Leopold Epstein

Translated by Natasha Gotskaya © 2010 - 2011

***

The leaves are already gone, but there are red sorb apples.

The memory grows weaker, but suddenly lights what’s hidden.

A passion arises rarer – more precious what seldom happens -

It’s the special fortune, it’s the special riddle.

When a morning is freezing, the body objects, annoyed,

But if you straighten your shoulders – what the heck – you are bold and clear.

The point is not that it’s late but that it is not the point,

The point is not that one fears, but that one is beyond the fear.

***

At last, I am home. I am soothing the ache of my feet

In worn out slippers. Each thing here is so long-known! -

The tin pot, the white crooked ceiling, the narrow love-seat.

At last, I am home.

At last, you are home. I have switched the old table-lamp on.

Let’s, maybe, have tea? With some rum - we are chilled to the bone.

See? Here is the bottle. But why are you silent, my hon?

At last, you are home.

The windows are broken? - True. I've just noticed it, though.

The walls are too shaky? I’ll check. – Straw and dust, no stone.

You don’t see a roof? Yes, I know - you’re deep under snow.

At last, we are home.

***

The loss of your homeland – it’s like when you die

And peacefully walk in the heavenly gardens,

Already withdrawn from your fears and burdens,

From anguish and pride, you just look at the sky,

At whiteness of clouds in blueness of space,

At lush vegetation, at rainbow meadows, -

They stress the idea, that all earthly riddles

Are almost irrelevant there. Displaced

From homeland will be not just physical self -

Deserting its fate for ethereal travel,

Your soul will be given the bucket, forever'll

Be trapped by its idleness, laid on a shelf.

A thorn in the flesh, soul's idleness stings.

Oh, yes, it is nice on the far side from troubles,

Sea-foam wiping out all tracks - just white bubbles,

It’s easy to breath there. - Here, it seems,

Insanity, ignorance, anger, the lack

Of plain common sense have been reigning for years;

We lived on the verge between farce and despair,

With hopelessness, ugliness, meanness to bear,

But here, in the middle of damned nowhere, -

Yes, here is my life, and I can't take it back.

***

А. К.

In Russia, the metre of genuine poetry’s painfully slow,

As our plain.

As if you are riding and riding, and clouds are low,

And all is the same.

The road is endless, the autumn is gloomy and heavy and raw.

The slowness of torture.

The horses, already exhausted, obediently draw

The lumbering coaches.

We learn and we learn and we learn till we die to submit to this pace,

Resign to this languish.

Oh, how much emptiness there’s in my motherland’s snowy space,

Oh, how much anguish.

It can be unbearably hot, it can cruelly hopelessly freeze,

Indifferent and still.

In Russia, the metre of genuine poetry’s slow. It is

Beyond human will.

***

The sweetness of elusive love,

Unnecessary and unvowed.

It can't be stirred, it can't be shoved -

It's just as it has come about.

Irreparably far, someplace

Between sunset and pure fancy -

A tear? A hand? A flitting face?

A might-have-been? A past in transit?

One can't return and cannot flee,

Can't clear it up and cannot curse it.

What shouldn't be that wouldn't be.

But pause a little! - show me mercy...

***

I woke up in tears. The middle of the night.

My soul, what has happened to you in dream gardens?

You've probably been in a terrible plight,

Deserving the ax, being granted a pardon -

I do not remember. The moon through the drape

Is slowly swaying among waving boughs,

As if an old rabbi with Torah. Its shape

Is strangely important, containing, somehow,

The hint of solution, the symbol, the scheme,

Or, maybe, the crucial message and warning,

The missing - evading me - clue to my dream.

The clock says a quarter past one in the morning.

My mind can't calm down, it's trying to find

A name to the dream - since by choosing a label,

It seems, I would finally leave it behind,

Forget. Like a buried-in-mystery fable,

I'm buried in words, but each one is unfit.

I switch on the lamp, it illumines the ceiling,

Repeating the form of its shade, and it splits

The room into darkness and light, and the feeling

Of urgency dims like the moon outside.

"It's quiet", I think, "it is over, this bout.

I'm ready to yield - there is no one to fight,

And life goes on. Everything will work out."

THE BALLAD-DREAM

Late autumn. It drizzles. It's bleak outside and within

My soul. Every drop on my coat is as dull as another.

The life's like a cigarette light of a casual passer.

Let everything go its way, since I just cannot answer

For anything now - for anything. I am done in.

And why did I happen to come to this universe? What

Stray memories, untoward dreams blew me in to this town?

I'll sort it all through, yes, for sure, I'll figure it out,

But now I need just a cup of hot tea - and around

Is desert - the day and the time are, as usual, odd.

All bars and cafes, and all grocery stores, and all stands

Are sleeping, enclosed in glass and in cold metal glare;

The only soul is a crooked old man in the square

In front of a desolate station; he seems unaware

Of rain as he slowly counts small coins in his hand.

And then - then I see her. I know, that's her. And it seems,

The grass at her feet is bright-green, as if summer has risen,

Although she's dressed in accord with this cold rainy season.

I rush to her headlong before I can think of a reason,

As only happens in dark and unconscious dreams.

I run - and I see a ravine, long and deep, like a trap.

The slopes are loamy and wet - so easy to slide in,

And over the gap is a valley, sunlit and inviting...

"But still I must go ahead for my son and my writings",

I think, and I make it: the fatal, disastrous step.

I slip. Muddy soil's creeping down, I slide downhill.

I try to catch hold of a bush - it recoils and displaces

Itself, and a queer white bird takes the air and races.

I see from below white gowns and serious faces

And think: "It's a hospital." Everything slowly fills

With brownish haze, and my weakening mind, in a flash,

Perceives: "Anesthesia. I am in a surgery. Sure,

My body is being amputated in order to cure

The wounded soul. It is nice. I agree. I'll endure.

At last, I'll be living and working in earnest, afresh."

I hear two voices above me - one male, one female.

"Faint heart.", says the man, "And weak-willed. It impedes circulation."

The woman: "It isn't his fault, he's sick, he's a patient.

Just look at his shin. It's the reason of all malformation."

The man - somewhat surly - "We're struggling to no avail."

And when I come to it is night. Whitish ceiling is blurred

And soothingly shimmers. From over the door I can hear

A faraway buzzer. My mind is surprisingly clear.

All worries are gone, and I sigh with relief. "Oh my dear,"

Says softly my mom,"Tell me, how are you? Does it hurt?"

"It doesn't... But how'd you get here?...what does it mean?..."

"Don't worry, be quiet, my son, you need rest for your healing."

She cautiously tucks up the blanket, as though it's chilly,

And, lightly, she touches my cheek with her hand. I am feeling

The fullness of happiness possible but in a dream.

***

Mozart. The Viennese Concertos.

Sprouts. Buds. Rebellious leaves.

Downfall of all conceptions.

Reconciling with the grief.

Lingering anticipation.

Hoofs on narrow cobbled streets.

Gradual amplification

Of the threatening downbeats.

It is stifling! Suffocating!

Soul and flesh are spent - enough!

Summer comes with unabating

Omnipresent poplar fluff -

Through the doors! the vents! It's here!

Fuzzy blizzard dries the mind.

Resolution is unclear

As dream visions of the blind.

Mozart. The Viennese Concertos.

Wormwood. Thyme. A slow lane

Leads us from a bustling center

To the dust of desert plain.

I am parched. It's hurting! Hurting!

All the same, I'm off the course.

Eyes are filled with disconcerting

Whitish poplar landing force.

Dryness. Thirst. The mind is woolly.

Passing days. Could you believe -

No one's realizing fully

That the life is so brief,

That his own self is fleeting

And ridiculous, as words

That are meant to save from splitting

And collapse entire world.

Mozart. The Viennese Concertos.

Foul weather. Rains and cold.

Life deprives and strikes and chastens,

Then bestows sudden gold.

Mind is helpless in its essence.

In the quicksand of the days

All the passion it possesses

Idly strains and pines away.

That is why the world is hardened

And, unmerciful and tough,

Winter buries our ardor

Under whirling snow-fluff.

Flying snowflakes and sounds

Weave the web of secret codes.

Late! Too late! Our grandsons

Won't decipher those notes.

MOZART. SYMPHONY # 40.

No equivalents to fearlessness of music.

I couldn't write at all. As sentence for a crime

I bore my hopeless muteness. The emptiness of mine

Is not that simple, though, as it is turning out.

Let's count to a hundred. The world is intertwined.

Let's pause up to a hundred. Let's sigh as heavy ground.

Let's go to the movies. Let's breathe in autumn rain.

I couldn't write at all, but this is all the same.

Let's make some tea, and sit, and chat, and talk about

The son, and have an early night. It rains.

No equivalents to fearlessness of music.

I couldn't write at all. The essence of the things,

Familiar and plain, was suddenly obscured.

I couldn't bear to live. Sometimes, a waterman

Imagines the abyss beneath, and can't endure

A common sail. Look outside. For sure,

This tree ran wild, its branches dancing in the dark,

But won't it leave, a faithful guard, its action station.

With all its woody substance - leaves, and bark,

And trunk - it lives. To tell the truth, I envy

Its vehemence and its determination.

I'm not lamenting fate - it's harsh but grand,

It's firm but fair. Don't you think it can be

That all the hardships, miseries and storms

Are just the cause for music to be born

From waves. Yes, in the sounds - Aphrodite,

And not Athene. But the unyielding fighter -

The wind - braced up itself, and, raging, blind,

Attacks the tree again. I turn the record.

Another side, and everything repeats:

The man, whose mind is weakened with the notion

Of dark and depth, falls victim to the ocean.

In music, there is nothing incomplete

Or random. Let us count to a hundred,

Let' go to the movies. Aching void.

In life, there's not a thing we can avoid.

The life is music, even when it blunders.

The life is music, and we live at sight.

With no equivalents. Let's go outside.

The rain has stopped, the wind does not subside,

It blows high. The tree - it lives.

No equivalents to fearlessness of music.

I didn't write for long. My God, it presses on,

The symphony. A proud steed would stumble,

A rose would wither, would a kingdom crumble,

But life - it wouldn't ever stop, it won't

Appease. The inner tumult interferes

With taking actions. I am loosing years.

Omnipotence of freedom disappears

From form and matter. Music goes on.

It wouldn't stop. It always asks for more.

All music is impure in its core.

The same with love. Why carry on? Let's count

A hundred times, let's pause a hundred times.

Let us be silent. Let again the sounds

Be born from void...

All is entwined as rhymes...

The dancing branches are like hands, they live,

As stubborn as persistent leitmotif,

Which argues tirelessly, bailing out

The tree and wind, and, archly, in the end

It makes a fool of everyone around,

It flouts reckonings and plots and plans,

And there's nothing I can do about

The outcome - it's placed into its hands.

AN ATTEMPT AT JOURNALING

Come on! It's all your nerves. Calm down, bud. Just go take a walk. Do not be silly. You're nervous - so, perhaps, you’re not right. Imagine, say, earth-goddess in a valley, nude on the grass, asleep in broad day-light. You see her from above. The grass is tall. Imagine that you are in a free fall, you're seeing her voluptuous godly forms becoming plainer, as if pruned away, you're seeing that the meadow grass transforms into the groves, defying sense and reason. The bread of pleasure's tasteless if not seasoned. Why do you think that our "today" entails someone's "tomorrow"? Yes, your style is somewhat awkward - earnestness and candor, perhaps, will make amends for this defect. You've grown, boy, you've grown while you slept. Your love is almost gone. It's lacking splendor. You're right, avoiding sharp and drastic turns, but do not trust a wave too much, be clever... Oh, nothing but a death can overturn and stop it all! – I won't forget you ever, Francesca, my caprice, my dream and prize, my daily bread and luxury of life! The tiny body of my goddess, and her eyes, a little absent... In these eyes I saw the hope for joy, the hope for being alive... But pause a little, why'd you rush at all? You knew the blissfulness of flesh and soul just yesterday, so why say farewell to her today? D'you see what you are doing? But how can I stop it if it's brewing inside, beyond all reasoning... Oh, my! I'm sick and tired of this pantomime. Let's ask, what do you want, exactly? Well, I'd like to come to her anew and cleared, rid of my past and rid of my red beard, to bring her flowers, to take her for a date, to chat at home with her, to share meals, I'd like to have a child with her, to feel my love for her alone, in the world I’d like to know nothing less, at any rate, than Heaven's pastures... There's trouble in your words, the breath of an approaching disaster. There's no intimacy beyond embrace. Your life experience is a tactful lie. Retreat is chosen, it is taking place, you see the outcome, it's close by.

But - let's go on. Nights are becoming cold? Black cinder’s on the floor? The room is chilled? Carcinogenic tar has soiled the sill? D'you know how a woman can be bold and fearless, and free, when wine of soul has ripened? How a woman can be shy, her hand being slender, gentle, soft and strong? You know, she possesses such a courage, that... Pause a little. Won't there be a lie? Or, maybe, just a bit of falseness? Sure, there will be – though it's a bitter thought – a passion is a needle of a sort, which sews together pieces, patches, shreds of different colors and improper shapes with made of loneliness ripping threads… But wait! You have a chance – it’s not too late – there are night trams, you can jump in, you'll go... Don't interrupt me! It is not my role to desert: to the bitter end I’ll stay, I’ll stay with her, and I decisively prefer the worst of actions to the best of terms. We cannot stop a drama in full play, it must resolve itself in either laugh - or death. Piero and Hamlet are two halves of unity, inseparable brothers. This is my cup, I do not want another. I'll drink my cup of sorrow to the dregs. You’ll burden her, you'll fray her nerves. I might, then. You'll break her heart. And what about mine? Her years will be shortened. Yes, but - brightened! Come to your senses, lunatic! You know – it's not for long. Just bring your acts in line with reason. Don't you taste the lees of wine. While your emotions rush and overflow, let only the wisdom be your guide. You see the bottom. Shun the reefs of spite and navigate your skiff to a safe harbor. It’s turgid. This leap year wrecks your nerves. You're definitely not the first, and hardly you are the last confused by passion's haze. One shouldn't blame it, but less so - praise. Be careful, and listen to your fear, it keeps you safe. I am dead sick, my dear! My own cautious manners make me sick. To slip, to make a trip, but, maybe, once to risk it all, to go the vole, to seize a chance and make it big - or dash the life and break, as thrown in a fit of anger plate, and to commit a sin, a crime – no less, to act in frenzy - not as in a show. D'you want to live with her? You aim too low: with her I want not life but life and death. Life is too short, for us it's insufficient. A gust of wind - and blooms are on the ground.

But this discussion cannot reach completion. It spends itself and spends itself in rounds, as life...