Мария Визи - A moongate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

There was hoarfrost on the lawn this morning
at dawn.
The seagulls were flying inland from the ocean,
to the warm earth and the grass.

They were gray in the early light
against the November sky.

Little dead children, candles in their eyes,
uprooting earth, and clanging through staid skies,
remembering their ermine-mantled days,
all guillotined too soon,
dance on the lawn
where night dreams spawn
unmindful of the gaze
of the thick-skulled mongol cheek-boned moon.
Dance, slithering sprites
in this transparent trance
through all your promised perfumed nights
with well-earned mirth
which sly time pilfered on your withering earth!
Dance in the tear-soaked grass
dangling each tinkling somewhere-living heart
as void eyes dart
to where the stolid unbelieving old
grow by the snarling oak roots in a silent mold
buried en masse.
Disdain and disregard the sod-bound throng.
There is a song
composed about you and your life goes on
dancing long nights upon a moonstained lawn.

Suddenly, I'm awake —
now, when my heart is sagging
and when my death, set for the take,
creaks round the nearest hill in her sure wagon.

Quite unexpectedly, the sky blows warm
as when cold day
breathes sudden fire instead
after a powerful and all-uprooting storm
risen from its day bed.

And as I stand
groping and reaching with my lips and hand,
mouth open in an agony of wanting
to fling long smouldering words that have been haunting
my loosely used, oh, many-wasted lips,
— I see the sun that dips
into the catchall of horizon and I flay
the sunless air to hold the night at bay
and rise and leave
the rock I stand on as I reach the eave
of the lowering, blackening sky above my head —
and I am dead.

I am Lot's wife. I couldn't walk away
up foreign sands, away from that poor land
where every stone was warm from my own touch
and every door and window held my shadow,
where I had walked those narrow streets of Sodom.

There I had lived among familiar people
and talked and had my various human dealings
with neighbor women and with men who traded
and knew me well and knew my husband Lot.

Though truly they had differed with our thoughts
and knew not God as Lot and I had known Him
and wouldn't listen to His words of warnings,
— they weren't worse than I: I didn't listen.

I couldn't follow Lot on that safe trail
hearing the wrath of vengeance on my town,
hearing the fall of rocks and quake of hillside,
hearing the roar of all-devouring flame,
the crying agony of men and women:
I couldn't run away: I stopped and turned —

What matter that the price I paid was life,
was immortality?
Perhaps in that brief moment
some friend or enemy before he died
breathed easier because he glimpsed, half-blinded,
through fire and smoke, beneath a fallen pillar,
my shaking arms stretched in a last farewell?

Come to classroom, padre, while the students
are not yet gathered for their next assignment.
Come with me, padre, I will show you something
for which I beg you to donate a moment.

Your brothers, padre! See, — upon the tables —
laid out and all prepared to be dissected.
Oh, yours and mine. Just shut the door now, quiet…
The overburdened, very good professor
is right now having one last cup of coffee
within the fold of his distinguished household.

There — long, grey-white ones. How they must have worried
and how they must be cold in this dank classroom.
This is my thought (— will you forgive me, padre,
for buttonholing you between the wardroom s
where you disseminated consolation —)

— This is my thought: perhaps they had no kinfolk
to say goodbye and tuck them in for sleeping.
Perhaps you missed them as they lay there dying.
You and your colleagues; stand here in the doorway
and make a sign above these proud dead people,
say a few words, — because you have connections —
to make it dignified, this their departure,
as their last bell rings and their train pulls out.

(This is not the beginning:)
The quiet one are lying on their tables,
all wrapped in white, all swaddled white like babies
(born just a life ago, just a life, — whither is it gone
now, that they are speechless, motionless,
sightless, loveless, selfless?)

Suddenly a fire alarm sounds.

Noiselessly then the people wrapped in white,
white-swaddled, shoeless, soundless, faceless, warily
step one by one onto the fire escape
and slither down, procession wise, to safety
one after one, pouring from out their window
winding lightly down, white sheets that wrap them trailing;

down the black crooked iron stairway
comes the procession, in disorted angels
showing no faces —
to escape the fire.
piched the ground, the earth, the safety,
And, having reached the ground, the earth, the safety
they stop and stand and stare in scared amazement —
What do they do now? Whither do they slither?
Now they are safe, in what direction do they turn?

A rose quartz vase shone on her dresser, and
the sandalwood immortals stood, all seven,
imported from a pine and dragon land
once governed by the Son of Heaven.

Upon her cold blue wall
was hung a single silken-tasseled scroll
brush-painted on parchment,
with craggy mountains and a waterfall
— the prized possession of her studio apartment.

And, head benignly bowed, Kwan-Yin in jade
graced her teak night stand and her mystic soul.
Yet somehow this decor forever made
the impression of stage props for a miscast role.

As if these things were images in a glass
that traveling by reflect their face and pass
— a hollow echo's alien report
from a forbidden city's empty court.

Once on the Moika lived a man —
an oldster — who had stacks of books,
and knew this one, that one. Yet
that's not the reason why my friend
would urge me — on the run — to come
and meet him, but because he thought
that meeting would bring joy to both.
We'd grasp each other in a flash,
we share one sorrow, speak one tongue,
the shade of a forgotten bard!
I planned to go so many times,
but rain, some business, or «too late»,
«not in the mood», «he's indisposed» —
and next I heard it: «He has died».
My visit cancelled now, for good,
and who can tell me «it's put off?»

The earth is dry, the summer has been hot.
Dead russet stubble bristles in the rocks
of my small garden, few and pale the blooms
on gently tended shrubs.
The air is still.

Without a rustle over sand and clay,
graceful and grey, slithers a winding snake
and disappears between the cracks of stone,
small silent creature, harmless, in its home.

Night smoothes away day's blemishes and scars,
and grasses reach to feel her cooling hand.
I pick a banjo from my wall, to strum.
Its tightly covered snakeskin body sings.

You swerved from the road and you went away. I said goodbye to you,
but that was for now;
We will meet again, though we do not know yet where or how.

Perhaps in this room where I write. You will open the door
— oh you won't need to knock, you can hurry in as you have before
because I will always wait.

Or on some roseate bridge as I cross a golden strait
at sunset when over the bar
the white fog enters warily into the bay
you will ride in the other direction and I will see
a sudden glimpse of your face rushing toward me
expected and unexpected, as in a dream…

Or perhaps very far
in the hill of Manchuria covered with cedars and grapes on the lower
slopes,
where the tiger lilies (remember those tiger lilies?)
grow thick on the valley floor
you will wade toward me across the shallow mountain stream
— as before?

We shall meet again. You will see.
Someday our lives will find
a pattern familiar to us, a pattern so designed
as to bring us close somewhere in this vast world — oh, yes, vast still
though almost all discovered and charted, brook, tree and hill.

You and I
will catch up with one another walking perhaps outside
Shanghai
in a field near the Temple of Horrors where the purple idols stare
with bulging eyes…

And it may be too
as I turn the corner off Corraterie around the fountain where
geraniums flame
that you
will be doing the same
and you and I will meet
where the old watchmaker keeps his crack-in-the-wall on that cobblestone
street.

For every wall has a door. I shan't despair.

In Viipuri at Christmas I don't yet know what year
(or even century if we're still living here)
as I watch the skaters circle the pond blue frozen
when the stars begin to ring from the frost at some hour chosen
you will appear
somehow somewhere
in what shape? — even that is not given me to know.

Over the globe bright miniature flags pinned, saying
that we have stood, lived, walked together long ago
at each pricked point. We will meet again
because 1 know that you, not only I,
visit them often nor ever will cease to fly
to all these places or cross the sea by ship or earth by train
and even jog by donkey on covered cart over the parched and unpaved
China plain…

And someday under one such miniature marker grown to be
a banner swaying
in the blue wind across the entire sky
you will meet with me
and then… after th at… only then we will say
goodbye.

My dear, my dear,
Now that I have to go, and know I'm going,
There are so many things I have to say —
So many things that, without knowing.
I've left unfinished here
Till this last day —

Sit near me, listen, and perhaps together
We will recall, before I break the tether,
questions unanswered, prayers unspoken,
And if there is no time, perhaps my eyes
Will leave for you a token
Of sunlit skies
That we have watched together, and of dreams
That I have shared with you, and you with me!

This is a very vast and lonely sea
That I am set to sail, and yet it seems
That I am not afraid. The guiding hand
Of a wise Pilot comes to beckon me
Across the blue expanse to a far land
Of peace and calm and beauty.
You, my dear,
Staying behind, you must not ever fear
This life!
If I could only tell
As clearly, somehow, as a silver bell
Might ring through the clear air of a bright day,
That I will never really be away
From you; not ever…
Will you try
To walk on, bravely, though a clouded sky
May threaten, though above a barren field
Thunder may roll, please promise not to yield
To doubt — remember always, as you grope
In darkest thickets — there is always hope.
— I am a little weary. Will you bring
A glass of water for me? Make it cold.

Thank you. That's better…
There's another thing
You must remember — that I've always told:
There is no white or black or yellow race,
But only Human. All are made the same,
For it is not the color of the face
Or the variety of given name
That shape the heart and educate the mind;
It is not what you see, but what you find.

— Oh, love, it seems I'm only getting started,
And yet I feel that we will soon be parted,
1 tire so fast. Forgive me if I gasp,
Here, let me have your little hand to clasp
In mine for yet a little longer. Stay.
I have to finish what I want to say.

Because you are more generously blessed
Than most, you are not better than the rest,
Only more fortunate. So if you can,
Be kind and gentle to your fellow man,
As we are taught to be.
And oh, my dear,
Enjoy the wealth that you are offered here —

Sunrise — and music — and the shape of trees —
Soft growing grass — and world-encircling seas —
Love for a man — the work you have to do —
Friends travelling the very road as you —

I hope that you will live and toil and play
With all your heart, and all the time obey
Your faith in the great Presence over all,
Whether you win, or whether for a time
Your footsteps falter in the slime
Of difficulties, even if you fall,
Remember, dear, that with your faith and will
In days of darkness you are victor still.

It s getting late, and you should be in bed,
And surely there will be one more tomorrow —

When I am gone, don't think of me as dead,
Remember me with happiness, not sorrow …

But we shall talk again …
Good night, good night!