Cherish books meant for the young.
\nThink what children think at play.
\nLet adulthood blow away
\nwith the sorrow it has sprung.<\/p>\n
Weary of life\u2019s demands,
\nsick to death of daily rounds,
\nI still love these dreary grounds,
\nhave known no other lands.<\/p>\n
Though my fevered memory blurs
\nI recall of yore the yard
\nwhere I swung upon a board
\nbeneath tall, dark firs.<\/p>\n
After Osip Mandelstam<\/strong><\/p>\n \u0422\u043e\u043b\u044c\u043a\u043e \u0434\u0435\u0442\u0441\u043a\u0438\u0435 \u043a\u043d\u0438\u0433\u0438 \u0447\u0438\u0442\u0430\u0442\u044c,<\/em> \u042f \u043e\u0442 \u0436\u0438\u0437\u043d\u0438 \u0441\u043c\u0435\u0440\u0442\u0435\u043b\u044c\u043d\u043e \u0443\u0441\u0442\u0430\u043b,<\/em> \u042f \u043a\u0430\u0447\u0430\u043b\u0441\u044f \u0432 \u0434\u0430\u043b\u0435\u043a\u043e\u043c \u0441\u0430\u0434\u0443<\/em> *** I have alluded\u00a0elsewhere to\u00a0how amazing it is to meet someone who shares a sense of poetry, this via a translation of a simple stanza of Rilke’s<\/a>\u00a0written when he was passing through a moment of jealousy over Pasternak’s attraction to Marina Tsvetaeva and vice-versa.<\/em><\/p>\n Yes, but it is like any other mode or of even instance of communication. Contingent, fugitive, ephemeral. \u00a0Which is why these rosebuds should not be gathered immediately when they bloom, but certainly before they wither.<\/em> <\u00a0Poetic License<\/a><\/p>\n Cherish books meant for the young. Think what children think at play. Let adulthood blow away with the sorrow it has sprung. Weary of life\u2019s demands, sick to death of daily rounds, I still love these dreary grounds, have known no other lands. Though my fevered memory blurs I recall of yore the yard where … <\/p>\n
\n\u0422\u043e\u043b\u044c\u043a\u043e \u0434\u0435\u0442\u0441\u043a\u0438\u0435 \u0434\u0443\u043c\u044b \u043b\u0435\u043b\u0435\u044f\u0442\u044c.<\/em>
\n\u0412\u0441\u0435 \u0431\u043e\u043b\u044c\u0448\u043e\u0435 \u0434\u0430\u043b\u0435\u043a\u043e \u0440\u0430\u0437\u0432\u0435\u044f\u0442\u044c,<\/em>
\n\u0418\u0437 \u0433\u043b\u0443\u0431\u043e\u043a\u043e\u0439 \u043f\u0435\u0447\u0430\u043b\u0438 \u0432\u043e\u0441\u0441\u0442\u0430\u0442\u044c.<\/em><\/p>\n
\n\u041d\u0438\u0447\u0435\u0433\u043e \u043e\u0442 \u043d\u0435\u0435 \u043d\u0435 \u043f\u0440\u0438\u0435\u043c\u043b\u044e,<\/em>
\n\u041d\u043e \u043b\u044e\u0431\u043b\u044e \u043c\u043e\u044e \u0431\u0435\u0434\u043d\u0443\u044e \u0437\u0435\u043c\u043b\u044e,<\/em>
\n\u041e\u0442\u0442\u043e\u0433\u043e, \u0447\u0442\u043e \u0438\u043d\u043e\u0439 \u043d\u0435 \u0432\u0438\u0434\u0430\u043b.<\/em><\/p>\n
\n\u041d\u0430 \u043f\u0440\u043e\u0441\u0442\u043e\u0439 \u0434\u0435\u0440\u0435\u0432\u044f\u043d\u043d\u043e\u0439 \u043a\u0430\u0447\u0435\u043b\u0438,<\/em>
\n\u0418 \u0432\u044b\u0441\u043e\u043a\u0438\u0435 \u0442\u0435\u043c\u043d\u044b\u0435 \u0435\u043b\u0438<\/em>
\n\u0412\u0441\u043f\u043e\u043c\u0438\u043d\u0430\u044e \u0432 \u0442\u0443\u043c\u0430\u043d\u043d\u043e\u043c \u0431\u0440\u0435\u0434\u0443.<\/em><\/p>\n
\nThe inkling of Russian I show\u00a0here is illusory. I am deeply indebted to a friend\u00a0who glossed some of her favourite poems for me during\u00a0two years of weekly <\/em>trysts in the 1980s in Berkeley. \u00a0I use that word in its high literary sense. \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n