Don Juan
My own dream is lofty, simple thing:
To seize the oar, put feet into the stirrups,
And to deceive the time, that slow tries to stir us,
By kissing lips, forever new and pink;
When getting old, to keep the law of Christ,
Cast down looks, put on sackcloth and ashes,
Put on the chest, as heavy obligations,
The iron Cross, that He died on for us.
And only when, amidst the orgy’s madness,
I get my senses – a sleepwalker aimless,
Just frightened in the silence of his ways –
Then I recall: the worst of many others –
I had no children from a woman in my years
And never called a man a brother.
poem by Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
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Porcelain Pavilion
Amidst the waters of a man-made lake,
A porcelain pavilion rises high.
The way to it is lead by jasper bridge
That’s cambered like a tiger’s back.
And that pavilion houses friends tonight,
They are attired for the holidays;
The dragon patterns on their chalices,
They glitter with the warmed-up wine.
Friends turn from chatting their happy chats
To jotting down their happy songs;
They push off foreheads their yellow hats,
And roll up their yellow sleeves.
Transparent lake reflects so clearly
The bridge curved in as if the jasper moon,
And friends who gathered at this hour
See their reflections upside down.
poem by Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
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Dreams
By the hut, left by people and heaven,
Where the fence’s black remnants are steeping,
The ragged beggar and black old raven,
Were discussing the dreams of the sleeping.
The old bird, with commotion’s moans,
Was repeating in hot indecision,
That he had on the tower’s stones
The unusual, fabulous visions;
That in flight, full of valor and air,
He, who lost their usual sadness,
Was a swan, snow white, sweet and fair,
And the beggar – a prince of the greatness!
The ugly pauper was helplessly wailing.
Heavy night was descending and reigning.
The old woman, while passing the dwelling,
Was unceasingly crossing and praying.
poem by Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
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The Descendents Of Cain
He did not lie – the ghost, so sad and thoughtful,
That from a star took his name by a chance,
When he had said, “Don’t fear the Lord”, to us,
“Just try the fruit and be like Him immortal”.
All routs for youths were opened in glow,
And all forbidden works – for older ones,
And amber fruits -- for gaily girls, at once,
And the rhinoceros forever white as snow.
But why we lean, bereft of any strength,
And feel that someone has forgot all us at length,
And grasp the dread of the old lure, if only
By an easy hand of someone, by a chance,
Two little sticks (flag’s poles, leaves of grass)
Will be united in the cross infirmly?
poem by Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
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Sonnet
I’m sick, for sure: deep darkness holds my heart,
I’m bored with the people and the stories,
And dream of treasures of the kingdoms, glories,
And yataghans, all covered with blood.
It seems to me – and this is no fraud –
A Tartar, squint, was one of my begetters,
That fierce Hun. And the infection’s fetters
Through length of ages, are my steady bond.
I’m mute. I pine… They vanish – walls of home:
There is a sea in spots of silver foam,
The sun of evening – on the stones’ lead,
The city, with blue domes, like its wardens,
With flourish and decor of jasmine gardens,
We’d fought right there… Oh, yes! And I was killed!
poem by Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
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To a Poet
Let verse of yours be flexible, but strong,
Strong as a poplar under valley's cover,
Strong as the earth under a plough, long,
Strong as a girl, who never knew a lover.
Reliably preserve severity at length,
Your verse need not be fluttering or booming,
Although the Muse has very easy steps,
She's not a dancer, but a goddess, ruling.
Frolicsome din of interrupted rhymes --
Temptation for decline, so free and so easy --
Just leave for use by jokers in a dance
On city streets for people who aren't busy.
And going out on the sacred paths,
Bring to melodiousness your chosen damnation.
You know, she's a mistress of the mass,
She craves embraces, as a dearth -- donations.
poem by Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
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The Road
I stared at the unfolding road,
Beneath the shadow of grand oaks, -
Such a familiar old road,
Surrounded by flower fence.
The evening fog starts slowly setting,
Uneasy sadness brings me tears,
When every pebble on this road
Seems so familiar and dear.
Why would I ever take the road –
It will not bring me to the place
Where air gets stifled in my throat –
The house where my beloved lives.
When she was born, her feet were strangled
They put them in the iron gyves.
And she grew up to be a stranger
To shady roads’ calling vibes.
[...] Read more
poem by Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
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Home
The merciless fire devoured
The house of my childhood games.
I needed to overcome sorrow,
And sailed on the golden-mast boat.
I played on my beautiful flute to
The high rising moon in the sky.
The moon, by my singing, got saddened,
And covered herself with a cloud.
Then I turned my eyes to the mountain,
But had no more songs on my mind.
It seemed : all the joys of my childhood
Were burned in the flames of my home.
I wished in despair for the refuge
That water could offer to me.
[...] Read more
poem by Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
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Eternal
I’m in the days’ embracing limits,
Where even skies are ever gray,
Look through the ages, live in minutes,
And wait for Holy Saturday;
The end of soul’s aimless travels,
Of lucks and troubles peaceful end.
O, come, my day when I’ll be able
To Know, See and Understand.
My soul will be so new and broad,
All, that’s alluring, will be mine.
And I will bless the golden road,
From blind worm and to golden sun.
And he, who went with me wherever,
Trough thunders and the silent peace,
He, who was kind to me in fever,
And cruel when I stayed in bliss;
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poem by Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
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Agamemnon's Warrior
A queer and fearful question is tight,
Oppresses my soul and tosses:
Can one be alive if Atreus has died --
Has died on a bed of roses.
All that we dreamed of and everywhere praised,
All our longing and fear --
Were fully reflected in those calm eyes,
As were in a glass of a tear.
Ineffable power dwelt in his hands,
A saga of feet was retold;
A beautiful cloud he was for his land
Mycenae -- the country of gold.
What am I? A fragment of ancient dread,
A javelin, fallen on earth --
Atreus, the leader of nations, is dead, --
But I have been spared by death.
[...] Read more
poem by Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
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