the police
to subtract a class.
From a stubborn brow
something scarlet drops
on the Christmas snow.
As it turn's, the globe's
face gets uglier,
pores becoming cells,
while the planets glare
coldly, like ourselves.
Hungry faces. Crime.
Squalor. Unabashed
courts distribute time
to the people crushed
not to much by tanks
or by submachine
guns as by the banks
we deposit in.
Deeper than the depth
of your thoughts or mine
is the sleep of death
in the Vujek mine;
higer than your rent
is that hand whose craft
keeps the others bent -
as though photographed.
Powerless is speech.
Still, it bests a tear
in attempts to reach,
crossing the frontier,
for the heavy hearts
of my Polish friends.
One more trial starts.
One more Christmas ends.
ÏÅÑÍÜ ÂÎÅÍÍÎÃÎ ÏÎËÎÆÅÍÈß. 1980.
Âèêòîðó Âîðîæèëüñêîìó
è Àíæåþ Äðàâè÷ó.
Ýòî ñëàáîå è äàëåêîå îò àâòîðñêîãî òåêñòà
è ç ë î æ å í è å; òî, ÷òî ìîæíî áûëî áû íàçâàòü
ïåðåâîäîì ýòîãî ñòèõîòâîðåíèÿ, ìíå ïðîñòî íå ïî çóáàì.
Ë.Ä.
Âåñü â çâåçäíîé ìåòåëè êîíåö Ðîæäåñòâà.
Äðóçüÿ, ñ êåì ìû ïåëè, ÷òî Ïîëüøà æèâà!
Õîòü âñå âû îòíûíå ïîä êðåïêèì çàìêîì,
âàø ãíåâ äèñöèïëèíå ðàáà - íå çíàêîì.
Ïîêà åãî ñëàâÿò,- óøàì íåâòåðïåæ,-
âñþ íàöèþ ñòàâèò òèðàí íà ïðàâåæ.
Ïåðî æå - ïîøòó÷íûì îòáîðîì ñèëüíÎ:
ñàòðàïó ïîäðó÷íûì ïîñëóæèò îíî.
Ïÿòíàåò óïðÿìûé ÷óäàê-÷åëîâåê
êàïåëüþ áàãðÿíîé ðîæäåñòâåíñêèé ñíåã,
è, ñòàâøàÿ àäîì, Çåìëÿ ÷òî åñòü ñèë
âåðòÈòñÿ ïîä âçãëÿäîì õîëîäíûõ ñâåòèë.
Ãîëîäíûå ëèöà. Íåñ÷àñòüå. Ïîðîê.
Èõ ñóä íå ñìóòèòñÿ ïðèõëîïíóòü â ñâîé ñðîê
ïðè ïîìîùè òàíêîâ, äóáèíîê, ãðàíàò,
íî áîëåå - áàíêîâ, õðàíÿùèõ íàø âêëàä.
Íî ãëóáæå, ÷åì äóìû òâîè è ìîè,
ñîí ñìåðòè â óãðþìîé óòðáå çåìëè.
È âåðèòñÿ, ðååò íàì íàìè ðóêà,
÷òî çàïå÷àòëååò íàñ íàâåðíÿêà.
Ñëåçîé ëè ïðîëèòüñÿ? Íåò! ñëàáàÿ ðå÷ü
ñïîñîáíà ãðàíèöû âåðíåé ïåðåñå÷ü.
Åñòü ìåðà ñòðàäàíèé. Ìóæàéñÿ, áðàòâà.
Áüåò ÷àñ èñïûòàíèé. Êîíåö Ðîæäåñòâà.
GALATEA ENCORE
As though the merkury's under its tonque, it won't
talk. As though with the mercury in its sphincter,
immobile, by a leaf-coated pond
a statue stands white like a blight of winter.
After such snow, there is nothing indeed: the ins
and outs of centuries, pestered heather.
That's what coming full circle means -
when your countenance starts to resemble weather,
when Pygmalion's vanished. And you are free
to cloud your folds, to bare the navel.
Future at last! That is, bleached debris
of a glacier amid the five-lettered "never".
Hence the routine of a goddess, nee
alabaster, that lets roving pupils gorge on
the heart of the color and temperature of the knee.
That's what it looks like inside a virgin.
ÃÀËÀÒÅß
Ïóñòü áûëà áû è ðòóòü ïîä åå ÿçûêîì è â ñóñòàâàõ - óâû,
îíà ñëÎâà íå ñêàæåò, è ÷ëåíû åå íåäâèæèìû.
Èçâàÿíüå áåëååò ó ïðÓäà, îáðîñøåãî øåðñòüþ ëèñòâû,
êàê îêóêëèâøàÿñÿ çèìà; ÷òî æ, ïîõîæå, â ïîäîáíûå çèìû
áåëèçíà îòìåíÿåò äåéñòâèòåëüíîñòü. È ñ êîíöà
è ñ íà÷àëà ñòîëåòüå çàòÿãèâàåò äèêèé âåðåñê.
Êðóã âðåìåí çàâåðøåí, è òåïåðü âûðàæåíüå ëèöà
îïðåäåëÿåò ïîãîäà, à Ïèãìàëèîí, ðàçóâåðÿñü,
ïðîïàäàåò, è â îáùåì-òî âû âîëüíû
ëèáî çàðûòüñÿ â ñêëàäêè, ëèáî îòêðûòü ïóïî÷åê.
Íàêîíåö, áóäóùåå! îñêîëêè (ðàçíîé âåëè÷èíû)
àéñáåðãà, ëåäíèêà: ïî íèì è óçíà¸øü åãî ïî÷åðê.
Âîò òîãäà õîòü ïî ãîðëî êîïàéñÿ, èññëåäóÿ òëåí:
íóòðî ñåé ãèïñîðîæäåííîé, çàóðÿäíåé èíîé æåñòÿíêè,
åãî öâåò è îòòåíîê, è òåìïåðàòóðó êîëåí.
Âñå, ÷òî ìîæíî óçíàòü, íàáëþäàÿ äåâó ñ èçíàíêè.
LETTER TO AN ARCHAEOLOGIST
Citizen, enemy, mama's boy, sucker, utter
garbage, panhandler, swine, refujew, verrucht;
a scalp so often scalded with boiling water
that the puny brain feels completely cooked.
Yes, we have dwelt here: in this concrete, brick, wooden
rubble which you now arrive to sift.
Also: we didn't love our women, but they conceived.
Sharp is the sound of the pickax that hurts deed iron;
Stranger! move carefully through our carrion:
what seems carrion to you is freedom to our cells.
Leave our names alone. Don't reconstruct those vowels,
consonants, and so forth: they won't resemble larks
but a demented bloodhound whose maw devours
its own traces, feces, and barks, and barks.
ÇÀÏÈÑÊÀ Ê ÀÐÕÅÎËÎÃÓ
Ãðàæäàíèí, âðàæèíà, èçãîé, íåíîðìàëüíûé ïàðåíü,
ïîïðîøàéêà, ñâèíòóñ, ìàìåíüêèí ñûí, ñîïëÿê.
Ñêàëüï ñòîëü ÷àñòî êðóòûì êèïÿòêîì îøïàðåí,
÷òî òîùèé ìîçã â êîòåëêå, âèäíî, âêîíåö ðàçìÿê.
Äà, ýòî íàñ íàøåë òû ñðåäü ïðî÷åé ãðÿçè
â ùåáíå êèðïè÷íîì, ïîä ñëîåì ïëàñòîâ çåìíûõ.
Âèòêàìè êîëþ÷åé ïðîâîëîêè ñïóòàíû íàøè ñâÿçè.
Ïëþñ: ìû áðþõàòèëè æåíùèí, íî íå ëþáèëè èõ.*
Ðåæóùèé ñêðåæåò êèðêè ïî òÿæåëîé ñòàëè
ìÿã÷å òîãî, ÷òî íàì ãîâîðèëè, ÷òî ãîâîðèëè ìû.
Ïîàêêóðàòíåé ñ ïàäàëüþ. Èáî îíà - ìû ñàìè,
êëåòîê íàøèõ ñâîáîäà, ñìûâøèõñÿ èç òþðüìû.
×òî òåáå äî èìåí, äî èõ íà÷åðòàíüÿ, çâóêà?
 íèõ - íå ñâèñò ñîëîâüÿ, äàæå íå êðèê ãðà÷à.
Ëþáîå èç íèõ ñêîðåå - áåçóìíàÿ çëàÿ ñóêà,
÷òî ïóòàåò ñëåä, è æðåò ñâîé ïîñëåä, ðû÷à.
*Äàííàÿ ñòðîêà ïî÷òè öåëèêîì çàèìñòâîâàíà èç ïåðåâîäà Ñåðãåÿ Ìèõàéëîâà, ñì.
http://www.vekperevoda.com/1950/mihajlov.htm
EX VOTO
Something like a field in Hungary, but without
its innocence. Something like a long river, short
of its bridges. Above, an unutterable umlaut
of eyes staining the view with hurt.
A posthumous vista where words belong
to their echo much more than to what one says.
An angel resembles in the clouds a blond
gone in an Auschwitz of sidewalk sales.
And a stone marks the ground where a sparrow sat.
In shop windows, the palm of the quay foretell
to a mosquito challenging the facade
of a villa - or, better yet, hotel -
his flat future. The farther one goes, the less
one is interested in the terrain.
An aimless iceberg resents bad press:
it suffers a meltdown, and forms a brain.
EX VOTO
Ñëîâíî âåíãåðñêîå ïîëå, õîòÿ íå ñòîëü
íåïîðî÷íîå; ñëîâíî áîëüøàÿ ðåêà
ñòèñíóòàÿ ìîñòàìè. È èñòî÷àþùèé áîëü
íåâûðàçèìûé óìëÿóò ãëàç ñâåðõó, èçäàëåêà.
Ïîñìåðòíàÿ ïåðñïåêòèâà, â êîòîðîé ðå÷ü
ñêîðåé ïðèíàäëåæíîñòü ýõà, ÷åì ãîëîñ âàø.
Áëîíäèí, ñõîæèé ñ àíãåëîì â îáëàêå,
ñãèíóë â òîëïå,
ñèðå÷ü
â øóìíîì Îñâåíöèìå óëè÷íûõ ðàñïðîäàæ.
Ãäå âîðîáåé ÷èðèêàë - âàëóí ëåæèò.
Ïî ëàäîíè ïàëüìû â âèòðèíå (èìåÿ öåëü
íå÷òî óçíàòü î áóäóùåì) ìîã áû ïîíÿòü ìîñêèò
èññëåäóþùèé ñòåíû âèëëû, èëè îòåëü,
÷òî îíî - ïëîñêîå. È ÷åì äàëüøå â ëåñ,
òåì âñå áîëüøå äðîâ è æèæå òåëåñíûé âîñê.
Áëóæäàþùèé àéñáåðã, íå ñåòóé, ïîïàâ ïîä ïðåññ,
ïîñêîëüêó, ïîäòàÿâ, òû ñòàíåøü ïîõîæ íà ìîçã.
Ñâèäåòåëüñòâî î ïóáëèêàöèè ¹112032006740