Untitled (Green Crete, my blue island…)

Russian
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Гончарами велик остров синий —
Крит зеленый. Запекся их дар
В землю звонкую. Слышишц подземных
Плавников могучий удар?

Это море легко на помине
В осчастливленной обжигом глине,
И сосуда студеная власть
Раскололасъ на море и глаз.

Ты отдай мне мое, остров синий,
Крит летучий, отдай мне мой труд
И сосцами текучей богини
Воскорми обожженный сосуд…

Это было и пелось, синея,
Много задолго до Одиссея,
До того, как еду и питье
Называли “моя” и “мое”.

Выздоравливай же, излучайся,
Волоокого неба двезда,
И летучая рыба – случайность,
И вода, говорящая “да”.


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English Translation

Green Crete, my blue island, famous for its
potters, their gifts were fired in the earth’s clear
voices — are your sounds still audible under-
ground, the powerful rhythms of dolphins?

This sea was fired happily
in clay’s easy memory —
a vessel’s cooling power
breaks sea and eye.

Return what is mine to me, ephemeral
Crete, blue island — return my work,
my labor — from the breast of a fluid
goddess fill my scorched vessel…

This was — and when it was, when
sung
it turned to azure — long before
Odysseus, before food and water
were called “mine” and “my.”

Star of the ox-eyed sky,
recover the new radiance —
and water saying “yes,”
and flying fish, ephemera.

March 1937, Voronezh

Printed from Cerise Press: http://www.cerisepress.com

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