From Russia
This leaf, this withered leaf,
Which listlessly downward drifts,
Tomorrow will rise again,
Will settle on a branch’s sprig
This snow, this purest snow,
Which lies on the ground still,
To the heavens tomorrow will soar,
To the stars it will steer
This bow-backed, grey-haired man,
Like a mirrored light in space,
Will come to his derelict home,
Will start living anew his days
We will see how the rivers turn
To their springs in the thicket depth,
And I’ll wake at the break of dawn
On my mother’s lap
– Imant Ziedonis
(Latvian poet b. 1933)
Winter, 1919
The gust of wind, the howl of snow…
Yet, for a moment in my mind,
A land, a distant shore would glow
With faded colours from behind.
And like the dried-up feather-grass
My ancient longings spring from sleep…
At night ‘mid snow I try to pass –
Though, to the precipice I creep.
Night, woods and snow I have to wade,
To carry burden of my lot…
Then, suddenly – a little hut,
A girl singing in the glade.
June, 1905
Love Eternity reigning in mires,
Their powers never deplete.
Grassy land never yields to the fires,
Smallest thicket will stand up the sleet.
Rusty tussocks and stumps get to know
Your reposing captivity age;
They are staying unchanged in the flow –
You are full of perennial change.
Love the destiny’s glowing delight.
Inconceivable sacred Unknown.
It is just the Eternity flight
Which has silenced the lips of our own.
Little Marsh Devils
January, 1905
I have whipped you out of sight
Through the midday soot;
To await the evening light
Of quite solitude.
Now – we’re sitting on a moss
In the heart of fen;
Crescent with a crooked mouth
Is our only friend.
I’m like you – a nature geek,
With a spooky face;
Quiet and shy like forest creek
In a hiding place.
Loosely hangs a parting bell
On my foolish cap.
Rivers weaving through the spell
Of a nature’s lap.
And we’re sitting, little fools –
Greenish caps on heads,
Peeping from the low-land pools
Into wider meads.
Dream deliriums of water,
Rusty run-off wave…
We’re forgotten echoings
Of a someone’s rave…
– Alexander Blok
(1880 – 1921)
Translated by Victor Postnikov
Tags: Alexander Bloc, poetry, Russia, Victor Postnikov
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