Bride of Ice Read online

  Your name – how impossible, it

  is a kiss in the eyes on

  motionless eyelashes, chill and sweet.

  Your name is a kiss of snow

  a gulp of icy spring water, blue

  as a dove. About your name is: sleep.

  1916

  2

  Tender – spectre

  blameless as a knight, who

  has called you into

  my adolescent life?

  In blue dark, grey

  and priestly, you

  stand here, dressed in snow.

  And it’s not the wind

  that drives me through the town now.

  No, this is the third

  night I felt the old enemy.

  With light blue eyes his

  magic has bound

  me, that snowy singer:

  swan of snow, under

  my feet he spreads his feathers.

  Hovering feathers,

  slowly they dip in the snow.

  Thus upon feathers

  I go, towards the door

  behind which is: death.

  He sings to me

  behind the blue windows.

  He sings to me

  as jewelled bells.

  Long is the shout from

  his swan’s beak as

  he calls.

  Dear spectre of

  mist I know this is dreaming,

  so one favour now, do

  for me, amen: of dispersing.

  Amen, amen.

  1916

  3

  You are going – west of the sun now.

  You will see there – evening light.

  You are going – west of the sun and

  snow will cover up your tracks.

  Past my windows – passionless

  you are going in quiet snow.

  Saint of God, beautiful, you

  are the quiet light of my soul

  but I do not long for your spirit.

  Your way is indestructible.

  And your hand is pale from holy

  kisses, no nail of mine.

  By your name I shall not call you.

  My hands shall not stretch after you

  to your holy waxen face I shall

  only bow – from afar

  standing under the slow falling snow, I shall

  fall to my knees – in the snow.

  In your holy name I shall only

  kiss that evening snow

  where, with majestic pace you

  go by in tomb-like quiet,

  the light of quiet – holy glory

  of it: keeper of my soul.

  1916

  5

  At home in Moscow – where the domes are burning,

  at home in Moscow – in the sound of bells,

  where I live the tombs – in their rows are standing

  and in them Tsaritsas – are asleep and Tsars.

  And you don’t know how – at dawn the Kremlin is

  the easiest place to – breathe in the whole wide earth

  and you don’t know when – dawn reaches the Kremlin

  I pray to you until – the next day comes

  and I go with you – by your river Neva

  even while beside – the Moscow river

  I am standing here – with my head lowered

  and the line of street lights – sticks fast together.

  With my insomnia – I love you wholly.

  With my insomnia – I listen for you,

  just at the hour throughout – the Kremlin, men

  who ring the bells – begin to waken.

  Still my river – and your river

  still my hand – and your hand

  will never join, or not until

  one dawn catches up another dawning.

  1916

  8

  And the gadflies gather about indifferent cart-horses,

  the red calico of Kaluga puffs out in the wind,

  it is a time of whistling quails and huge skies,

  bells waving over waves of corn, and more

  talk about Germans than anyone can bear.

  Now yellow, yellow, beyond the blue trees is a

  cross, and a sweet fever, a radiance over

  everything: your name sounding like angel.

  1916

  9

  A weak shaft of light through the blackness of hell is

  your voice under the rumble of exploding shells

  in that thunder like a seraph he is announcing

  in a toneless voice, from somewhere else, some

  ancient misty morning he inhabits, how he

  loved us, who are blind and nameless who

  share the blue cloak of sinful treachery

  and more tenderly than anyone loved the woman who

  sank more daringly than any into the night of evil,

  and of his love for you, Russia, which he cannot end.

  And he draws an absent-minded finger along

  his temple all the time he tells us of

  the days that wait for us, how God will deceive us.

  We shall call for the sun and it will not rise.

  He spoke like a solitary prisoner

  (or perhaps a child speaking to himself)

  so that over the whole square the sacred

  heart of Alexander Blok appeared to us.

  1920

  6

  Thinking him human they

  decided to kill him, and

  now he’s dead. For ever.

  – Weep. For the dead angel.

  At the day’s setting, he

  sang the evening beauty.

  Three waxen lights now

  shudder superstitiously

  and lines of light, hot

  strings across the snow come from him.

  Three waxen candles.

  To the sun. The light-bearer.

  O now look how

  dark his eyelids are fallen,

  O now look how

  his wings are broken.

  The black reciter reads.

  The people idly stamp.

  Dead lies the singer, and

  celebrates resurrection.

  1916

  10

  Look there he is, weary from foreign parts,

  a leader without body-guard

  there – he is drinking a mountain stream from his hands

  a prince without native land.

  He has everything in his holy princedom there

  Army, bread and mother.

  Lovely is your inheritance.

  Govern, friend without friends.

  1921

  A kiss on the head

  A kiss on the head – wipes away misery.

  I kiss your head.

  A kiss on the eyes – takes away sleeplessness.

  I kiss your eyes.

  A kiss on the lips – quenches the deepest thirst.

  I kiss your lips.

  A kiss on the head – wipes away memory.

  I kiss your head.

  1917

  from SWANS’ ENCAMPMENT

  Little mushroom, white Bolitus,

  my own favourite

  The field sways, a chant of ‘Rus’

  rises over it.

  Help me, I’m unsteady on my feet.

  This blood-red is making my eyes foggy.

  On either side, mouths lie

  open and bleeding, and from

  each wound rises a cry:

  – Mother!

  One word is all I hear, as

  I stand dazed. From someone

  else’s womb into my own:

  – Mother!

  They all lie in a row,

  no line between them,

  I recognise that each one was a soldier.

  But which is mine? Which one is another’s?

  This man was White now he’s become Red.

  Blood has reddened him.

  This one was Red now he’s become
White.

  Death has whitened him.

  – What are you? White? – Can’t understand!

  – Lean on your arm!

  Have you been with the Reds?

  – Ry -azan.

  And so from right and left

  Behind ahead

  together, White and Red, one cry of

  – Mother!

  Without choice. Without anger.

  One long moan. Stubbornly.

  A cry that reaches up to heaven,

  – Mother!

  1917–21

  Yesterday he still looked in my eyes

  Yesterday he still looked in my eyes, yet

  today his looks are bent aside. Yesterday

  he sat here until the birds began, but

  today all those larks are ravens.

  Stupid creature! And you are wise, you

  live while I am stunned.

  Now for the lament of women in all times:

  – My love, what was it I did to you?

  And tears are water, blood is water,

  a woman always washes in blood and tears.

  Love is a step-mother, and no mother:

  then expect no justice or mercy from her.

  Ships carry away the ones we love.

  Along the white road they are taken away.

  And one cry stretches across the earth:

  – My love, what was it I did to you?

  Yesterday he lay at my feet. He even

  compared me to the Chinese empire! Then

  suddenly he let his hands fall open, and

  my life fell out like a rusty kopeck.

  A child-murderer, before some court

  I stand loathsome and timid I am.

  And yet even in Hell I shall demand:

  – My love, what was it I did to you?

  I ask this chair, I ask the bed: Why?

  Why do I suffer and live in penury?

  His kisses stopped. He wanted to break you.

  To kiss another girl is their reply.

  He taught me to live in fire, he threw me there,

  and then abandoned me on steppes of ice.

  My love, I know what you have done to me.

  – My love, what was it I did to you?

  I know everything, don’t argue with me!

  I can see now, I’m a lover no longer.

  And now I know wherever love holds power

  Death approaches soon like a gardener.

  It is almost like shaking a tree, in time

  some ripe apple comes falling down. So

  for everything, for everything forgive me,

  – my love whatever it was I did to you.

  1920

  To Mayakovsky

  High above cross and trumpet

  baptised in smoke and fire

  my clumsy-footed angel –

  Hello there, Vladimir!

  Carter and horse at once

  justice and whim together.

  He used to spit on his palms –

  Hold on, carthorse of glory!

  Singer of gutter miracles,

  grubby, arrogant friend –

  Hullo there, you who prefer

  topaz to diamond!

  Now yawn, play your trump card

  my thunderbolt of cobbles,

  and rake this horse’s shaft

  once more with your angel wing.

  1921

  ON A RED HORSE

  No Muse – I had no Muse

  to sing by my shabby cradle,

  no Muse to warm my hands

  or cool my feverish eyelids.

  No Muse – combed the hair from my face,

  No Muse – led me into the fields.

  There was no Muse. No braids,

  no beads, no fables – only

  tufts of brown hair cut

  short over male eyebrows:

  a figure in full armour.

  A sultan.

  He did not lean over my lips.

  He did not bless me at bedtime,

  still less, grieve with me over

  a broken doll. Instead,

  he set all my birds free.

  On a red horse, he rode off

  with pitiless spurs over

  navy blue mountains

  into a thundering blizzard.

  *

  Firemen! – A scream

  wide as the blaze – Firemen!

  Is that our house burning? –

  No, a soul is on fire!

  Loudly, the tongue of alarm bells

  swings backward and forward –

  a soul makes a huge fire –

  Firemen! My soul is burning

  in a dance of fierce beauty,

  red torches woven together.

  Applause – screams – whistles.

  A roar as sparks scatter.

  I am lost in a dream

  and can’t wake up. I’m only

  wearing a nightdress –

  ankle length – and a necklace.

  Listen to the flames howl,

  and the sound of glass shattering.

  Our eyes are glowing orbs.

  We are burning burning burning.

  Firemen! Who cries arson?

  Who wants the fire to go out?

  I long for these supporting

  girders to collapse.

  But what is being destroyed here?

  Not columns, but desperate hands,

  small hands held up to the sky –

  I recognise my doll.

  Who races in at a gallop?

  Who jumps off a red horse?

  With a haughty glance at me,

  he enters the red house.

  Another cry. Louder still.

  A cry, and a thunderous blow

  He holds up the doll like a shell

  And rises like fire itself.

  Like the Tsar, among surging flames

  he declares with a frown: I saved her

  for you. Now smash her…

  Let your love go.

  And has the world collapsed?

  What approaches through the blizzard?

  Two arms – stretched after the horse –

  The girl – without – her doll.

  *

  An evil moon through the window:

  I am dreaming again.

  My lover and I stand close

  in a deep embrace. Below us,

  the noisy flow of a river.

  The foam reaches up to our feet.

  Speechless in our embrace

  we observe the splashing foam.

  I – am all his harems.

  He – all my knightly heroes.

  We stand, closely holding each other.

  Side by side, hand in hand,

  The foam reaches our feet.

  Then I suddenly ask him to swear

  that if I should drop a flower

  or a scarf, from the bridge,

  he would dive into the river…

  To my horror, he does so at once.

  I am left on the bridge, shaking,

  My blood moans as I see

  in terror – dumbly – watching:

  my whole life drowning with him.

  Now who with the sweep of a cloak

  has thrown me up in the air?

  Who is it – splashed with red –

  throws me into a fire?

  With a splash, and triumphant cry

  in a smooth jump out of the water

  he rises like the river itself

  with a body in his arms

  like a Tsar in the midst of the surges

  he rises to say with a frown

  I saved him for you. Now kill him!

  Let your love go!

  And now what moves in the blizzard?

  Two arms – stretching – after

  the man on a red horse.

  The girl – without – her lover.

  *

  Now through the window crack

  I dream another dream
.

  Darkness over a track,

  and I am with my son.

  The blood congeals in my veins.

  Let some guide lead us on!

  Be brave, my child, the spirit

  of the mountain is single.

  Only eagles, and Dawn here

  – while there are two of us.

  A whirlwind! Gods would turn back.

  Eagles would be afraid. But

  my firstborn inches higher.

  We shall reach the heights together.

  That’s why I had a son, in pain,

  in the dust of the earth, so that

  from under an eagle’s wing

  this should be mine – God’s thunder.

  Black height. Barren slope.

  Handholds for small hands.

  Is that Zeus above us in his cot

  holding an eagle?

  Laughter – a violent splash.

  Some creature with wings and claws.

  Who is pursuing me – with lightning

  and eagle thunder?

  A hoarse roar splits wide open

  The stony breast of the mountain.