Канат Канака - Крылец
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Белле Ахмадулиной
В тот злополучный год стихи писались долго.
На белую строфу язык себя извёл.
Что на язык пенять? – безмолвно, одиноко
(обмолвилась свеча) стихи уходят в стол.
Про полнолунье тут не может быть и речи.
Молчит про цвет не цвет бравурный долгий слог.
Боярин говорю, вру. Жил да был помещик,
который дом воздвиг, а сам в постель залёг.
Не молодой кирпич, чья добрая порода
растит наш скудный век, покрепче будет, чем
злодей, что строил дом. Он умер не задолго.
Век не дожив, ушёл. Куда ушёл? Зачем?
Он изнемог, прости. Усопший был помещик.
Я знаю. Жил один. Имущий не имел
жену, детей, собак. Но слыл любимцем женщин
не чуждых к красоте. Любил, страдал, старел.
Легла на этот дом его богатства лепта.
Но зло сыграла жизнь. Помещик не был злым.
Как одинок он был, я представляю это.
Не поборол тоску и помер молодым.
И дому и крыльцу помещика подошвы
по нраву бы пришлись. Как паутины сеть,
жизнь не прочна, а жить хотелось бы подольше.
Никто не скажет, как скоропостижна смерть.
Утратив интерес к моей живой особе
ночь прочь уходит. Час шестой оповестил
восход. Как детектив, я рыщу в каждом слове
порабощенный звук. Но почерк мой строптив.
Пустилось, было в бег, перо, сбиваясь в речи
и запинаясь, как я вышел на крыльцо
помещика. Восход уже летел навстречу,
в тумане разглядев знакомое лицо.
Помещика добро – дом с уцелевшим садом
и прудом. Старый двор колодцем оснащён,
где жабы развелись. Колодец к саду задом,
ко мне лицом стоит. Крылец сооружён
из нескольких столбов из дерева, из арок
диковинных, из двух не дюжинных стропил.
Дом сторож сторожит, а человек он старый.
Обрёл бесхозный дом, на всё, что накопил.
Помещик и крылец в моей строке увязли.
Я подвожу конец упрямою рукой.
Читатель мой не глуп, но тут не видит связи
и просит уяснить, помещик кто такой?!
2003
Bella Akhmadulina
In that ill -fated year, poems were written for a long time.
I got it to the white stanza.
What to blame on the tongue? - Silently, lonely
(a candle mentioned) Poems go to the table.
There can be no talk of full moon.
The bravorn long syllable is silent about color.
Boyarin I say, lying. Lived and there was a landowner
who erected the house, and he lifted it into bed.
Not young brick whose kind of breed
our meager age is growing, it will be stronger than
The villain who built the house. He died not long.
The century without living, he left. Where did you go? For what?
He is exhausted, I'm sorry. The deceased was the landowner.
I know. Lived alone. The property did not have
Wife, children, dogs. But the favorite of women
not alien to beauty. He loved, suffered, old.
She lay down on this house of his wealth.
But evil played evil. The landowner was not angry.
How lonely he was, I imagine it.
I did not overcome the longing and died the young.
And the house and porch of the landowner of the sole
They would have come to love. Like web, a network
Life is not durable, but I would like to live longer.
No one will say how sudden death is.
Having lost interest in my living person
The night goes away. The sixth hour notified
sunrise. Like a detective, I rush in every word
enslaved sound. But my handwriting is sinking.
It was settled, it was a fuging, a feather, getting rid of speech
and stammering, as I went out onto the porch
landowner. The sunrise was already flying towards
In the fog, looking at the familiar face.
Landowner good - a house with a surviving garden
and pond. The old courtyard is equipped with a well,
Where the toads divorced. The well to the garden is backward
I have to face me. The porch is built
from several pillars made of wood, from arches
outlandish, of two non -dwy rafters.
The house of the watchman will watch, and he is an old man.
I found an ownerless house, on everything that I accumulated.
The landowner and the porch were bogged down in my line.
I give the end a stubborn hand.
My reader is not stupid, but he does not see the connection
And asks to understand, who is the landowner?!
2003
In that ill -fated year, poems were written for a long time.
I got it to the white stanza.
What to blame on the tongue? - Silently, lonely
(a candle mentioned) Poems go to the table.
There can be no talk of full moon.
The bravorn long syllable is silent about color.
Boyarin I say, lying. Lived and there was a landowner
who erected the house, and he lifted it into bed.
Not young brick whose kind of breed
our meager age is growing, it will be stronger than
The villain who built the house. He died not long.
The century without living, he left. Where did you go? For what?
He is exhausted, I'm sorry. The deceased was the landowner.
I know. Lived alone. The property did not have
Wife, children, dogs. But the favorite of women
not alien to beauty. He loved, suffered, old.
She lay down on this house of his wealth.
But evil played evil. The landowner was not angry.
How lonely he was, I imagine it.
I did not overcome the longing and died the young.
And the house and porch of the landowner of the sole
They would have come to love. Like web, a network
Life is not durable, but I would like to live longer.
No one will say how sudden death is.
Having lost interest in my living person
The night goes away. The sixth hour notified
sunrise. Like a detective, I rush in every word
enslaved sound. But my handwriting is sinking.
It was settled, it was a fuging, a feather, getting rid of speech
and stammering, as I went out onto the porch
landowner. The sunrise was already flying towards
In the fog, looking at the familiar face.
Landowner good - a house with a surviving garden
and pond. The old courtyard is equipped with a well,
Where the toads divorced. The well to the garden is backward
I have to face me. The porch is built
from several pillars made of wood, from arches
outlandish, of two non -dwy rafters.
The house of the watchman will watch, and he is an old man.
I found an ownerless house, on everything that I accumulated.
The landowner and the porch were bogged down in my line.
I give the end a stubborn hand.
My reader is not stupid, but he does not see the connection
And asks to understand, who is the landowner?!
2003
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