Twilight was turning to darkness outside.
Under the eaves a window banged wide.
A curtain was lifted, a light briefly shone,
a swift shadow fell down the wall and was gone.
Happy the man who falls head first to death:
at least for a moment his viewpoint is fresh.
by Владислав Фелицианович Ходасевич (Vladislav Felitsianovich Khodasevich)
(1922)
translated by Michael Frayn
The sower walks down the even furrows;
his fathers all furrowed the path he follows.
The young seed glitters gold in his hand,
but it must fall into the black ground.
There, amid the tunnels of the blind worm,
it will die on its due day – and grow again.
So now my soul treads the path of the grain –
down into darkness – and spring’s return.
And you, my people, and you, my native land,
you will die and live, when the dark months end,
for we have been granted only this one truth:
whatever lives must follow the grain’s path.
by Владислав Фелицианович Ходасевич (Vladislav Felitsianovich Khodasevich)
(1917)
translated by Robert Chandler
Shape ships to seek some shining shore,
or, if you choose, chirp chants in churches.
But seize your chance – shout one shy cheer,
and shoot up starwards, sharp and sheer…
I shift the chairs – a cheerless chore…
What tosh you chunter in these searches
for shoes and spectacles, to be sure!
by Владислав Фелицианович Ходасевич (Vladislav Felitsianovich Khodasevich)
(1922)
translated by Michael Frayn
Bring visions when you ring my bell
or all the loveliness of hell,
of God, if you belong to that band.
But little acts of meaning well –
just leave them outside on the hat stand.
On this small pea in endless space
be shining angel or be demon.
But not mere man, though, for to be one
is to pass by and leave no trace.
by Владислав Фелицианович Ходасевич (Vladislav Felitsianovich Khodasevich)
(1921)
translated by Michael Frayn
Choke all week in the fumes and air stinking
of fear, for the bare means of life;
spend the Saturday dozing and drinking,
with your arm round an unlovely wife.
Then on Sunday by train for an outing,
with a rug to spread out on the grass,
just to doze off again, never doubting,
that for pleasure this stands unsurpassed.
And then wake up and put on your jacket,
drag the rug and wife back to the flat,
and not once curse the rug and attack it
with your fists. The world, too. Look, like that!
With the same kind of modest expression
do the bubbles in soda ascend,
in a meek and well-ordered procession,
up and up, one by one, to their end.
by Владислав Фелицианович Ходасевич (Vladislav Felitsianovich Khodasevich)
(1926)
translated by Michael Frayn
Rambling At The Bridge Head 