воскресенье, 11 мая 2008 г.
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...
(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.
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.
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.
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.
пятница, 9 мая 2008 г.
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...
— 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
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
Bulat Okudzhava
* * *
Here we stand, in desperation,
folding our arms in pride,
on the brink of separation,
at the threshold of a plight
where clocks with measured paces
stick precisely to their course,
and we keep our smiling faces
under lock and key, like doors.
Days of reconing are close, and
time has driven us to bay...
We are nailed to our crossroads
in a careless, slipshod way.
Here we stand, in desperation,
folding our arms in pride,
on the brink of separation,
at the threshold of a plight
where clocks with measured paces
stick precisely to their course,
and we keep our smiling faces
under lock and key, like doors.
Days of reconing are close, and
time has driven us to bay...
We are nailed to our crossroads
in a careless, slipshod way.
Bulat Okudzhava
THE NIGHT DUTY IN APRIL
to Zh.B.
What a wonderful and lovely night we’re having!
But my mother is alarmed and worried strongly.
— Why do you stay out at these hours, darling,
on your own
and so lonely?
— I’m on my way towards the end of April, dear,
I should say, the stars have grown kind and round...
Mother, I’m just on duty here,
It’s my April
Nightly round
— Sonny, dear, I remember all your story;
now you’re sad, your eyes are filled with grievance...
Maybe, she’s forgotten you, and isn’t sorry,
and she doesn’t
seek forgiveness?
— I’m on my way towards the end of April, dear,
I should say, the stars have grown kind and round...
Mother, I’m just on duty here,
It’s my April
nightly round…
to Zh.B.
What a wonderful and lovely night we’re having!
But my mother is alarmed and worried strongly.
— Why do you stay out at these hours, darling,
on your own
and so lonely?
— I’m on my way towards the end of April, dear,
I should say, the stars have grown kind and round...
Mother, I’m just on duty here,
It’s my April
Nightly round
— Sonny, dear, I remember all your story;
now you’re sad, your eyes are filled with grievance...
Maybe, she’s forgotten you, and isn’t sorry,
and she doesn’t
seek forgiveness?
— I’m on my way towards the end of April, dear,
I should say, the stars have grown kind and round...
Mother, I’m just on duty here,
It’s my April
nightly round…
Bulat Okudzhava
THE OLD STUDENTS’ SONG
He who will dare our union mar
deserves e the most severe sentence,
I wouldn’t give a grey guitar
for his damned life and his repentance.
So fervently the age intends
to knock us down with a feather...
Let’s join our hands my dear friends,
we won’t get lost, if we’re together.
At alien feasts on festive days,
amidst the shaky truths and fairness,
before we hear the words of praise
we will spruce up and preen our feathers.
While our stupid plume portends
a lasting journey, full of care,
let’s join our hands my dear friends,
let’s join our hands, friends, I declare!
When the partition day arrives
we will not covet bread for gratis
and we won’t get to paradise,
instead, Ophelia will bless us.
Before the crucial day descends,
before we for the road prepare
let’s join our hands my dear friends,
let’s join our hands, friends, I declare!
He who will dare our union mar
deserves e the most severe sentence,
I wouldn’t give a grey guitar
for his damned life and his repentance.
So fervently the age intends
to knock us down with a feather...
Let’s join our hands my dear friends,
we won’t get lost, if we’re together.
At alien feasts on festive days,
amidst the shaky truths and fairness,
before we hear the words of praise
we will spruce up and preen our feathers.
While our stupid plume portends
a lasting journey, full of care,
let’s join our hands my dear friends,
let’s join our hands, friends, I declare!
When the partition day arrives
we will not covet bread for gratis
and we won’t get to paradise,
instead, Ophelia will bless us.
Before the crucial day descends,
before we for the road prepare
let’s join our hands my dear friends,
let’s join our hands, friends, I declare!
Bulat Okudzhava
* * *
My Hope, at this successive session
will you please play me something special
and make the blush come off my face,
just like a horse that goes the pace.
I beg of you please play me something
in order that there might be nothing :
nor notes, nor keys, nor peace, nor sky...
Am I unhappy ?
It’s a lie.
We’re yet to cry and laugh and smile
but not give in
nor reconcile.
We haven’t passed the main ascent
and haven’t found each other yet.
These streets and lanes are
like your sisters
Your playing is their voice, for instance,
and midnight click of their heels ...
I have desirous eyes, it seems.
I like so much the way you’re playing
as if you were slowly fading...
But there is something in your fire,
I don’t know what though I desire.
My Hope, at this successive session
will you please play me something special
and make the blush come off my face,
just like a horse that goes the pace.
I beg of you please play me something
in order that there might be nothing :
nor notes, nor keys, nor peace, nor sky...
Am I unhappy ?
It’s a lie.
We’re yet to cry and laugh and smile
but not give in
nor reconcile.
We haven’t passed the main ascent
and haven’t found each other yet.
These streets and lanes are
like your sisters
Your playing is their voice, for instance,
and midnight click of their heels ...
I have desirous eyes, it seems.
I like so much the way you’re playing
as if you were slowly fading...
But there is something in your fire,
I don’t know what though I desire.
Bulat Okudzhava
Let's shout and rejoice, admire one another.
About high-flown words we do not need to bother.
Let's live in mutual praise, make complimentary comments
For these are, after all, love's great and happy moments.
Let's grieve and cry without concealing feelings, whether
We're by ourselves or whether we're together.
About vicious tongues we do not have to bother
For love and sorrow always accompany each other.
Let mutual understanding attend us at conferring
So that we prevent our old mistakes recurring.
Let's get along indulging and pleasing one another
For life is very short, there won't be any other.
About high-flown words we do not need to bother.
Let's live in mutual praise, make complimentary comments
For these are, after all, love's great and happy moments.
Let's grieve and cry without concealing feelings, whether
We're by ourselves or whether we're together.
About vicious tongues we do not have to bother
For love and sorrow always accompany each other.
Let mutual understanding attend us at conferring
So that we prevent our old mistakes recurring.
Let's get along indulging and pleasing one another
For life is very short, there won't be any other.
вторник, 29 апреля 2008 г.
Andrew Marvel
The Definition of Love
My Love is of a birth as rare
As 'tis for object strange and high:
It was begotten by Despair
Upon Impossibility.
Magnanimous Despair alone
Could show me so divine a thing,
Where feeble Hope could ne'er have flown
But vainly flapped its Tinsel wing.
And yet I quickly might arrive
Where my extended soul is fixt,
But Fate does iron wedges drive,
And always crowds itself betwixt.
For Fate with jealous eye does see
Two perfect Loves; nor lets them close:
Their union would her ruin be,
And her tyrannic power depose.
And therefore her decrees of steel
Us as the distant Poles have placed,
(Though Love's whole World on us doth wheel)
Not by themselves to be embraced.
Unless the giddy Heaven fall,
And Earth some new convulsion tear;
And, us to join, the World should all
Be cramped into a planisphere.
As lines so Loves oblique may well
Themselves in every angle greet:
But ours so truly parallel,
Though infinite can never meet.
Therefore the Love which us doth bind,
But Fate so enviously debars,
Is the conjunction of the Mind,
And opposition of the Stars.
My Love is of a birth as rare
As 'tis for object strange and high:
It was begotten by Despair
Upon Impossibility.
Magnanimous Despair alone
Could show me so divine a thing,
Where feeble Hope could ne'er have flown
But vainly flapped its Tinsel wing.
And yet I quickly might arrive
Where my extended soul is fixt,
But Fate does iron wedges drive,
And always crowds itself betwixt.
For Fate with jealous eye does see
Two perfect Loves; nor lets them close:
Their union would her ruin be,
And her tyrannic power depose.
And therefore her decrees of steel
Us as the distant Poles have placed,
(Though Love's whole World on us doth wheel)
Not by themselves to be embraced.
Unless the giddy Heaven fall,
And Earth some new convulsion tear;
And, us to join, the World should all
Be cramped into a planisphere.
As lines so Loves oblique may well
Themselves in every angle greet:
But ours so truly parallel,
Though infinite can never meet.
Therefore the Love which us doth bind,
But Fate so enviously debars,
Is the conjunction of the Mind,
And opposition of the Stars.
воскресенье, 27 апреля 2008 г.
Michael Lermontov
Because
If I am sad it is because I am in love with you,
And well I know: the blight of rumour most untrue
Will not forbear to mark your blooming youth with
sorrow.
For every hour of joy Fate will exact tomorrow
A toll of tears and pain that you alone must pay.
So I am sad, my dearest love, because you are so gay.
*****
If I am sad it is because I am in love with you,
And well I know: the blight of rumour most untrue
Will not forbear to mark your blooming youth with
sorrow.
For every hour of joy Fate will exact tomorrow
A toll of tears and pain that you alone must pay.
So I am sad, my dearest love, because you are so gay.
*****
Michael Lermontov (1814-1841)
Ballad
She sits so late, the Slavic maiden...
The rough log walls shut out the night
But, in the distance, red doom laden,
The sky glows with a crimson light...
She rocks the cradle all night long
And as she rocks she croons this song:
"Hush a bye, hush: or is It coming
Disaster frights your heart, my dear?
Cheer up, my babe, and leave your glooming;
Mother's not going - anywhere!
I'd sooner loose my man than you,
My child, don't cry! or I shall too!
"Your father fights for God and glory
Against the Tatars, in the ranks...
Brave soldier - rough his road and gory
But bright the steel in his right hand!
Iook here, that red glow in the sky
Means battle - and that man must die.
"How glad I am your little head
Is still too small to grasp your danger,
For infants weep not for the dead;
Nor know the shame and helpless anger
Of chains. They're happier than we older...."
The door swings wide - a wounded soldier
Stands on the threshold, bloody-bearded,
His armour battered, crying "The end!
The end of all things! Gloat, accursed!...
Our dear-loved land her neck must bend
Beneath your yoke! Our fellows' swords
Could not withstand the Tatar hordes!"
With which he fell - in bloody agony
To die a soldier's death...
His wife raised the small xhild on high
To witness his last breath:
"Look son, and lean how men go to their rest
And think on vengeance - from your mother's breast!"
*****
She sits so late, the Slavic maiden...
The rough log walls shut out the night
But, in the distance, red doom laden,
The sky glows with a crimson light...
She rocks the cradle all night long
And as she rocks she croons this song:
"Hush a bye, hush: or is It coming
Disaster frights your heart, my dear?
Cheer up, my babe, and leave your glooming;
Mother's not going - anywhere!
I'd sooner loose my man than you,
My child, don't cry! or I shall too!
"Your father fights for God and glory
Against the Tatars, in the ranks...
Brave soldier - rough his road and gory
But bright the steel in his right hand!
Iook here, that red glow in the sky
Means battle - and that man must die.
"How glad I am your little head
Is still too small to grasp your danger,
For infants weep not for the dead;
Nor know the shame and helpless anger
Of chains. They're happier than we older...."
The door swings wide - a wounded soldier
Stands on the threshold, bloody-bearded,
His armour battered, crying "The end!
The end of all things! Gloat, accursed!...
Our dear-loved land her neck must bend
Beneath your yoke! Our fellows' swords
Could not withstand the Tatar hordes!"
With which he fell - in bloody agony
To die a soldier's death...
His wife raised the small xhild on high
To witness his last breath:
"Look son, and lean how men go to their rest
And think on vengeance - from your mother's breast!"
*****
Mikhail Lermontov
A cossack lullaby
Sleep, my darling, sleep, my baby,
Close your eyes and sleep.
Darkness comes; into your cradle
Moonbeams shyly peep.
Many pretty songs I'll sing you
And a lullaby.
Pleasant dreams the night will bring you....
Sleep, dear, rock-a-bye.
Muddy waters churn in anger,
Loud the Terek roars,
And a Chechen with a dagger
Leaps onto the shore.
Steeled your father is in gory
Battle.... You and I,
Little one, we need not worry... .
Sleep, dear, rock-a-bye.
There will come a day when boldly,
Like your dad, my son,
You will mount your horse and shoulder,
Proud, a Cossack gun.
With bright silks your saddle for you
I will sew.... There lie
Roads as yet untrod before you....
Sleep, dear, rock-a-bye.
You'll grow up to be a fearless
Cossack, and a true.
Off you'll ride, and I'll stand tearless,
Looking after you.
But when you are gone from sight, son,
Bitterly I'll cry....
May the dreams you dream be light, son;
Sleep, dear, rock-a-bye.
Thoughts of you when we are parted
All my days will fill.
In the nighttime, anxious-hearted,
Pray for you I will.
I'll be thinking that you're lonely,
That for home you sigh....
Sleep, my son, my one and only,
Sleep, dear, rock-a-bye.
I will see you to the turning,
And you'll ride away.
With my icon you will journey
And before it pray.
Let your thoughts in time of danger
To your mother fly.
Close your eyes and sleep, my angel,
Sleep, dear, rock-a-bye.
*****
Sleep, my darling, sleep, my baby,
Close your eyes and sleep.
Darkness comes; into your cradle
Moonbeams shyly peep.
Many pretty songs I'll sing you
And a lullaby.
Pleasant dreams the night will bring you....
Sleep, dear, rock-a-bye.
Muddy waters churn in anger,
Loud the Terek roars,
And a Chechen with a dagger
Leaps onto the shore.
Steeled your father is in gory
Battle.... You and I,
Little one, we need not worry... .
Sleep, dear, rock-a-bye.
There will come a day when boldly,
Like your dad, my son,
You will mount your horse and shoulder,
Proud, a Cossack gun.
With bright silks your saddle for you
I will sew.... There lie
Roads as yet untrod before you....
Sleep, dear, rock-a-bye.
You'll grow up to be a fearless
Cossack, and a true.
Off you'll ride, and I'll stand tearless,
Looking after you.
But when you are gone from sight, son,
Bitterly I'll cry....
May the dreams you dream be light, son;
Sleep, dear, rock-a-bye.
Thoughts of you when we are parted
All my days will fill.
In the nighttime, anxious-hearted,
Pray for you I will.
I'll be thinking that you're lonely,
That for home you sigh....
Sleep, my son, my one and only,
Sleep, dear, rock-a-bye.
I will see you to the turning,
And you'll ride away.
With my icon you will journey
And before it pray.
Let your thoughts in time of danger
To your mother fly.
Close your eyes and sleep, my angel,
Sleep, dear, rock-a-bye.
*****
понедельник, 21 апреля 2008 г.
Alexander Pushkin - Muse
Muse
In my youth's years, she loved me, I am sure.
The flute of seven pipes she gave in my tenure
And harked to me with smile — without speed,
Along the ringing holes of the reed,
I got to play with my non-artful fingers
The peaceful songs of Phrygian village singers,
And the important hymns, that gods to mortals bade.
>From morn till night in oaks' silent shade
I diligently harked to the mysterious virgin;
Rewarding me, by chance, for any good decision,
And taking locks aside of the enchanting face,
She sometimes took from me the flute, such commonplace.
The reed became alive in consecrated breathing
And filled the heart with holiness unceasing.
In my youth's years, she loved me, I am sure.
The flute of seven pipes she gave in my tenure
And harked to me with smile — without speed,
Along the ringing holes of the reed,
I got to play with my non-artful fingers
The peaceful songs of Phrygian village singers,
And the important hymns, that gods to mortals bade.
>From morn till night in oaks' silent shade
I diligently harked to the mysterious virgin;
Rewarding me, by chance, for any good decision,
And taking locks aside of the enchanting face,
She sometimes took from me the flute, such commonplace.
The reed became alive in consecrated breathing
And filled the heart with holiness unceasing.
Alexander Pushkin - The Name
The Name
What is my name to you? 'T will die:
a wave that has but rolled to reach
with a lone splash a distant beach;
or in the timbered night a cry…
'T will leave a lifeless trace among
names on your tablets: the design
of an entangled gravestone line
in an unfathomable tongue.
What is it then? A long-dead past,
lost in the rush of madder dreams,
upon your soul it will not cast
Mnemosyne's pure tender beams.
But if some sorrow comes to you,
utter my name with sighs, and tell
the silence: "Memory is true -
there beats a heart wherein I dwell."
What is my name to you? 'T will die:
a wave that has but rolled to reach
with a lone splash a distant beach;
or in the timbered night a cry…
'T will leave a lifeless trace among
names on your tablets: the design
of an entangled gravestone line
in an unfathomable tongue.
What is it then? A long-dead past,
lost in the rush of madder dreams,
upon your soul it will not cast
Mnemosyne's pure tender beams.
But if some sorrow comes to you,
utter my name with sighs, and tell
the silence: "Memory is true -
there beats a heart wherein I dwell."
Alexander Pushkin - To my Friends
To My Friends
The chain of golden days and nights
Is still your heritage from Deity,
And, still, the languid maidens’ eyes
Are turned to you as well intently.
So, play and sing, friends of my years!
Lose very quickly passing evening,
And, at your heedless joy and singing,
I will be smiling through my tears.
The chain of golden days and nights
Is still your heritage from Deity,
And, still, the languid maidens’ eyes
Are turned to you as well intently.
So, play and sing, friends of my years!
Lose very quickly passing evening,
And, at your heedless joy and singing,
I will be smiling through my tears.
Alexander Pushkin - A Little Bird
A Little Bird
In alien lands I keep the body
Of ancient native rites and things:
I gladly free a little birdie
At celebration of the spring.
I'm now free for consolation,
And thankful to almighty Lord:
At least, to one of his creations
I've given freedom in this world!
In alien lands I keep the body
Of ancient native rites and things:
I gladly free a little birdie
At celebration of the spring.
I'm now free for consolation,
And thankful to almighty Lord:
At least, to one of his creations
I've given freedom in this world!
Alexander Pushkin - The Dream
The Dream
Not long ago, in a charming dream,
I saw myself — a king with crown's treasure;
I was in love with you, it seemed,
And heart was beating with a pleasure.
I sang my passion's song by your enchanting knees.
Why, dreams, you didn't prolong my happiness forever?
But gods deprived me not of whole their favor:
I only lost the kingdom of my dreams.
Not long ago, in a charming dream,
I saw myself — a king with crown's treasure;
I was in love with you, it seemed,
And heart was beating with a pleasure.
I sang my passion's song by your enchanting knees.
Why, dreams, you didn't prolong my happiness forever?
But gods deprived me not of whole their favor:
I only lost the kingdom of my dreams.
Alexander Pushkin - Thou and You
Thou and You
She substituted, by a chance,
For empty "you" — the gentle "thou";
And all my happy dreams, at once,
In loving heart again resound.
In bliss and silence do I stay,
Unable to maintain my role:
"Oh, how sweet you are!" I say —
"How I love thee!" says my soul.
She substituted, by a chance,
For empty "you" — the gentle "thou";
And all my happy dreams, at once,
In loving heart again resound.
In bliss and silence do I stay,
Unable to maintain my role:
"Oh, how sweet you are!" I say —
"How I love thee!" says my soul.
Osip Mandelstam - Sisters
Sisters
Sisters - Heaviness and Tenderness- you look the same.
Wasps and bees both suck the heavy rose.
Man dies, and the hot sand cools again.
Carried off on a black stretcher, yesterday’s sun goes.
Oh, honeycombs’ heaviness, nets’ tenderness,
it’s easier to lift a stone than to say your name!
I have one purpose left, a golden purpose,
how, from time’s weight, to free myself again.
I drink the turbid air like a dark water.
The rose was earth; time, ploughed from underneath.
Woven, the heavy, tender roses, in a slow vortex,
the roses, heaviness and tenderness, in a double-wreath.
Sisters - Heaviness and Tenderness- you look the same.
Wasps and bees both suck the heavy rose.
Man dies, and the hot sand cools again.
Carried off on a black stretcher, yesterday’s sun goes.
Oh, honeycombs’ heaviness, nets’ tenderness,
it’s easier to lift a stone than to say your name!
I have one purpose left, a golden purpose,
how, from time’s weight, to free myself again.
I drink the turbid air like a dark water.
The rose was earth; time, ploughed from underneath.
Woven, the heavy, tender roses, in a slow vortex,
the roses, heaviness and tenderness, in a double-wreath.
Osip Mandelstam
Osip Emilevich Mandelstam
I lived from 1891-1938. I was from Russia, and am in the European category.
Osip Mandelstam, also Osip Mandel'shtam, was born in Warsaw and grew up in St.Petersburg. His father was a successful leather-goods dealer and his mother a piano teacher. Mandelstam's parents were Jewish, but not very religious. At home Mandelstam was taught by tutors and governesses. He attended the prestigious Tenishev School (1900-07) and traveled then to Paris (1907-08) and Germany (1908-10), where he studied Old French literature at the University of Heidelberg (1909-10). In 1911-17 he studied philosophy at St. Petersburg University but did not graduate. Mandelstam was member of 'Poets Guild' from 1911 and had close personal ties with Anna Akhmatova and Nikolai Gumilev. His first poems appeared in 1910 in the journal Apollon.
I lived from 1891-1938. I was from Russia, and am in the European category.
Osip Mandelstam, also Osip Mandel'shtam, was born in Warsaw and grew up in St.Petersburg. His father was a successful leather-goods dealer and his mother a piano teacher. Mandelstam's parents were Jewish, but not very religious. At home Mandelstam was taught by tutors and governesses. He attended the prestigious Tenishev School (1900-07) and traveled then to Paris (1907-08) and Germany (1908-10), where he studied Old French literature at the University of Heidelberg (1909-10). In 1911-17 he studied philosophy at St. Petersburg University but did not graduate. Mandelstam was member of 'Poets Guild' from 1911 and had close personal ties with Anna Akhmatova and Nikolai Gumilev. His first poems appeared in 1910 in the journal Apollon.
Osip Mandelstam - Straw
Straw
I
When you are trying to sleep, Solominka,
In your enormous bedroom, and are waiting,
Sleepless, for the high and weighty ceiling to come down
With quiet, heavy sorrow on your keen eyelids,
Sonorous Solomka, or seasoned Solominka,
You've drunk down all death, grown tender and
Been broken, my dear Solomka, no more alive --
Not Salome, no, it is Solominka.
In hours of insomnia, objects are heavier
As if fewer of them -- such a stillness --
The cushions glitter in the mirror, whitening a bit,
And the bed is reflected in the round pool.
No, it is not Solomka in her solemn satin
In a huge room above the black Neva.
For twelve months they sing of the final hour,
And the pale blue ice waves in the air.
Solemn December sends out its breath
As if the great Neva were in the room.
No, not Solominka, Ligeia, dying --
I have learned you, glorious words.
II
I have learned you, blessed words:
-- Lenore, Solominka, Ligeia, Seraphita --
In the enormous room, the great Neva,
And from the granite, the blue blood flows.
Solemn December shines above the Neva.
For twelve months they sing of the final hour.
No, not Solominka in her satin
Savoring a slow, oppressive rest.
In my blood lives December's Ligeia,
Whose blissful love sleeps in a sarcophagus,
And which, solominka, perhaps Salome,
Was killed by pity, and shall never return.
I
When you are trying to sleep, Solominka,
In your enormous bedroom, and are waiting,
Sleepless, for the high and weighty ceiling to come down
With quiet, heavy sorrow on your keen eyelids,
Sonorous Solomka, or seasoned Solominka,
You've drunk down all death, grown tender and
Been broken, my dear Solomka, no more alive --
Not Salome, no, it is Solominka.
In hours of insomnia, objects are heavier
As if fewer of them -- such a stillness --
The cushions glitter in the mirror, whitening a bit,
And the bed is reflected in the round pool.
No, it is not Solomka in her solemn satin
In a huge room above the black Neva.
For twelve months they sing of the final hour,
And the pale blue ice waves in the air.
Solemn December sends out its breath
As if the great Neva were in the room.
No, not Solominka, Ligeia, dying --
I have learned you, glorious words.
II
I have learned you, blessed words:
-- Lenore, Solominka, Ligeia, Seraphita --
In the enormous room, the great Neva,
And from the granite, the blue blood flows.
Solemn December shines above the Neva.
For twelve months they sing of the final hour.
No, not Solominka in her satin
Savoring a slow, oppressive rest.
In my blood lives December's Ligeia,
Whose blissful love sleeps in a sarcophagus,
And which, solominka, perhaps Salome,
Was killed by pity, and shall never return.
Osip Mandelstam
"O heavens, heavens..."
O heavens, heavens, see you in my dreams!
It is impossible -- you had become so blind,
And day was burned as if a page -- to rims:
Some smoke and ashes, one could later find.
O heavens, heavens, see you in my dreams!
It is impossible -- you had become so blind,
And day was burned as if a page -- to rims:
Some smoke and ashes, one could later find.
Osip Mandelstam
"You took away all the oceans and all the room"
You took away all the oceans and all the room.
You gave me my shoe-size in earth with bars around it.
Where did it get you? Nowhere.
You left me my lips, and they shape words, even in silence.
You took away all the oceans and all the room.
You gave me my shoe-size in earth with bars around it.
Where did it get you? Nowhere.
You left me my lips, and they shape words, even in silence.
Osip Mandelstam
"If I am to know how to restrain your hands"
If I am to know how to restrain your hands,
If I am to betray the tender, salty lips,
I must wait for daybreak in the dense acropolis.
How I hate those ancient weeping timbers .
Achaian men equip their steeds in darkness.
With jagged saws they rip firmly into the walls.
The dry fuss of blood does not subside at all,
And for you there is no name, no sound, no mold.
How could I imagine you'd return! How bold!
Why did I lose touch with you so prematurely!
The gloom has still not dispersed,
The cock has not finished his song,
The glowing ax has still not entered the pulp.
The resin came forth on the walls like a transparent tear,
And the city feels its wooden ribs,
But the blood rushed out to the stairs, an attack,
And thrice the men dreamed of the seductive figure.
Where is pleasant Troy, where is the king's, the maiden's home?
Priam's great starling coop will be destroyed,
And the arrows will fall as a dry forest rain,
And more will spring up like a hazel grove.
The last star's sting will be extinguished painlessly,
And morning will knock on the window like a grey swallow,
And slow day will begin to stir, like an ox in the haystack
Just awakened from a long dream.
If I am to know how to restrain your hands,
If I am to betray the tender, salty lips,
I must wait for daybreak in the dense acropolis.
How I hate those ancient weeping timbers .
Achaian men equip their steeds in darkness.
With jagged saws they rip firmly into the walls.
The dry fuss of blood does not subside at all,
And for you there is no name, no sound, no mold.
How could I imagine you'd return! How bold!
Why did I lose touch with you so prematurely!
The gloom has still not dispersed,
The cock has not finished his song,
The glowing ax has still not entered the pulp.
The resin came forth on the walls like a transparent tear,
And the city feels its wooden ribs,
But the blood rushed out to the stairs, an attack,
And thrice the men dreamed of the seductive figure.
Where is pleasant Troy, where is the king's, the maiden's home?
Priam's great starling coop will be destroyed,
And the arrows will fall as a dry forest rain,
And more will spring up like a hazel grove.
The last star's sting will be extinguished painlessly,
And morning will knock on the window like a grey swallow,
And slow day will begin to stir, like an ox in the haystack
Just awakened from a long dream.
Osip Mandelstam
"Just for joy, take from my palms"
Just for joy, take from my palms
A little sun, a little honey,
As Persephone's bees commanded.
An unfastened boat cannot be untied.
A shade shod in fur cannot be heard.
In the dense forest of life fear cannot be overcome.
Only kisses are left for us.
Furry, like small bees
That die when they leave the hive.
They rustle in transparent thickets of night,
Their home is the dense Taiga woods;
Their food -- time, honeysuckle, mint.
So take and enjoy my passionate gift,
A dry, unsightly necklace
Of dead bees, who changed honey into sun.
Just for joy, take from my palms
A little sun, a little honey,
As Persephone's bees commanded.
An unfastened boat cannot be untied.
A shade shod in fur cannot be heard.
In the dense forest of life fear cannot be overcome.
Only kisses are left for us.
Furry, like small bees
That die when they leave the hive.
They rustle in transparent thickets of night,
Their home is the dense Taiga woods;
Their food -- time, honeysuckle, mint.
So take and enjoy my passionate gift,
A dry, unsightly necklace
Of dead bees, who changed honey into sun.
Osip Mandelstam - Silentium
She has not yet been born:
she is music and word,
and therefore the untorn,
fabric of what is stirred.
Silent the ocean breathes.
Madly day’s glitter roams.
Spray of pale lilac foams,
in a bowl of grey-blue leaves.
May my lips rehearse
the primordial silence,
like a note of crystal clearness,
sounding, pure from birth!
Stay as foam Aphrodite – Art –
and return, Word, where music begins:
and, fused with life’s origins,
be ashamed heart, of heart!
Osip Mandelstam
"A young Levite among priests"
A young Levite among priests,
He remained long on morning watch.
Jewish night grew thick around him,
The ruined temple was solemnly being raised.
He said: the yellow of the skies is alarming.
Run, priests, for night is already over the Euphrates!
But the elders thought: this is not our fault;
Behold the black and yellow light, the joy, the Jews.
He was with us when, on the stream's shore,
We swaddled the sabbath in precious linen
With a heavy menorah lit the night of Jerusalem,
The heady fumes of non-existence.
A young Levite among priests,
He remained long on morning watch.
Jewish night grew thick around him,
The ruined temple was solemnly being raised.
He said: the yellow of the skies is alarming.
Run, priests, for night is already over the Euphrates!
But the elders thought: this is not our fault;
Behold the black and yellow light, the joy, the Jews.
He was with us when, on the stream's shore,
We swaddled the sabbath in precious linen
With a heavy menorah lit the night of Jerusalem,
The heady fumes of non-existence.
среда, 16 апреля 2008 г.
Vadim Shefner
"Love Leads You..."
Love leads you through the deserts fierce,
And through the mountains upright,
It does not cool in windy winters,
And does not fear of a height;
Sometimes, would turn back from a slope,
Gaily directing to far plain,
Or wound, after giving hope,
And doesn’t permit you to complain.
Wherever were you to or out
It always leads – and you behind, --
Not this love, you already found,
But that one, you shall never find.
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, April, 2001
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Love leads you through the deserts fierce,
And through the mountains upright,
It does not cool in windy winters,
And does not fear of a height;
Sometimes, would turn back from a slope,
Gaily directing to far plain,
Or wound, after giving hope,
And doesn’t permit you to complain.
Wherever were you to or out
It always leads – and you behind, --
Not this love, you already found,
But that one, you shall never find.
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, April, 2001
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Vadim Shefner
"Love Leads You..."
Love leads you through the deserts fierce,
And through the mountains upright,
It does not cool in windy winters,
And does not fear of a height;
Sometimes, would turn back from a slope,
Gaily directing to far plain,
Or wound, after giving hope,
And doesn’t permit you to complain.
Wherever were you to or out
It always leads – and you behind, --
Not this love, you already found,
But that one, you shall never find.
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, April, 2001
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Love leads you through the deserts fierce,
And through the mountains upright,
It does not cool in windy winters,
And does not fear of a height;
Sometimes, would turn back from a slope,
Gaily directing to far plain,
Or wound, after giving hope,
And doesn’t permit you to complain.
Wherever were you to or out
It always leads – and you behind, --
Not this love, you already found,
But that one, you shall never find.
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, April, 2001
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Vadim Shefner
Lilit
(Fragments)
1
What do tell us the ‘oral scripts’?
Before Eve, there was once Lilit.
She was here before Eve, she was here,
She didn’t touch the forbidden tree.
Not a wife she was, not a wife, --
She passed by his life, passed by life.
Not from ribs she came, nor from clay, --
From soft silver of dawns of a day.
Send a smile from the Eden’s reed,
And evanished – for good, indeed.
4
From black heaven, the fleeting cranes
Waked a river with their pleas,
Passed away the electrical train –
And again Earth obtained its peace.
Adam sits – fishing-rods lay beside --
Through a bonfire looks at the night.
Who weeps out the fire deeps,
Widely spreading the bright-reddish plaits?
Who grieves there – in the river reeds,
Stirs the bushes of autumn late?
Who looks dawn from clouds white,
Shading moon with her dazzling grace,
Who looks up from the pool at heights,
And alludes to the dark of depths?
There is none there, in fact, there is none, –
Only shade and moonlight over run.
Not a wife she was, not a wife, --
She passed by his life, passed by life.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Lilit never enters his fate,
But she never permits to forget.
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, April, 2001
(Fragments)
1
What do tell us the ‘oral scripts’?
Before Eve, there was once Lilit.
She was here before Eve, she was here,
She didn’t touch the forbidden tree.
Not a wife she was, not a wife, --
She passed by his life, passed by life.
Not from ribs she came, nor from clay, --
From soft silver of dawns of a day.
Send a smile from the Eden’s reed,
And evanished – for good, indeed.
4
From black heaven, the fleeting cranes
Waked a river with their pleas,
Passed away the electrical train –
And again Earth obtained its peace.
Adam sits – fishing-rods lay beside --
Through a bonfire looks at the night.
Who weeps out the fire deeps,
Widely spreading the bright-reddish plaits?
Who grieves there – in the river reeds,
Stirs the bushes of autumn late?
Who looks dawn from clouds white,
Shading moon with her dazzling grace,
Who looks up from the pool at heights,
And alludes to the dark of depths?
There is none there, in fact, there is none, –
Only shade and moonlight over run.
Not a wife she was, not a wife, --
She passed by his life, passed by life.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Lilit never enters his fate,
But she never permits to forget.
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, April, 2001
Vadim Shefner
"We Give Names To the Stars..."
We give names to the stars, to phenomenas, rivers and springs,
Sets of names were designed for all threes by their everyday's killers,
But a spring doesn’t know that it is exactly ‘a spring’,
And, just entering sea, rivers merge in anonymous rivers.
For the reason that gods' immortality’s lost by gay earth,
Every day seems to me as the sudden and great celebration --
Have been born every morn in the fragile and rainbowed haze,
The anonymous Adam, I enter the nameless creation.
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, April, 2001
We give names to the stars, to phenomenas, rivers and springs,
Sets of names were designed for all threes by their everyday's killers,
But a spring doesn’t know that it is exactly ‘a spring’,
And, just entering sea, rivers merge in anonymous rivers.
For the reason that gods' immortality’s lost by gay earth,
Every day seems to me as the sudden and great celebration --
Have been born every morn in the fragile and rainbowed haze,
The anonymous Adam, I enter the nameless creation.
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, April, 2001
Alexander Blok
"I Wait For You..."
1901
And a heavy dream of everyday reflection
You'll throw out -- the loving one and sad.
Vl. Soloviev
I wait for you. The years in silence pass
And as the image, one, I wait for you again.
The distance is in flame -- and clear one as glass,
I, silent, wait -- with sadness, love and pain.
The distance is in flame, and you are coming fast,
But I'm afraid that you will change your image yet,
And will initiate the challenging mistrust
By changing features, used, at long awaited end.
Oh, how I will fell -- so low and so pine,
Unable to overcome my dreams' continued set!
The distance is such bright! And azure is so fine!
But I'm afraid that you will change your image yet.
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, December, 1994
1901
And a heavy dream of everyday reflection
You'll throw out -- the loving one and sad.
Vl. Soloviev
I wait for you. The years in silence pass
And as the image, one, I wait for you again.
The distance is in flame -- and clear one as glass,
I, silent, wait -- with sadness, love and pain.
The distance is in flame, and you are coming fast,
But I'm afraid that you will change your image yet,
And will initiate the challenging mistrust
By changing features, used, at long awaited end.
Oh, how I will fell -- so low and so pine,
Unable to overcome my dreams' continued set!
The distance is such bright! And azure is so fine!
But I'm afraid that you will change your image yet.
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, December, 1994
Alexander Blok
"A Girl Sang a Song..."
1905
A girl sang a song in the temple's chorus,
About men, tired in alien lands,
About the ships that left native shores,
And all who forgot their joy to the end.
Thus sang her clean voice, and flew up to the highness,
And sunbeams shined on her shoulder's white --
And everyone saw and heard from the darkness
The white and airy gown, singing in the light.
And all of them were sure, that joy would burst out:
The ships have arrived at their beach,
The people, in the land of the aliens tired,
Regaining their bearing, are happy and reach.
And sweet was her voice and the sun's beams around....
And only, by Caesar's Gates -- high on the vault,
The baby, versed into mysteries, mourned,
Because none of them will be ever returned.
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, October, 2000
1905
A girl sang a song in the temple's chorus,
About men, tired in alien lands,
About the ships that left native shores,
And all who forgot their joy to the end.
Thus sang her clean voice, and flew up to the highness,
And sunbeams shined on her shoulder's white --
And everyone saw and heard from the darkness
The white and airy gown, singing in the light.
And all of them were sure, that joy would burst out:
The ships have arrived at their beach,
The people, in the land of the aliens tired,
Regaining their bearing, are happy and reach.
And sweet was her voice and the sun's beams around....
And only, by Caesar's Gates -- high on the vault,
The baby, versed into mysteries, mourned,
Because none of them will be ever returned.
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, October, 2000
суббота, 12 апреля 2008 г.
Night
by: Alexander Pushkin (1799 - 1837)
My voice, to which love lends a tenderness and yearing,
Disturbs night's dreamy calm ... Pale at my bedside burning,
A taper wastes away ... From out my heart there surge
Stift verses, streams of love, that hum and sing and merge.
And, full of you, rush on, with passion overflowing.
I seem to see your eyes that, in the darkness glowing,
Meet mine ... I see your smile ... You speak to me alone:
My friend, my dearest friend ... I'm your's ... your own.
by: Alexander Pushkin (1799 - 1837)
My voice, to which love lends a tenderness and yearing,
Disturbs night's dreamy calm ... Pale at my bedside burning,
A taper wastes away ... From out my heart there surge
Stift verses, streams of love, that hum and sing and merge.
And, full of you, rush on, with passion overflowing.
I seem to see your eyes that, in the darkness glowing,
Meet mine ... I see your smile ... You speak to me alone:
My friend, my dearest friend ... I'm your's ... your own.
I Loved You
by: Alexander Pushkin (1799 - 1837)
I loved you;
even now I may confess,
Some embers of my love their fire retain;
But do not let it cause you more distress,
I do not want to sadden you again.
Hopeless and tongue-tied, yet I loved you dearly,
With pangs the jealous and the timid know;
So tenderly I loved you, so sincerely,
I pray God grant another love you so.
by: Alexander Pushkin (1799 - 1837)
I loved you;
even now I may confess,
Some embers of my love their fire retain;
But do not let it cause you more distress,
I do not want to sadden you again.
Hopeless and tongue-tied, yet I loved you dearly,
With pangs the jealous and the timid know;
So tenderly I loved you, so sincerely,
I pray God grant another love you so.
I Loved You Once
by: Alexander Pushkin (1799 - 1837)
I loved you once, nor can this heart be quiet;
For it would seem that love still lingers there;
But do not you be further troubled by it;
I would in no wise hurt you, oh, my dear.
I loved you without hope, a mute offender;
What jealous pangs, what shy despairs I knew!
A love as deep as this, as true, as tender,
God grant another may yet offer you.
by: Alexander Pushkin (1799 - 1837)
I loved you once, nor can this heart be quiet;
For it would seem that love still lingers there;
But do not you be further troubled by it;
I would in no wise hurt you, oh, my dear.
I loved you without hope, a mute offender;
What jealous pangs, what shy despairs I knew!
A love as deep as this, as true, as tender,
God grant another may yet offer you.
A Wish
by: Alexander Pushkin (1799 - 1837)
The days drag on, each moment multiplies
Within my wounded heart the pain and sadness
Of an unhappy love and, dark, gives rise.
To sleepless dreams, the haunting dreams of madness
But I do not complain - instead, I weep;
Tears bring me solace, comforted they leave me.
My spirit, captive held by grief, a deep.
And bitter rapture finds in them, believe me.
Pass, life! Come, empty phantom, onward fly.
And in the silent void of darkness vanish.
Dear it to me my love's unending anguish;
If as I die I love, pray let me die.
by: Alexander Pushkin (1799 - 1837)
The days drag on, each moment multiplies
Within my wounded heart the pain and sadness
Of an unhappy love and, dark, gives rise.
To sleepless dreams, the haunting dreams of madness
But I do not complain - instead, I weep;
Tears bring me solace, comforted they leave me.
My spirit, captive held by grief, a deep.
And bitter rapture finds in them, believe me.
Pass, life! Come, empty phantom, onward fly.
And in the silent void of darkness vanish.
Dear it to me my love's unending anguish;
If as I die I love, pray let me die.
A Confession
by: Alexander Pushkin (1799 - 1837)
I LOVE YOU - I love you, e'en as I
Rage at myself for this obsession,
And as I make my shamed confession,
Despairing at your feet I lie.
I know, I know - It ill becomes me,
I am too old, time to be wise ...
But how? ... This love - it overcomes me,
A sickness this in passion's guise.
When you are near I'm filled with sadness,
When far, I yawn, for life's a bore.
I must pour out this love, this madness,
There's nothing that I long for more!
When your shirts rustle, when, my angel,
Your girlish voice I hear, when your
Light step sounds in the parlour - strangely,
I turn confused, perturbed, unsure.
Your frown - and I'm in pain, I languish;
You smile - and joy defeats distress;
My one reward for a day's anguish
Comes when your, pale hand, love, I kiss.
When you sit, bent over your sewing,
Your eaes cast down and fine curls blowing.
About your face, with tenderness
I like childlike watch, my heart o'erflowing
With love, in my gaze a caress.
Shall I my jealousy and yearning
Describe, my bitterness and woe
When by yourself on some bleak morning
Off on a distant walk you go,
Or with another spend the evening
And, with him near, the piano play,
Or for Opochka leave, or, grieving
Weep and in silence, pass the day?
Alina! Pray relent have mercy!
I dare not ask for love - with all
My many sins, both great and small,
I am perhaps of love unworthy!
But if feigned love, if you would
Prefend, you'd easily deceive me,
For happily would I, believe me,
Deceive myself if but I could!
by: Alexander Pushkin (1799 - 1837)
I LOVE YOU - I love you, e'en as I
Rage at myself for this obsession,
And as I make my shamed confession,
Despairing at your feet I lie.
I know, I know - It ill becomes me,
I am too old, time to be wise ...
But how? ... This love - it overcomes me,
A sickness this in passion's guise.
When you are near I'm filled with sadness,
When far, I yawn, for life's a bore.
I must pour out this love, this madness,
There's nothing that I long for more!
When your shirts rustle, when, my angel,
Your girlish voice I hear, when your
Light step sounds in the parlour - strangely,
I turn confused, perturbed, unsure.
Your frown - and I'm in pain, I languish;
You smile - and joy defeats distress;
My one reward for a day's anguish
Comes when your, pale hand, love, I kiss.
When you sit, bent over your sewing,
Your eaes cast down and fine curls blowing.
About your face, with tenderness
I like childlike watch, my heart o'erflowing
With love, in my gaze a caress.
Shall I my jealousy and yearning
Describe, my bitterness and woe
When by yourself on some bleak morning
Off on a distant walk you go,
Or with another spend the evening
And, with him near, the piano play,
Or for Opochka leave, or, grieving
Weep and in silence, pass the day?
Alina! Pray relent have mercy!
I dare not ask for love - with all
My many sins, both great and small,
I am perhaps of love unworthy!
But if feigned love, if you would
Prefend, you'd easily deceive me,
For happily would I, believe me,
Deceive myself if but I could!
A Magic Moment To Remember
by: Alexander Pushkin (1799 - 1837)
A magic moment I remember:
I raised my eyes and you were there,
A fleeting vision, the quintessence
Of all that's beautiful and rare
I pray to mute despair and anguish,
To vain the pursuits world esteems,
Long did I near your soothing accents,
Long did I your features haunt my dreams.
Time passed. A rebel storm-blast scattered
The reveries that once were mine
And I forgot your soothing accents,
Your features gracefully divine.
In dark days of enforced retirement
I gazed upon grey skies above
With no ideals to inspire me
No one to cry for, live for, love.
Then came a moment of reinessance,
I looked up - you again are there
A fleeting vision, the quintessence
Of all that's beautiful and rare
by: Alexander Pushkin (1799 - 1837)
A magic moment I remember:
I raised my eyes and you were there,
A fleeting vision, the quintessence
Of all that's beautiful and rare
I pray to mute despair and anguish,
To vain the pursuits world esteems,
Long did I near your soothing accents,
Long did I your features haunt my dreams.
Time passed. A rebel storm-blast scattered
The reveries that once were mine
And I forgot your soothing accents,
Your features gracefully divine.
In dark days of enforced retirement
I gazed upon grey skies above
With no ideals to inspire me
No one to cry for, live for, love.
Then came a moment of reinessance,
I looked up - you again are there
A fleeting vision, the quintessence
Of all that's beautiful and rare
You Will Hear Thunder
by: Anna Akhmatova
You will hear thunder and remember me,
And think: she wanted storms. The rim
Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson,
And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.
That day in Moscow, it will all come true,
when, for the last time, I take my leave,
And hasten to the heights that I have longed for,
Leaving my shadow still to be with you.
~~**~~
by: Anna Akhmatova
You will hear thunder and remember me,
And think: she wanted storms. The rim
Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson,
And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.
That day in Moscow, it will all come true,
when, for the last time, I take my leave,
And hasten to the heights that I have longed for,
Leaving my shadow still to be with you.
~~**~~
Sunbeam
by: Anna Akhmatova
I pray to the sunbeam from the window -
It is pale, thin, straight.
Since morning I have been silent,
And my heart - is split.
The copper on my washstand
Has turned green,
But the sunbeam plays on it
So charmingly.
How innocent it is, and simple,
In the evening calm,
But to me in this deserted temple
It's like a golden celebration,
And a consolation.
***
by: Anna Akhmatova
I pray to the sunbeam from the window -
It is pale, thin, straight.
Since morning I have been silent,
And my heart - is split.
The copper on my washstand
Has turned green,
But the sunbeam plays on it
So charmingly.
How innocent it is, and simple,
In the evening calm,
But to me in this deserted temple
It's like a golden celebration,
And a consolation.
***
Solitude
by: Anna Akhmatova
So many stones have been thrown at me,
That I'm not frightened of them anymore,
And the pit has become a solid tower,
Tall among tall towers.
I thank the builders,
May care and sadness pass them by.
From here I'll see the sunrise earlier,
Here the sun's last ray rejoices.
And into the windows of my room
The northern breezes often fly.
And from my hand a dove eats grains of wheat...
As for my unfinished page,
The Muse's tawny hand, divinely calm
And delicate, will finish it.
June 6, 1914, Slepnyovo
~ ~ ~
by: Anna Akhmatova
So many stones have been thrown at me,
That I'm not frightened of them anymore,
And the pit has become a solid tower,
Tall among tall towers.
I thank the builders,
May care and sadness pass them by.
From here I'll see the sunrise earlier,
Here the sun's last ray rejoices.
And into the windows of my room
The northern breezes often fly.
And from my hand a dove eats grains of wheat...
As for my unfinished page,
The Muse's tawny hand, divinely calm
And delicate, will finish it.
June 6, 1914, Slepnyovo
~ ~ ~
~Testament~ M.Lermontov
Alone with you, my friend
Let me spend a while.
They say that on this earth
I have little time left!
Soon you are going home,
So would you - it's nothing?
For as to my fate
No one is much concerned.
But if anyone should ask,
Whoever it is, just tell them
A bullet went through my chest
And took my life with it;
That I died honourably for the tsar;
That our doctors are appalling;
And that home to my country
I send a final bow.
My father and mother
Will scarcely be among the living
To tell the truth, it pains me,
That I might cause them sorrow,
But if either of them is alive,
Tell them I am poor at letter writing,
That the regiment is on campaign
And that they should not expect me.
There is one neighbour, a girl
Just think, how long ago it is
Since we parted! About me
She will not ask - it is no matter,
You can tell her all the truth,
No need to spare a vacuous heart;
Let her cry a little
It won't mean anything to her!
Let me spend a while.
They say that on this earth
I have little time left!
Soon you are going home,
So would you - it's nothing?
For as to my fate
No one is much concerned.
But if anyone should ask,
Whoever it is, just tell them
A bullet went through my chest
And took my life with it;
That I died honourably for the tsar;
That our doctors are appalling;
And that home to my country
I send a final bow.
My father and mother
Will scarcely be among the living
To tell the truth, it pains me,
That I might cause them sorrow,
But if either of them is alive,
Tell them I am poor at letter writing,
That the regiment is on campaign
And that they should not expect me.
There is one neighbour, a girl
Just think, how long ago it is
Since we parted! About me
She will not ask - it is no matter,
You can tell her all the truth,
No need to spare a vacuous heart;
Let her cry a little
It won't mean anything to her!
Cossak Lullaby
Lermontov M.
Sleep, my fine young baby
Lullabye, a-bye.
Quietly the clear moon looks down
Into your cradle
I will tell you stories,
I will sing you a song,
Sleep on, close your eyes,
Lullabye, a-bye.
The Terek runs over its rocky bed
And splashes its dark wave;
A sly brigand crawls along the bank
Sharpening his dagger;
But your father is an old warrior
Hardened in battle;
So sleep, my darling, undisturbed,
Lullaby a-bye.
The time will come, you will learn for yourself
The soldier's way of life,
Boldly you'll place your foot in the stirrup
And grasp your rifle.
Your fighting saddle I myself
Will embroider with silk
Sleep, my darling, my own one,
Lullaby a-bye.
Such a fine warrior you'll be to look at,
And a cossack in your soul.
I will watch you go, see you on your way,
And you'll wave your hand.
How many bitter tears silently
I will weep on that night when you go.
Sleep my angel, sweetly, softly,
Lullaby a-bye.
Sleep, my fine young baby
Lullabye, a-bye.
Quietly the clear moon looks down
Into your cradle
I will tell you stories,
I will sing you a song,
Sleep on, close your eyes,
Lullabye, a-bye.
The Terek runs over its rocky bed
And splashes its dark wave;
A sly brigand crawls along the bank
Sharpening his dagger;
But your father is an old warrior
Hardened in battle;
So sleep, my darling, undisturbed,
Lullaby a-bye.
The time will come, you will learn for yourself
The soldier's way of life,
Boldly you'll place your foot in the stirrup
And grasp your rifle.
Your fighting saddle I myself
Will embroider with silk
Sleep, my darling, my own one,
Lullaby a-bye.
Such a fine warrior you'll be to look at,
And a cossack in your soul.
I will watch you go, see you on your way,
And you'll wave your hand.
How many bitter tears silently
I will weep on that night when you go.
Sleep my angel, sweetly, softly,
Lullaby a-bye.
Thoghts by Alexander Pushkin
If I walk the noisy streets,
Or enter a many thronged church,
Or sit among the wild young generation,
I give way to my thoughts.
I say to myself: the years are fleeting,
And however many there seem to be,
We must all go under the eternal vault,
And someone's hour is already at hand.
When I look at a solitary oak
I think: the patriarch of the woods.
It will outlive my forgotten age
As it outlived that of my grandfathers'.
If I dandle a young infant,
Immediately I think: farewell!
I will yield my place to you,
For I must fade while your flower blooms.
Each day, and every hour
I habitually follow in my thoughts,
Trying to guess from their number
The year which brings my death.
And where will fate send death to me?
In battle, in my travels, or on the seas?
Or will the neighbouring valley
Receive my chilled ashes?
And although to the senseless body
It is indifferent wherever it rots,
Yet close to my beloved countryside
I still would prefer to rest.
And let it be, beside the grave's vault
That young life forever will be playing,
And impartial, indifferent nature
Eternally be shining in beauty.
Winter Evening
Alexander Pushkin
The storm wind covers the sky
Whirling the fleecy snow drifts,
Now it howls like a wolf,
Now it is crying, like a lost child,
Now rustling the decayed thatch
On our tumbledown roof,
Now, like a delayed traveller,
Knocking on our window pane.
Our wretched little cottage
Is gloomy and dark.
Why do you sit all silent
Hugging the window, old gran?
Has the howling of the storm
Wearied you, at last, dear friend?
Or are you dozing fitfully
Under the spinning wheel's humming?
Let us drink, dearest friend
To my poor wasted youth.
Let us drink from grief - Where's the glass?
Our hearts at least will be lightened.
Sing me a song of how the bluetit
Quietly lives across the sea.
Sing me a song of how the young girl
Went to fetch water in the morning.
The storm wind covers the sky
Whirling the fleecy snow drifts
Now it howls like a wolf,
Now it is crying, like a lost child.
Let us drink, dearest friend
To my poor wasted youth.
Let us drink from grief - Where's the glass?
Our hearts at least will be lightened.
The storm wind covers the sky
Whirling the fleecy snow drifts,
Now it howls like a wolf,
Now it is crying, like a lost child,
Now rustling the decayed thatch
On our tumbledown roof,
Now, like a delayed traveller,
Knocking on our window pane.
Our wretched little cottage
Is gloomy and dark.
Why do you sit all silent
Hugging the window, old gran?
Has the howling of the storm
Wearied you, at last, dear friend?
Or are you dozing fitfully
Under the spinning wheel's humming?
Let us drink, dearest friend
To my poor wasted youth.
Let us drink from grief - Where's the glass?
Our hearts at least will be lightened.
Sing me a song of how the bluetit
Quietly lives across the sea.
Sing me a song of how the young girl
Went to fetch water in the morning.
The storm wind covers the sky
Whirling the fleecy snow drifts
Now it howls like a wolf,
Now it is crying, like a lost child.
Let us drink, dearest friend
To my poor wasted youth.
Let us drink from grief - Where's the glass?
Our hearts at least will be lightened.
Alexander Pushkin
By A. Pushkin
If I walk the noisy streets,
Or enter a many thronged church,
Or sit among the wild young generation,
I give way to my thoughts.
I say to myself: the years are fleeting,
And however many there seem to be,
We must all go under the eternal vault,
And someone's hour is already at hand.
When I look at a solitary oak
I think: the patriarch of the woods.
It will outlive my forgotten age
As it outlived that of my grandfathers'.
If I caress a young child,
Immediately I think: farewell!
I will yield my place to you,
For I must fade while your flower blooms.
Each day, every hour
I habitually follow in my thoughts,
Trying to guess from their number
The year which brings my death.
And where will fate send death to me?
In battle, in my travels, or on the seas?
Or will the neighbouring valley
Receive my chilled ashes?
And although to the senseless body
It is indifferent wherever it rots,
Yet close to my beloved countryside
I still would prefer to rest.
And let it be, beside the grave's vault
That young life forever will be playing,
And impartial, indifferent nature
Eternally be shining in beauty.
If I walk the noisy streets,
Or enter a many thronged church,
Or sit among the wild young generation,
I give way to my thoughts.
I say to myself: the years are fleeting,
And however many there seem to be,
We must all go under the eternal vault,
And someone's hour is already at hand.
When I look at a solitary oak
I think: the patriarch of the woods.
It will outlive my forgotten age
As it outlived that of my grandfathers'.
If I caress a young child,
Immediately I think: farewell!
I will yield my place to you,
For I must fade while your flower blooms.
Each day, every hour
I habitually follow in my thoughts,
Trying to guess from their number
The year which brings my death.
And where will fate send death to me?
In battle, in my travels, or on the seas?
Or will the neighbouring valley
Receive my chilled ashes?
And although to the senseless body
It is indifferent wherever it rots,
Yet close to my beloved countryside
I still would prefer to rest.
And let it be, beside the grave's vault
That young life forever will be playing,
And impartial, indifferent nature
Eternally be shining in beauty.
четверг, 10 апреля 2008 г.
Konstantin Simonov
to Valentina Serova
I cannot write a single line of verse,
Not to the girl you were, nor to you now.
And after all the bitter words we've said
Why should we meet again for one more row?
For what you gave when I was with you - thanks!
I never reckoned the precise degree
Of how much I received, how much I gave.
I'd be surprised if you gave more to me!.
And as for all the harm, that like a burden,
You laid on me, a heavy load of pain -
It's part of me and I can deal with it.
The scars remain indeed - but not in vain.
Don't fear that we shall talk till dawn and curse.
It's too late now for idle tales of woe.
I just no longer love you, dear, and so
I cannot write you one more line of verse...
1954
I cannot write a single line of verse,
Not to the girl you were, nor to you now.
And after all the bitter words we've said
Why should we meet again for one more row?
For what you gave when I was with you - thanks!
I never reckoned the precise degree
Of how much I received, how much I gave.
I'd be surprised if you gave more to me!.
And as for all the harm, that like a burden,
You laid on me, a heavy load of pain -
It's part of me and I can deal with it.
The scars remain indeed - but not in vain.
Don't fear that we shall talk till dawn and curse.
It's too late now for idle tales of woe.
I just no longer love you, dear, and so
I cannot write you one more line of verse...
1954
Konstantin Simonov
to Valentina Serova
You used to say to me "I love you!",
But that was through your teeth, at night,
The truth was "I put up with you".
- You almost said it in the light.
I could believe your lips in darkness,
The wicked magic of your bed,
But though the words you spoke were honest,
I did not credit what you said.
I knew you - you were not a liar;
You would have liked to be in love.
Only at night could you deceive me,
When body drives the soul above.
But sober morning found you different.
Your mind was now the guiding force;
And when I asked you if you loved me,
I think you once replied "Of course".
Then sudden war, the station platform,
Nowhere to kiss and hold you tight,
My seat in the suburban carriage
To take me far into the night;
An evening without hope of loving;
No warmth, no happiness, no bliss;
And like a helpless cry of anguish,
Upon my sleeve, a tasted kiss.
And so that I should know the difference
From those old drunken words at night,
You suddenly said to me "I love you!"
Your lips were almost calm and right!
That you could be as you were that evening,
Seemed, till that evening, past belief!
"I love you! Love you!" Night; the station;
Your little hands so cold with grief...
June 1941
You used to say to me "I love you!",
But that was through your teeth, at night,
The truth was "I put up with you".
- You almost said it in the light.
I could believe your lips in darkness,
The wicked magic of your bed,
But though the words you spoke were honest,
I did not credit what you said.
I knew you - you were not a liar;
You would have liked to be in love.
Only at night could you deceive me,
When body drives the soul above.
But sober morning found you different.
Your mind was now the guiding force;
And when I asked you if you loved me,
I think you once replied "Of course".
Then sudden war, the station platform,
Nowhere to kiss and hold you tight,
My seat in the suburban carriage
To take me far into the night;
An evening without hope of loving;
No warmth, no happiness, no bliss;
And like a helpless cry of anguish,
Upon my sleeve, a tasted kiss.
And so that I should know the difference
From those old drunken words at night,
You suddenly said to me "I love you!"
Your lips were almost calm and right!
That you could be as you were that evening,
Seemed, till that evening, past belief!
"I love you! Love you!" Night; the station;
Your little hands so cold with grief...
June 1941
Konstantin Simonov
to Valentina Serova
Wait for me, and I'll come back!
Wait with all you've got!
Wait, when dreary yellow rains
Tell you, you should not.
Wait when snow is falling fast,
Wait when summer's hot,
Wait when yesterdays are past,
Others are forgot.
Wait, when from that far-off place,
Letters don't arrive.
Wait, when those with whom you wait
Doubt if I'm alive.
Wait for me, and I'll come back!
Wait in patience yet
When they tell you off by heart
That you should forget.
Even when my dearest ones
Say that I am lost,
Even when my friends give up,
Sit and count the cost,
Drink a glass of bitter wine
To the fallen friend -
Wait! And do not drink with them!
Wait until the end!
Wait for me and I'll come back,
Dodging every fate!
"What a bit of luck!" they'll say,
Those that would not wait.
They will never understand
How amidst the strife,
By your waiting for me, dear,
You had saved my life.
Only you and I will know
How you got me through.
Simply - you knew how to wait -
No one else but you.
1941
Wait for me, and I'll come back!
Wait with all you've got!
Wait, when dreary yellow rains
Tell you, you should not.
Wait when snow is falling fast,
Wait when summer's hot,
Wait when yesterdays are past,
Others are forgot.
Wait, when from that far-off place,
Letters don't arrive.
Wait, when those with whom you wait
Doubt if I'm alive.
Wait for me, and I'll come back!
Wait in patience yet
When they tell you off by heart
That you should forget.
Even when my dearest ones
Say that I am lost,
Even when my friends give up,
Sit and count the cost,
Drink a glass of bitter wine
To the fallen friend -
Wait! And do not drink with them!
Wait until the end!
Wait for me and I'll come back,
Dodging every fate!
"What a bit of luck!" they'll say,
Those that would not wait.
They will never understand
How amidst the strife,
By your waiting for me, dear,
You had saved my life.
Only you and I will know
How you got me through.
Simply - you knew how to wait -
No one else but you.
1941
среда, 9 апреля 2008 г.
Bella Akhmadullina
"Rain Flogs My Face..."
Rain flogs my face and collar-bones,
a thunderstorm roars over musts.
You thrust upon my flesh and soul,
like tempests upon ships do thrust.
I do not want, at all, to know,
what will befall to me the next –
would I be smashed against my woe,
or thrown into happiness.
In awe and gaiety elated,
like a ship, that’s going tempests through,
I am not sorry that I’ve met you,
and not afraid to love you, too.
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, April, 2001
Rain flogs my face and collar-bones,
a thunderstorm roars over musts.
You thrust upon my flesh and soul,
like tempests upon ships do thrust.
I do not want, at all, to know,
what will befall to me the next –
would I be smashed against my woe,
or thrown into happiness.
In awe and gaiety elated,
like a ship, that’s going tempests through,
I am not sorry that I’ve met you,
and not afraid to love you, too.
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, April, 2001
Bella Akhmadullina
Raphael's Day
Newcomer Day, don't stop on the rosy hill!
Don't let the down treat your features rudely.
Why deign come down to the gullies and to me?
I recognize you. You're straight from Urbino.
Divinity Day, go back to your Italy,
It's winter here. People are screwing around.
A hunchback filled with envy, I look at you
and my hidden rage kisses the hem of your gown.
On top of pock-marked cheeks and chest rotting in,
my brush is silly and the colors won't behave.
Perfection Day, get out! Away from sin!
Here shepherdesses' vests conceal sharp knives.
But the God-like Day kept watching tenderly,
and brother said to brother, "Good brother, hello!"
For the time in years, the Saint's Day festival
Of three neighboring villages didn't end in blows.
Unknown, it left - Raphael's Day, Day of Light -
but a dead oak in the open valley blossomed;
above us blessed sun turned rose; all night
pilgrims made the sign of the cross among the ruins.
Newcomer Day, don't stop on the rosy hill!
Don't let the down treat your features rudely.
Why deign come down to the gullies and to me?
I recognize you. You're straight from Urbino.
Divinity Day, go back to your Italy,
It's winter here. People are screwing around.
A hunchback filled with envy, I look at you
and my hidden rage kisses the hem of your gown.
On top of pock-marked cheeks and chest rotting in,
my brush is silly and the colors won't behave.
Perfection Day, get out! Away from sin!
Here shepherdesses' vests conceal sharp knives.
But the God-like Day kept watching tenderly,
and brother said to brother, "Good brother, hello!"
For the time in years, the Saint's Day festival
Of three neighboring villages didn't end in blows.
Unknown, it left - Raphael's Day, Day of Light -
but a dead oak in the open valley blossomed;
above us blessed sun turned rose; all night
pilgrims made the sign of the cross among the ruins.
Bella Akhmadullina
The Garden
I went out to the garden - but in garden,
the word, lies lush luxuriance.
As geogeous as a full blown rose,
it enriches sound and scent and glance.
The word is wider than what surrounds me:
inside it all is well and free;
its rich black soil makes sons and daughters
of orphaned and transplanted seeds.
Seeding of dark innovations,
O garden, word, you are gardener,
who to the clipper's gleam and clutter
increase and spread the fruits you bear.
Set within your free-and easy
space are an old estate and the fate
of a family long gone, and the faded
whiteness of their garden bench.
You are more fertile than the earth:
you feed the roots of other's crowns.
From oak to oakwood, Oakboy, you are
heart's mail, and word's - the love, the blood.
Your shady grove is always darkened,
but why did a lovelorn parasol
of lace look down in embarrassment
in the face of hot weather coming on?
Perhaps I, who guest for a limp hand,
redden my own knees on the stones?
a casual and impowerished gardener,
what do I seek? Where do I tend?
If I had gone out, where would I really
have gone? It's May - and solid mud.
I went out to a ruined wasteland
and it read that life was dead.
Dead! Gone! Where had it hurried to ?
It merely tasted the dried up agony
of speachless lips and then reported:
all things forever; only a moment for me.
For a moment in which I could not manage
to either self or garden clearly.
"I went out to the garden" was what I wrote.
I did? Well, then, there must be
something to it? There is - and amazing
how going to the garden takes no move.
I did not go out at all. I simply wrote the
way I usually do,
"I went out to the garden..."
I went out to the garden - but in garden,
the word, lies lush luxuriance.
As geogeous as a full blown rose,
it enriches sound and scent and glance.
The word is wider than what surrounds me:
inside it all is well and free;
its rich black soil makes sons and daughters
of orphaned and transplanted seeds.
Seeding of dark innovations,
O garden, word, you are gardener,
who to the clipper's gleam and clutter
increase and spread the fruits you bear.
Set within your free-and easy
space are an old estate and the fate
of a family long gone, and the faded
whiteness of their garden bench.
You are more fertile than the earth:
you feed the roots of other's crowns.
From oak to oakwood, Oakboy, you are
heart's mail, and word's - the love, the blood.
Your shady grove is always darkened,
but why did a lovelorn parasol
of lace look down in embarrassment
in the face of hot weather coming on?
Perhaps I, who guest for a limp hand,
redden my own knees on the stones?
a casual and impowerished gardener,
what do I seek? Where do I tend?
If I had gone out, where would I really
have gone? It's May - and solid mud.
I went out to a ruined wasteland
and it read that life was dead.
Dead! Gone! Where had it hurried to ?
It merely tasted the dried up agony
of speachless lips and then reported:
all things forever; only a moment for me.
For a moment in which I could not manage
to either self or garden clearly.
"I went out to the garden" was what I wrote.
I did? Well, then, there must be
something to it? There is - and amazing
how going to the garden takes no move.
I did not go out at all. I simply wrote the
way I usually do,
"I went out to the garden..."
Bella Akhmadullina
"Over My Street For..."
(Fragment)
Over my street for many-many years,
sound the steps – my friends leave me forever.
The slow exodus of all my dear friends
takes from the dark by windows its favor.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Oh, constant loneness, how hard are manners yours!
While glimmering with compasses your ruthless,
how mercilessly you lock the fatal circles,
not listening to explanations useless.
Then call for me, take me to you and bless!
Your favorite in whole freezing fondness,
I’ll gain my peace, and lean at your cold breast
and wash myself in whole your blue coldness.
Let me stay tiptoe in your woods of grace –
in that far end of movement, slow measured --
find your fresh leaf and take it to my face,
and feel the orphanage as the unearthly pleasure.
Give me deep silence of your libraries,
tunes of your concerts, rigorous and proud,
and, sapient, I will forget the list
of them – the dead and the alive till now.
And I’ll cognize and wisdom and regret,
objects will give me their meanings, hidden,
and Nature, leaning my week shoulders at,
will tell me all her secrets of sweet children.
And only then, from dark and grievous lands --
the lands of ignorance that yore ruled here --
the gorgeous features of my dear friends
will come in sight once more and disappear.
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, April, 2001
(Fragment)
Over my street for many-many years,
sound the steps – my friends leave me forever.
The slow exodus of all my dear friends
takes from the dark by windows its favor.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Oh, constant loneness, how hard are manners yours!
While glimmering with compasses your ruthless,
how mercilessly you lock the fatal circles,
not listening to explanations useless.
Then call for me, take me to you and bless!
Your favorite in whole freezing fondness,
I’ll gain my peace, and lean at your cold breast
and wash myself in whole your blue coldness.
Let me stay tiptoe in your woods of grace –
in that far end of movement, slow measured --
find your fresh leaf and take it to my face,
and feel the orphanage as the unearthly pleasure.
Give me deep silence of your libraries,
tunes of your concerts, rigorous and proud,
and, sapient, I will forget the list
of them – the dead and the alive till now.
And I’ll cognize and wisdom and regret,
objects will give me their meanings, hidden,
and Nature, leaning my week shoulders at,
will tell me all her secrets of sweet children.
And only then, from dark and grievous lands --
the lands of ignorance that yore ruled here --
the gorgeous features of my dear friends
will come in sight once more and disappear.
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, April, 2001
Bella Akhmadullina
Mazurka Of Chopin
Oh, what a great was our fortune,
we were so lucky at the times,
when was a running disk of Chopin,
the only border between us.
First, the she-disk made quiet hisses,
as a grass-snake, caught on a floor,
but the bewitching Chopin’s features
became else clearly heard in her.
And, a thin graduate, that’s filled in
with water of blue colorant,
a girl-mazurka stood there, real,
nodding with her delightful head.
How was she able with her shoulder
and face as pale as of the Pole,
to understand all pains, I hold in,
and, for her self, receive them all?
She would stretch gently her arms out
to me … and vanish in far land,
leaving all sounds in the round
line, drawn by the needle’s end.
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, April, 2001
Oh, what a great was our fortune,
we were so lucky at the times,
when was a running disk of Chopin,
the only border between us.
First, the she-disk made quiet hisses,
as a grass-snake, caught on a floor,
but the bewitching Chopin’s features
became else clearly heard in her.
And, a thin graduate, that’s filled in
with water of blue colorant,
a girl-mazurka stood there, real,
nodding with her delightful head.
How was she able with her shoulder
and face as pale as of the Pole,
to understand all pains, I hold in,
and, for her self, receive them all?
She would stretch gently her arms out
to me … and vanish in far land,
leaving all sounds in the round
line, drawn by the needle’s end.
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, April, 2001
The Flowers
Bella Akhmadullina
The Flowers
(Fragment)
They grew inside a warming-house,
under the guidance of a cell,
their roots were sunk in fat and nourish,
and petals – always thin and well.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Warm was the house they did sit in.
They gave them water, soil and light:
not for the reason of a pity
or wishing them a long-long life.
They are the gay gifts – to remember.
But bad a fate to wait them in,
because they never will be able
to smell like their garden kin.
They would not stay the red lips middle,
they would not sway the golden bee,
they would not ever solve the riddle
whatever the wet earth could be.
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, April, 2001
The Flowers
(Fragment)
They grew inside a warming-house,
under the guidance of a cell,
their roots were sunk in fat and nourish,
and petals – always thin and well.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Warm was the house they did sit in.
They gave them water, soil and light:
not for the reason of a pity
or wishing them a long-long life.
They are the gay gifts – to remember.
But bad a fate to wait them in,
because they never will be able
to smell like their garden kin.
They would not stay the red lips middle,
they would not sway the golden bee,
they would not ever solve the riddle
whatever the wet earth could be.
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, April, 2001
вторник, 8 апреля 2008 г.
Beautiful poem byKarl Fuchs
Beautiful
My thoughts of you are like raindrops on flowers...
Beautiful.
My thoughts of you are like a rainbow at a splashing waterfall...
Beautiful.
My thoughts of you are like a full moon
shining through a cloudy night sky...
Beautiful.
No matter what wonders my eyes have seen,
Nothing compares to the beauty I see
when I look at you.
My love for you is beautiful.
By Karl Fuchs
My thoughts of you are like raindrops on flowers...
Beautiful.
My thoughts of you are like a rainbow at a splashing waterfall...
Beautiful.
My thoughts of you are like a full moon
shining through a cloudy night sky...
Beautiful.
No matter what wonders my eyes have seen,
Nothing compares to the beauty I see
when I look at you.
My love for you is beautiful.
By Karl Fuchs
понедельник, 7 апреля 2008 г.
Silentium! by Fyodor Tyutchev Russian poet
Silentium!
by Fyodor Tyutchev
translation source:V.V. Nabokov
Speak not, lie hidden, and conceal
the way you dream, the things you feel.
Deep in your spirit let them rise
akin to stars in crystal skies
that set before the night is blurred:
delight in them and speak no word.
How can a heart expression find?
How should another know your mind?
Will he discern what quickens you?
A thought once uttered is untrue.
Dimmed is the fountainhead when stirred:
drink at the source and speak no word.
Live in your inner self alone
within your soul a world has grown,
the magic of veiled thoughts that might
be blinded by the outer light,
drowned in the noise of day, unheard...
take in their song and speak no word.
Retrieved from "http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Silentium%21"
by Fyodor Tyutchev
translation source:V.V. Nabokov
Speak not, lie hidden, and conceal
the way you dream, the things you feel.
Deep in your spirit let them rise
akin to stars in crystal skies
that set before the night is blurred:
delight in them and speak no word.
How can a heart expression find?
How should another know your mind?
Will he discern what quickens you?
A thought once uttered is untrue.
Dimmed is the fountainhead when stirred:
drink at the source and speak no word.
Live in your inner self alone
within your soul a world has grown,
the magic of veiled thoughts that might
be blinded by the outer light,
drowned in the noise of day, unheard...
take in their song and speak no word.
Retrieved from "http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Silentium%21"
Tyutchev Fyodor Oh My Prophetic Soul
Oh, my prophetic soul
by Fyodor Tyutchev
Oh, my prophetic soul!
Oh heart filled with alarm!
You'd think you beat upon the threshold
of a twofold existence.
Yes, you inhabit two worlds:
your day is sickly, passionate,
your night prophetically unclear,
like the revelations of spirits.
Let the suffering breast
be agitated by fateful passions.
The soul is ready, just like Mary,
to cling eternally to the feet of Christ.
Retrieved from "http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Oh%2C_my_prophetic_soul"
by Fyodor Tyutchev
Oh, my prophetic soul!
Oh heart filled with alarm!
You'd think you beat upon the threshold
of a twofold existence.
Yes, you inhabit two worlds:
your day is sickly, passionate,
your night prophetically unclear,
like the revelations of spirits.
Let the suffering breast
be agitated by fateful passions.
The soul is ready, just like Mary,
to cling eternally to the feet of Christ.
Retrieved from "http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Oh%2C_my_prophetic_soul"
poem
Aftermathby Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
From Birds of Passage.
When the summer fields are mown,
When the birds are fledged and flown,
And the dry leaves strew the path;
With the falling of the snow,
With the cawing of the crow,
Once again the fields we mow
And gather in the aftermath.
Not the sweet, new grass with flowers
Is this harvesting of ours;
Not the upland clover bloom;
But the rowen mired with weeds,
Tangled tufts from marsh and meads,
Where the poppy drops its seeds
In the silence and the gloom.
Retrieved from "http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Aftermath_%28Longfellow%29"
From Birds of Passage.
When the summer fields are mown,
When the birds are fledged and flown,
And the dry leaves strew the path;
With the falling of the snow,
With the cawing of the crow,
Once again the fields we mow
And gather in the aftermath.
Not the sweet, new grass with flowers
Is this harvesting of ours;
Not the upland clover bloom;
But the rowen mired with weeds,
Tangled tufts from marsh and meads,
Where the poppy drops its seeds
In the silence and the gloom.
Retrieved from "http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Aftermath_%28Longfellow%29"
My friend, I so adore your eyesby Fyodor Tyutchev
translation source:1d35crewman
My friend, I so adore your eyes,
Their fiery and wondrous gaze,
When, like a lightning from the skies,
They strike, light up and set ablaze
Whole world, when it in darkness lies.
But other charms I do admire:
Your eyes cast down, when abash'd,
You kiss me, trembling with desire,
And underneath half-raised eyelash
Dim glow of sullen lustful fire.
***
Retrieved from "http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/My_friend%2C_I_so_adore_your_eyes"
translation source:1d35crewman
My friend, I so adore your eyes,
Their fiery and wondrous gaze,
When, like a lightning from the skies,
They strike, light up and set ablaze
Whole world, when it in darkness lies.
But other charms I do admire:
Your eyes cast down, when abash'd,
You kiss me, trembling with desire,
And underneath half-raised eyelash
Dim glow of sullen lustful fire.
***
Retrieved from "http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/My_friend%2C_I_so_adore_your_eyes"
is apprehensive and very tender.
Glow brighter, brighter, farewell rays
of one last love in its evening splendor.
Blue shade takes half the world away:
through western clouds alone some light is slanted.
O tarry, O tarry, declining day,
enchantment, let me stay enchanted.
The blood runs thinner, yet the heart
remains as ever deep and tender.
O last belated love, thou art
a blend of joy and of hopeless surrender.
Retrieved from "http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Last_Love"
Retrieved from "http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Last_Love"
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