Стихотворения Дианы Ди Прима (на английском языке)

Диана ди Прима. Diana Di Prima








you are my bread
and the hairline noise
of my bones
you are almost
the sea

you are not stone
or molten sound
I think
you have no hands

this kind of bird flies backwards
and this love
breaks on a windowpane
where no light talks

this is not the time
for crossing tongues
(the sand here
never shifts)

I think
turned you with his toe
and you will
and shine
unspent and underground


I loved you in October
when you hid behind your hair
and rode your shadow
in the corners of the house

and in November you invaded
filling the air
above my bed with dreams
cries for some kind of help
on my inner ear

in December I held your hands
one afternoon; the light failed
it came back on
in a dawn on the Scottish coast
you singing us ashore

now it is January, you are fading
into your double
jewels on his cape, your shadow on the snow,
you slide away on wind, the crystal air
carries your new songs in snatches thru the windows
of our sad, high, pretty rooms


No strong men in shirtsleeves /
striding thru /
my kitchen: warm & obtuse. /
No me curled-like-kitten around /
a leeping child & smiling /
seductively. /
No short skirts, no long /
breaths; I will not /
glance sidelong after reading a poem /
to see /
if you understood it. /
No cozy patios, front yards /
my cats /
will never be fat. No one /
will put me on a T-shirt; /
I may never /
learn to put on my own make-up. /
Don’ wanna sit /
quiescent in the car while someonw else /
drives. No circles to go /
around in. No checkerboard /
linoleum. No. /
No dishwasher; washing machine /
unlikely. No flowers, /
good legs, plaintive /
poems about marriage. Wind /
is what men are, & my poems /
the sea. Children like grass /
on the hills – they hang /
in there. Or like a forest. /
They don’t come & go. /
No rainbows. Only pelicans /
flopping clumsy, hoping /
for that one /
Big Fish. You can bet /
I won’t be wistful, let it go by /
wondering later what it could have been like. /
My memories run together. /
And I’m none too sure now /
who did what to whom. /
What we did wrong. /
But I burned the script /
where I meet your eyes & smile.


This, then, is the gift the world has given me
(you have given me)
softly the snow
cupped in the hollows
lying on the surface of the pond
matching my long white candles
which stand at the window
which will burn at dusk while the snow
fills up our valley
this hollow
no friend will wander down
no one arriving brown from Mexico
from the sunfields of California, bearing pot
they are scattered now, dead or silent
or blasted to madness
by the howling brightness of our once common vision
and this gift of yours-
white silence filling the contours of my life.


Studies in light


sun /
caught in dew /
flashing /
a shapeliness /
we stand outside of /


light /
a chorus swelling /
filling out /
the contours of architecture /
cathedral /
palace /
theatre /


light /
as a glyph that writes itself /
over & over, on the face /
of water, inscrutable /
perpetual motion /


needle point /
moving out /
from core /
of earth /
thinnest /
piercing rays


Hedged about as we are with prayers
and with taboos
Yet the heart of the magic circle is covered with gray linoleum
Over my head fly demons of the past
Jimmy, they pass
With a whooshing sound
The only ghost who stands on the ground
(who stands his ground)
Is Freddie-
I rise a few inches above the circle, and turn somersaults
I want to go shopping, but all I see is my reflection
I look tired and sad. I wear red. I am looking for love.
On the sidewalk are lying the sick and the hungry:
I hear “Spencer’s Faerie Queen cost them all their lives.”
And Spencer? I ask, “What did this life buy?”
Through the door is the way out, Alan stands in the doorway
In an attitude of leaving, his head is turned
As if to say goodbye, but he’s standing still.

Hedged about with primroses
with promises
The magic words we said when we were praying
Have formed a mist about us…