Мария Визи - A moongate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

Out of your memory I'll snatch this day,
so vou will question, lost, with helpless eyes,
«Where did I see the little wooden house,
the Persian lilac, swallows in the sky?»

The sudden longing of unnamed desires
oh, very often you will call to mind,
searching in pensive cities for a street
uncharted on whatever map you find.

Sight of some letter you did not expect —
sound of a voice at some half-opened gate —
and you'll be thinking, «Here she is herself,
coming to help me in my faithless state».

A steamer passes churning up a wake.
Familiar house with its cadran solaire.
Spires gleaming, and reflections of these waves—
nothing on all the Earth to me more fair!

A narrow alley darkens like a crack.
Sparrows alight upon a wire to rest.
Even the salty taste of many strolls
memorized long ago — is also blessed.

The muse walked away up the trail,
autumnal, narrow and steep.
Large dewdrops were sprinkled over
her dusky legs and feet.

I'd begged her to wait till winter,
to stay with through the fall.
But she answered, «This is a grave here,
How can you breathe at all?»

I wanted to give her a present —
the whitest dove I possessed —
but the bird flew off on its own
after my shapely guest.

I watched her go. I was silent.
She was my only love.
And like a gate to her country
The dawm was shining above.

Bent and blackened the logs of the bridge's span
and burdocks grow as tall as man
and, dense, the thickets of nettles sing
that they never will know a sickle's sting.
There's a sigh at the lake when evening falls
and wrinkled moss creeps over the walls.

That's where I greeted
my twenty-first spring.
To my lips the pungent honey
was the sweetest thing.

Dry branches shredded
that white silk dress of mine.
A nightingale sang on and on
in the crooked pine.

He would hear me calling
and would leave his lair,
gentler than a sister,
though wild as a bear.

I would swim across the rivulet,
run uphill, but oh,
later I would never say
«Leave me now, go».

And you, my friends, you who are so few by now—
with every passing day you are more dear!
How very short the road has grown
and how it used to seem of all the longest way!

Half a day of toil, and half of ease,
azure smoke above the Umbrian hills.
Short and sudden shower, cooling breeze,
loudly out-of-doors a chorus trills.
In the window — one whose dark eyes smile,
under Perugino's fresco, there,
tries to reach a basket for a while
with a sunburnt hand, and does not dare.
In it lies a note for eager glances:
«Questa sera… cloister of St. Francis…»

When winter goes — then you will see
my fields and fens that stretch away.
«What beauty!» you will say to me,
— «What lifeless slumber!» you will say.

But, child, remember, in the still
I kept my thoughts, and in that plain
I — restless, sorrowful, and ill —
Have waited for your soul in vain.

And in that dusk I guessed my fate,
stared into death's cold face, and long,
endlessly long I had to wait,
peering through mists that swam along.

But you passed by before my face,
— among the bogs my thoughts I kept
and in my soul a gloomy trace
of that strange lifeless beauty slept.

We walked toward Lido once at dawn,
the rain was gentle, like a net.
Without replying you were gone.
And soon I slept beside the wet.
I heard the waves, their steady falling,
because my sleep was light, I heard
the sounds, that shook with passion, calling,
loving (??) the sorceress, — the bird.
And then the gull — a bird, a maiden, —
came down and floated on the sea,
upon the waves of song, love-laden,
with which you always dwell in me.

I've wakened often in the night
and peered at stairways darkness-filled.
The frosty moon threw silver light
upon my house, where all was stilled.

I've had no messages of late;
the city only brings me round
its noise, and every day I wait
for guests, and start at every sound.

And waked by steps that seemed to pass
at midnight more than once I rose
and in the window — saw the gas
that shimmered in the streets in rows!

Today — again I must await
my guests, and clench my hands, and fear.
I've had no messages of late,
knocks is all I hear.

I was confused and glad of heart,
your dark silk garments teased me sore.
The heavy curtain swung apart,
and voices hushed and spoke no more.

A gleaming ring — the footlights — trace
a wall of fire between us two,
the music burns your very face,
and brings a change in all of you.

And so again the candles light,
my soul alone is blind anew…
Your bared shoulders glisten bright,
the crowd of men is drunk with you…

Star, you have left this world of mire,
and far above the plain you stand…
You raise your hand — a silver lyre
is trembling in your outstretched hand.

Who is the God to whom you pray?
Are you related in your flight
to dreams that come before the night
or anxiousness at break of day?

Or, joined to a star, are you —
yourself a goddess — with the rest
proud of an equal beauty too, —
with eyes devoid of interest

Looking from strange heights up there
down at the shadows touched with flame —
oh, queen of purity, of prayer
and earthly homage to your name?

Above the restaurants, at twilight,
where drunken shouts and laughter ring,
the hot and putrid air is governed
bv the impurities of spring.

Above the dull suburban houses,
above the dust of narrow streets,
a gilded signboard faintly glitters,
and infant's distant cry repeats.

And every night, amidst the ditches,
their bowlers jauntily pushed back,
the city wits parade their ladies
in fields beyond the railway track.

Above the lake the squeak of oarlocks
mingles with women's muffled screams,
while in sky, surprised at nothing,
the stupid disk forever beams.

And nightly, in my glass reflected,
my solitary friend I see,
by this mysterious tangy potion
subdued and quieted, like me;

while next to us, at other tables,
waiters look sleepily about,
and drinkers, with their reddened eyelids,
«In vino veritas!» will shout.

And nightly, at the hour appointed
(or do I dream that she exists?)
a woman's form, in gleaming satins,
moves in the window through the mists.

And slowly walking past the drinkers,
without an escort, as before,
wafting a breath of mist and perfume,
she finds a seat beside the door.

The shining satin tight about her
of strange and ancient legend sings,
and so her hat, with mourning plumage,
and slender hand with many rings.

And caught within this sudden nearness,
I gaze beyond her somber veil,
and there enchanted shores discover,
a faraway enchanted trail.

With someone's secret I am trusted,
a sun is given me to keep.
Throughout the fissures of my soul
the tangy wine begins to seep.

Those ostrich feathers, dimly drooping,
rock in my brain forever more.
Blue eyes, so deep they have no bottom,
now blossom on a distant shore.

Within my heart there lies a treasure,
and I possess the key, alone!
You speak the truth, oh drunken monster:
«In vino veritas» — I own.

Here I am resting, Filippo, artist forever immortal,
the wonderful charm of my paint brush is on everyone's lips
into the paints I was able to breathe with my fingers a soul,
souls of the pious I could shake with the voice of the Lord.
Even Nature herself, looking at what I created
had to admit that I was artisan equal to her.
Here in this marble I was rested by Lawrence
Medici, ere I would be turned into lowliest dust.

In ringing streams my poems go,
weep, laugh and sorrow, quickly bound
before you, on,
and every one
weaves living strings, as on they flow
and do not know their banks around.

But through the crystals running by
you are as ever far from me…
The crystals sing along and cry…
How can I make your traits, that I
may have you come to visit me
from where en chanted countries lie?