Clear Voices | Page 3

them,
drained, on the black velvet bed.
The Steel
Cicada
I knew she would return
to be with me - Anguish.
With the tinkle
and slam
of the watchmaker's lid.
He who clicks the lid open

couples the steel heart's tremor
to the wings' whirring
and
uncouples them again.
Impatiently cicadas
beat their eager wings:

are they glad, is happiness near
an end to their suffering?…
They
have so much to say,
so far to go…
Ah, our ways, cicada,

separate so!
Our friendship here's a miracle,
you and I, we
are
only together a moment
till the lid opens on the sky.
It will tinkle
and slam
and you'll be far away…
in a moment she'll silently return

to be with me - Anguish.
Konstantín Bál´mont (1867-1943)
'Sin Miedo'
If you're a poet, and
want the power
to live for ever in human minds,
strike hearts with
imagination's music
temper your thoughts in passion's fire.
Have
you seen old Toledan daggers?
They're the best wherever you go.

The motto on the blade's: 'Sin miedo':
'Be without fear' - tempered by
fire.
When they fashion the red-hot steel
they inlay the gold design,
with niello,
and the twin mated metals, once separate,
gleam, living
beauty, down the years.
So that your dreams will always glow,
so
that your soul will live for ever,

inlay the steel in your poems with
gold,
pour molten fire into words that echo.
Aleksándr Blok (1880-1921)
The Stranger
At evening, above the restaurants,
the sultry air is savage, heavy,

and the breath of spring, corruption,
holds the sound of drunken
shouting.
Far off, over the dusty streets
the boredom of suburban
houses,
the bakery's gilt sign glitters, faintly,
and there's the noise

of children, crying.
And every night, beyond the toll,
the expert
wits, in bowler hats,
tipped at a rakish angle, stroll
along the ditches
with their ladies.
On the lake oars creak,
and somewhere a woman
shrieks,
while the moon's orb in the sky
inured, leers mindlessly.

And every night my only friend
is reflected in my wine-glass,
quiet
like myself, and stunned
by sour mysterious drink.
While nearby
waiters half-asleep
round the neighbouring tables pass,
and drunks
with their rabbit eyes
cry out: 'In vino, veritas!'
And each night at
the appointed hour
(or is it only in dream I see it?)
the form of a girl,
clothed in silk,
moves across the misted pane.
Passing slowly
through the drunks,
and always on her own,
sits down by the
window
scattering mist and perfume.
And her stiff silk brocades,

and her hat with its dark feather,
and her slender hand, clothed with
rings,
breathe the air of ancient stories.
And bewitched by
mysterious nearness,
I gaze through a shadowy veil,
and see an
enchanted shoreline
and an enchanted distance.
Hidden secrets are
given to me,
someone's sun is for me to hold,
and the sour wine has
entered
in the labyrinth of my soul.
And the soft ostrich plumes

nod gently in my brain,
and blue unending eyes bloom
in some
distant place.
A treasure's buried in my soul,
and the only key to it
is mine!
You're right, you drunken fool!
I know: 'There's truth in
wine.'
On This Sad Earth
O courage, O achievement, O fame,
I forgot all those on this sad earth,

when, in front of me on the table,
your face shone in a simple
frame.
But the hour struck, you left the house.
I flung the dear ring
into the dark.
You put your fate in another's hands,
and I forgot
your lovely face.
Days went by, circling, a cursed swarm…
Passion
and drink tormented my life…
I remembered you before the altar,
I
called to you, as if to my youth…
I called but you never looked back,

I wept, but you didn't relent.
You wrapped yourself, sad, in a blue

cloak,
from the house, to the wet night, you went.
O dear and gentle
one, I don't know
where you found shelter for your pride…
I sleep,
I dream of that blue cloak
in which you entered the wet night...
I no
longer dream of tenderness, fame,
that's all over, my youth is past!

From the table, with my own hand,
I removed your face in its simple
frame.
Ravenna
All that is fragile, all that is transient,
you have buried in the centuries.

Like a child you sleep, Ravenna,
in the drowsy arms of eternity.

Slaves no longer bring mosaics
through the arches built by Rome.

On the walls of cool basilicas
golden fire is dying down.
The rough
sepulchral vault has softened
to the moisture's lingering kiss,
where
a green film coats the graves
of monks and empresses.
The burial
vaults are silent,
their doorways dark and cold,
lest black-eyed
Galla's holy gaze
wakes, and burns through stone.
The bloodstained
track of war and hurt
erased, all memory gone,
lest Placidia's voice,
stirred to life,
sings the passion of times long done.
The sea's
receded, and the roses
cling round the rampart's stone,
lest
Theodoric dream life's storms
as he sleeps soundly in his tomb.
And
the vine-set wastes, the houses,
and the people - all are tombs.
Only
noble Latin, cut in bronze,
sounds like music from the stones.
Only
in the intense quiet gaze
of Ravenna's girls, regret
for the sea that
will not return
still shyly flickers on, as yet.
Only at night, bent over
the valleys,
taking stock of the centuries to be,
Dante's spirit, with
aquiline profile,
sings of the New Life to me.
To The Muse
In your secret music,
are messages of dark disaster.

A curse on all that's holy,
happiness's desecration.
And so seductive
a power
I'm ready to repeat
that you drew angels