Дикий ирис. Аверн. Ночь, всеохватная ночь. Луиза Глик
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Название: Дикий ирис. Аверн. Ночь, всеохватная ночь
Автор: Луиза Глик
Издательство: Эксмо
Серия: BTL проекты
isbn: 978-5-04-177715-9
isbn:
In every life, there’s a moment or two.
In every life, a room somewhere, by the sea
or in the mountains.
On the table, a dish of apricots. Pits in a white ashtray.
Like all images, these were the conditions of a pact:
on your cheek, tremor of sunlight,
my finger pressing your lips.
The walls blue-white; paint from the low bureau flaking
a little.
That room must still exist, on the fourth floor,
with a small balcony overlooking the ocean.
A square white room, the top sheet pulled back over
the edge of the bed.
It hasn’t dissolved back into nothing, into reality.
Through the open window, sea air, smelling of iodine.
Early morning: a man calling a small boy back from
the water.
That small boy – he would be twenty now.
Around your face, rushes of damp hair, streaked with auburn.
Muslin, flicker of silver. Heavy jar filled with white peonies.
Преск-Айл
В каждой жизни есть одно-два мгновения.
В каждой жизни есть комната где-то у моря или в горах.
На столе блюдо с абрикосами. Косточки в белой
пепельнице.
Как и все образы, это условия договора:
у тебя на щеке дрожит солнечный свет,
мой палец прижимается к твоим губам.
Бело-голубые стены; краска на низком столе
слегка облупилась.
Эта комната, должно быть, еще существует,
на четвертом этаже,
с балкончиком, с видом на океан.
Квадратная белая комната, покрывало на кровати
задралось.
Это не растворилось обратно в пустоте реальности.
В открытое окно морской воздух, пахнущий йодом.
Раннее утро: мужчина зовет мальчика из воды.
Тому мальчику сейчас было бы двадцать.
Твое лицо обрамляют влажные рыжеватые пряди.
Муслин, мерцание серебра. Тяжелый кувшин
с белыми пионами.
Retreating Light
You were like very young children,
always waiting for a story.
And I’d been through it all too many times;
I was tired of telling stories.
So I gave you the pencil and paper.
I gave you pens made of reeds
I had gathered myself, afternoons in the dense
meadows.
I told you, write your own story.
After all those years of listening
I thought you’d know
what a story was.
All you could do was weep.
You wanted everything told to you
and nothing thought through yourselves.
Then I realized you couldn’t think
with any real boldness or passion;
you hadn’t had your own lives yet,
your own tragedies.
So I gave you lives, I gave you tragedies,
because apparently tools alone weren’t enough.
You will never know how deeply
it pleases me to see you sitting there
like independent beings,
to see you dreaming by the open window,
holding the pencils I gave you
until the summer morning disappears into writing.
Creation has brought you
great excitement, as I knew it would,
as it does in the beginning
And I am free to do as I please now,
to attend to other things, in confidence
you have no need of me anymore.