Стихотворения
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Название: Стихотворения
Автор: Набоков Владимир
Дата добавления: 15 январь 2020
Количество просмотров: 301
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Стихотворения - читать бесплатно онлайн , автор Набоков Владимир
Наиболее полное из всех до сих пор изданных в России собраний поэтических произведений крупнейшего русского/американского писателя XX века. В связи с уникальной спецификой двуязычного творчества Набокова в книге публикуются также его стихи, написанные на английском языке, и поэтические переводы на английский язык классических текстов русской поэзии (Пушкин, Лермонтов, Фет, Тютчев, Ходасевич). Публикуется также ряд переводов на французский язык и стихотворения из романов.
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СТИХОТВОРЕНИЯ НА АНГЛИЙСКОМ И ФРАНЦУЗСКОМ ЯЗЫКАХ
POEMS AND PROBLEMS {*}
415. A LITERARY DINNER {*}
Come here, said my hostess, her face making room
for one of those pink introductory smiles
that link, like a valley of fruit trees in bloom,
the slopes of two names.
I want you, she murmured, to eat Dr. James.
I was hungry. The Doctor looked good. He had read
the great book of the week and had liked it, he said,
because it was powerful. So I was brought
a generous helping. His mauve-bosomed wife
kept showing me, very politely, I thought,
the tenderest bits with the point of her knife.
I ate — and in Egypt the sunsets were swell;
The Russians were doing remarkably well;
had I met a Prince Poprinsky, whom he had known
in Caparabella, or was it Mentone?
They had traveled extensively, he and his wife;
her hobby was People, his hobby was Life.
All was good and well cooked, but the tastiest part
was his nut-flavored, crisp cerebellum. The heart
resembled a shiny brown date,
and I stowed all the studs on the edge of my plate.
416. THE REFRIGERATOR AWAKES {*}
Crash!
And if darkness could sound, it would sound like this giant
waking up in the torture house, trying to die
and not dying, and trying
not to cry and immediately crying
that he will, that he will, that he will do his best
to adjust his dark soul to the pressing request
of the only true frost,
and he pants and he gasps and he rasps and he wheezes:
ice is the solid form when the water freezes;
a volatile liquid (see «Refrigerating»)
is permitted to pass into evaporating
coils, where it boils,
which somehow seems wrong,
and I wonder how long
it will rumble and shudder and crackle and pound;
Scudder, the Alpinist, slipped and was found
half a century later preserved in blue ice
with his bride and two guides and a dead edelweiss;
a German has proved that the snowflakes we see
are the germ cells of stars and the sea life to be;
hold
the line, hold the line, lest its tale be untold;
let it amble along through the thumping pain
and horror of dichlordisomethingmethane,
a trembling white heart with the frost froth upon it,
Nova Zembla, poor thing, with that В in her bonnet,
stunned bees in the bonnets of cars on hot roads,
Keep it Kold, says a poster in passing, and lo,
loads,
of bright fruit, and a ham, and some chocolate cream,
and three bottles of milk, all contained in the gleam
of that wide-open white
god, the pride and delight
of starry-eyed couples in dream kitchenettes,
and it groans and it drones and it toils and it sweats —
Shackleton, pemmican, penguin, Poe's Рут —
collapsing at last in the criminal
night.
417. A DISCOVERY {*}
I found it in a legendary land
all rocks and lavender and tufted grass,
where it was settled on some sodden sand
hard by the torrent of a mountain pass.
The features it combines mark it as new
to science: shape and shade — the special tinge,
akin to moonlight, tempering its blue,
the dingy underside, the checquered fringe.
My needles have teased our its sculptured sex;
corroded tissues could no longer hide
that priceless mote now dimpling the convex
and limpid teardrop on a lighted slide.
Smoothly a screw is turned; our of the mist
two ambered hooks symmetrically slope,
or scales like battledores of amethyst
cross the charmed circle of the microscope.
I found it and I named it, being versed
in taxonomic Latin; thus became
godfather to an insect and its first
describer — and I want no other fame.
Wide open on its pin (though fast asleep),
and safe from creeping relatives and rust,
in the secluded stronghold where we keep
type specimens it will transcend its dust.
Dark pictures, thrones, the stones that pilgrims kiss,
poems that take a thousand years to die
but ape the immortality of this
red label on a little butterfly.
418. THE POEM {*}
Not the sunset poem you make when you think aloud,
with its linden tree in India ink
and the telegraph wires across its pink cloud;
not the mirror in you and her delicate bare
shoulder still glimmering there;
not the lyrical click of a pocket rhyme —
the tiny music that tells the time;
and not the pennies and weights on those
evening papers piled up in the rain;
not the cacodemons of carnal pain;
not the things you can say so much better in plain prose —
but the poem that hurtles from heights unknown
— when you wait for the splash of the stone
deep below, and grope for your pen,
and then comes the shiver, and then —
in the tangle of sounds, the leopards of words,
the leaflike insects, the eye-spotted birds
fuse and form a silent, intense,
mimetic pattern of perfect sense.
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