Мария Визи - A moongate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

Somewhere
there is a gate that I must find and open,
take out the bolt and lilt the latch and push,
and then the road ahead will stretch away
smooth, clear and safe for me to walk at leisure;

a small white gate, wrought in a low white fence,
along the outskirts of this great dense wood.

There must be somewhere
in the tall brush and thicket on my trail
a mark, a sign, perhaps a broken twig,
a tree peculiarly bent, a stone
lying against another;

there must be somewhere
an indication, maybe even arrow
pointing that way, so that I may follow;

it cannot be that I have not remembered
those previous markings,
and have lost the trail.

High in the air, the high blue air above us,
where birds and men fly peacefully together,
for endless centuries, the long lost notes
of many songs have floated by, unheard
to living ears.

We have not yet
become quite strong enough to catch those songs
and hear and tame them for the world to know,
but they are there, for they were never lost
completely. And if sometimes, in the haze
along the fringes of this life
we think we meet
a sudden melody that we have never known,
barely distinguished words, perhaps a rhyme
that we reach out to touch —

we vainly strain, but all that we can feel
is some vague sense of beauty
created somewhere once, and waiting for us,
not quite completely lost,
nor yet recaptured.

Can it be true, in hours of grief and anger
that all one's past will disappear afar
just like the soft sound of some forgotten music,
like in the dark of night a fallen star?

I put my brushes carefully, one by one,
into their respective cones
in the brass brush stand,
meticulously smoothing each sensitive tuft with my fingers,
to make a pinpoint end.

I pull out the small white bone latch
of my ink box,
lifting its black and gold silk lid.

The ink tablet, half covered with carved inscription,
lies before me.

I pull out the two white bone pieces
latching the powder-blue silk covers
of a small thick volume.
The ivory-white rice paper page
is blank.

The moon has set over the western horizon
and night fragrance is drifting into my window.
I pick a brush of the needed thickness,
touch the surface of water in a porcelain cup
and caressing the ink tablet gently,
write down a poem.

Two ladies stand on an open marble surface,
and the mist of the April morning
swirls at their silken feet;

the verdure of the white-barked pines,
almost black against the still white sky,
clouds over the bright blue tiles
of the small pavilion.

Far in the distance, all sense of perspective lost
in the subtleties of the mist,
hang the curling cliffs of the mountains,
without top or bottom,
wrapped in the twisting and winding scarves
of the April mist.

a great grey wall of brick and earth was built
some centuries ago. A deep, wide moat
was dug and filled with water.
None but friends
could enter through the barred and guarded gate.

Now peace hangs sweetly over Tung-Chow-fu.
The wall has crumbled down in many spots,
and only kingfishers disturb the sleep
of aged willow trees that, drooping, touch
the lazy curling wavelets of the moat.

All there is green and quiet.
In the spring
it is a joy to cross the stepping stones
and climb the wall, and see the almonds bloom
scarlet against the background of the grey.

At Wu-Chih-Mi the little local train
stops.
I step off and breathe the summer warmth.
At Wu-Chih-Mi there aren't many dwellings.
It dozes lying in its quiet valley
in summer twilight as the hills around it
turn rose and violet and transparent blue
before the night.
I walk across the green and soundless meadow
and soon I see the lanterns of the sky
reveal their silken brilliance one by one.
Alone I stand and listen to the stillness
at Wu-Chih-Mi
and watch the silver dipper
above the northern hilltops as it tips
to quench the thirsting of my day-parched soul
with the beatitude of simple peace.

Around the bend of the Yalu
where the cliffs come close to the sparkling, chattering water,
suddenly you come to an open meadow
all purple with wild iris.
This meadow is like a green jade bowl
held by cliffs on three sides
with a grove of birches framing the river bank on the fourth.

Tie your horse to a birch trunk; let him nibble
on the sweet wild strawberries at his feet. Look:
What peace, what silence!
No one here to pluck these myriad blooms of deep purple,
more plentiful than the grass,
evidently so carefully tended
by a kind gardener.

We sailed in a small river boat
up the wide canal on the way to Zo-Ssu
one April day.

We passed through a town
and sailed under its bridge,
a high curved stone bridge,
linking two halves of the town.

The bridge was grey, like the walls
of the houses on either side,
but a very busy life
was evident everywhere,

people selling their wares and walking about the streets,
meeting above on the bridge to enjoy the sun and to engage in
conversation,
women washing their clothes at the edge of the stream below,
and several naked children, happy to be near water,
jumping in for a swim from the sampans anchored ashore.

Ching-pu is an elderly man and all his chores are completed,
the tilling of fields, the raising of crops and of sons.
Ching-pu sits back on his heels on the sunny terraced knoll
smoking his long-stemmed pipe filled with bitter tobacco,
holding his slender pipe with withered yellow hand,
watching the river below hurrying round the bend,
watching the river sampans swiftly propelling themselves,
prow to the muddy current,
around the bend of the river,
towards the city beyond.

Your gate is heavy, strong, and always barred.
Its face is bright vermilion touched with brass.
A stout kai-meng-de guards it day and night
and just a chosen few may step inside.
But I prefer a moongate in my wail —
an open gate that has no use for locks.
Come, let us walk right through and see the pines
shedding dark needles on the moonlit steps!

The white sands on the sloping shore of the river
lie silent, except for the lapping,
continuous lapping
of the yellow water
against the edge of the slope,
— the great mass of water
poured powerfully
down the deep trough of its old bed.

liven the water grasses,
crashing close to the current,
hold the wav'es of their surface
silently toward the sun.

Suddenly, a heavy splash disturbs the silence,
as the aged bulk of a huge river tortoise
turns swiftly
near the top of the yellow water,
to snatch a minnow.

It was a lazy summer noon, as I sat in the stern of a flat-bottomed boat,
holding a blue parasol over my head and back.

My boatman rowed unhurriedly through the rushes,
the tall rushes crowding a narrow stream
across the Sung-Hwa-kiang.

I sat enjoying the blue of the sky,
the gold of the sun, the green of the grass and the ripples,
and I did not know whether I was pretty or not,
in my light summer gown,
against my light blue parasol —
I did not know whether I wras pretty or not,

I had not expected to meet you rowing towards me,
swiftly slicing the rushes with the sharp prow of your boat,
as you returned from your early morning fishing.

He was a shepherd and he spent his hours
upon a hillside taking care of sheep.
He slept in his small hut of mud and straw
and ate his rice and sometimes drank his tea.

His hands were gnarled and grimy and his clothes
he hardly ever changed from month to month
for he was one of the unwashed who lived
so many li from rivers or a spring.

In early morning, when some stranger chanced,
dangling his dusty legs, on donkey back
to pass his hut, the friendly shepherd called
by way of greeting, —
«Have you had your rice?»