Читать книгу In Praise of Poetry - Ольга Седакова - Страница 64

7. A CONSOLATION DOG

Accept, my friend, a consolation dog,

a lovely dog, a thing of beauty.

It’s made of nothing and all its traits

are rainbows: unfailing bridges

over a rivulet of simple music—

you’ll soon know it by heart.

There floating by is your new, eternal wreath:

buds of candles, flowers of torches.

How this reminds me of fortune-telling,

when they knock at the embers:

sparks fly out

and are counted,

but as in a dream,

when

they

freely spread out

their painted sails.

Yet it’s not the winds that drive them,

but unknown voices.

These ships are ancient, rowing ships.

Their wine-gold oceans

carry us to consolation,

along the merry, lofty isles

stored up for a happier life,

on tender, cutting waves.

What is the roar of waves telling us?

And what is the Nereid saying?

It’s as if someone is thanking us,

keeping a hold of our hand:

“Onward, my poor wanderers!

The bottom of life is simple:

a clean cloth pulled tight

across an embroidery frame.”

It’s not in vain that we walk the hungry deep

as though around the house.

Here reverie embroiders in gold,

and the unforgettable paints

its pictures and names onto a wave:

here is the ball of childhood,

here the lovers’ tryst,

and this is simply a winter’s day.

Here is music framed by a filigree

of nighttime bushes and villages.

Such precious work. Forget it.

And further on: a lime tree.

The lime tree by the city gates.

And Christmas.

And now—there’s nothing to see.

Yet this is the best thing to see.

And when, however much a shame,

we too will be no more,

we shall surely find ourselves

somewhere quite close to this . . .

Accept, my friend, a gift of my deep sorrow.

For beauty is much stronger than our hearts.

It is a fortune-teller’s cup—

the most translucent vessel for the incredible.