From The Roof
This wild night, gathering the washing
as if it were flowers animal vines twisting
over the line and slapping my face lightly,
soundless merriment in the gesticulations
of shirt sleeves,
I recall out of my joy a night of misery
walking in the dark and the wind over
broken earth,
half made foundation and unfinished
drainage trenches and the spaced-out
circles of glaring light
marking streets that were to be walking
with you but so far from you,
and now alone in October 's first decision
towards winter, so close to you-
my arms full of playful rebellious linen,
a freighter going down-river two blocks
away, outward bound,
the green wolf-eyes of the Harborside
Terminal glittering on the Jersey shore,
and a train somewhere under ground
bringing you towards me to our new
living-place from which we can see
a river and its traffic (the Hudson and
the hidden river, who can say which it is
we see, we see something of both.
Or who can say the crippled broom-vendor
yesterday, who passed just as we needed
a new broom, was not one of the
Hidden Ones?)
Crates of fruit are unloading across the
street on the cobbles,
and a brazier flaring to warm the men
and burn trash. He wished us luck
when we bought the broom.
But not luck brought us here.
By design clean air and cold wind polish
the river lights, by design we are to live
in a new place.
Ритм – обрывистый, как бы – за шаговый, слова, словно, скребутся, мешают друг другу в осознании
своей необязательности. Общее ощущений рваности мира, неустроенности, согласия с неизбежностью.
Такое вот послевкусие от прочтения Вашего перевода.