Vladislav Khodasevich

‘I, I, I'. What a word! It's unfair!
Is this man I? Is this not a fake?
Could his mother love him anywhere -
...

Look for me in spring's transparent air.
I flit like vanishing wings, no heavier than
a sound, a breath, a sunray on the floor;
...

No, I didn't lost the beauty, but in whole,
I'm put to shame to see it by my eyes,
By eyes of men - else more, for my soul
...

We make our way in somber silence.
The empty dark, the row night.
And suddenly - with singing summons -
...

A blizzard roars behind my window,
Throws snow on my hut.
I play, like an idle widower,
...

Smooth and crunch by feet of mine.
Snow starts and wind regains.
Holly Father! What a pine!
...

My ear is shocked by every noise,
My eye - by light of sun or fire,
My spirit launched its cutting growth,
...

The hum of spring will not else loosen
My verses of the clenched words,
I've loved steel grating and diffusion,
...

Lady's hands were washed and serviced,
Lady's hands were strongly stirred,
This good Lady didn't forget, else,
...

No, you're not right, I don't adore me, yet.
What's positive in the free lancer, tiered?
But, looking into me, I'm, by the God's entire,
...

Thank God! Just ‘wise', without ‘super-‘,
I stroll among my humble verse,
Like a severe abbot, stooped,
...

I wait: some one will be knocked down
By any crazy car, at last,
The poor idler will be bound
...

Blizzards have whirled all night, but the morning's clear.
Still a Sunday laziness crawls across my body,
and the Church of the Annunciation hasn't yet
...

With a cane he feels his way,
blind man on a random walk,
...

A thin howl from the dogs on guard.
Tonight still camped in the same place,
no-good vagabond orphans, we are
...

There was a house here. They recently dismantled
the upstairs for firewood, leaving just the rough
lower stonework structure. I go there
often of an evening to relax. The open sky
...

If you have eyes - through day you'll see a night
the rays from that inflaming disk won't reach.
A pair of swallows fighting to escape
...

Me, me, me. What a preposterous word!
Can that man there really be me?
Did Mama really love this face,
...

God alive! I'm not beyond coherence:
mindfully, I walk among my poems
like a disobliging abbot
...

Through the consoling April sun
the breeze, so very unconsoling,
a sandy whirlwind on the road -
...