Мария Визи - A moon gate in my wall: собрание стихотворений Страница 44

Shanghai, [Sept. 1934]

514. «If I had but a little common sense…»

If I had but a little common sense,I would forsake you, 1 would travel henceand maybe see, in lovely places, far,that you were not the sky's most brilliant star.

Perhaps on lofty mountains I would seekthe flaming flower of the snow-clad peak,or on some island in the sunny seaforget the words that you have said to me.

There are so many wonders I could find,that life would yet be bountiful and kind,and going so I should not drop a tear,— if I had sense…But I have none, my dear.

Shanghai, 23 Oct. 1934

515. «It's not because you leave me that I weep…»

It's not because you leave me that I weep,nor am I broken just because we part, —but that the coin of friendship proved so cheap,and that your word meant nothing in your heart.

Leave me now, go; I will not need you more.Travel your way, while I shall walk my own;Let not your conscience worry on my score:I may be even stronger so, alone.

But should I ever meet you later on —tired and sick and begging me for breadwith all your luck and earthly glories gone —better for you if one of us were dead,for I may turn and give a stone instead.

Shanghai, [1934]

516. To a Man Named Smith

Once in this world of mountain, wood and plainmy road crossed yours. We will not meet again.But as a dawn breaks open sunlit skies —so once we looked into each other's eyes.

In that brief hour the words we spoke were few,and when you went, and I lost sight of youstill all the birds were trilling, and the dayshone just as golden as I walked my way.

Poor foolish heart — why should it cry and crybecause you crossed the verv hour as I?

Shanghai, [1934]

517. «Quiet the waters were, — do you recall?..»

Quiet the waters were, — do you recall? —quietly did the waters rise and rollin low and gentle swells, when one fine dayyou dropped your anchor in my slumbering bay.

Softly the breezes from the western skyswept over silent sands where you and Igazed at the sea — and not a shadow fell,nor came a cloud to break the golden spell.

How can I wonder now, with you no more,that black the waters rise, and roar, and roar?

23 Feb. 1936

518. «High in the mountains, where the grass is cool…»

High in the mountains, where the grass is cool,we tied our horses by an emerald pool,and as they drank, as they neighed in glee,we two sat motionless, and speechless, — we.

Upon the shining flanks of your black steedyou watched the water flicker, bead by bead;you never raised your eyes, yet well you knew —that all the while 1 only thought of you.

Dear dream forgotten, dream that was so frail!The evening sky was cloudless, calm and pale —could I have guessed, as we resumed that trail,

that every star would wane, and every streamrun dry and silent, as in a by-gone dream?

23 Feb. 1936

519. Falling Star

Star as you fell through the blue evening airwhen I stood watching you, silent and thrilled,I was supposed to have breathed a word of prayerthat some deep wish I had might be fulfilled.

But, star, oh, — white, round star, — I saw you fall,breathlessly saw the light behind you trailed,and I forgot the earth I trod, and allearthly desires and wishes, — and I failed…

Bitter my sorrow now, and sore regretnot to have grasped the chance the day it came!But such was your swift sudden spell, that yetif others fell — I still would do the same!

Shanghai, [1936]

520. «I'm often dreaming…»

I'm often dreamingthat I unfurlmy tall wings, gleaminglike mother-of-pearl,

and cut my tether,and take to flight,with each small featherglistening white;

but, oh, I waken,and, to atone,breathless and shakenfall, like a stone,

and see — a tokenof earthly things —they're broken —my shining wings!

[1936]

521. «I am a stranger here. Leave me alone…»[233]

I am a stranger here. Leave me alone.My eyes are tired of your streets of stone,your tower houses; I am used to woodand hill and meadows and to solitude.

All now is ended — all the wild birds flown,and stars burnt out which had so brightly shone —all the tall stately firs stand bare and deadand silent lies each empty riverbed.

Only the still brown rocks, moss-covered, keeptheir watch where silver wavelets curl and creep,and that same sky, sunless and cold and grey,hangs, — as the morning when I sailed away.

Shanghai, 1936–1937

522. «I hope from where you sit or lie…»[234]

Norma Jean

I hope from where you sit or liethat you can see a patch of skyat night, with angels flitting by,each lighter than a sigh.

I hope that thru your window paneyou see trees, dripping in the rain,or stooping low as under strainwhere heavy snow has lain.

That you can watch a billowy cloudsailing, like some white galleon proud,and birds around it, crying loud,ever a joyous crowd;

I hope that you may never tireof watching sunlit skies on fire.

27 Nov. 1951

523 Nocturne(«White clouds…»)[235]

White cloudsRemoteLike little explosionsClimb the sky and floatAbove the black erosionsOf the castle moat.

Behind the grey parallelogramOf his castle wallThe aged knightSnores, for he doesn't really give a damnAt allFor the beauty of the night.

But in her towerThe knight's young daughterForgetful of the hour,Silently watchesThe silver splotchesUpon the water.

29 Mar. 1955

524. Impressions at the Opera (a true story)

Three dowagers with silver tressesand silver foxes over pale-blue dressesfloated into their box,fox after fox,and settled down,like pillows stuffed with eiderdown.

And Salvatore Baccaloni,as Bartolo up on the stage,though usually quite the rage,seemed not as fat,nor half as funny.

21 Feb. 1956

525. «It is usually very still on that day…»

It is usually very still on that day,which comes at different times in different places;came in the end of October in the place where I lived.

Very still and cold, and then, toward evening,the air is suddenly warmer.Nature stands still, you can hear the earth breathe,the trees reach out and wait.Stars that had been very brilliantall at once turn opaque.

It is then that the first snowflake of the winter, alwayslarge and slow, is wafted, like a small parachute, downupon the expectant earth,in hushed silence.

27 Feb. 1956

526. «With folded wings he sat and took a rest…»

With folded wings he sat and took a restupon a branch not far from where his nestwas hidden in the thicket from sharp eyesand sharper claw and long,deep in a wood of aspen and of beechwhere sunrays rarely reach,where stillness liesand shadows hang.Quietly he sat, small, gray and soft,colorless lump of life, alone, aloft,seen and admired by no one.Then he spreadhis wings,most powerful among such minute things,and, gray no morebut golden in the sun, he rose to soar,and then he sang…

February 1956

527. «Nothing is left to write of any more…»[236]

Nothing is left to write of any more,all that there is to say was said before:all is recorded — every human breath.

The poets have discussed God, love and death,the seasons and the land and water here,cities around us, and the atmosphere,creatures from the amoeba to the auk,including beings that can sing and talk.

All you need do is listen, gratefully,to Swinburne, or Verlaine, or Po Chu-i.

7 Mar. 1956

528. Nocturne («Late twilight in October…»)

Late twilight in October.Stillness hangsabove primeval marshes like spun glass.

Escaping lightly from the reaching armsof scrawny birch, the moon,opaque and naked,drops her seventh mist.

No rustle stirsthe elderberries. Sorrowful, a loonraises his pointed head among the bladesof marsh grass; even he does not invadethe silence with habitual complaint.

This is whensuddenly, passing high above, departing cranescry out between the earth and moonurgently, clearly, for a rapid moment;

the marshes bear their softprovocative and wistful voices,high in the air, yet ultimately close;then they are gone.And in their wakethe first large timid snowflakesdim the moon.

15 Feb. 1957

529. «There is something you want to say…»[237]

There is something you want to say —thoughts gurgling in your brain,words choking your throat.Say them, say them before you stop breathing,

see the darkness converging upon youfrom the sky — from the shore — from the water —The circles upon the water grow large and flatand disappear altogether,

and the surface is silent.Speak out — call loudlyand say all those turbulent words,cry lustily

so that the shores will echo,then whisper softlythose last compassionate words,and all will be dark, dark.

1 Mar. 1957

530. «There was hoarfrost on the lawn this morning…»