A moon gate in my wall: собрание стихотворений - Мария Визи

1 Mar. 1957

530. «There was hoarfrost on the lawn this morning…»

There was hoarfrost on the lawn this morningat dawn.The seagulls were flying inland from the ocean,to the warm earth and the grass.

They were gray in the early lightagainst the November sky.

1957

531. Night Dance

Little dead children, candles in their eyes,uprooting earth, and clanging through staid skies,remembering their ermine-mantled days,all guillotined too soon,dance on the lawnwhere night dreams spawnunmindful of the gazeof the thick-skulled mongol cheek-boned moon.Dance, slithering spritesin this transparent trancethrough all your promised perfumed nightswith well-earned mirthwhich sly time pilfered on your withering earth!Dance in the tear-soaked grassdangling each tinkling somewhere-living heartas void eyes dartto where the stolid unbelieving oldgrow by the snarling oak roots in a silent moldburied en masse.Disdain and disregard the sod-bound throng.There is a songcomposed about you and your life goes ondancing long nights upon a moonstained lawn.

30 Oct. 1958

532. «Suddenly, I'm awake…»

Suddenly, I'm awake —now, when my heart is saggingand when my death, set for the take,creaks round the nearest hill in her sure wagon.

Quite unexpectedly, the sky blows warmas when cold daybreathes sudden fire insteadafter a powerful and all-uprooting stormrisen from its day bed.

And as I standgroping and reaching with my lips and hand,mouth open in an agony of wantingto fling long smouldering words that have been hauntingmy loosely used, oh, many-wasted lips,— I see the sun that dipsinto the catchall of horizon and I flaythe sunless air to hold the night at bayand rise and leavethe rock I stand on as I reach the eaveof the lowering, blackening sky above my head —and I am dead.

30 Oct. 1958

533. Lot's Wife[238]

I am Lot's wife. I couldn't walk awayup foreign sands, away from that poor landwhere every stone was warm from my own touchand every door and window held my shadow,where I had walked those narrow streets of Sodom.

There I had lived among familiar peopleand talked and had my various human dealingswith neighbor women and with men who tradedand knew me well and knew my husband Lot.

Though truly they had differed with our thoughtsand knew not God as Lot and I had known Himand wouldn't listen to His words of warnings,— they weren't worse than I: I didn't listen.

I couldn't follow Lot on that safe trailhearing the wrath of vengeance on my town,hearing the fall of rocks and quake of hillside,hearing the roar of all-devouring flame,the crying agony of men and women:I couldn't run away: I stopped and turned —

What matter that the price I paid was life,was immortality?Perhaps in that brief momentsome friend or enemy before he diedbreathed easier because he glimpsed, half-blinded,through fire and smoke, beneath a fallen pillar,my shaking arms stretched in a last farewell?

1958

534. «Come to classroom, padre, while the students…»

Come to classroom, padre, while the studentsare not yet gathered for their next assignment.Come with me, padre, I will show you somethingfor which I beg you to donate a moment.

Your brothers, padre! See, — upon the tables —laid out and all prepared to be dissected.Oh, yours and mine. Just shut the door now, quiet…The overburdened, very good professoris right now having one last cup of coffeewithin the fold of his distinguished household.

There — long, grey-white ones. How they must have worriedand how they must be cold in this dank classroom.This is my thought (— will you forgive me, padre,for buttonholing you between the wardroom swhere you disseminated consolation —)

— This is my thought: perhaps they had no kinfolkto say goodbye and tuck them in for sleeping.Perhaps you missed them as they lay there dying.You and your colleagues; stand here in the doorwayand make a sign above these proud dead people,say a few words, — because you have connections —to make it dignified, this their departure,as their last bell rings and their train pulls out.

(This is not the beginning:)The quiet one are lying on their tables,all wrapped in white, all swaddled white like babies(born just a life ago, just a life, — whither is it gonenow, that they are speechless, motionless,sightless, loveless, selfless?)

Suddenly a fire alarm sounds.

Noiselessly then the people wrapped in white,white-swaddled, shoeless, soundless, faceless, warilystep one by one onto the fire escapeand slither down, procession wise, to safetyone after one, pouring from out their windowwinding lightly down, white sheets that wrap them trailing;

down the black crooked iron stairwaycomes the procession, in disorted angelsshowing no faces —to escape the fire.piched the ground, the earth, the safety,And, having reached the ground, the earth, the safetythey stop and stand and stare in scared amazement —What do they do now? Whither do they slither?Now they are safe, in what direction do they turn?

1958

535. Imitation[239]

A rose quartz vase shone on her dresser, andthe sandalwood immortals stood, all seven,imported from a pine and dragon landonce governed by the Son of Heaven.

Upon her cold blue wallwas hung a single silken-tasseled scrollbrush-painted on parchment,with craggy mountains and a waterfall— the prized possession of her studio apartment.

And, head benignly bowed, Kwan-Yin in jadegraced her teak night stand and her mystic soul.Yet somehow this decor forever madethe impression of stage props for a miscast role.

As if these things were images in a glassthat traveling by reflect their face and pass— a hollow echo's alien reportfrom a forbidden city's empty court.

536. «Once on the Moika lived a man…»[240]

Once on the Moika lived a man —an oldster — who had stacks of books,and knew this one, that one. Yetthat's not the reason why my friendwould urge me — on the run — to comeand meet him, but because he thoughtthat meeting would bring joy to both.We'd grasp each other in a flash,we share one sorrow, speak one tongue,the shade of a forgotten bard!I planned to go so many times,but rain, some business, or «too late»,«not in the mood», «he's indisposed» —and next I heard it: «He has died».My visit cancelled now, for good,and who can tell me «it's put off?»

[1950s]

537. The Snake

Silent all its life, it produces beautifulmusic after death.

The earth is dry, the summer has been hot.Dead russet stubble bristles in the rocksof my small garden, few and pale the bloomson gently tended shrubs.The air is still.

Without a rustle over sand and clay,graceful and grey, slithers a winding snakeand disappears between the cracks of stone,small silent creature, harmless, in its home.

Night smoothes away day's blemishes and scars,and grasses reach to feel her cooling hand.I pick a banjo from my wall, to strum.Its tightly covered snakeskin body sings.

[1950s]

538. Goodbye for Now[241]

For V.V.

You swerved from the road and you went away. I said goodbye to you,but that was for now;We will meet again, though we do not know yet where or how.

Perhaps in this room where I write. You will open the door— oh you won't need to knock, you can hurry in as you have beforebecause I will always wait.

Or on some roseate bridge as I cross a golden straitat sunset when over the barthe white fog enters warily into the bayyou will ride in the other direction and I will seea sudden glimpse of your face rushing toward meexpected and unexpected, as in a dream…

Or perhaps very farin the hill of Manchuria covered with cedars and grapes on the lowerslopes,where the tiger lilies (remember those tiger lilies?)grow thick on the valley flooryou will wade toward me across the shallow mountain stream— as before?

We shall meet again. You will see.Someday our lives will finda pattern familiar to us, a pattern so designedas to bring us close somewhere in this vast world — oh, yes, vast stillthough almost all discovered and charted, brook, tree and hill.

You and Iwill catch up with one another walking perhaps outsideShanghaiin a field near the Temple of Horrors where the purple idols starewith bulging eyes…

And it may be tooas I turn the corner off Corraterie around the fountain wheregeraniums flamethat youwill be doing the sameand you and I will meetwhere the old watchmaker keeps his crack-in-the-wall on that cobblestonestreet.

For every wall has a door. I shan't despair.

In Viipuri at Christmas I don't yet know what year(or even century if we're still living here)as I watch the skaters circle the pond blue frozenwhen the stars begin to ring from the frost at some hour chosenyou will appearsomehow somewherein what shape? — even that is not given me to know.

Over the globe bright miniature flags pinned, sayingthat we have stood, lived, walked together long agoat each pricked point. We will meet againbecause 1 know that you, not only I,visit them often nor ever will cease to flyto all these places or cross the sea by ship or earth by trainand even jog by donkey on covered cart over the parched and unpavedChina plain…

And someday under one such miniature marker grown to bea banner swayingin the blue wind across the entire skyyou will meet with meand then… after th at… only then we will saygoodbye.

7 June 1963

539. «My dear, my dear…»

My dear, my dear,Now that I have to go, and know I'm going,There are so many things I have to say —So many things that, without knowing.I've left unfinished hereTill this last day —

Sit near me, listen, and perhaps togetherWe will recall, before I break the tether,questions unanswered, prayers unspoken,And if there is no time, perhaps my eyesWill leave for you a tokenOf sunlit skiesThat we have watched together, and of dreamsThat I have shared with you, and you with me!

This is a very vast and lonely seaThat I am set to sail, and yet it seemsThat I am not afraid. The guiding handOf a wise Pilot comes to beckon meAcross the blue expanse to a far landOf peace and calm and beauty.You, my dear,Staying behind, you must not ever fearThis life!If I could only tellAs clearly, somehow, as a silver bellMight ring through the clear air of a bright day,That I will never really be awayFrom you; not ever…Will you tryTo walk on, bravely, though a clouded skyMay threaten, though above a barren fieldThunder may roll, please promise not to yieldTo doubt — remember always, as you gropeIn darkest thickets — there is always hope.— I am a little weary. Will you bringA glass of water for me? Make it cold.

Thank you. That's better…There's another thingYou must remember — that I've always told:There is no white or black or yellow race,But only Human. All are made the same,For it is not the color of the faceOr the variety of given nameThat shape the heart and educate the mind;It is not what you see, but what you find.

— Oh, love, it seems I'm only getting started,And yet I feel that we will soon be parted,1 tire so fast. Forgive me if I gasp,Here, let me have your little hand to claspIn mine for yet a little longer. Stay.I have to finish what I want to say.

Because you are more generously blessedThan most, you are not better than the rest,Only more fortunate. So if you can,Be kind and gentle to your fellow man,As we are taught to be.And oh, my dear,Enjoy the wealth that you are offered here —

Sunrise — and music — and the shape of trees —Soft growing grass — and world-encircling seas —Love for a man — the work you have to do —Friends travelling the very road as you —

I hope that you will live and toil and playWith all your heart, and all the time obeyYour faith in the great Presence over all,Whether you win, or whether for a timeYour footsteps falter in the slimeOf difficulties, even if you fall,Remember, dear, that with your faith and willIn days of darkness you are victor still.

It s getting late, and you should be in bed,And surely there will be one more tomorrow —

When I am gone, don't think of me as dead,Remember me with happiness, not sorrow …

But we shall talk again …Good night, good night!

[1967]