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Николай Гумилёв | Nikolai Gumilev

The Magic Violin

Sweetest boy, you are so happy, your nice smile is so delightful,
Please don’t ask for this enjoyment, full of poison, full of flame.
You don’t know this violent violin – cold and fiery, dark and frightful,
You don’t know this gloomy scare – the beginning of the game!

Once you glance it, once you touch it with your mighty hands of passion –
You deny the light and calmness in your clear, tender eyes.
Demon spirits love to listen to these sounds, grand and ashen,
Rabid wolves walk down the road where a violin player dies.

Strings are always singing, weeping, strings are sonorous and clinking,
Bow is always pulsing, winding, bow is maddened and distraught –
Under suns and under blizzards, under broken waters’ blinking,
When the east is all in fire, when the west is scalding hot.

Being tired, being weakened, you will cut your song – and forthright
You won’t cry, or move, or lament, you won’t turn or raise a sigh, —
Rabid wolves will come in fury, wild, tremendous, cruel, wall-eyed,
They will find your throat in seconds, harshly breaking you to die.

You will see the dark betrayal of this beautiful obsession.
You will see the eyes of terror, full of power, full of fear.
And your body will be captured with this dreary deadly passion.
And your bride will cry in sorrow, and your friend won’t keep back tears.

Further on! You will not find here any joy or any treasure!
But I see that you are laughing, your bright eyes are rays of blue.
Take this violin, magic violin, take this monstrous pain and pleasure –
Die again in glorious fever, as all violin players do!

Me And You

Yes, I know, I’m not your choice,
I have come from a different land.
And I love zurna’s wild voice,
Not a guitar in your thin hand.

I am not the most welcome guest
For the noble ladies and sirs –
I recite in the dragons’ nests
For the waterfalls, clouds and birds.

And I love like a savage moor
That falls down before a stream –
Not a knight, so brave and pure,
That just stares at the stars and dreams.

I won’t die in my own bed
With a notary and a priest.
I’ll become fortunately dead
In an ivy hole – like a beast.

I won’t enter your paradise
That is open to every saint.
I will make my last sacrifice
To my freedom – and I will wait

For a robber’s knife in the night,
For a fallen woman’s regard,
For a vagabond’s worthless fight –
And for their call: don’t retard!

Memory

Only snakes shed skins to keep their souls
Getting old and growing all the time.
Different from them, we can’t control
Our souls that always change inside.

Memory, you are leading me, dismayed,
With your giant hand as I’m a horse.
You will tell me of all those who stayed
In this body earlier and forth.

There was the first one – weak and mild,
Deeply loving twilight of the wood,
Fallen leaves – he was a sorcerous child
Stopping rain with words. He always could.

His best friends were rusty dogs and pines –
He was stick to them throughout his life.
Memory, memory, you will find no signs
That this boy was me. So please don’t try.

And the second one… He loved the south wind,
Heard a harp in every noise and whirl,
Called the life his precious friend and kin,
Called the rug under his feet his world.

I don’t like him – that was he who wanted
To become a god, a king, a knight,
Who hanged up a cover of the poet
On my silent doors one autumn night.

I adore the other – son of freedom,
Navigator, bowman, stranger, bard,
Ah, the waters sang him in his kingdom,
And the clouds were envious of his art.

And his tent was somewhere in the mountains,
And his mules were frisky, quick and strong.
And he drank like wine the air of countries
Where a white man has been never born.

Memory, you are fainting year by year.
Was it him who changed his joyful life
For a holy battle, cherished cheer?
Was it someone else? Who knows? Do I?

That one knew the rage of thirst and hunger,
Broken sleep and never-ending trip,
And St. George touched twice his breast in wonder –
It was free from bullets’ mortal skip.

I am here – an anguished willful builder
Who creates a temple in the brume.
Abba father! I am your fervent tilter,
Both on earth and up above the gloom.

And my heart will be on sacred fire,
On my country’s fields new walls will grow –
New Jerusalem will raise much higher
Than my own glory and my glow.

And some weird gentle wind will blow,
And some fearful light will flow from skies –
Milky Way will bloom under the snow
With the dazzling planets’ sparkling eyes.

I will see a pilgrim in the distance,
He will hide his face under his cloak.
I will feel the Lion’s warm assistance
I will find the Eagle among the oaks.

I will cry… but who could help me there?
Who could save my soul from being dead?
Only snakes shed skins – we stay nowhere,
Keeping all the souls we had to shed.

***

My days, monotonous, eventless,
Are flashing painfully inside —
My roses are becoming scentless,
My nightingales have almost died.

But she is, too, so sad and glowing,
My love who rules my thoughts, my pain.
Her poisoned blood is gently flowing
Under her velvet skin in vain.

And if I live on our planet,
It is for one uncertain aim.
We both will go to mounts of granite
Like two blind children in their blame.

We both will go to lands of horses,
To lands of clouds, so clean and white,
We both will search the scentless roses,
And hear the nightingales that died.

Captains

I 

In the North, in the South, in the Middle,
Through the shades of implacable seas,
Under basalts and pearls, through the ripple,
Where whispers the careless breeze,

Captains are at the wheel of their wisdom,
They discover new lands by themselves,
They are fearless in face of a windstorm,
They have known well the Maelstrom and shelves.

Not the dust of the parchments and charters
But the sea salt is deeply inside!..
Captains prick out their way in the darkness,
And the winds take their souls to the wide.

Captains come up the bridge, slightly trembling,
Bringing back distant harbours and docks,
Idly cleaning their boots and dissembling
Their anxiety in casual talks.

A revolt is aboard! They are ready
To calm down all the minds with a gun,
Tearing their Brabant frills, staying steady
In the light of the merciless sun.

Let the sea be insane and atrocious,
Let the waves rise again to the skies —
No one quivers in front of the oceans,
No one strikes down the sails, no one cries.

Are these powerful hands for a craven?
Is this glare for a loser indeed?
They can follow the enemy ravens
To invade them at ultimate speed,

They can fight with the whales without fear
Catching them with all strength of their arms,
And they notice the lights that appear
Far away in the sea full of stars.

II

You all are the knights of the Green Amalgama,
You look at the compass, you look at the sea –
Gonzalo and Cook, Laperouse and da Gama,
Columbus the Genoese, wistful and free!

Alvise da Mosto, and Hanno of Carthage,
And Sindbad the Sailor, Ulysses the Great,
Your conquests are anthemed in furious rampage
Of grey-haired waves that all oceans create!

You too, royal hounds, filibusters and corsairs,
That keep all your gold in the far-away ports,
You, moors the rovers, you, winners of monsters,
The very first people on the very first float!

You all who intend to discover, to venture,
Who don’t care about their homeland at all,
Who laugh at the wizards, who look down on danger,
Who don’t ask for pardon for passionate souls!

It is so uncommon to enter your reveries,
It is so delicious to cherish your names,
It is so unreal to find out the memories
That have been all born in the radiant waves!

It seems in this world there are some magic islands
Where no man has gone. They are full of delight.
The giants live there in the woods, in the highlands,
The pearls shine in deep of the nectarous light.

I see in my dreams the sweet gum flowing down,
The trees and the leaves murmuring: “Hurry up, friend!
There fly honey bees that are golden and brown,
There grow scarlet roses with delicate scent!”

The elves and the birds fight for nests and for flowers,
The girls’ faces beam, their hair is curled…
As if we don’t know all about stars and hours,
As if we don’t know all about our world!

III

When they see a royal fortress
In the middle of the rocks,
Merry sailors, strong and hurtless,
Go directly to the docks.

An old talker, drinking cider
In a tavern, has begun
A new story of a hydra
That a crossbow can strike down.

Bronze-skinned girls sit by the tables
Telling fortune by their cards,
You can smell the tasty flavours
Of the dishes in the yards.

Day and night in dirty taverns
Gamblers shuffle their decks of cards,
Dreaming ardently of caverns
Full of treasures and delights.

It is nice to hang about
Cozy docks and shady streets.
It is nice to scream and shout,
Picking fights with all the fleet.

It is nice to cadge a penny
From a lady of the blood,
Asking gaily: “How many
Monkeys can you buy, my heart?”

It is nice to become angry
Winning once and losing twice.
It is nice to lose your memory
Playing cards and playing dice.

But all glamour disappears,
Drunken ravings quiet down,
When the captain’s voice is here:
“We are sailing from the town!”

IV

…But there are some other areas
Where moon is torturous and blind.
They are unreachable, delirious
For higher forces, higher mind.

The dance of waves is bright and infinite,
The tide is glistening and splashing,
The Flying Dutchman, almost lost in it,
Is ripping forward to this flashing.

Not any reef, or shelf, or witchery –
He only sees Saint Elmo’s fire,
This sign of sadness, sign of misery,
Radiating from the broadside lyre.

The captain, sliding through the ocean,
With one hand holding on the wheel,
Is injured, bleeding, deeply frozen.
The other hand is made of steel.

His people are deadly pale and saturnine,
They all are thinking of the same,
Resembling corses in the firing line
That are returning to the flame.

If sailors meet this ghost of hurricane
When morning light is full of cold,
They become mad, upset and inhumane,
Forgetting their names and gold.

So many stories are devoted
To this aggressive, raving crew.
The most mysterious and quoted
For those who go through foam of blue –

Is one about the star in emptiness
On Tropic of the Capricorn,
That is forgotten by the universe,
Where Cain-faced captain was once born.

Giraffe

Today you look blue and your glance is so awfully sad,
Your arms are so specially slender embracing your knees.
Oh listen: so far from the world, on the Lake known as Chad,
A graceful giraffe passes free.

She is made of grace and sweet tenderness in all her shapes,
Her coat is so smooth decorated with magical weave
That’s kin to the moon with its secret mysterious caves,
The trembling pale moon breaking water and bothering leaves.

She is like the wide sails of ships in the outland sea,
Her run is as fluent and gentle as bird’s flight in skies.
I know that so many delights of the earth can be seen
When she finds a hole made of marble and there she hides.

I know all these tales of the faraway lands that are true,
About the Black Maid and about the young chief’s fatal flame.
But you drew in vapour so long and so hard in this gloom,
You don’t want to trust in some more than this cold plaintive rain.

I want you to hear the tales of the fresh herbal bed,
Of palm trees and scent of the grass at the end of the night.
You’re crying… Oh listen: so far, on the Lake known as Chad,
A graceful giraffe passes by.

Denial

A queen or a child, alone pensive child, she was bending

Above the majestic and somnolent sea sighing gently,

Her figure was slender and soft, and it seemed to be tending,

To silvery gazes, in secret, in silence, intently.

A bird’s brittle clang penetrated through dim flowing shadows,

And she saw the dolphins in water, so free and alluring,

They called her to sail on their shimmering backs to green meadows,

To light cyan lands where a prince’s great love was enduring.

But her crystal voice seemed especially fragile and vibrant

When sounded so firmly and bitterly: «Just not this moment…»

A queen or a child, alone fretful child, clear and silent,

A sad weary child with the eyes full of powerless torment.

***

Muses, stop weeping, stop mourning,
Outpour your grief in an air,
Sing me of Dante this morning,
Play a sweet flute in the air.

Tiresome fauns, run you out,
There is no music to pardon.
Do you all know? With no doubt
Beatrice has left Heaven’s garden.

She was a weird white rose
Fuming in fresh evening calmness…
Is it a menace she knows
Or just a plea for some kindness?

There was a poor young inventor
In the false world of false mysteries –
He was a wicked offender,
He loved sincerely his Beatrice.

All secret poet’s delusions
Kept in his heart full of passion
Changed into torrents and fusions,
Changed into waves, light and ashen.

Muses, in these brilliant sonnets
Mark that strange mystery now:
Sing me of Dante the poet,
And of Rossetti’s last vow.

Fra Beato Angelico

Where play, excited, in the azure sky
A lion and a hippogriff together,
Where night puts out of sleeves a butterfly,
Some crystal nymphs and furies, crowned with feathers;

Where all the dead are silent in their graves,
Whose power, force and will are always plenty, —
My heart has loved the one among the braves,
Old masters of the Quattro-, Cinquecenti.

Be great, celestial Raphael the Blessed,
Buonarrotti, marble’s passionate lover,
Da Vinci, lost magician, glorious guest,
Cellini with his bronze of carnal colour.

But Raphael just blinds you with no warm,
Buonarrotti’s excellence is scary,
Da Vinci is insane of wine and storm,
His soul has trusted fiercely and merrily

In bliss: in sacred Fiesole, among
Thin poplars, flaming poppies, verdant vines,
In deep of Gothic churches, light and young,
Where martyrs sleep in peace inside the shrines.

My master’s every work is marked with signs
Of earth born love and simple peaceful meekness.
He couldn’t paint all things under the sun,
But everything he wrote is pure and weedless.

There is a knight on horseback in the wild –
Where is he riding, to the church or to the maid?
The city wall is shining in the light
Of rising sun, the flocks are grassing far away;

Maria is holding Her beloved Son,
His hair is curly and his cheeks are red and tender,
Such kids might come to empty women’s once –
To their dreams at Christmas night of splendour.

The hangman is so weak, in his blue dress,
Defeated by the Saint and almost dying;
Those ones under the halo aren’t distressed,
So many lights are glittering and shining.

And colours, colours — they are bright and clear,
They were all born in him and died forever;
There is a legend: he would mix the flowers’ tears
To holy oils from strict majestic heaven.

There is one more: a six-winged Seraph came
To his small room, delightful and alluring,
And brought a brush to win the cheerful flame
Of his amazing art… he stayed enduring.

The world and God exist in space and time,
The human life is short, and poor, and whirled.
But only one of humans lives and shines
Who trusts in God and loves this lively world.

Marquis de Carabasse

To S. Auslender

In spring the woods are light and ariose,
The fields are black and full of joy.
Today I’ve met a crane, too close
To the old barn, almost destroyed.

I see an ice rock melting slowly,
And rosy lightings in the sky,
I see my smart cat fishing lonely
And catching nimble birds near by.

He knows the scent of hares and ferrets,
Paths to the river through the canes,
And so delicious are wild carrots
And magpie’s eggs he bakes with grains.

The wood is calling dark and stirring,
The dew is falling in the sand;
While I am slumbering he is purring,
With his wet nose in my still hand:

«It’s sweet to serve you, my good lord,
I’d fight for you right now, I swear!
You are the marquis, and my sword
Belongs to you, the most adored
Of all the marquis here and there.

Quick birds in woods, and highland pines,
So rich in gold, and bronze, and copper,
And yellow wide of fields, and vines,
And fish in lakes, and fruitful mines
Are all yours, absolute and proper.

Why do you sleep in narrow holes,
Weird child disclaiming your own merits,
Why don’t you live at court, my soul,
Why don’t you eat from silver bowls
Among small dogs and painted parrots?»

My cat, intelligent, loquacious,
Sighs sadly, rubs against my knees,
And then his paw, so white and gracious,
Continues looking for the fleas.

And I am by the willow now
(It is so nice between its roots);
My lazy hand throws stones that plough
The smoky pond like mellow fruits.

How hard they are, how straight and dire,
How smooth in deep of water’s cage!
…In every leaf, in every spire
I meet my kingdom and my stage.

Childhood

As a child, I loved vast meadows
Full of honey ambrosian scent,
Empty woodlands, dry herbs and arrows
Of bulls’ horns in that herbal tent.

Every dusty bush roadside growing
Cried to me: «Let us make some fun!
Walk around me, and I will show you
My true face underneath the sun!»

Only autumn wind, wild and bleeding,
Stopped the game with its raucous cry,
And my heart was blissfully beating,
And I really believed that I

Would be not alone in my death hour:
All my friends would be with me there –
Foalfoot, burdock, a nameless flower,
And the sky would make me aware.

I do love the tricks of the hatred,
And the thunderstorm martial weaves,
I do know: men’s blood is less sacred
That the emerald juice of leaves.