Saturday, October 13, 2012

Poems by the prose writers: Dostoevsky, Belyi, Platonov



Ф. М. Достоевский (1847)

F. M. Dostoevsky (1821-1883) had achieved world fame as the novelist, the author of "The Idiot", "Crime and Punishment", "Karamazov Brothers" and "The Possessed." Given his moody disposition, vocal  Antisemitism and violent epilepsy, few people even in literary circles realize that he was a subtle humorist. His claim to poetic fame is based mainly on the absurdist poems of Captain Lebyadkin, a secondary character in "The Possessed." Their influence on the XX century Russian literary modernism is assured by the affinity of early poems of Zabolotsky, of OBERIU group, the fact immediately recognized by his contemporaries, and by composer Dmitriy Shostakovich, who put these poems to the musical score. The latter was as strong a protest against the absurdities of the Soviet regime as Shostakovich could muster without being proscribed despite his world fame and not-too-unfriendly relations with the heads of the Soviet State. All poems of the great writers of Russian prose were deliberately composed in grammatically tortured Russian, which I tried to imitate in translation.


Жил на свете таракан,
Таракан от детства.
И потом попал в стакан
Полный мухоедства.

Место занял таракан,
Мухи возроптали:
«Полон очень наш стакан»
К Юпитеру воскричали.

И пока у них шел крик
Подошел Никифор
Благороднейший старик...

Once there lived a cockroach,
From his childhood he was just a roach,
Cooped in glass with the flies―
Cannibals and likewise,
And his fall has resulted in riot.

Flies had raised their cries to the Caesar:  
“We are all very much so squeezed.”
Then Nichephor approached  
An adorable kind of old geezer…

F. M. Dostoevsky, «The Possessed»,
From the poems of Captain Lebyadkin.  


Андрей Белый (1885)

Andrei Belyi (Bugaev, 1880-1934) was mostly known during his lifetime as a premier Symbolist poet. But now his poems look artsy and dated. Yet, he produced the novel "petersburg", which many consider the Russian answer to Joyce. It is three or four times shorter than "Ulysses" but is certainly one of the most important novels written in Russian in the XX Century. Ironically, Joyce also wrote poems and they were classicist in style and secondary in value. Yet, Joyce's poetic genius is unarguable given his "Ballad of Persse O'Reilly" in Finnegan's Wake. This couplet (from a provocative, to the point of obscenity, song allegedly sang in the society ball in his novel) suggests what Belyi could have become if his Anthroposophic mysticism would not get better of his poetic talent. 

Von Sulitz’ gone, Senator’s gone
In quickly disparition.
The streets, the wards, the yards
Are borne of terrible conclusions.
A patriotic dog he was;
He carried full regalia
But terroristic acts performed
Today by all rapscallion.

Уехали фон Сулицы,
Уехал Аблеухов.
Больницы, гавань, улицы,
Полны зловещих слухов.

Он—пес патриотический,
Носил отличий знаки,
Но акт террористический
Свершает ныне всякий.

А. Белый, «Петербург»

The portrait of Belyi as a child is not random. No other Russian author, may be with the exception of Tolstoi, had so much of his writings dedicated and/or borrowed from the impressions of his childhood and early youth. Because of his anthroposophic leanings, he also fancied himself a kind-of a visionary, a self-assessment which was somewhat justified...


- "Мир - взлетит!" -
Сказал, взрываясь, Фридрих Нитче...

Мир рвался в опытах Кюри
Атомной лопнувшею бомбой
На электронные струи
Невоплощенной гекатомбой;

А. Белый, отрывок из "Первое свидание", 1921.
Источник: Андрей Белый. Сочинения в 2-х томах. М.: Худ. литература, 1990. Том 1.

        “The world explodes” –
That said imploding Friedrich Nietzsche…

The world was blasted by Curie
By rapturing atomic bomb
On streams of electronic jets—
The disembodied hecatomb.

A.    Belyi, Excerpt from “My first date”, 1921






The most scathing critique of the Soviet regime came not from the old walruses of the Tsarist Russia but in a form of the novel "Chivingur" by the young Communist organizer, Andrei Platonov (Klimentov, 1899-1951). An absolute shock, which this novel has produced was because its author was not entirely unsympathetic to the Communist ideology but also its language. For what was undeniably the greatest novel written in Russian in twentieth century, Platonov invented his own synthetic language based partly on the Communist Newspeak and partly on the jargon of semi-literate and semi-urbanized peasants who formed the backbone of armies on all sides of the Civil War and the new Soviet bureaucracy but also remained the people for whom and in whose name the Revolution was ostensibly conducted. He partially repeated this feat of genius in "The Pit", in which the Soviet state is imagined as bottomless pit swallowing the lives of its diggers, literally and metaphorically. 
        As a genius through and through, he was a very lonely man. To survive in the increasingly hostile atmosphere of Stalinist USSR, he had to dumb down his talent and normalize his language. But his unusual, almost alien outlook broke through even in his later, much weaker short stories. The poems below were written during his youth when he proposed a radical Communist idea of total destruction of the individual and dissolution of human into masses. Yet in some of his late, censored short stories ("Fro", "The Violin of Sartorius"), characters disappear in the "happily ever after" end without much explanation when their suffering is gone. In a short story, "The Garbage Wind", the citizens of the totalitarian state (which meant Nazi Germany for obvious reasons) literally de-evolve into animals growing fur and acquiring canines, which morph their faces into snouts. He remained an iconoclast to the last breath. 


2

Третий год я был комсомолистом,
В сентябре мне стало двадцать лет.
Ни оратором, ни красным гармонистом
Я не значился—
Имел пустой билет.

--Что же Ваня, ты бы хоть влюбился
Или станцию построил на ручье,
Видишь—комсомол зашился,
А ты бродишь как ничей!

                        2

My three years in Communist League (Komsomol)—
In September I will be two scores old.
I did not make it into a Party orator
Or studied an accordion.
My report card has nothing in it.

―Vasya, you must at least fall in love
Or install hydropower at our brook.
See—the Komsomol is all sucked up in it
And you hang out like common twit…

A.    Platonov (Excerpt from “Ivan & Mary”, 1921-1926) 


Friday, September 21, 2012

Dmitry Prigov (1940-2007)


Дмитрий Пригов





Пригов. Черномырдин. (D. Prigov. Chernomyrdin, Russian Prime Minister, 1938-2010 and Yogi Berra of Russia)

By the early sixties Russian poetry came to a standstill. It was dominated by shallow water philistinism or kukish v karmane―literally, middle finger in one’s pocket―covert bites against Soviet Communism, sometimes so obscure, that only the authors themselves could explain their purported civic message. Mandelstam and Kharms were long dead, proscribed and forgotten by everybody except a small band of standard-bearers (Oberiyt I. Bakhterev, and Chinar Druskin in the case of Kharms) and close personal friends (Mandelstam’s widow Nadezhda).  Pasternak was already in his grave, though, for preceding decade, his time and thoughts were occupied mainly by his prose projects. Anna Akhmatova, Grand Dame of Russian poetry was infirm and died soon. Mr. Brodsky, the future Poet Laureate of the United States, was becoming famous but more as an uncompromising rebel, than a top-notch literary figure, which he became in exile, a kind of overweight John Dean. Suddenly, from nowhere, there materialized a sculpture student, short even by the standards of Russian conceptualist: his gnomic silhouette was at least once used as the cameo in the flick “Taxi blues” by Pavel Loungin. 
          Many people at the time even thought that his legal name was a pseudonym, derived from the English prick.  His incessant narrations, clippings from the Soviet Newspeak, street mumblings, cycles studying a “subject”: God, People or Love, immediately took center stage in Soviet avant-garde. Prigov was the only modernist poet I can remember, whose poems were distributed, oh no, not in Samizdat even, but on recorder tapes read by the sardonic voice of their author. For Dima, the Bohr's eulogy that the world might remember Einstein as a great scientist but for his personal acquaintances he will always be remembered as a great friend would be equally applicable. 
          His conceptualist drawings consisting of lines, language fragments and monsters, and his tireless energy in organizing underground exhibitions, poetry readings and happenings of Soviet avant-garde changed Russian literary landscape forever and provided him a firm place among such catalysts of novel art in all its forms and shapes as Gumilev or Guillaume Apollinaire. But his poetry is exquisite, too. 

.................................................................................................................................................
Remarkably, out of his reported 33 thousand poems it is hard to select a few, which are representative or even comprehensible without inclusion in his monumental cycles like Милицанер (The Pollissman) or the series of his Obituaries. But this one was published on one remembrance site and is quite fit as his epitaph.


Сжигать все до последней птицы
И убегать в свою берлогу –
Такой вот партизанский принцип
И выше - партизанский логос
Не то, чтобы здесь всякий занят
Подобным, но мы партизане
Отчасти
Все
Отчасти
Кроме тех редких, кто
                                    полностью

To burn the everything till the last bird
And run to own lair--
This is a law of a guerrilla/partisan warfare
and higher still--its logos
Not even that is everyone is busy
As partisan as such
But some we all are
Partially
Everybody
Partially
Except for those rare who

                                   Entirely

This short poem about the battle of Kulikovo (1380)--a pivotal event in Russian history--is the most unusual (if such term can be applied to D. P.). It shows the battle from G-d perspective and, moreover, from the perspective of doubting and vacillating G-d. Battle of Kulikovo was won by the Russians but avenged by Tartars only two years later in a sack of Moscow. Yet, the victory of Kulikovo was a definitive event in a creation of the Russian nation from disparate Eastern Slavic tribes.


Куликовская битва

Вот всех я по местам расставил
Вот этих справа я поставил
Вот этих слева я поставил
Всех прочих на потом оставил
Поляков на потом оставил
Французов на потом оставил
И немцев на потом оставил
Вот ангелов своих наставил
И сверху воронов поставил
И прочих птиц вверху поставил
А снизу поле предоставил
Для битвы поле предоставил
Его деревьями уставил
Дубами-елями уставил
Кустами кое-где обставил
Травою мягкой застелил
Букашкой мелкой населил
Пусть будет все, как я представил
Пусть все живут, как я заставил
Пусть все умрут, как я заставил
Так победят сегодня русские
Ведь неплохие парни русские
И девки неплохие русские
Они страдали много, русские
Терпели ужасы нерусские
Так победят сегодня русские

Что будет здесь, коль уж сейчас
Земля крошится уж сейчас
И небо пыльно уж сейчас
Породы рушатся подземные
И воды мечутся подземные
И твари мечутся подземные
И люди бегают наземные
Туда-сюда бегут приземные
И птицы поднялись надземные
Все птицы-вороны надземные

А все ж татары поприятнее
И имена их поприятнее
И голоса их поприятнее
Да и повадка поприятнее
Хоть русские и поопрятнее
А все ж татары поприятнее

Так пусть татары победят
Отсюда все мне будет видно
Татары, значит, победят...
А впрочем — завтра будет видно

© Д.А.Пригов


The Battle of Kulikovo

I here put all them in place
These--to the right place
And others--to the left
I left all others for the future
The Poles I left for near future
The French I left for distant future
And also Germans for the future

I put my angels everywhere
And put the ravens over here
And other birds put over there
The field presented down here
The battle field is down here

I put the trees all over here
The oak, fir trees over here
And yet some bushes--here and there
The grass will soft be down there
The smallish bugs will crawl there
Let all it be as I perceived
Let all yet live as I conceived
Let all yet die as I conceived

Because they will win today, the Russians
Because they are fine lads, the Russians
And Russian girls are also fine
They suffered so much those Russians
They suffered horrors from non-Russians
So they must win today

What will here happen if this now
The Earth is crumbling here now
And sky is dusty even now
The ores are crumbling underground
The waters whirl in underground
And beasts are running underground
And people are running overground
All to and fro run near ground
And birds are flying over ground
All birds and ravens over ground

But tartars are a little bit nicer
Their names are also a bit nicer
Their voices are all over nicer
And their customs are much nicer
Though Russians are a kind-a neater
But tartars are nicer altogether

So let then tartars win today
I will see everything from here
The tartars shall get their victory...
However--we'll see tomorrow

This short poem was written when Perestroika threatened to destabilize a convenient totalitarian "paradise" with all its certainties. As always Prigov was absolutely right...


Нам всем грозит свобода
Свобода без конца
Без выхода, без входа
Без матери-отца

Посередине Руси,
За весь прошедший век
И я ее страшуся
Как честный человек

We're threatened by th' freed'm
The freed'm of no sense
Without even parents
Without means and ends

In midst of Mother Russia
For all the past eons
And I'm afraid of freed'm
As honorable man


Friday, September 14, 2012

Nina Iskrenko (1951-1995)



Нина Искренко, конец 80-х годов

“Don’t touch us by your Holy Hand, O Thee” (N. Iskrenko, Referendum, from The Cycle of Phoebes). Nina Iskrenko, the muse of the Second Conceptualist wave was educated as a physicist and grew up to become one of the most bitter and uncompromising poets of her generation. Before her untimely and painful death from cancer, she became born-again Christian and wrote a cycle of spiritual poems largely defying her earlier, somewhat ribald message. 

The Cycle of Phoebes (88).

THE GHOST
(Oedipus Monologue)
I am almost old           for shedding tears
I am almost sober        to be stoned
There are many windows        or faces
I have lost my memory           memory only

I am in attainder          or attachment             Don’t remember
I am lawful brother     to my lawful children
There are many windows        Dark on darkness
Look like faces            or they look like stones
Somebody is coming   very busy
Says      Let’s do a revolution
Pharisees all     and Darkness nightly
I don’t go        guys     I swear
Swear Grin      You are a rat   You will be

Grin     caress the uniforms slightly
Their battle horses munch the grasses
Take away your monkey wrench You bastard
I am not your              deputy-in-waiting

I am almost dead        for this horn locking
I am almost blind        for this red cloak
I have almost nails      that pierced my ears
And one leg    that stuck in a well somewhat

I don’t vote     for slightest anybody
I abide in forest           eating chestnuts
Walls of city would not          could not save me
 ‘Cause I would not    could not save them

I am only king             abstain I cannot
I can only press           my wine by hand thus rotten
Throw off my bloody bloody towel
From my one antiquity to other

I don’t vote     For anybody anymore
‘Cause this is not         what will save us




Призрак
 (монолог Эдипа)

Я немного старый     чтобы выпить
И немного трезвый чтоб колоться
Здесь так много окон            Или это лица
У меня отшибло        только память

Я в опале        Или во поле   Не помню
Я законный брат       своим сынам законным
Здесь так много окон            черные на черном
Словно лица  Или это камни

Тут пришли какие-то            хлопочут
говорят           Айда на баррикады
Фарисейство мол      и Сумрак Ночи
Не пойду        ребята             Гадом буду
Ухмыляются              мол будешь    будешь гадом

Ухмыляются             поглаживают китель
Кони их пощипывают травку
Убери ты к черту монтировку
Я тебе не первый заместитель

Я немного мертвый чтоб бодаться
и немного слеп для красной тряпки
У меня в ушах           немного гвозди
и одна нога    чуть-чуть в колодце

Я ни за кого   не голосую
Я живу в лесу                        и ем каштаны
Не спасут меня родные стены
Если даже я их не спасаю

Я всего лишь царь    И мне не отвертеться
Мне давить вино       повапленной             рукою
и махать кровавым полотенцем
из одной античности в другую

Я ни за кого не голосую
потому что это не спасает



March of the Epigones


                        He who is born
Thereafter
                        Brings down
                        Not built

We were thrown by our youth
under rolling stones
We were led by youthfulness
pissing in chain gangs
We were told by youthfulness
to mix up all means and ends
And we were wished our happiness
on edges of Gulag

Taught us straight our youthfulness
            to defer to lieutenants
Measure by centimeter
ceiling in one’s cell
Catch on homemade radar
BBC and the Voice America’s
quaff without sleep remorse
write to Kremlin chiefs

We were screwed by our youthfulness’
devilish cartwheels
Youth enticed us solemnly
as the double-breasted Brezhnev
Years of hard labor
had repaired us
Virgin lands of penal camps 
truly shaped us up
So we would not look like wolves
towards greener pastures
Now cannot even think we
to abandon food lines
Now cannot even think we
to ditch the working mass

Physicos and psychos
Docs and fags of science
Blueberries and bluebirds
Aces and the kings
Samovars and kettles
Our bosses-citizens
Chukchi and Arzakhi tribes
Dogs and armed guards

Save your youth          your beautiful
from bewitched eye
on the oak hanger
in the fireproof safe
not to be corrupted
by an alien microbe
safe from being blemished by
bad record on a file

Save your youth
your willowy
over river standing by
so that nothing goes
save your bloody principles
save your bloody nuts
Middle fingers in your pockets
Drugs and ration cards

For the sewn and patched
and beaten
            though not yet eaten
our godfather
the hunchbacked stooge

                        Our bloody youthfulness
                        useful as youthfulness
                        our plump-oh-youthfulness
                        our full-of-crap
                        It is like a molten glass
                        as shoelace at stake
                        everybody fed up with
                        everybody faced

Sleep like bloody winners
Wake like bloody winners
As the bloody winners
everything we duck
We have our youth to us
our commie youthfulness
eternal as youthfulness
sturdy as a fuck




Поход эпигонов
                       
                        Рожденный
                        после
                        ломать
                        Не строит

Нас водила молодость
под лежачий камень
Нас водила молодость
строем по нужде
Величала молодость
корешки вершками
и желала счастья нам
в далекой Кулунде

Научила уступать
старшим
            лейтенантам
мерить сантиметрами
площадь потолка
и локатором ловить
голос континента
и глушить без просыпа
и писать в ЦК

Нас имела молодость
на колесах чертовых
Нас манила молодость
словно грудь четвертого
Трудовым почином
починили нас
Чтобы не глядели мы
словно волки в лес
Чтобы и не вздумали
отойти от касс
отойти от масс

Физики и шизики
Медики и педики
Чижики и пыжики
Тузы и короли

Самовары-чайники
Граждане-начальники
Чукчи и арцахи
Псы и патрули

Берегите молодость
от дурного сглаза
на дубовой вешалке
в номерном шкафу
чтобы не пристала к ней
чуждая зараза
чтобы не пришили ей
пункт или графу

Берегите молодость
ивушку зеленую
над рекой склоненную
пóд-воду-концы
Берегите принципы
орешки каленые
фигушки карманные
талоны и шприцы

Шитому и крытому
досыта-не-битому
шептуну горбатому
крестному отцу

                        Всем потрафит молодость
                        наша душка-молодость
                        наша пышка-молодость
                        наша гоп-ца-ца
                        Вся она как стеклышко
                        от шнурка до колышка
                        всем она под горлышко
                        всем она к лицу

Спим как победители
Бдим как победители
Нас как победителям
все плывет само
С нами наша молодость
наша комсомолодость
вечная как молодость
прочная как чмо 


Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Ossip Mandelstam (1891-1938)


Genius 




О. Мандельштам (1919)

In a straw poll among connoisseurs of the Russian poetry on the greatest XXth century Russian poet,  Mandelstam the Jew would likely come as No.1. Unsurprisingly, he perished in Stalin's concentration camps, probably from typhus or anorexia induced by the camp food. What is surprising, is that fellow Akmeist Akhmatova and Nobel Prize winner Pasternak, both close personal acquaintances, while recognizing him as a major poet, did not accrued to him the fame of the greatest poet of their generation. His widow, Nadezhda, after his death (and the death of Stalin) emerged as a major literary figure in her own right, and was, by the opinion of many in Moscow society, undeservedly avoided by the Nobel Committee for her bitter and opinionated, but truly epic memoirs, “Hope against hope“. Translations only vaguely transmit full brilliance of his poetry, which, like Pushkin’s, remains a difficult crack for the translator because of its deceitful transparency. 


Rimboesque romantic (1914)

Equinox


That’s orioles in woods and vowels thus disperse.

Duration—is the verse’s only meter.

But only once the nature stretches longitude

to follow hexameters of Homer.

Caesura rules this year’s longest day—

From morning—rest and then, procrastinations.
The oxen went to pasture and we are at golden loss
to coax from a reed whole note of jubilation. 

 Равноденствие.  


Есть иволги в лесах и гласных долгота
В тонических стихах единственная мера,
Но только раз в году бывает разлита
В природе длительность, как в метрике Гомера.
Как бы цезурою зияет этот день:
Уже с утра покой и трудные длинноты,
Волы на пастбище и золотая лень
Из тростника извлечь богатство целой ноты.

1914. 

Я не слыхал рассказов Оссиана,
Не пробовал старинного вина;
Зачем же мне мерещится поляна,
Шотландии кровавая луна?

И перекличка ворона и арфы
Мне чудится в зловещей тишине;
И ветром развеваемые шарфы
Дружинников мелькают при луне!

Я получил блаженное наследство —
Чужих певцов блуждающие сны;
Свое родство и скучное соседство
Мы презирать заведомо вольны.

И не одно сокровище, быть может,
Минуя внуков, к правнукам уйдет;
И снова скальд чужую песню сложит
И, как свою, ее произнесет.

1914

The Ossianic tales I neither hear 
Nor ever being drunk by ancient wines;
Why then I always dream the forest clearing,
With bloody moon of Scotland in the skies?  

The intercourse between the harps and raven 
I hear in the sinister of night;
And splattering the scarves of knightly riders,
By wind and under moon's pallid light. 

I have inherited the blessed provenance--
The wand'ring dreams of old forgotten brood. 
We can as always despise ancestors,  
Or our own boring neighborhood. 

A many, of a many worldly treasure
Bypassing grandsons, to the grand-grandsons will go;
And the new Skald will sing the song most alien,
But will pronounce it as if his own. 

In contrast to Khlebnikov, Mandelstam is still inadequately translated into English. Translations of Raffel and Burago are simply unprofessional. John Glad is very accurate in translating Mandelstam's imagery but he completely ignores the rhythmic and musical structure of his verse. The problem with Mandelstam, Pushkin, T. S. Eliot and other national geniuses is that English non-rhymed poetry would appear as a prose in Russian, while the fully rhymed cadence imitating Russian would sound monotone in English. In my view, the closest to the original were the translations of Irina Zheleznova (Progress, 1981) but as non-native bearers of English tongue we are not here to judge. [I failed so far to find translations of Mandelstam into German by Paul Celan, which must be more adequate than existing English translations.]--see below translation of Гомер. Бессонница. Тугие паруса... 


Unlike drop-dead gorgeous suicides Mayakovsky and Yesenin, Mandelstam escaped the posthumous mummification by the Soviet "socialist realism" school. His post-Soviet monuments are not bad. This is a head model for his Moscow monument. 

The translation by Irina Zheleznova, which is, in my view, the closest to Mandelstam's own meter and choice of words:

Золотистого меда струя из бутылки текла
Так тягуче и долго, что молвить хозяйка успела:
“Здесь, в печальной Тавриде, куда нас судьба занесла,
Мы совсем не скучаем”,— и через плечо поглядела.

Всюду Бахуса службы, как будто на свете одни
Сторожа и собаки,—идешь—никого не заметишь.
Как тяжелые бочки, спокойные катятся дни,
Далеко в шалаше голоса—не поймешь,
не ответишь.

После чаю мы вышли в огромный коричневый сад,
Как ресницы—на окнах опущены темные шторы
Мимо белых колонн мы пошли посмотреть виноград,
Где воздушным стеклом обливаются сонные горы.

Я сказал: “Виноград, как старинная битва, живет,
Где курчавые всадники бьются в кудрявом порядке
В каменистой Тавриде наука Эллады,—и вот
Золотых десятин благородные ржавые грядки”.

Ну, а в комнате белой как прялка стоит тишина.
Пахнет уксусом, краской и свежим вином из подвала.  
Помнишь, в греческом доме: любимая всеми жена—
Не Елена, другая,—как долго она вышивала.

Золотое руно, где же ты, золотое руно?
Всю дорогу шумели морские тяжелые волны,
И, покинув корабль, натрудивший в морях полотно,
Одиссей возвратился, пространством и временем полный.

1917


From the bottle the gold liquid flowed in so viscous a stream
That my hostess had time to pronounce, its slow progress beholding:
“In this cheerless Taurida, where fate brought us, we do not seem
To be any too bored.” And she glanced, smiling, over her shoulder.

With the outfits of Bacchus the place teems—wherever you go,
Dogs and watchmen… As slowly as ponderous barrels the placid
Days roll on… Far away, in a tent, voices sound, but they’re so
Hushed, you know they don’t want to be heard and don’t ask to be answered.

After tea, in the spacious brown garden we walked… On the panes
Like dark lashes the blinds lay… The sunshine was fierce, it was
                                                                                                  glaring…
Past white columns we went for a look at the vineyard again.
O’er the somnolent hills molten glass poured, transparent and airy.

And I said: “Don’t the vines look like frizzy-haired horsemen that ride
Plume-decked chargers, and battle in corkscrew formation and order?
Of the Hellenes the wisdom in rocky Taurida applied…
And the noble result: beds of fruit, rich and fragrant and golden.”

Silence stands in the room like a spinning wheel; faint
Smells of vinegar fill it, and whitewash, and wine from the cellar.
You remember the well-loved young wife in the Greek home?—No, wait!
She sat over her sewing for years and her name was not Helen.

Golden Fleece, where are you to be found, o where Golden Fleece?
How the waves played and sang, how they hissed in their wild fits of rancor.
Lo! Odysseus is back, he is back, full of time and of space,
And his ship with its sea-battered canvas rides weary of anchor. 

Петербургские строфы


Н. Гумилёву


Над желтизной правительственных зданий
Кружилась долго мутная метель,
И правовед опять садится в сани,
Широким жестом запахнув шинель.

Зимуют пароходы. На припёке
Зажглось каюты толстое стекло.
Чудовищна, как броненосец в доке, —
Россия отдыхает тяжело.

А над Невой — посольства полумира,
Адмиралтейство, солнце, тишина!
И государства жёсткая порфира,
Как власяница грубая, бедна.

Тяжка́ обуза северного сноба —
Онегина старинная тоска;
На площади Сената — вал сугроба,
Дымок костра и холодок штыка…

Черпа́ли воду ялики, и чайки
Морские посещали склад пеньки́,
Где, продавая сбитень или сайки,
Лишь оперны́е бродят мужики.

Летит в туман моторов вереница;
Самолюбивый, скромный пешеход —
Чудак Евгений — бедности стыдится,
Бензин вдыхает и судьбу клянёт!

<январь 1913, 1927>

St. Petersburg Strophes 

To N. Gumilev 

Over the yellowish facades of civic buildings
The blizzard swirled around for so long,
Attorney wig hires a sled to something,
By his broad gesture shutting uniform.  

Stopped are the steamers. Wintry sun is glaring
At us through lenses of the cabin's socket.
And gruesome as some dreadnought,--
All Russia slumbers heavily in dock.  

But o'er sunny Neva--are the Embassies 
Of the whole world and Admiralty's spire!
In silence, coarse as the poor hermit's robe,
Is heavy purple mantle of Empire. 

Dark are the Northern snobbish chores--
Onegin's--dandy's ancient shibboleth;
There, on the Senate Plaza--heaps of snow,
Guardsman's fire and cold bayonet...

Chebecs and sloops were there probing water, 
Sea dwellers visited warehouse of the hemp,
Where selling knishes and hard cider,
Theatrical moujiks ply their daily trades. 

The motor cars fly into mists of river,
A proud and a modest goer-by,
The Eugene fella shameful  and queer,
Smells gas and scolds his miserable life.  

German translation by Paul Celan, truer to original than any previous English translation:

Бессонница. Гомер. Тугие паруса.
Я список кораблей прочел до середины.
Сей длинный выводок, сей поезд журавлиный.
Что над Элладою когда-то поднялся.

Как журавлиный клин в чужие рубежи,
На головах царей божественная пена...
Куда плывете вы? Когда бы не Елена,
Что Троя вам одна, ахейские мужи.

И море, и Гомер все движимо любовью,
Куда же деться мне? И вот Гомер молчит...
И море Черное, витийствуя, шумит,
И с страшным грохотом подходит к изголовью...

1915



Schaflosigkeit. Homer. Ich las im Schiffverzeichnis,
Ich las, ich kam nicht weit:
Der Streich der Kraniche, der zug der jungen Hecke
Hoch über Hellas, einst for Zeit und Aberzeit.

Wie jener Kranichkeil, im Fremdestes getrieben—
Die Kopfe, kaiserlich, der Gottesshaam, drauf, feucht—
Ihr schwebt, ihr schwimmt—wohin? War Helena nicht drüben,
Achaër, solch ein Troja, ich frag, was galt es euch?

Homer, die Meere, beides: die Liebe, sie bewegtes
Wem lausch ich wen hör ich? Sich da, er schweigt, Homer
Das Meer, das Schwarz beredte, an dieses Ufer shlagt es,
Zu Häupten hör ichs tosen, es fand den Weg hierher.

(5:91)


Übersetzung by P. Celan. Cit. by Anna Glazova, MLN, Vol. 123(5), Dec. 2008, pp. 1108-1126.