Шестое чувство
Прекрасно в нас влюбленное вино
И добрый хлеб, что в печь для нас садится,
И женщина, которою дано,
Сперва измучившись, нам насладиться.
Но что нам делать с розовой зарей
Над холодеющими небесами,
Где тишина и неземной покой,
Что делать нам с бессмертными стихами?
Ни съесть, ни выпить, ни поцеловать.
Мгновение бежит неудержимо,
И мы ломаем руки, но опять
Осуждены идти всё мимо, мимо.
Как мальчик, игры позабыв свои,
Следит порой за девичьим купаньем
И, ничего не зная о любви,
Все ж мучится таинственным желаньем;
Как некогда в разросшихся хвощах
Ревела от сознания бессилья
Тварь скользкая, почуя на плечах
Еще не появившиеся крылья;
Так век за веком - скоро ли, Господь? -
Под скальпелем природы и искусства
Кричит наш дух, изнемогает плоть,
Рождая орган для шестого чувства.
Николай Гумилев
---
The Sixth Sense
They're marvelous - a lively sparkling wine,
That falls in love with you, a loaf of bread, the freshest,
A woman that is destined and designed,
After tormenting you, to fill you up with pleasures.
But what to do with clear light of dawn,
When sky's, like heaven, peaceful, deep and solemn?
And what to do with words that have been born
To stay forever - with immortal poem?
We cannot drink it, cannot eat or kiss.
The moment slips, unstoppable as breathing.
We're wringing hands, but we're condemned to miss -
We're so close, but keep missing, missing...
We're like a boy, who suddenly forgets
His game when seeing maidens bath in river.
He does not have a clue for love - not yet,
But some unknown longing makes him shiver.
We're like an ugly prehistoric being,
A reptile shaking ferns with helpless groan,
Foreboding painfully its nonexistent wings -
Millenniums before wings grow.
Age after age - Oh, Lord, how much remains? -
With Arts and Nature - two merciless surgeons,
The spirit cries, the flesh nearly breaks
While giving birth to it - the Sixth Sense Organ.
Natasha Gotskaya / Наташа Гоцкая; 2008
http://www.ngotskaya.com/Home/translations-of-russian-poetry-1/gumilev
---
The sixth sense
Be blessed old wine our most faithful friend
And gentle bread that goes for us to fire,
And woman who tortures first but at the end
Yields graciously to our hot desire.
Yet, what we'll do with Phoebus' chariot
That conveys Sun, harnessed with its six horses,
With dawn cool and afterglow hot,
What shall we do with the immortal verses?
We cannot eat them, neither drink nor kiss.
They just perplex, astonish us and dazzle.
We only see that something is amiss,
Wring our hands, being helpless with the puzzle.
We're like a boy that watches girls' bath
Forgetting games for a new need so dire,
And knowing nothing yet about love
He's tortured by a new and strange desire.
Like centuries ago, a slippery thing
In the gigantic horsetails, roared louder,
Because it felt how a callow wing
Was growing painfully right through its shoulder.
For thousands of years, working hard
On this sixth sense, nobody knows about,
The Lord, with the sharp scalpel of his art
An organ for this sense is carving out.
VG, 1 декабря 2012