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RRussianussian PoetryPoetry
Mikhail Lermontov
* * * No, I’m not Byron, it’s my role My shatt ered aspirations lie: To be an undiscovered wonder, Dark ocean answer me, can any Like him, a persecuted wand’rer, Plumb all your depth with skillful But furnished with a Russian soul. trawl? I started sooner, sooner ending, Who will explain me to the many? My mind will never reach so high; I… perhaps God?.. No one at all? Within my soul, beyond the mending, Translated by Alan Myers herald of europe 7 2010 123 THE SAIL What cared he for our speech and glory, Th e faith and honor of our land? Amid the blue haze of the ocean How could he know, the blind despiser, A sail is passing, white and frail. Against whom in hate he raised his hand? What do you seek in a far country? Oh, slain! Our glory is no more! What have you left at home, lone sail? Like the slain hero of his story dear Th e billows play, the breezes whistle, To us, the prey of jealous fear, And rhythmically creaks the mast. Th e youth he sang in verses full and clear, Alas, you seek no happy future, Our poet is no more!.. Nor do you fl ee a happy past. Why did he leave the quiet ways of friendship plain? Below the mirrored azure brightens, Why did he seek a world where envy and disdain Above the golden rays increase — Th e mind and heart impassioned overthrow? But you, wild rover, pray for tempests Why did he clasp the hands of slanderers so base, As if in tempests there was peace! Believe their lying words, their false embrace, He who from youth had learned mankind to know? Translated by Vladimir Nabokov Th ey took the poet’s crown away; a wreath Of thorn and laurel on him they laid, and now Its hidden spines with cruel sting THE POET’S DEATH Have seared his loft y brow… Designing whisperers and craft y tongues Th e poet is dead, a slave to honor, Maddened his days, and fi lled with hate his rest. A sacrifi ce to slander, — dead! And thus he died, athirst with vain revenge, With a cry of vengeance on his lips, With hopes defeated in his warring breast. He bowed at last his kingly head. Th e sounds of song divine are still, His spirit could no longer bear Never on earth again to peal: Dishonor, infamy, and pain; Th e Singer’s bed is dark and chill; Alone he rose once more against Upon his lips, the twilight seal… A hostile world, but now he’s slain. Slain! Of what use your grief and tears, Translated by Eugene M. Kayden Your barren praise beside his tomb, Your cringing words of vindication, When destiny has sealed his doom? * * * You hounded him and long had stifl ed But you, the spawn of worldly pride, His free and wondrous song and fame! Breed of corruption, infamy, and shame, You fanned, for pleasure and amusement, And you, who crush with servile heel His silent passions to a fl ame! Th e remnants of the lowly name, — Rejoice outright! Before the fi nal Hangmen of freedom, glory, thought, Sorrow his head he would not bow: A greedy pack who swarm around the throne, — Now dark the light divine, and faded You hide behind the shadow of the law, Th e crown of glory on his brow. And mock at right and justice overthrown! Th e ruthless slayer dealt his blow But God is just! A mighty judge, our God, With cold and calculated aim; O men of crime! He waits! His heart was blind, his hand was steady, Th e clink of gold will not avail! And straight the cruel path of fl ame. He knows your infamies and hates! Why stare in wonder, why bewildered? Your slander then will help no more, An adventurer of an alien race, Nor will the sullen fl ood He came, like other greedy seekers Of your black gore then wash away Aft er fortune and offi cial place. Th e poet’s righteous blood!
Translated by Eugene M. Kayden
Like beauty’s spirit, past you fl ew. Long since, when hopeless grief distressed me, When noise and turmoil vexed, it seemed Your voice still tenderly caressed me, Your dear face sought me as I dreamed. Years passed; their stormy gusts confounded And swept away old dreams apace. I had forgott en how you sounded, Forgot the heaven of your face. In exiled gloom and isolation My quiet days meandered on, Th e thrill of awe and inspiration * * * And life, and tears, and love, were gone. I’ve lived to bury my desires, My soul awoke from inanition, And see my dreams corrode with rust; And I encountered you anew, Now all that’s left are fruitless fi res And like a fl eeting apparition, Th at burn my empty heart to dust. Like beauty’s spirit, past you fl ew. Struck by the storms of cruel Fate My pulses bound in exultation, My crown of summer bloom is sere; And in my heart once more unfold Alone and sad I watch and wait, Th e sense of awe and inspiration, And wonder if the end is near. Th e life, the tears, the love of old. As conquered by the last cold air, When winter whistles in the wind, Translated by Walter Arndt Alone upon a branch that’s bare A trembling leaf is left behind. THOU AND YOU Translated by Maurice Baring Th e pale «you are» by warm «thou art» Th rough careless slip of tongue replacing, NIGHT She sent within the love-struck heart All sorts of happy fancies racing. My murmurous soliloquy of thee oppresses I stand before her all beguiled; Th e hush of midnight with its languorous caresses. I stare at her, and the old Adam Beside the couch whereon I drowsing lie there glows Blurts out: You are all kindness, Madam! A fretful candle, and my verse wells up and fl ows And thinks: God, how I love thee, child! Till purling streams of love, full-carged with thee, run through me. Translated by Walter Arndt Th en, shimmering through the dusk, thy lustrous eves turn to me, Th ey smile at me and make a whisper as they shine: * * * My dearest, tender one... my love... I’m thine... I’m thine. Blest he who at your fancy’s pleasure Your dreamy, languid ardor won, Translated by Walter Arndt Whose every glance you heed and treasure, Before all eyes by love undone; But pity him who, heart and bowels TO... With love’s consuming fl ame ablaze, Must hear in silence your avowals, I recollect that wondrous meeting, While jealous anguish clouds his gaze. Th at instant I encountered you, When like an apparition fl eeting, Translated by Walter Arndt
herald of europe 7 2010 125 Fyodor Tyutchev
* * * Th e Georgian hills above lie shrouded in the night; Aragva churns down in the hollow, I feel both sad and gay, my grief suff used with light; Your presence permeates my sorrow, Just you and you alone... My melancholy fi t Is undisturbed, no outside thing to bother, My heart once more is warmed to love, and it * * * Must love, for it can do no other. Old Winter justly rages! Her days are nearly past. Translated by Alan Myers Fair Spring raps on the window And chases Winter fast. And now all Nature hustles * * * Th e Winter witch along; I loved you once: of love, perhaps, an ember Th e skylarks in the azure Within my soul is not extinguished yet; Soar high with peals of song. But let that be no prompting to remember, Old Winter frets and grumbles Or be a cause of sadness or regret. At her rival angrily; I loved you once, quite hopeless, dumbly tender, But Spring pipes even louder By jealousy and diffi dence oppressed; And laughs out merrily. I loved you once with such complete surrender Old Winter fumes and rages, As may God grant you may again be blessed. And scampering away, She hurls a snowball fl ying Translated by Alan Myers At the fair child of May. Away with care and trouble! Spring laves her face in snow A MONUMENT And, rosier than morning, She shines despite her foe. I’ve raised myself no statue made with hands; Th e People’s path to it no weeds will hide. Translated by Eugene M. Kayden Rising with no submissive head, it stands Above the pillar of Napoleon’s pride. No! I shall never die; in sacred strains POETRY My soul survives my dust, and fl ies decay — And famous shall I be, while there remains Amidst the thunder, tempest, fi re, A single Poet ‘neath the light of day. Amidst their boiling, swirling ire, Th rough all great Russia will go forth my fame, In fl aming strife and disarray And every tongue in it will name my name; From heaven to the earth she fl ies And by the nation long shall I be loved, With azure brightness in her eyes Because my lyre their nobler feelings moved; To live among the sons of clay, — Because I strove to serve them with my song, And on the wild tumultuous sea And called forth mercy for the fallen throng. She pours the oil of harmony. Hear God’s command, О Muse, obediently, Nor dread reproach, nor claim the Poet’s bay; Translated by Eugene M. Kayden To praise and blame alike indiff erent be, And let fools say their say! OUR AGE Translated by John Pollen No sickness of the fl esh, our present plight; Our souls are sick, denying life, yet grieving.
We strive in gloom for light; yet fi nding light, 126 Rebellious, we repine, still unbelieving. Th at all their warmth to me impart… Withered and spent by unbelief, the soul As in late autumn, bleak and bare, Endures woes unendurable, not daring Th ere chances an enchanting day To pray for faith, yet knowing it has no goal When spicy scents waft in the air Nor hope in life through days of long despairing. And thrill us through like scents of May, — Our age will not cry out in tears, nor pray, So, bringing back the past that captures Although we wait before closed doors in grief By young emotions’ glare and blaze, For man’s salvation. We cannot humbly say: Gone into long-forgott en raptures, «Lord, I believe! Help Th ou my unbelief!» I glut myself with your sweet traits… As if an age-long separation Translated by Eugene M. Kayden How bids me gaze so avidly, And hark to bells of pure elation Which never ceased to ring in me… K.B. It is not a remembrance only, I’ve met you — and now all the by-gone Here life itself revives anew, Revives in my senescent heart, And selfsame charm pervades you wholly, I’ve called to mind the moments golden And selfsame love I feel for you…
Translated by Alexander Pokido
Osip Mandelstam
He alone points at us and thunders. He forges order aft er order like horseshoes, Hurling them at the groin, the forehead, the brow, the eye. Th e broad-breasted boss from the Cuacasus Savours each execution like an exquisite sweet.
Translated by Richard and Elizabeth McKane
* * * We are alive but no longer feel the land under our feet, THE OCTETS [A FRA GMENT] You can’t hear what we say from ten steps away, But when anyone half-starts a conversation 7 Th ey mention the mountain man of the Kremlin. And Schubert in water and Mozart in the language His thick fi ngers are like worms, of birds His words ring as heavy weights. And Goethe, whistling along a tortuous path, His cockroach moustache laughs, And Hamlet, his fearful steps a kind of thought, And the tops of his tall boots shine. All took the pulse of the crowd and trusted the crowd. Perhaps there was whispering before lips were born He is surrounded by his scrawny necked henchmen, And leaves swirled a treeless land, And plays with the services of non-entities. And they, to whom we dedicate experience, Someone whistles, someone miaows and another Had substance before it. whimpers, Translated by John Riley
* Mandelstam Osip “What Agony! To Search for a Lost Word…”Moscow: VAGRIUS, 2008. ISBN 978-5-9697-0591-3. P.282-283; 284-285.
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