What they are saying is that there is life there, too; that the universe is the size it is to enable us to catch up.
They have gone on from the human; that shining is a reflection of their intelligence. Godhead is the colonisation by mind
of untenanted space. It is its own light, a statement beyond language of conceptual truth. Every night is a rinsing myself of the darkness
that is in my veins. I let the stars inject me with fire, silent as it is far, but certain in its cauterising of my despair. I am a slow
traveller. But there is more than time to arrive. Resting in the intervals of my breathing, I pick up the signals relayed to me from a periphery I comprehend.
At twilight the swifts have no way Of stemming the cool blue cascade. It bursts from clamouring throats, A torrent that cannot be stayed.
At twilight the swifts have no way Of holding back, high overhead, Their clarion shouting: Oh, triumph, Look, look, how the earth has fled!
As steam billows up from a kettle, The furious stream hisses by - Look, look – there's no room for the earth Between the ravine and the sky.
By Бори́с Леони́дович Пастерна́к (Boris Leonidovich Pasternak) from Поверх барьеров (Over the Barriers) (1916) translated by Jon Stallworthy and Peter France
The poem, in Russian, set to music by La Luna with some elements of repition from the album ‘Серебряный Сад’ (Silver Garden).
The original Russian Cyrillic version of the poem.
Стрижи
Нет сил никаких у вечерних стрижей Сдержать голубую прохладу. Она прорвалась из горластых грудей И льется, и нет с нею сладу. И нет у вечерних стрижей ничего, Что б там, наверху, задержало Витийственный возглас их: о, торжество, Смотрите, земля убежала! Как белым ключом закипая в котле, Уходит бранчливая влага, - Смотрите, смотрите — нет места земле От края небес до оврага.
Over the meadows, beyond the mountains, there once lived a painter called Klee, and he sat on his own on a path with various bright-coloured crayons.
He drew rectangles and he drew hooks, an imp in a light-blue shirt, Africa, stars, a child on a platform, wild beasts where Sky meets Earth.
He never intended his sketches to be like passport photos, with people, horses, cities and lakes standing up straight like robots.
He wanted these lines and these spots to converse with one another as clearly as cicadas in summer, but then one morning a feather
materialized as he sketched. A wing, the crown of ahead - the Angel of Death. It was time for Klee to part from his friends
and his Muse. He did.He died. Can anything be more cruel? Though had Paul Klee been any less wise, his angel might have touched us all
and we too, along with the artist, might have left the world behind while that angel shook up our bones, but – what help would that have been?
Me, I'd much rather walk through a gallery than lie in some sad cemetery. I like to loiter with friends by paintings - yellow-blue wildlings, follies most serious.
by Арсений Александрович Тарковский (Arseny Alexandrovich Tarkovsky) (1957) translated by Robert Chandler
Arseny was the father of the famous and highly influential film director Andrei Tarkovsky. His poetry was often quoted in his son’s films.
Paul Klee (18 December 1879 – 29 June 1940) was a Swiss German artist. His highly individual style was influenced by movements in art that included Expressionism, Cubism, and Surrealism. Klee was a natural draftsman who experimented with and eventually deeply explored color theory, writing about it extensively; his lectures Writings on Form and Design Theory (Schriften zur Form und Gestaltungslehre), published in English as the Paul Klee Notebooks, are held to be as important for modern art as Leonardo da Vinci’s A Treatise on Painting for the Renaissance. He and his colleague, Russian painter Wassily Kandinsky, both taught at the Bauhaus school of art, design and architecture. His works reflect his dry humor and his sometimes childlike perspective, his personal moods and beliefs, and his musicality.
Here is a reading of the poem in Russian set to music featuring one of Klee’s artworks.
Beneath is the original Russian version of the poem.
Пауль Клее
Жил да был художник Пауль Клее Где-то за горами, над лугами. Он сидел себе один в аллее С разноцветными карандашами,
Рисовал квадраты и крючочки, Африку, ребенка на перроне, Дьяволенка в голубой сорочке, Звезды и зверей на небосклоне.
Не хотел он, чтоб его рисунки Были честным паспортом природы, Где послушно строятся по струнке Люди, кони, города и воды.
Он хотел, чтоб линии и пятна, Как кузнечики в июльском звоне, Говорили слитно и понятно. И однажды утром на картоне
Проступили крылышко и темя: Ангел смерти стал обозначаться. Понял Клее, что настало время С Музой и знакомыми прощаться.
Попрощался и скончался Клее. Ничего не может быть печальней. Если б Клее был немного злее, Ангел смерти был бы натуральней.
И тогда с художником все вместе Мы бы тоже сгинули со света, Порастряс бы ангел наши кости. Но скажите мне: на что нам это?
На погосте хуже, чем в музее, Где порой слоняются живые, И висят рядком картины Клее - Голубые, желтые, блажные…
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