Andrey Voznesensky When Pigs Fly, Rubber Souls

WHEN PIGS FLY

(W. Smith’s theme)

I will no longer love you, my fair
when two Sundays meet, neck and neck,

when the roses spring up everywhere,

turning blue as the blackbird’s egg.



When houses stands on their chimneys,

when a mouse commences to coo,

when hot dogs eat up human beings

and when I think of marrying you.


RUBBER SOULS

I hate you, rubber souls, you seem
to stretch to fit any regime.



They’ll give a yawning smile, stretched wide,

and, like an octopus, they’ll draw you tight.



A rubber man is an elusive rogue:

a fist gets sucked into the bog.



The rubber editor is scared of script,

the author is bogged down in it.



A rubber office I used to know

where «yes» was stretched to courteous «no».



I pity you, elastic crank,

as if erased, your past is blank.



You have erased many a passion, many a thought,

but you were happy and excited, were you not?...



Above the waist you are a cowardly man,

an ace of spade, and an unlucky one...

Andrey Voznesensky Abuses and Awards

ABUSES AND AWARDS

A poet can’t be in disfavour,
he needs no awards, no fame.

A star has no setting whatever,

no black nor a golden frame.



A star can’t be killed with a stone, or

award, or that kind of stuff.

He’ll bear the blow of a fawner

lamenting he’s not big enough.



What matters is music and fervour,

not fame, nor abuse, anyway.

World powers are out of favour

when poets turn them away.

Andrey Voznesensky

+ + +
Evangelists were wrong in claiming:
it was to heaven that His hands He stretched

when legionaries, the metal-brained men,

into the flesh the metal pins had fetched.



Let’s shake our hands, it’s time for separation!

He was prepared now for resurrection,

He stretched His hands turning his eye

to the two thieves on crosses nearby.


+ + +

Dear colleagues, I m so happy:
nowadays when all is well

I’m the only one who happens

to be criticized like hell.



I’m a black sheep. No objection,

for my living does make sense

‘cause I set off the perfection

of my flawless author friends.

Andrey Voznesenskiy

RUSSIAN-AMERICAN ROMANCE

In my land and yours they do hit the hay
and sleep the whole night in a similar way.



There’s the golden Moon with a double shine.

It lightens your land and it lightens mine.



At the same low price, that is for free,

there’s the sunrise for you and the sunset for me.



The wind is cool at the break of day,

it’s neither your fault nor mine, anyway.



Behind your lies and behind my lies

there is pain and love for our Motherlands.



I wish in your land and mine some day

we’d put all idiots out of the way.

Bulat Okudzhava - The Night Conversation

THE NIGHT CONVERSATION

— My horse is worn out,
My shoes are well down at heel.
Now where shall I ride? —
will you tell me, please, — where shall I ride?
— Along the Red River, my dear,
towards the Blue Hill,
towards the Blue Hill,
there, down by the Red River side.

— And how do I get there?
My horse is so tired tonight.
Which is the right way to get to the place?
Tell me, please.
— You ride to the bright light, my dear,
you ride to the light,
you ride to the bright light, my dear,
you’ll find it with ease.

— But where on earth is the bright light?
And why doesn’t it shine?
I’ve propped up the sky with my shoulder for ages
at night...
— The lamplighter lights it, but he is asleep,
it’s his line;
he must be asleep...
And I’ve nothing to do with the light.

He rides on, alone, into darkness,
not knowing the way.
But where is he off to?
Night’s coming right up to the eyes!...
— Well, what have you lost there? —
I shout as he rides away.
— Good Heavens, I wish that I knew it myself, —
he replies...

Bulat Okudzhava The Last Trolley Bus

THE LAST TROLLEY BUS


When I’m in trouble and totally done
and when all my hope I abandon
I get on the blue trolley bus on the run,
the last one,
at random.

Night trolley, roll on sliding down the street,
around the boulevards keep moving
to pick up all those who are wrecked and in need
of rescue
from ruin.

Night trolley bus will you please open your doors !
On wretched cold nights, I can instance,
your sailors would come, as a matter of course,
to render
assistance.

So many a time they have lent me a hand
to help me get out of grievance...
Imagine, there is so much kindness behind
this silence
and stillness.

Last trolley rolls round the greenery belt
and Moscow, like river, dies down...
the hammering blood in my temples I felt
calms down
calms down