In Praise of Poetry. Olga Sedakova
small children, and tamed beasts.
10. THE WORD
He who loves will be loved in return.
He who serves shall be served—
if not now, then another time, later.
But the best reward comes of gratitude,
he shall walk forth, his work finished, and without Rachel
feel happy, climbing green hills.
You, word, are the robes of Kings,
a dress of patience, both long and short,
more lofty than the sky, more joyous than the sun.
Our eyes will not see
your color—a color near to us, and dear,
no human ears shall hear the noise
of your swishing, broad pleats,
only the heart will say to itself:
“You are free, and you shall be free,
and you shall not answer to slaves.”
SECOND NOTEBOOK
Dedicated to my grandmother
1. BRAVERY AND MERCY
The sun shines upon just and unjust alike,
and the earth is nowhere the worse:
you can go west or east,
or wherever you are told,
you can simply stay at home.
Bravery steers the ships
on the wide oceans.
Mercy rocks the cradle of reason,
a cradle deep as it is decrepit.
He who knows bravery, knows also mercy,
for they are as sisters:
bravery is the easiest thing in the world,
the easiest of all deeds—is charity.
2. MARCHING SONG
To France there journeyed two grenadiers, escaped from confinement in Russia,
Their jackets were covered completely in dust, and France was also all dusty.
How strange it now seems. Life suddenly settles, like ashes,
Like snow on the roads of Smolensk, or sand on the steppes of Arabia.
And vision goes further, and further, the sky most visible of all.
“What dost Thou want, o Lord, what dost Thou want from Thy slave?”
Above our every desire, a lash of sorts rests, waiting to be seen.
Would that my eyes had not seen. But it is ordained that they see.
And so they shall see. Is anything impossible above this humble and vulgar earth?
How high does the fateful comet’s fire play with light, before it blazes forth?
Arise, then, stand forth, o wretched comrade! Soldiers should not laze about.
We drink to the faith that lives unto death: beyond that, disloyalty has no abode.
3. THE UNFAITHFUL WIFE
Since the day you came home
and did not look at me,
everything changed inside.
Like that sick dog who
lies there sighing,
so does my soul languish and pine.
For the sinner, the whole world intercedes,
but for the innocent, only a miracle.
So let there be a miracle as witness unto me.
Show Your truth, o God,
show him that I am truthful!
Suddenly the dog, that poor creature,
shook his head quickly,
ran up to her happily,
licked her hand tenderly—
and fell down to the earth, dead.
God knows things about a man
that he himself does not know.
4. ASSURANCE
Even if they shall laugh at you and make fun,
you shall lie there as Lazarus did,
lie still and silent before the heavens—
even then shall you not be as Lazarus.
Alas, it is good to be likened
unto the black earth from the garden,
to the many-colored dust from the road,
to the cry of the smallest child, forgotten,
left behind in the fields . . .
no other thing do they ask of you.
5. LULLABY
On a hill, in a rare forest of spruce,
on the highest, delicate treetop,
a cradle is fastened.
The wind rocks it.
There with the cradle is a little cage,
and with the cage, a hollow spruce tree.
In the cage, a clever bird sings
and burns, as brightly as a candle.
Sleep, it says, sleep my little dove,
when you awake, your dreams will come true:
you can be poor, you can be rich,
you can be a wave on the ocean sea,
you can be an angel of the Lord.
6. THE RETURN: A POEM ABOUT ALEKSEI
How goodly it is to simply return:
to a city, where all is changed,
to a garden, where some trees
are distant stumps, others
creak in the wind, as they never did before,
or to a house, where they grieve that you’re gone.
To return, and not to say one’s name.
To be silent, then, unto death.
Let them guess for themselves,
let them ask passersby,
let them understand, and yet understand it not.
And the objects of the world shine,
like tiny distant stars.
7. DESIRE
There’s no telling what’s occurred to me:
when someone, anyone, is praised,
then I should be praised still more,
but for what?—that’s not for me to say;
or, that there is no such anger,
no endlessly forgotten village,
and no creature so worthless,
that a spirit could not