Читать книгу Time and love. The novel in verse - George Pospelow - Страница 15

Ooty4 is a special place

in the center of South India.

It’s chilly here all the time.

Everybody in the country

knows this peculiarity,

but only those

who have been here

discern a different secret —

the best kisses in India

are only here, in Ooty.

My fiancée is still sleeping.

A sunrise beam hops

on her dearest face,

kissing her cheek chastely.

I’m not too fond of the competition —

a delicate kiss

wakes her up —

good morning,

darling,

and happy the day to you.

Wake up quickly —

a bus to the mountains

departs soon.

You better hurry up!

Except for a driver,

nobody is on the bus.

I kiss your smile,

but, inimitable,

it vanished from sight.

A different one – very much

alike – takes its place.

I won’t let it go past.

After arrival, we are running

through the woods to the hilltop

for a long, sweet embrace.

You are lost in my dream

hovering above the scope

of a kiss and return supple,

to a certain point, though.

Sensual view of highlands!

Here love grows

somewhat higher.

The smell of herbage in the air

stimulated my loving heart.

Inflamed by the closeness to you,

it pulsates, ready to jump out.

What should I do?

You are more sensual

than a view of the highlands

and so close to me.

The heart lost control —

it bolted like a horse.

I can’t stop the gallop.

Calm the balky with

the quietest of your kisses.

It won’t bear any other.

A miraculous kiss, indeed.

Its wings can carry us

to any place and any century.

Chosen is the Kashmiri valley.

Long burning kiss

brought a vision – or not? —

we, two pigeons, were flying.

Not too high, but we were.

“We… were… flying?”

“Yes, I was in the sky

with you. Do it again.”

This time the wind picked us up

and brought us higher.

We were really flying.

Thirst! Quench it out of

the jug of your lips, make

the mouth moist

and roundish – soft

like the mouth

of a clay jug,

pour a potion of tenderness

into me. Oh, so lovable!

Just a Kashmiri sherbet.

I can’t slake my thirst,

can’t tear me away

from the divine vessel,

drink, and drink, and drink,

and still can’t quench.

To learn what your anger

is capable of – to approach

you from behind and kiss

the neck by the left ear.

You shudder, throw me

by your back on the grass.

The playfully angry

goddess starts beating me

with her quick kisses.

Your punishment is pitiless —

you leave your kisses

unreciprocated.

I endure,

and burn with felicity.

The enigmatic scent of long

hair, tender skin,

the glitter of affectionate eyes

fuddle subtly my mind.

Your lips slightly touch

my cheek, your hair falls

loose over our heads.

We are lost for the entire

world inside a marquee.

Well, I’m in the range

of your charms,

seductive nymph Calypso.

You are saying you want

to conquer the hero, and

put forward your captivating

weapon – an alluring tempting

kiss. Oh, yes, you win!

By holding me captive, you’re

convinced in the might

of the charms. It makes you

calm. You lie down

on the grass, already dried-up

from the early dew. You like

how I kiss your round

shoulders. I feel this, and kiss

even more passionately,

while getting over from

one end of a snow-white valley

to another. It’s unbearable

to stay below if

two knolls rise before.

The height beckons to approach:

slowly I climb the knoll,

go across the ravine,

and ascend a second knoll,

where I take rest

after getting tired

with a long passage.

Yesterday,

on the way to Ooty,

we had a good look

of Picasso reproductions,

so that today you seem

assembled of geometrical

figures, mainly of smooth

unusual fine circles.

I kiss the crocks of a broken

round jug,

each one separately,

try to collect them together

and create a single ring.

Crocks can’t stick together —

they remain themselves.

Perhaps, we should not

grasp Picasso suspiciously.

Wow, isn’t that something!

The Indian subject area

overlaps the European.

During our travels in India,

we often saw pictures of

Krishna5 kissing a shepherdess.

So, we transform into

Krishna and Radha imitating

their pose that stuck in

our collective memory,

not even neglecting the flute.

Success. Subconsciously,

we sense the bonds that tie

true lovers together.

Radha rewards me with

the most gratifying kiss.

Our tongues play smoothly.

Still under the impression

of a terrific transformation,

we aspire to revive legends

of two other greatest

Indian fancy girls.

“Please show how

Shakuntala and Savitri6

would kiss their lovers.”

We rejoice especially

at the happiness of Savitri when

she took her lover back

from the God of Death.

Recreation of love episodes

lasts longer time.

OK, it’s getting dark.