Избранное. Поэзия. Драматургия. Максимилиан Гюбрис
subsequently awaken fancies.
It was all coming up from stranger words
Made wilder dancing of the scene-to-world.
The Provocation how fast was rising
From the back-imagined talk. …That “’bout tomb»,
That “’bout dead», that “’bout doom and light»; —
As if these Two, sane-eyed, sat there, side to side,
At their philosophic table of the Time,
Whilst all around, full of common cries
From yet tonight, the witnesses of our insight,
Beings too-voluntarous, rose to unite
And all got closer, and acted there blind,
And some were just to fight then. All images,
All characters to find… Dude Fonomore,
With others, fans of End, Satirehood, and…
Madder-looking creature broke the hand, then,
Of the Dead Wall’s Clock, and picture changed all.
And all, so suddenly, went to behold:
Oh, that was news unique! that opened wide,
That newly-viewed field there was; – that hugely…
Laid all o’er there… corpse. Bigger than house.
Much bigger than the airplane or gardens
Some, – the Corpse of War, dread on the sun.
And ’twas all full of moving…! life, not life, —
What could I call it like? The crawls, all sounds,
Those all expressions, parasitic mess,
All from inside came out; – ants not ants,
Not so the worms, but looked like flags and guns,
In tones and tints, materialized moods
Of things in shape, in shade, dead sentiments.
…The threats of vision stopped, view lost its ends
Dissolved in shouts for the needed Grave
That time, when my stressed psyche invoked again
Back to my consciousness, that for me then
To be a here-man. And here I am. – Think,
Else, what I can say is that, when my old mind,
Impressed a lot, went wondering alone
Of that if ever could be right to grow
Our seductive «Carny’s theme» at all, —
If e’er we’d find a way to bury doubts
(Oh, what a wisest thought!) «bout Death of War,
So it can’t rise again, per rotten chance; —
To this, I felt, however, but a nerve
Of Human inspiration, – dreaming then
Of sage and dispute to be back again.
The Red Wood
The sun of this Spring awoke me,
With the Voice from the Sleep it rose,
From the Doubt of Thought, it took me
Into world, where the Red Truth grows.
«How often you’ve had the Red Day?» —
That mystery teller have led; —
«The word to be fair on your eye-way,
By magus the Nature be spread.»
Dumb, I have stepped into wood mine;
How felt I to see that all new:
The birches not white! – the red line
Mystify the strange poetic view.
How could‘ve that happen, oh, tell me? —
Is’t a sign of Red Horse? Skye cries?66
Like the shades, blood with o’erwhelming,
Those Life’s witnesses stands and sighs.
Human mind – fatalist-dreamer!
All the fancies in time, behold,
Paints the things – fairer to grimmer, —
All embodied in real world.
No image stays off-the-Matter,
Not a map that poein67, but Life;
On this border, the Fate ne’er flatter
With that Polis can use for strife.
Voice had gone… I felt quite awkward.
These red stems, kind of prophecy…
Yet I’ve dreamt, what if some Ode-word,
Incarnated, its author could sее.
Nike and Her Head
Oh, Νίκη! Time though did beheaded you; —
They dies, day new, to break one of your wings: —
«Who’s right? who won the Woe-War?"… Not Marce;
And none is to survive in slaves of his…
Who is to win upon th’Achiles’ anarchism?68
The Heaven’s laissez-fair star-gaze in grass…
But barbar is that not, who goes so far
To ask the Stix ’gainst Islands’ neutralism? —
Th’Eagean grasp? – Hell looking for, you are
A little plebe with giant sword, calling for Death!
Hell do perverse not the ’light of Lucifer,
Where free from cares a Victor drink Love’s breath.
Where little winged goddess’ skye head
Wedds thoughts of Poet and Atlet for strength.69
The Meditative
/To Olga Barre,
On her very Day,
Also to that thought of hers for
The 100th Birthday of Don Juan Mattus./
What the bird could hear
Time, when the space go asleep,
No one to prevail they knew.
No soul done to dream insincere.
No