Мир Иннокентия Анненского: И. Ф. Анненский в переводах

Среди миров (Among the Worlds)
После концерта (After the Concert)
Аметисты (Amethysts)
Тоска миража (The Anguish of a Mirage)
Осенний романс (The Autumnal Romance)
Смычок и струны (The Bow and the Strings)
Свечку внесли (The Candles Are Brought In)
Дети (Children)
Ego
Гармония (Harmony)
"Я думал, что сердце из камня..." ("I Thought That the Heart...")

"Ноша жизни светла и легка мне..." ("My Life's Burden...")
Старая шарманка (The Old Barrel Organ)
Тоска припоминанья (The Pine Of Reminiscence)
Поэзия ("Творящий дух и жизни случай...") (Poetry)
Маки (Poppies)
Сентябрь (September)
Весенний романс (The Spring Romance)
Поэту (To the Poet)
Две любви (Two Loves)
Ты опять со мной (You're Again With Me)

Among the worlds, in glimmering of stars,
The single Star is ever my attraction:
Not 'cause I'd so loved Her so far,
But 'cause I live with others with aversion.

And if my doubts were an awful plight,
I just from Her wait for the final answers,
Not 'cause She sends to me the saving light,
But 'cause with Her I can live and in darkness.

The blackened skies have reached the garden walk;
Yet my poor heart tonight cannot be not the restless:
The lights that have been failed, the lost of sounds talk,
Are they the remnants of the dream in sadness?

Oh, how sad it was, the satin of her dress,
Her breast was very white, among the straps black fair!
How sorry I was then to see her eyes distressed,
Her hands in snowy gloves, resigned as to a prayer!

And how much her soul was mercilessly dispersed,
Among the tearless, cold-hearted and unsettled!
Like sounds, bred in silence, were there spelled -
The starry sounds - lilac, bright, and gentle!

Like at an anguish's flesh, from broken a lace,
In dazzling light of moon, with gentleness and fire,
Roll dawn amethysts into the dewy mire,
And die without trace.

My eyes forgot the heavens' blue,
To them the sun's dust is not gold,
But I live just one substance through,
That's to the amethyst's planes owned.

'Cause that that, drunker than young spring
And troubling stronger than idea,
The lilac fires have to sing
And coldly play with colors here.

And for the heart with pain and shame,
A dream comes, tender and deceiving:
As a crystal in the candles' flame,
To stay in cold of lilac singing.

They faded, the last bands of reddish,
Like whispers of prayers in night,
O tale, such seductive and maddish,
What else do you want of this heart?

Are not, beyond measure and count,
So hard in the snows my ways?
Aren't gray empty spaces around?
Isn't husky the ring of the bells?

And why, every minute and instant,
My heart is divided in two?
I know that she is in distance,
But feel her right near me, too.

Here they are, the snowy clouds,
I can't take my eyes from all that:
Right now, shall merge our routs
In snows, so white and so dead.

Right now will be silently bound
And newly unbound our sleighs.
We'll hear the bell's common sound
In an instant of sadness and pains:

We'd heard: But we'll not any more
Have meeting in this hazy night:
In the circle of anguish and woe
I wander on my path of blight:

They faded, the last bands of reddish,
Like whispers of prayers in night,
O tale, such seductive and maddish,
What else do you want of this heart?

I watch you as coldly as never,
But can't keep this pine in my breast,
Today sun's in smoke of havens,
And sadness makes heavy a breath.

I know, I breed just a fable -
At least, trust to fables, -- but you?:
Like needless oblations, in alleys,
Leaves fall in the mournful hue.

We're joined by the fate that was blinded:
Would God join us 'there' - behind sky?:
Don't laugh, if in spring days, delighted,
You'll step on the lives that here die.

How dark and heavy's the delirium's embrace!
How they're turbid under moon - the heights!
To have touched Violin for so many years
And not distinguish those Strings in light!

Who craves for us? Who, insolent, has set
In flames two faces, yellow and vexed,
And suddenly the saddened Bow felt
That someone took them and forever merged.

'How long ago it was - as in a dream -
Tell me trough dark: are you the same one, else?':
And Strings pressed close, caressing, to him,
Ringing and tossing in their fond caress.

'Is that all true, that it's enough, God blessed,
That we shall never ever part again?
And poor Violin replied him always 'yes',
Though its heart was sinking in sharp pain.

Bow fell silent, understanding, then,
But poor Violin still echoed its complaint,
And what seemed music to the most men,
To both of them was everlasting pain.

The man didn't blow, till the night was gone,
The candles : And the Strings were singing, yet:
And they were found, drained of strength, by sun
On the black velvet of the sleepless bed.

Don't you have the strange vision sometimes
(When a dark penetrates in a house)
Of another existence for us,
Where we live in the other life's phases?

There, a shade's softly pressed to a shade,
And such wonderful minute there hovers,
Where as if, through the beams by eyes sent,
We unite our bodies and souls.

We afraid that a word or a move
Would get off this magnificent instant,
As if one puts his ear above
And recalls us to listen at distance.

But as soon as a candle is kindled,
Second world would this minute retire:
And from eyes through the light's rays inclined,
Shades would run into pale-blue of fire.

Has time come? I'm fully ready.
If we've sinned - there's no a chance:
We - to prisons, they - to gladness:
Give to children - sun and grass!

When one's child - the life's thread's thinner,
Days are shorter in that age:
Do not scold a little 'sinner',
Pet a child without edge.

You're a looser if whenever
Cannot understand your child,
Drew child's whisper - what's a shame there!
Bigger shame - to raise his fright!

But the sinless children's tears
Can't be dried, tho' you confess,
'Tis because they always bear
Jesus Christ in holly rays.

But they which live like in prisons,
Whose arms are the thinnest threads:
People! Brothers! Aren't these reasons
Why our peace is only death?

A week son of the dying generation,
I would not seek the roses of Alps,
I will not gain the beautiful sensation,
Not from wave's noise, nor from young tempests hums.

But I would see on fields of scarlet glass
The brilliant and forever crying highlands,
The faded flowers in whites of tables' vase,
The ornament, that flame of evening founds.

And when my head has sunk in nightly rest,
I read dreamed stories, lost of any real,
Forgotten words of books, burned in forgotten past,
In hazy sleep, I kiss with hot appeal.

In midst of waves, there are the silver beads
And scraped by time paints of the white enamel :
I so like the morns which autumn breeds,
For their caress, so short and so gentle.

And I do like the foam on the shore,
When it again is whitening in mire,
And, greedy, I am hiding here a store
Of hazy days, while skies are full of fire.

But somewhere there, they're roaming in flame,
The same ones as I am, without name and number,
And somebody's young being - just the same -
Instead of me, is ceasing in sad amber.

"I Thought That the Heart..."
I thought that the heart made of stone,
That it's fully empty and dead:
Though fire in it had been thrown,
It's not damaged or just upset.

And that's right: it was not tormented,
If - painful, then only a bit,
But, yet, it is better to end it,
Put out, while you can do it:

The heart is in darkness entire,
I've known: the victory's mine -
At last, we extinguished the fire:
And, yet, in a smoke I die.

I thought that the heart made of stone,
That it's fully empty and dead:
Though fire in it had been thrown,
It's not damaged or just upset.

And that's right: it was not tormented,
If - painful, then only a bit,
But, yet, it is better to end it,
Put out, while you can do it:

The heart is in darkness entire,
I've known: the victory's mine -
At last, we extinguished the fire:
And, yet, in a smoke I die.

My life's burden's for me light and shone,
I won't you to be baffled or wound;
And not God, who had thought on a stone -
I do pity the stone he's found.

I do pity the violet, faded -
Just in vain - just forgot among pages,
And the mist, by which glass has been laden,
Then - dissolved by hot tears for ages.

Not the mad woman's pain, but the willow
Is awaking my heart's even sadness,
'Cause, while lulling this pain on leaves' pillows,
It was tired and cut by winds merciless.

We almost lost our minds through that mad sky:
It blinds us with its fire or its snow,
And, baring teeth, like any beast of wild,
Old winter hides in April very slow.

No sooner has it fallen into sleep,
That has again its helmet over brows,
And those streams, gone into snow deeps,
Cease their song and freeze in deadly silence.

But all this is forgotten in the past,
The garden hums, and whitens vibrant stone,
And rooms look with opened windows' eyes,
At dark-green grass, over the road sown.

But only one - the barrel organ old
Shivers with cold in May of sunset's languor --
Can't ever grind all injuries recalled,
As it rotates the heedful shaft with anger.

This rusty barrel cannot understand
That all its work is void of any goal,
That any pain of old age extends,
On every pin and every turn, in whole.

But even if it once were to discern
Its own fate and fate of the street organ,
It would not ever cease to sing and turn --
'Cause every song is one of pain and moan.

I see always the page that is filled on
By the muddy-black blotches of ink.
I am able from men to be hidden,
But to where could I run from night's brink?

All that live has become so distant,
That didn't come - so perfectly watched,
And forgotten lines merge from that instant
Till next dawn into many a blotch.

I'm all there - in impossible answers,
Where the letters of dreams loom in sight:
I like children to be in a house -
And these children to cry in the night.

The life's chance and creative spirit
United painfully in you,
And midst the beauty's hitting views
There's not so airy and exquisite:

In the world desert's sandy grounds -
Where all's a host, you fell in love
With cosmos of the different sounds
And flowers of troubled life.

Untouchable, transparent wholly!
We're pined by you, oh, goddess holly,
When, through pale slots, you, vaguely viewed,

Such grasp all our thought and body,
That if to fall in love with you -
Love will be mad for everybody.

The gay day is ablaze: And in the languid grass
The poppies' patches burn like impotent desire:
Like lips that can allure or deathly poison us,
Or wings of butterfly, wide spread and red like fire.

The gay day is ablaze: But old and empty stands
This garden, long ago lost of the feasts and pleasure,
And poppies,weathered, like old women's heads,
Are warmly overspread by heaven chalice, azure.

The gardens full of gold and decay,
With lure of purple of the swelling ailments,
And tardy heat of sun in curves of sunbeam's remnants,
Unable to distil into the fragrant spray.

The carpets' yellow silk and traces, roughly laid,
And the avowed false of the preceding meeting,
And ponds of parks, extinguished, deep and sad,
And ready long ago for suffering and missing:

But ones' hearts only seek past beauty in decays,
Just the allurement of enchanted forces,
And they, who've tested the unearthly lotus,
Are thrilled by fragrance of autumnal days.

The river else doesn't wholly reign,
But pale-blue ice is drowned now;
And clouds are not blue again,
But sun had drunk the snow out.

Through a half-opened door,
You fret a heart with rustle; though:
You are not else in love; but lor!
You can't not fall in love tomorrow.

In different clearness of rays,
In addling amalgam of visions
We always live in world's things' reign
With its triad of space division.

And spreading borders of this life,
Or multiplying forms by fable,
To hide your I from not-I's eyes
You will be never-never able.

This power's your leading star,
It has your God and nature's law,
And before it, it's pale and far -
The Art, belittling things' great role.

You can not flee from slaving reign
To look for charms of airy smears,
The deepness is not verse's main,
But just a puzzle which it bears.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
So, love the clearness and rays,
In the aroma - their creation,
And cut bright bowls for the grace
And always integral receptions.

There is such love that's similar to smoke:
If it is bound - it's intoxicating,
Receiving freedom - vanished, not awaiting:
Be like the smoke - but in young years locked.

There is such love that's similar to shade:
If it is day - lay by your feet - a hound,
If it is night - embraced you all around:
Be like the shade - together night and day:

You're again with me, my girlfriend autumn?
But through your net of the boughs bared,
Bluish tints were ne'er such pale and frozen,
And I don't recall the snow more dead.

I've not seen some sadder than your rabble,
And such black as all your lakes and streams,
In your skies - old, faded and unstable -
Yellow clouds of my painful dreams.

Just to see this all, while fully freezing:
How strangely new is this air cold:
Do you know, I thought, more dizzying
Is to see the empty deeps of words.


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Начало \ Анненский в переводах \ Переводы Е. Бонвера
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