«Человек, первым открывший Бродского Западу». Беседы с Джорджем Клайном - Синтия Л. Хэвен

The silence now seemed

as strange as the words of old Simeon’s speech.

And Mary, confused and bewildered, said nothing —

      so strange had his words been. He added, while turning

directly to Mary: ‘Behold, in this Child,

now close to thy breast, is concealed the great fall

of many, the great elevation of others,

      a subject of strife and a source of dissension,

and that very steel which will torture his flesh

shall pierce through thine own soul as well. And that wound

will show to thee, Mary, as a new vision,

      what lies hidden, deep in the hearts of all people.’

He ended and moved toward the temple’s great door.

Old Anna, bent down with the weight of her years,

and Mary, now stooping, gazed after him, silent.

      He moved and grew smaller, in size and in meaning,

to these two frail women who stood in the gloom.

As though driven on by the force of their looks,

he strode through the cold empty space of the temple

      and moved toward the whitening blur of the doorway.

The stride of his old legs was steady and firm.

When Anna’s voice sounded behind him, he slowed

his step for a moment. But she was not calling

      to him; she had started to bless God and praise Him.

The door came still closer. The wind stirred his robe

and fanned at his forehead; the roar of the street,

exploding in life by the door of the temple,

      beat stubbornly into old Simeon’s hearing.

He went forth to die. It was not the loud din

of streets that he faced when he flung the door wide,

but rather the deaf-and-dumb fields of death’s kingdom.

      He strode through a space that was no longer solid.

The rustle of time ebbed away in his ears.

And Simeon’s soul held the form of the Child —

its feathery crown now enveloped in glory —

      aloft, like a torch, pressing back the black shadows,

to light up the path that leads into death’s realm,

where never before until this present hour

had any man managed to lighten his pathway.

      The old man’s torch glowed and the pathway grew wider.

16 февраля 1972 [201]

Odysseus to Telemachus

My dear Telemachus,

                        The Trojan War

is over now; I don’t recall who won it.

The Greeks, no doubt, for only they would leave

so many dead so far from their own homeland.

But still, my homeward way has proved too long.

While we were wasting time there, old Poseidon,

it almost seems, stretched and extended space.

I don’t know where I am or what this place can be.

It would appear some filthy island,

with bushes, buildings, and great grunting pigs.

A garden choked with weeds; some queen or other.

Grass and huge stones… Telemachus, my son!

To a wanderer the faces of all islands

resemble one another. And the mind

trips, numbering waves; eyes, sore from sea horizons,

run; and the flesh of water stuffs the ears.

I can’t remember how the war came out;

even how old you are – I can’t remember.

Grow up, then, my Telemachus, grow strong.

Only the gods know if we’ll see each other

again. You’ve long since ceased to be that babe

before whom I reined in the plowing bullocks.

Had it not been for Palamedes’ trick

we two would still be living in one household.

But maybe he was right; away from me

you are quite safe from all Oedipal passions,

and your dreams, my Telemachus, are blameless.

[Март] 1972

The Butterfly

I

Should I say that you’re dead?

You touched so brief a fragment

of time. There’s much that’s sad in

the joke God played.

I scarcely comprehend

the words «you’ve lived»; the date

of your birth and when you faded

in my cupped hand

are one, and not two dates.

Thus calculated,

your term is, simply stated,

less than a day.

II

It’s clear that days for us

are nothings, zeros.

They can’t be pinned down near us

to feed our eyes.

Whenever days stand stark

against white borders,

since they possess no bodies

they leave no mark.

They are like you. That is,

each butterfly’s small plumage

is one day’s shrunken image —

a tenth its size.

III

Should I say that, somehow,

you lack all being?

What then, are my hands feeling

that’s so like you?

Such colors can’t be drawn

from nonexistence.

Tell me, at whose insistence

were yours laid on?

Since I’m a mumbling heap

of words, not pigments,

how could your hues be figments

of my conceit?

IV

There are, on your small wings,

black spots and splashes —

like eyes, birds, girls, eyelashes.

But of what things

are you the airy norm?

What bits of faces,

what broken times and places

shine through your form?

As for your nature mortes:

do they show dishes

of fruits