Then there is the clock's
commentary, the continuing
prose that is the under-current
of all poetry. We listen
to it as, on a desert island,
men do to the subdued
music of their blood in a shell.
Then take my hand that is
of the bone the island
is made of, and looking at
me say what time it is
on love's face, for we have
no business here other than
to disprove certainties the clock knows.
by R. S. Thomas
from Experimenting with an Amen (1986)
People, years and nations
run away forever
like a flowing river.
In nature’s supple mirror
We’re the fish,
dark’s ghosts are gods,
and the constellations
knot night’s nets.
by Велимир Хлебников (Velimir Khlebnikov)
a.k.a. Виктор Владимирович Хлебников
(Viktor Vladimirovich Khlebnikov)
(1915)
translated by Robert Chandler
Fun fact: This was written shortly before the centenary of Derzhavin’s death, continuing the theme’s of his last poem.
What’s war? What’s plague? We know that they will pass,
Judgement is passed, we see an end to them.
But which of us can cope with this fear, this –
The terror that is named the flight of time?
by Анна Ахматова (Anna Akhmatova)
Komarovo, 9 September (1964)
from Седьмая книга (The Seventh Book)
translation by D. M. Thomas
Blows the swan wind,
The blue sky’s smeared
With blood; the anniversary
Of your love’s first days draws near.
You have destroyed
My sorcery; like water the years
Have drifted by. Why
Aren’t you old, but as you were?
Your tender voice even more ringing…
Only your serene brow
Has taken from time’s wing
A scattering of snow.
– by Анна Ахматова (Anna Akhmatova) (1922)
– from Anno Domini MCMXXI translation by D. M. Thomas
The sunlight on the garden
Hardens and grows cold,
We cannot cage the minute
Within its nets of gold,
When all is told
We cannot beg for pardon.
Our freedom as free lances
Advances towards its end;
The earth compels, upon it
Sonnets and birds descend;
And soon, my friend,
We shall have no time for dances.
The sky was good for flying
Defying the church bells
And every evil iron
Siren and what it tells:
The earth compels,
We are dying, Egypt, dying
And not expecting pardon,
Hardened in heart anew,
But glad to have sat under
Thunder and rain with you,
And grateful too
For sunlight on the garden.
by Louis MacNeice (1907 – 1963)
Cool Water gurgles in the river
and the mountains’ shadow lies on the fields
and light fades in the sky. And birds
are already flying in dreams.
And the yardman with the black moustache
stands all night by the gate
and under his dirty hat he scratches
the back of his head with dirty hands.
And through the window come merry shouts,
the stamping of feet and the ring of bottles.
A day goes by, then a week,
and then the years go by
and people vanish
in neat ranks into their graves.
While the yardman with the black moustache
stands for years by the gate
and under his dirty hat he scratches
the back of his head with dirty hands.
And through the window come merry shouts,
the stamping of feet and the ring of bottles.
The moon and the sun have paled,
constellations have changed shape,
motion has become sticky
and time has become like sand.
While the yardman with the black moustache
stands again by the gate
and under his dirty hat he scratches
the back of his head with dirty hands.
And through the window come merry shouts,
the stamping of feet and the ring of bottles.
by Даниил Иванович Хармс (Daniil Kharms, 1933)
translated by Robert Chandler
