перевод двух поэм И.Анненского

my translations of two poems by Innokenty Annensky. the first one was included into Quiet Songs (1904), the second one was written in 1906 (not published).



Облака плывут так низко,
Но в тумане всё нежней
Пламя пурпурного диска
Без лучей и без теней.

Тихо траурные кони
Подвигают яркий гнёт,
Что-то чуткое в короне
То померкнет, то блеснёт…

…Это было поздним летом
Меж ракит и на песке,
Перед бледно-желтым цветом
В увядающем венке,

И казалось мне, что нежной
Хризантема головой
Припадает безнадежно
К яркой крышке гробовой…

И что два её свитые
Лепестка на сходнях дрог —
Это кольца золотые
Ею сброшенных серёг.



So low the clouds are sailing,
More tender’s in the mist
The scarlet aureole of a flame
Without a shade, without a beam.

Burning pressure is obscured
With quiet horses of the mourning.
Something fading, subtly gleaming
In the spheres of a corona…

…It appeared late in summer
Amid the willows, on the sand
In front of glow, yellow-pale
Within a wilting wreath.

Seemed to me, a chrysanthemum
Leaned her blooming face
To the lacquer of a coffin lid
In despair, yet gentle grace…

And that the folding of two petals
In simple accords weaved
Is gold of jewels, luminous
Left on the surface of a hearse.



*** (Без названия)

В небе ли меркнет звезда,
Пытка ль земная все длится;
Я не молюсь никогда,
Я не умею молиться.

Время погасит звезду,
Пытку ж и так одолеем…
Если я в церковь иду,
Там становлюсь с фарисеем.

С ним упадаю я нем,
С ним и воспряну, ликуя…
Только во мне-то зачем
Мытарь мятется, тоскуя?..


*** (Untitled)

Be it the skylit star in fading
Or earthly torture with no end,
I do not know how to pray,
I never know a word of prayer.

Whether the star shall perish
Or torture shall be overcome…
On visiting the church, I’ll choose
One of the pharisees to stand by.

With him I’ll fall on knees in silence,
With him I’ll rise, rejoiced…
But why in me, a publican
Is restless with unspoken yearning?..



sand roads, dyed in wet dust
timing fallen sky to dark gold

heat windows open to steppe rain,
of soul’s mansion a burning cloud,
of warriors a bronze of memory

fiber of a crane’s recital on rock-salt,
confided to exiles of ash-laden floors

soft soil, heavy clay, traces of silt
strewed with shells of aeons
and remnants of scythian swords

and by a cave’s entrance, unseen
names of eight thousand roses
carved on ruins of their homeland
that never was



of her, who sings the shy nocturne on the edge of the pier, ancient wind gathers the aura
of her, dressed in ether lace over the fabric of cloud patterns
of her, dipping stars of ache in luminous water, their soft lilies opening with a miracle of waves


notes fall at the feet of a quiet mountain


in threads, as fibers of moon jute spelled to gentle silk

in phials of spring incense, spilling on bleak soil


‘have you heard the pavane of cottonwood trees?’, someone asks, cradling a sea-bird wounded in the tempest


such hours flow from simple reverence

dust, earth, dew scars on flowers are what sustains the harmony when tear-shaped minutes are voids scattered on shoulders

from tales of everything vulnerable, suites of the infinite against the dread of screaming world


to witness such beauty is to carry fragile leaves to canto of life, to anchor the ship from an alien century in a harbor of understanding

‘each nuance of melody, each transition here and beyond’, she answers and turns around


tears are raindrops, raindrops that write confessions on sand

and this is the way heart is the spread of air music in the sphere of breathless lands

may be i’ve learned
languages of leaves
in the grief that became me.

may be i speak
in breaths of stars
chanting down a tower
to the empty mooring,
pale streams of glow
welling for the home of life,
a soft schism
in what remains of a day.

in what touches
the infinite to each shore
where mounted on a pier
sanity observes the wind,
in limbo of amnesia
cut by bells and stones
leading to
parlors gleaming dark grey
and lanterns robed in sky.

in what touches
flame and garden rain.
rain and garden flame.
carving words of Negev
on moongate handles-
in the eyes
of a beautiful iris,
a remedy.
in the eyes
of a nightingale
a cherished grail
held to essence
of the amber woods.

but even
in the forest
i don’t sense
the touch of a realm
where i could trace
a joy of little angel wings
to live with quiet knowing
through earth days.


(for my aunt and her favorite song)

you pass the shore by like a wave untamed
a flower of grace daring to exist
when morning breaks with bitter city smoke
and the noise of raging newspapers

on the windowsill the sea of iris blooms
from trembling echoes of a green sanctum
fragile and shadowed yet soft

its dewdrops are not the demise
of your clouds in harbored satin

where white nights approach
they gently form the waters of your hope

and such glass wings crumble
to carry meadow truths
across the frozen bridges

to rush the wild gulls of spring
into stargates on the western cape

as nothing moves your wandering smile inside
when you gather borealis petals
in the quiet of your lighthouse shrine

is the only sky
worth believing

is the only reality
worth giving

sinun kuu, oot rakas

Желание (И.Анненский)

Желание, поэма Иннокентия Анненского (‘Тихие Песни’, 1904 г.)

Wish, a poem by Innokenty Annensky (from Quiet Songs, 1904)


Когда к ночи усталой рукой
Допашу я свою полосу,
Я хотел бы уйти на покой
В монастырь, но в далеком лесу,

Где бы каждому был я слуга
И творенью господнему друг,
И чтоб сосны шумели вокруг,
А на соснах лежали снега…

А когда надо мной зазвонит
Медный зов в беспросветной ночи,
Уронить на холодный гранит
Талый воск догоревшей свечи.


(my translation)

When, in the dusk, I’ll stop to plough the land
And, tired by the end of daytime, go away,
In distant woods I’d like to find the rest,
A monastery amid branches’ sway.

Where I could serve to everyone,
And be a friend to everything that God creates,
And where pine trees rustle all around,
And snows lay on their quiet shapes.

And when above me, suddenly,
A copper bell through depth of darkness tolls,
To drop the melted wax of candle’s fading
Upon the cold of granite floors.



and the depth of sky’s listening without an answer

but the heart

even collapsing

it can’t tell the ancient mountain from a lightfooted wind it was once shaped in, the spirit’s core from a porcelain of things too frail to even utter, be they a whole or smithereens

cloud, whisper, spring in lilac sepia. as if the candle’s seclusion searing a ballet of paper snowbirds into ether

above is april, she- a winter nymph with lips frozen, her hands touching the drift of dark water rivers, planting a glimpse of moonlight on the clock, haloed by streams of lanterns drifting in and up

ghost’s hands in search of a tangible home-

until the little star of gentle evening gravity captures each delicate thing happening, melting, breathing still-

the smell of wooden pencil shavings tinged with a flight of pollen’s ash, the beauty of a piano’s dissonance in solitude of dimmed alleys, dome-shaped zinnias in the morning shying a soft flock of butterflies, the paling of a distant field, the gentle waning of a verbena hour

beyond- the growth into the season’s vernal vision from a glass art of Chopin nights

and the earth is almost