GETS
__COMPILERS__
Compiled by Vladimir Ognev
and Dorian Rottenberg
Progress Publishers • Moscow
[1] __COPYRIGHT__ First printing 1969HHTb^ECHT COBETCKHX IIO3TOB
---BjiaflHMHp OriieB H flopnan PoTTeuSepr (Ha pgccKOM u amjiuucitoM aaa-
__NOTE__ "Printed in.." was HERE; moved under "First printing..." [2] CONTENTS Introduction............11 IRAKLI ABASHIDZE To the Poets of India. Translated by Dorian Rottenberg...........19 MARGARITA ALIGHER My Path. Translated by Olga Shartse . . 25 The Lucky Two. Translated by Olga Shartse 29 Yes and No. Translated by Olga Shartse 31 PAVEL ANTOKOLSKY The Dramatis Personae Have Their Say. Translated by Avril Pyman.....35 My Conviction. Translated by Avril Pyman 39 NIKOLAI ASEYEV There Are Some Folk Who Money Covet. Translated by Eugene Felgenhauer ... 43 Nightingale. Translated by Eugene Felgenhauer .............47 BELLA AKHMADULINA December. Translated by Peter Tempest 53 Scooter. Translated by Peter Tempest . . 57 ANNA AKHMATOVA Our Sacred Craft... Translated by Irina Zheleznova...........63 This Russian Soil. Translated by Irina Zheleznova...........65 Thirteen Lines. Translated by Irina Zheleznova ............67 Do Not Speak of the North... Translated by Irina Zheleznova.........69 Three Poems. Translated by Irina Zheleznova .............71 [3] The Fourth. Translated by Irina Zheleznova.............75 OLGA BERGHOLTZ From a Wayfarer's Letters (II, V). Translated by A vril Pyman......81 Indian Summer. Translated by A vril Pyman 85 PETRUS BROVKA Life's Beginning. Translated by Olga Shartse ...........89 The Oakleaf. Translated by Olga Shartse 93 OJARS VACIETIS Before the Operation. Translated by Louis Zellikoff ...........97 A Valediction. Translated by Louis Zellikoff 101 AARON VERGELIS A Day of Open Hearts. Translated by Peter Tempest ...........107 YEVGENI VINOKUROV I've Had Advice... Translated by Irina Zheleznova...........113 Some Poets Begged for Alms... Translated by Irina Zheleznova.........115 The Goths of Old... Translated by Irina Zheleznova ............117 Music. Translated by Irina Zheleznova 119 ANDREI VOZNESENSKY Avia Introduction. Translated by Louis Zellikoff ...........125 Parabolical Ballad. Translated by Dorian Rottenberg...........131 Autumn in Sigulda. Translated by Dorian Rottenberg...........135 Antiworlds. Translated by Dorian Rottenberg .............141 SAMUEL GALKIN A Ship Is Judged... Translated by Dorian Rottenberg ..........147 4 On Days of Stress... Translated by Dorian Rottenberg ..........149 So Here's Old Age... Translated by Dorian Rottenberg..........151 Then It Is This... Translated by Dorian Rottenberg ..........153 RASUL GAMZATOV Morning and Evening... Translated by Louis Zellikoff ..........157 Three Songs There Be... Translated by Louis Zellikoff ...........159 There Was a Lad... Translated by Louis Zellikoff ...... ... 161 ``Happiness, Tarry..." Translated by Louis Zellikoff ...........163 Even Some of Those... Translated by Louis Zellikoff ...........165 Stop Boasting, Time... Translated by Louis Zellikoff .........167 0 Time, You Pursue Me... Translated by Louis Zellikoff .........169 IVAN DRACH The Ballad of the Pail. Translated by Dorian Rottenberg...........173 YEVGENI YEVTUSHENKO Do the Russians Want a War? Translated by Tom Bolting.........177 Snivelling Fascism. Translated by Dorian Rottenberg...........179 Envy. Translated by Irina Zheleznova . . 187 NIKOLAI ZABOLOTSKY Peasant Spokesmen. Translated by Dorian Rottenberg...........193 The Ugly Girl. Translated by Dorian Rottenberg .......'.....197 SILVA KAPUT1KYAN Impulsive and Lavish... Translated by Tom Botting 203 5 Among Sevan's Mountains... Translated by Tom Batting..........205 Song of the Way... Translated by Tom Bolting ...".........207 SEMYON KIRSANOV This World. Translated by Louis Zellikoff 213 Hours. Translated by Louis Zellikoff . . 217 DAVID KUGULTINOV O Mother-Land!... Translated by Gladys Evans ............223 When Those Long-Wished-For Words... Translated by Louis Zellikoff.....225 When All My Resolutions... Translated by Tom Batting ..........227 ARKADI KULESHOV My Clock Is Not the Sun... Translated by Dorian Rottenberg........233 No, Not For Me to Catch the Stars Above... Translated by Dorian Rottenberg . . . 235 My Muse---I Would Compare Her... Translated by Dorian Rottenberg.....237 The Whirl of Snow... Translated by Dorian Rottenberg...........239 KAISYN KULIEV Far Away a Woman... Translated by Olga Shartse............243 ``When Children Cry..." Translated by Olga Shartse . . '........245 The Acrid Smoke of Hiroshima... Translated by Olga Shartse.......247 A Woman's Bathing In the Stream. Translated by Olga Shartse.......249 The Speech of Mountain People... Translated by Olga Shartte.......251 VLADIMIR LUGOVSKOY Introduction to the Poem "The Middle of the Century." Translated by Olga Shartse . 257 The Woman I Had Known. Translated by Olga Shartse .........263 6 Photographs. Translated by Olga Shartse 269 MIKHAIL LUKONIN My Friends. Translated by Jack Lindsay 275 Happiness Has No Memory. Translated by Louis Zellikoff......... 281 LEONID MARTYNOV Echo. Translated by Irina Zheleznova . . 287 Something New. Translated by Irina Zheleznova .............289 Water. Translated by Archie Johnstone 293 JUSTINAS MARCINKEVICIUS Prelude to the Poem "Blood and Ashes''. Translated by Olga Shartse ... 297 SAMUEL MARSHAK Am I Dreaming ... Translated by Louis Zellikoff ...........303 Eternity Knows Neither Kith nor Kin. Translated by Louis Zellikoff.....305 Immortality. Translated by Louis Zellikoff 307 Lily of the Valley. Translated by Archie Johnstone...........309 On Every Clock... Translated by Louis 311 Zellikoff EDUARDAS MIEZELAITIS Ashes. Translated by Dorian Rottenberg 315 Lips. Translated by Tom Batting ... 319 ALEXANDER MEZHIROV Sprites of Music. Translated by Irina Zheleznova ..........325 February. Translated by Irina Zheleznova 327 SERGEI MIKHALKOV The Satyrist and the Sapper. Translated by Dorian Rottenberg.......333 The Crane and the Pig. Translated by Dorian Rottenberg........335 The Fool. Translated by Dorian Rottenberg 337 7 SERGEI NAROVCHATOV Those Years. Translated by Dorian Rottenberg .............341 For Soviet Power! Translated by Gladys Evans ............343 BORIS PASTERNAK It's Unbecoming to Be Famous. Translated by Dorian Rottenberg.......347 Eve. Translated by Dorian Rottenberg 351 When the Weather Clears. Translated by Dorian Rottenberg ........355 ALEXANDER PROKOFIEV My Biography. Translated by Eugene Felgenhauer ...........361 Their Return. Translated by Eugene Felgenhauer ............365 Bread. Translated by Eugene Felgenhauer 369 ROBERT ROZHDESTVENSKY Halves. Translated by frina Zheleznova 373 Radiation Sickness. Translated by Irina Zheleznova...........377 MAXIM RYLSKY Coachman's Cottage, Yasnaya Polyana. Translated by Dorian Rottenberg .... 385 The War of the Roses. Translated by Dorian Rottenberg...........389 MIKHAIL SVETLOV Immortality. Translated by Dorian Rottenberg .............393 Horizon. Translated by Archie Johnstone 397 In Hospital. Translated by Dorian Rottenberg .............401 PARUIR SEVAK To My Motherland. Translated by Avril Pyman............405 My Belief. Translated by A vril Pyman . , 409 8 ILYA SELVINSKY Tiger. Translated by Tom Sotting . . . 413 The Birch-Tree. Translated by Avril Pyman 417 Tragedy. Translated by A vril Pyman . . 419 Prelude. Translated by A vril Pyman . . 421 KONSTANTIN SIMONOV Three Poems. Translated by Eugene Felgenhauer ........... 425 BORIS SLUTSKY Horses in the Ocean. Translated by Irina Zheleznova...........431 There Were Many Old Women. Translated by Irina Zheleznova........435 Physicists and Lyricists. Translated by Irina Zheleznova.........439 YAROSLAV SMELYAKOV Talking of Poetry. Translated by Dorian Rottenberg...........443 The Pocket. Translated by Dorian Rottenberg .............447 Workers' Canteens. Translated by Dorian Rottenberg...........449 ALEXEI SURKOV You Suppose It Wasn't a Horror... Translated by Dorian Rottenberg.......455 My Contemporary. Translated by Dorian Rottenberg...........459 ALEXANDER TVARDOVSKY Life's Not Been Grudging... Translated 463 by Avril Pyman Death, You're a Fool... Translatedby Avril Pyman ............ 469 To My Colleagues. Translated by Avril Pyman ............ 471 Blue Snow Will Soon Be Turning Grey... Translated by Avril Pyman ..... 473 9 NIKOLAI TIKHONOV Where firs by snow... Translated by Louis Zellikoff............477 Near Leningrad. Translated by Louis Zellikoff .............479 Before the Aragva at Night. Translated by Jack Lindsay..........481 MIRZO TURSUN-ZADE My Sister, Africa! Translated by Dorian Rottenberg...........487 VLADIMIR TSYBIN Holidays. Translated by Eugene Felgenhauer 495 SIMON CHIKOVANI Haymaking. Translated by Louis Zellikoff 503 The Birth of Song... Translated by Louis Zellikoff ...........507 STEFAN SHCHIPACHEV The Palm of a Man's Hand. Translated by Olga Shartse..........513 We're Working Hard... Translated by Olga Shartse............517 Farewell to Winter. Translated by Olga Shartse............519 Mankind to Me Is a River. Translated by Olga Shartse..........521 ILYA EHRENBURG How Can the Folk... Translated by Eugene Felgenhauer ..........525 The Heart of a Soldier. Translated by Eugene Felgenhauer ..........527 ALEXANDER YASHIN When We Speak of the Things... Translated by Irina Zheleznova........531 Kind Deeds. Translated by Irina Zheleznova 533 [10] __ALPHA_LVL1__ IntroductionConsidering the almost universal loss of interest in poetry, observable in this age of scientific progress, the growing demand for books of verse in the Soviet Union appears as a somewhat unusual phenomenon. But there are many historical and social reasons to account for the popularity of Soviet poetry.
The historical reason is the birth of our new society which opened such wonderful prospects before each individual and mankind as a whole. Soviet art was launched amid an unprecedented upsurge of creative energy and, as Mayakovsky said, poetry received such an enormous charge of this energy from the Revolution that "millions of hearts were set in motion''.
Now for the social and more up-to-date reasons. Two diametrically opposite viewpoints have clashed in mid-twentieth-century literature: one preaches faith in the power of reason, and in the ability of Man to control the elemental forces of matter which he himself has unleashed; the other predicts a global calamity, shows an utter lack of faith in Man's creative power, a passive acquiescence to the individual's ``withdrawal'' and ``isolation'', and the general disintegration of human links. Hamlet's words "The time is out of joint" are taken as an absolute fact, with complete disregard for what he says next: "0 cursed spite, that ever 1 was born to set it right.''
But poetry means hope. And when hope has a solid, tangible basis, and the people's confidence in themselves is further bolstered up by the romance of poetry, then a precious spark of mutual understanding between poet and reader is kindled. In poetry the reader will find support for his faith in such human virtues as dignity, fortitude and loyalty.
In this collection we have included the works of fifty poets differing in style and belonging to different 11 generations, published in the last ten years. We selected these poems with a view to demonstrating the great diversity and range of themes in Soviet art and the uniqueness of our poets' creative personalities (as far as this can be rendered in translation). The wealth of Soviet poetry is not, of course, exhausted by the present collection. We were somewhat restricted in our choice because it had to be translatable poetry and preferably poetry that did not call for any additional explanatory notes. Even so, we believe that some of the best that Soviet poetry has produced in the last ten years has been included here.
We also hope that by giving a parallel text in Russian we shall be helping those readers who possess some knowledge of the language to gain a better understanding of the original. In this collection we offer the reader verses by national poets translated into Russian by leading Russian poets.
This volume contains poetry by writers of the older generation who have become our classics---Anna Akhmatova and Boris Pasternak; poets of the 1950's--- Nikolai Zabolotsky and Leonid Martynov; lyrics of the middle generation---Boris Slutsky, Rasul Gamzatov, Yevgeni Vinokurov, Kaisyn Kuliev and Eduardas Miezelaitis; and the brilliant galaxy of young talent---Andrei Voznesensky, Yevgeni Yevtushenko and Bella Akhmadulina.
The reader will climb up the steps of this poetic ladder into a house that is strange to him but which, we are sure, he will find peopled with understandable problems, passions and dreams. He will find a world of lofty emotions, of patriotism and high ideals, which at the same time is a world of psychological and emotional secrets (Anna Akhmatova), of complex emotional processes (Boris Pasternak), of exacting moral self-examination (Smelyakov, Tvardovsky), of a subtle awareness of beauty (Chikovani, Bella Akhmadulina), of apprehension and stress (Martynov, Voznesensky), of fairy-tale magic ( Svetlov), of defiance against all that is outworn and obsolete (Yevtushenko, Drach, Vacietis).
12In some of the poems the reader will encounter the commonplaces of life, the unsophisticated language of the street, and a certain crudity of subject matter--- such is the poetry of Boris Slutsky, in others---in the lyricism of Vinokurov and in the melancholy meditations of the Jewish poet Galkin---he will find a gracefully logical construction and a subtle communication of thought.
The villagers' idiom, simple yet shrewd and wise, of the Daghestan poet Rasul Gamzatov makes a striking contrast to the intricate imaginativeness of the language employed by Semyon Kirsanov who continues in the steps of that great experimenter Mayakovsky.
At the outset Soviet poetry abounded in trends or ``schools'', such as the ``Smithy'', "Komsomol Group'', LEF's, Constructivists, and others. Selvinsky and Lugovskoy, for instance, originally belonged to the constructivist school, but all that has remained in their writing of the principles proclaimed by this school---formal strictness of composition, contempt for ``shapeless'' feelings, preaching of cool-headed calculation and expediency----is perhaps their craftsmanship and their excellent handling of form. The credo of the LEF's (the Left Front of Art) has also undergone a change. Still, such slogans of the `` leftists'' as emphasis on fact and focus on topical problems have been an influence on a par with many others and also remained the basic principles in the art of Aseyev and Kirsanov, the chief exponents of the LEF programme.
Modern Soviet poetry has absorbed the finest traditions of those schools, popular in the 1920s, as evidenced by the work of our younger poets. Invisible but very strong ties exist between Yevtushenko and Mayakovsky, and between Voznesensky and both Pasternak and Marina Tsvetayeva. Many of the younger poets like to feel that they are the direct descendants of the Russian avant-garde poets of the 1920s. The older generation, on the other hand, who began with formal experiments arrived, towards the end of their careers, at the wisdom of simple form and thus 13 established a certain degree of continuity with the 19 thcentury classics. This is not a paradox. In the development of poetry, innovation and tradition are indissoluble. A fresh upsurge in innovation usually means that a new quality has ripened in poolry.
In modern Soviet poetry, the accent on ideology, which has always been its distinguishing feature, remains as strong as ever except that now it is woven into the fabric of the imagery itself. The reason for this change is that the readers themselves have changed. They have gained historical experience and have attained a higher cultural level and acquired greater discernment. Their interest in psychological poetry has grown tremendously. Russian literature, of course, has always been famous for its probings into the innermost recesses of the individual's soul. Once Alexander Blok quite rightly stated that at a time of historical storms and alarms, the most intimate recesses of the soul are also filled with alarm. Vladimir Mayakovsky, the greatest poet of the Revolution,-wrote: "That's how it was with the soldiers, or perhaps with the country, or maybe that's how it was in my heart.'' This indivisibility of the macroworld of ideas and the microworld of emotions, this merging of the interests of society with the individual's private interests is reflected in our art not as mere declarations but as the norm in our way of life.
This explains why in the poetry of the 1950s and 1960s we find such an increasing variety of genres, styles and idioms. After all, there are as many different ways of striving for a common goal as there are individualities.
The idea of the revolutionary transformation of life, of heroism in the name of the people, runs through the whole of Soviet art. Without losing this `` Promethean'' quality Soviet poetry has become more humane, so to speak, in the past ten years. Humanism cannot be examined in isolation from its moral foundations: characteristically this book ends with two poems about goodness and integrity by Alexander Yashin. These virtues are inherent in Soviet poetry, the roots of which are national but whose aspirations 14 are common to all mankind, and they are a guarantee of its viability. Poetry such as this will find a response in people everywhere. It carries a message of brotherhood and challenges violence and enmity. It stands up for the world's simple and eternal values: free labour, motherhood, creativity, the joy of communion with Nature, and friendship between all peoples.
Vladimir OGNEV
[15] __ALPHA_LVL1__ IRAKLI ABASHIDZE
Irakli Abashidze (b. 1909) is one of the leading modern poets of Soviet Georgia. He was educated at Tbilisi University and brought out his verse in print for the first time in 1928. The optimistic, resolute rhythms of his poetry of the 1930s (``New Poems'', 1938) gave way to heroic solemnity in the pre-war and war years. The crowning achievement of Abashidze's art is to be found in the cycle "Shota Rustaveli" and its sequel " Palestine, Palestine"written in the 1960s. The poet, speaking in the name of Rustaveli, begins his confession at the walls of the Monastery of the Holy Cross in Palestine where, according to legend, the great Georgian poet and enltghtener died. It is as though the voice of the ancient poet is brought back from the dead, ft can be heard in the monastery, in the olive grove, in the white monastery cell, and on the shore of the Dead Sea. It speaks to us across the ages about love, loyalty, patriotism and hope.
[16] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [17] __ALPHA_LVL2__ [RUSSIAN TITLE HERE.] I wish nobody woe
On this planet, war-weary,
What I wish is to go
To a World Mushairi^^*^^
Where, lit up by a fire,
Bards and singers would throng,
And the night -would go by
In a contest of song.
Whose resonant words
Would arouse Taj-Mahal
And circle the world
While the moonbeams fall.
For a battle of verse
Rally, bards of the earth
And let none feel the worse
On displaying his worth.
We shall spread on your ground
Our Caucasian burka^^**^^
And our ballads will sound
For both Indian and Gurkha.
Let our songs ring afar
With the warmth of our hearts;
^^*^^ Mushairi---Oriental poetry festival.
^^**^^ Sheepskin mantle worn by Caucasian Highlanders.
19 ~ 20 Come, Mahmood and Sardar,
To our battle of arts.
We will rouse no man's fear
Crossing arms in the night.
Come, my friends, gather near,
Let Faiz join the fight!
While the moon pours its rays,
Evanescent and weightless,
Flaming words will sing praise
To new India's greatness.
We shall sing of the charms
Of the Indian maid
And the velvety arms
That my fancy invade.
Kindling friendship in souls
From Tbilisi and Delhi,
Hindi verses will blend
With the rhythms of Khartveli.
I wish nobody woe
On this planet, war-weary.
All I wish is to go
To a World Mushairi!
Translated by Dorian Rottenbers
21
__ALPHA_LVL1__
MARGARITA ALIGHER
Margarita Aligher (b. 1915) is a Russian poetess. She began to write poetry in 1933, from 1934 to 1937 she studied at the Gorky Institute of Literature. Fame came to her with ``Zoya'' (1942)---a tragic story of the Moscow schoolgirl Zoya Kosmodemyanskaya and her heroic death in the Great Patriotic War of 1941--1945. This work is written in the form of a direct address to the readers. In her poems "Your Victory" (1945), "Beautiful Mecha" (1951) and her poetry of the last ten years, Margarita Aligher continues to develop the main theme of her art---the need for complete honesty in human relations, heroic self-sacrifice, understanding, and moral uprightness. Her poetry throbs like a taut wire, and her choice of words is usually of a conversational variety.
[22] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [23] __ALPHA_LVL2__ [RUSSIAN TITLE HERE.] In my forest there's a path where always,
Be it morning,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ afternoon,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ or night,
Someone looks at me attentively and closely
Through the wall of slender, stately pines.
Someone always watches me, unblinking,
With a stare that's piercing and intent:
``You'd have altered greatly, I was thinking.
You're the same,
You haven't changed since then.
Still unhappy?
Somehow I expected...
I'd be glad if it were otherwise...''
With a shrug and smile apologetic
I look up to face those watchful eyes.
And I see high overhead above me
Treetops,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ clouds,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ the azure skies...
Winter, springtime, summer, autumn...
Flakes of snow,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and ageless pines...
I recall my life from the beginning,
And I pause my heart to search.
What have I accomplished?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Nothing, really.
What have I created?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Nothing much.
Always I am struggling on as best I can.
Is my best enough, though, when all's said and done?
I am always hoping that there's lots of time.
Will I not be sorry when I find there's none?
Won't it be too late for me to realise
That I had more problems still to fight.
Someone's watching me with sternly gentle eyes
From those unassailable and quiet heights.
In my forest there's a certain road which I...
It's a clearing wrested from the thickets.
``I'll be happier,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ just give me one more try.
I will somehow manage yet,"
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ I whisper.
``I'll get over everything, I swear.
All those petty hurts,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and lies,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and hate...''
And I hear in answer: "Fair is fair.
I believe you. You will try. I'll wait.
Are you sure yourself?''
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ---"I do not know."---
"Still, do try to make it, don't succumb.''
All my life, along that forest path I'll go,
Following a light that bids me come...
Translated by Olga Shartse
27 __ALPHA_LVL2__ [RUSSIAN TITLE HERE.] They had a quarrel in the tram again.
Oblivious of the crowd, they let off steam.
But I, I frankly envied them
As, deeply stirred, I watched the scene.
It's best that they have no misgivings
And do not know how fortunate they are.
To think that both of them are living
And can still work their troubles out!
Translated by Olga Shartse
29 __ALPHA_LVL2__ [RUSSIAN TITLE HERE.] Were I in my teens again,
Seventeen or so,
My most ready answer then
Would, I'm sure, be: no.
Now, if I were twenty-two
I can safely guess
That my quickest answer would
Be most surely: yes.
They're inadequate, those two
Little ``yes'' and ``no'',
After what I have lived through
Since that long ago.
All my feelings to express
They would be too weak.
So don't ask me, do not press,
If I do not speak.
Translated by Olga Shaitse
31 __ALPHA_LVL1__ PAVEL ANTOKOLSKY
Pavel Antokolsky, the son of a St. Petersburg lawyer, was born in 1896. He studied at the Law Faculty of Moscow University. Later he worked at the Vakhtangov Theatre in Moscow as an actor and then a producer. His first book of verse came out in 1922. The collections ``West'' (1926), ``ThirdBook'' (1927), " Robespiere and the Gorgon" (1928) and the poem "Francois Villon" (1934) belong to the romantic period of his work, dedicated mainly to history. Antokolsky lost his only son in the Great Patriotic War, and to him he dedicated his famous poem ``Son'' (1943)---a philosophical, publicistic requiem commemorating the generation which jell in battle against nazism. The last ten years Antokolsky has written a great deal. His emotional and intellectual poetry is analytical in character. A highly cultured man, Antokolsky has the acumen of a critic and the intuition of a pedagogue. He is known as a skilful translator from French, Bulgarian and several languages of the peoples of the U.S.S.R.
[32] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [33] __ALPHA_LVL2__ [RUSSIAN TITLE HERE.] What advice did you accord us?
What directions afford us?
Why, into the darkness of the auditorium
Have you, Time, released your blinding footlights?
We are actors in our own play, not playwrights.
The drama is ours. We begin it.
But not ours
To finish---
The sequel is up to the author!
Struck dumb?
Come, enough of your silent spinning.
Why press on and on?
Go back to the beginning!
All our past days and years---we claim the lot
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ back!
Long enough we believed: one can't put the clock
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ back.
Even as you create,
You destroy, all-engulfing.
Though you leave a clean slate
You add up to nothing!
It is not enough---our one brief, beautiful life
Walking the edge of the knife
In pointless passion and strife.
Not enough that each vital individual is fated
To be posthumously rehabilitated!
Not enough
That, having broken our skulls, you must
Raise us up anew from earth and dust!
It is not enough!
Light a million lightnings to flame in our eyeballs.
Blast sweet-stock and reseda into our nostrils,
Expand with ozone our heaving breast,
One gift only withholding---rest!
And, as your aerial roundabout comes full circle
Give us back our youth with our life's revival.
And so it shall be.
Ah, would I might see that day dawn,
So it shall be.
To what other end were we born?
For so it shall be
And so shall abide for all of us
Beating on in the pulse of every man Jack of us
Abrogating Mortality's ancient edict
Breaking Death's secret...
Time
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ So be it! SO BE IT!
Translated by Avril Pyman
37 __ALPHA_LVL2__ [RUSSIAN TITLE HERE.] It's my conviction, mounting ever,
That Earth is yet a wondrous place;
There's high romance in stormy weather,
In dancing waves, in maiden grace.
But in a feckless, fruitless fashion
My first impressions I condemn
For lack of sober, cold dispassion,
And feed my notebooks to the flame.
Our ways no longer lie together
Our short-lived partnership ends here
And lightly I throw my rough notes over
And turn a new page, void and clear.
The elements of art are clay,
Calamity, witch-craft, ardour.
Then judge me not for, come what may,
Art is my Alma Mater!
Translated by Avril Pyman
39 __ALPHA_LVL1__ NIKOLAI ASEYEV
Nikolai Aseyev (1889--1963)---was a true follower of Mayakovsky in his bold experimenting, a man who was in loiewith the Russian language and Russian history. lie was a lyric poet "by the very pattern of his soul" us he himself used to say. His melodious poetry is intuitive and spontaneous in character, and his rhythms are vigorous, clear-cut and ingenious. Till the end of his days Aseyev would turn again and again to the themes of the turbulent unforgettable days of his youth. He earned his greatest popularity with his poem "Mayakovsky Begins" (1940), the collections ``Meditations'' (1955) and ``Attunement'' (1961). These collections contain his philosophical reflections on the destiny of man in history.
[40] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [41] __ALPHA_LVL2__ There Are Some There are some folk
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ who money covet,
as heathens
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ idols, long ago,
they cannot
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ get sufficient of it,
but this will not be always so.
There are some folk
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ who crave for power,
who know no curbs,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ nor ken its worth,
but soon will come their final hour,
and other times will come to earth.
There are some folk
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ pursuing glory,
it seems
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ that legion is their name,
their only hope,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ that in some story
their names
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ for ever will remain.
It seems
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ that power and adulation,
are really
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ very much like brine:
You drink and drink
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ without cessation,
and still you're thirsty
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ all the time.
43
~
[44]
Your own,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ your private
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ immortality
is not
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ in station,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ rank or birth:
your this, your that---
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ what triviality---
it's in the future
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ of youi earth!
And since
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ the earth began its spinning,
since man
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ upon his feet first stood,
we see at last,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ the faint beginning
of universal
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ brotherhood.
May every
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ colour
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ be invited,
to share
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ the world's
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ abundant good,
to come together,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ live united,
as decent human beings should.
Translated by Eugene Pelgenhauer
45 __ALPHA_LVL2__ [RUSSIAN TITLE HERE.] Hark,
the nightingale sings,
sings the songs
that are old as the ages...
His retirement
he surely presages!
For the nightingale's
aged and ill...
But then why,
when his song is vibrating,
everybody is flushed by a
thrill,
souls exalt,
hearts begin palpitating.
Though a thousand years old,
still like new
seems his song,
as if only just written;
and it causes the grass
and the dew---
all of nature---
to stand
magic-smitten.
Though a thousand years old,
so alive
that our spirits
begin gaily singing,
47
~
[48]
and its human-like accents
revive
words that once
in our bosoms were ringing.
Words of passions eternal
and thought,
words of bliss
and of great tribulations,
as if news on the earth there is naught,
save for that
which is old as creation.
Such is the power
of this bird of renown
that the stars in the sky
stop in wonder...
Song dies out
and all passions cool down,
and our hearts
are all broken asunder!
Translated by Eugene Fdgenhauer
[49] __ALPHA_LVL1__ BELLA AKHMADULINA
Bella Akhmadulina (b. 1937) is a gifted young poetess. She was educated at the Gorky Literary Institute where she studied together with Yevgeni Yevtushenko and Robert Rozhdestvensky, A collection of her poetry came out in 1962. She also writes stories and film scripts and acts in the cinema. In her graceful, plastic poetry she responds with great subtlety of feeling to people's happiness, suffering and hopes. Her verse is like exquisite filigree ivork, its intricate patterns and modulations reflecting the subtlest shades of feeling and mood, sometimes as light as n fleeting sigh.
[50] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [51] __ALPHA_LVL2__ December __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ Mu co6jiH)«aeM npanujia IUIMI.I. HrpaeM MM, He ycxyiiaH CMexy, H, npiiAaiiaH oiepTaHbH cnery, Sejibifi cncr c SCIUJTH. H, 6y;rro Gbi npefliyecTByfl 6e,ny, npoxosKiie TOJIUHTCH y aa6opa, cue^aex HX iniKcaan aaSoxa: a MTO c ToSoft HMeeii MM B Mw Ca6y JICIIHM, TOJII>I{O n ncoro. O, 3TO TOpJKCCTBO II H ni.icoTa, H (IT ;(Rii/KOiii>n Tiiocro. TI>I roBopuiiih:---CMOTPH, nan n JICIIJIHI. /^ciicTUHTOJIMIO, I«IK XOpOIIIO TliI .ICIIMIIII. H (pOpMy <)T CcC(J)OpMPIIIIOCTII JIC'IIIMII,. }[ ronnpio: -- CiviOTpii, naic i\ .iiofi.iio. C.iier yTO'iiineT ncc CBOH «iepTi>i H CJiyuiaoTCH iiamoro npni;a::a. II Bflpyr n aa.Meiaio, nan iipeitpacim JIHUO, 'iT« K cnery of>pani,aoiiii. TW. JIpoxo^HM MM no ReJioMy MHMO npoxoasiix, c Bi.ipaJKem.eM (1 JIHUOM TaKHM VUG IlpHCTrlJIIilIMM H .iio5iiMi.iii Moii, nccr,(a nrpaii n nrpy IIo,nnaiicn ero o Moero JiioGiiMoro paGoTa! .IJapyii eiuy yflaiJiiiBOCTb pc6ein;a, pncyiomero ^OMHK H xpySy. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ [52] The rules of winter we obey.
We roll a snowball and run after.
Acclaim its jrrowth with peals of laughter,
And brush the surplus snow away.
As if misfortune were in view,
The people passing by assemble
Along the fence with lips atremble
To watch what you and I shall do.
We make a snowman---that is all!
0 what a triumph when from under
Your hands appears the chosen wonder,
To your prescription, stout and tall!
You say: "Just look what I can do!''
I notice with what skill and passion
From formlessness new form you fashion
And say: "I love you, I love you!''
With what exactness snow can trace
The very features we intended!
Then suddenly I see resplendent,
The sidelong profile of your face.
Scorning the crowd we walk away
Across the yard with self-possession.
With such a child's intent expression
May you, beloved, always play!
To his long-lasting labour yield,
O handiwork of my beloved!
Grant the reward a child discovers
On painting flowers in a field!
Translated by Peter Tempest
55 __ALPHA_LVL2__ MoTopojuiep I watch the scouler's flight
And feel my envy growing!
My eyes are hot and bright
With summer's quick tears flowing.
A girl with winning smile
Clings closely to the rider.
A humpy sluggish snail
Do I appear beside her.
Farewell! Ride at your ease
To where green summits glimmer.
Look, in your shameless knees
Two blazing rainbows shimmer.
Your body through the coat
Shines like a vase-clad flower.
A strange cry from my throat
Erupts with sudden power.
How soft the song you trill!
How simple the emotion!
My immobility
Matches your fleeting motion!
You ride your swing so high,
No dizziness discerning,
For on the other side
My swing is fast returning.
When all sound here is dead,
Far fields still hear you scutter.
How rude my heavy tread!
How light your green wings' flutter!
Speed on! Here I shall wait,
Talk fast! Dumb shall I be.
So shall my pose sedate
Redeem your levity.
Translated by Peter Tempest
59 __ALPHA_LVL1__ ANNA AKHMATOVA
Anna Akhmatova (1889--11)66). The classic dignity of Akhmatova's beautiful poetry, in which even passion is held in check by logic, is associated in the reader's mind with the sombre wist/ulness of Leningrad, the splendours of its classic architecture and the cold gleam of the Neva. For many years this poetess was known mainly for her elegiac preoccupation with one theme--- the tragedy of a woman's infinite, unconsummatcd love, the cry of a lonely soul for understanding and sympathy. The Great Patriotic War broadened the range of her themes. Akhmatova's wartime and post-war poetry speaks of history, patriotism and human solidarity. Her writing is not flamboyant, her words and images are simple, and she leaves a great deal unsaid but merely hinted at. Spiritual phenomena, such as memory, dreams or fantasies, are so perfectly sculptured that they become tangible things. Shortly before she died Anna Akhmatova received the Taormina Prize, and a few weeks after that she was singled out to receive an honorary degree of Oxford University.
[60] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [61] __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [sacred craft] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ Ilauie CBJimcimoe PCMCCJIO CymecTByeT TWCHHII JICT... C HHM II 6e3 CB6T3 Mllpy CBCTJIO. Ho eme HH ofliiH lie cKaaaji IIOBT, HTO My^pocTH HGT, H CTapocrii iieT, A MO»«CT, H cJiepTii HCT. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 62 Our sacred craft has existed
For thousands of years....
With it, luminous even in darkness is earth.
But no poet has ever insisted,
Through laughter or tears,
That there is no wisdom, no age, no death.
Translated by Irina Zheleznova
63 __ALPHA_LVL2__ This Russian Soil __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ H a .wupe item juo<~>eii 6t?cc.nc3iieii HadMeimee u npmye HOC. iffi'2 15 aaueTiiijx jia^aHKax HC BOCHM Ha O Heft CTHXH iiauspwfl ne COHHHHCM, Hani ropbKHH con ona He Cepe/jnr, He KasKeTCH ooeTOBamiMM paeiu. He jjejiaeiu ee B jryuie CBOCH HpeflMCTOM ityiijni H npofla/i;n, Xsopafl, SeflCTByH, neMOTCTByn na iieii, 0 HCH He BcnoiwHHaeM ^awe. ^a, flJiH nac DTO rpHBb iia itajiouiax, ^a, SJIH iiac 3To xpycT na 3y6ax. H MM MfJICM, II MCCHM, H KpOIIIlIM TOT IIH n TOM no aaMcniainibiii npax. Ho jio/KiiMui u nee n CTaiioiiiiMcii em, OTTOrO H 3OBCM T&K CUoCo^IK) CUOOIO. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 64 In all the world no people are so tearless,
So proud, so simple as are we.
In lockets for a charm we do not wear it,
In verse about its sorrows do not weep,
With Eden's blissful vales do not compare it,
Untroubled does it leave our bitter sleep.
To traffic in it is a thought that never,
Not even in our hearts, remote, takes root.
Before our eyes its image does not hover,
Though we be beggared, sick, despairing, mute.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ It's the mud of our shoes, it is rubble,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ It's the sand on our teeth, it is slush,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ It's the pure, taintless dust that we crumble,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ That we pound, that we mix, that we crush.
But we call it our own for 'twill open one day
To receive and embrace us and turn us to clay.
Translated by Irina Zheleznova
65 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Thirteen Lines You spoke at last...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ No wooer on bended knees
Those words, those fateful words would thus
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ have spoken...
You said them like a captive who has broken
His chains, and fled, and through the blur of tears
A virgin grove of nodding birches sees.
The silence sang and hummed; the sun's pure blaze
Cut through the shadows, and the darkness banished;
The wine's flat taste had changed; the present vanished;
A world transformed by magic met your gaze.
And I who was to be a murderess,
I, cruelly doomed that fragile dream to shatter,
Sought to prolong it and refused to utter
The brutal words that would destroy such bliss.
Translated by frtna Zhelezriova
67 __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [parting today] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ He cTpamaii MCHH rposnoii H BOJiiiKOio ceiicpuoii cKyKofi. Hbmqe npasHHHK nani nepeijii c ToGoii, H 3OByT OTOT upasflHiiK Hireero, HTO ne BcrpeTHM aapio, HTO nyna He SaywaaJia nafl A ceroflHH TeGa o^apio B Mnpe MOHM Ha B Mac, KHK peiKe Beiepnefi ne CHHTCH, BarjiafloM TCM, HTO naAyieft He noMor B neGeca 3xoM roaoca, ITO A Torfla SMJI H CBea;nii B llTo6 Tbi cnbimaTb Gea ipenera MOP BopOHbH HOflMOCKOBHOrO CHJieTHM, ^ToGbl CblpOCTb OKTHGpbCKOrO «Hfl Cxaaa cname, ICM MaiicKan iiera... BcnoMHiiaii ;i;c, tioii aiire.r, MCHH, BcnoMHiiaii XOTI. no nepnoro cnera. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 68 Do not speak of Hie north and its sadness
And a dread and malevolent fate.
Surely this is a festive occasion:
You and I, we are parting today.
Never mind that the moon will not haunt us,
And the dawn you and I will not meet.
I will shower you with gifts, my beloved,
Of a kind that have never been seen.
Take my wavering, dancing reflection
In the shimmery glass of a stream;
Take my gaze that the great, swooning stars
As they fall from the heavens arrests;
Take my voice, take its spent, broken echo,
Once so summery, youthful and fiesh....
Take my gifts: they will help you to listen
Without pain to the gossiping birds
In the wet of a Moscow October,
And will turn autumn's gloom to the languor
And the sweetness of May.... 0, my angel,
Think of me, think of me till the first
Flakes of snow start to waltz in the air....
Translated by Irina Zheleznova
69 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Three Poems __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ TpH CTHXOTBOpeilHH M B iia.MHTH icpHoii, iiomapHB, JJf) caivioro JIOKTH ncpiaTKii. H Hoib IIeTep6ypra. H B cyiwpaKc JIOJK TOT aaiiax H ayuiHi.iii H CJiaflKHii. II B6Tep c aa.'iiiBa. A TBM, Mea«fly CTP«K, MIIHJ'H H axii H oxu, TeGe yjiw6neTCH npespHTe.'ibiio UJIOK--- Tpani'iecKiiii Tcnop DHOXH. 1 llopa uaobiTb iicpGjiio/Kiiii UTOT ram H 6ejiwii AOM iia y;mne JKyifOBCKoii. Hopu, nopa K 6epeaaM u rpn6aiu, K IimpOKOii OCCHH MOCKOBCKOH. Taw Bee5 rencpb ciiaex, see1 B pocc, H ne6o 3a6npaeTCH BUCOKO, H noMHHT PoraieBCKoe mocce PaaSoiinwH nocBiicT MOJio«oro BJIOKU. On upas---orifiTb ([lonapr,, anrcKa, Hena, Geasio.'iBHe, rpaiiMT... [72:] Kan na.MJiTiiiiK iia'ia.iy TaM 3TOT TCJIOBCK CTOHT--- Kor«a OH UyuiKHHCKOMy IIpomaHCb, noMaxaji pynoii H npHHHJI CMCpTHyiO HCTOMy Kait iieaacJiyHccHHwii noKoii. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 701
It's time!... Oh, to forget Zhukovsky Street,
The white-walled house, the city's roofs and arches,
Its zoo-like din.... Away! Away to meet
The winking mushrooms and the nodding birches
of Moscow's princely, sparkling, dewy fall,
The skies remote, the leaves and grasses rustling,
And Rogachevsky Highway throbbing still
With youthful Blok's untamed and reckless whistling..
2
Sounding the dark depths of memory,
I find a St. Petersburg night, fluid and shiinniery,
A theatre box's velvet-hung gloom
Haunted by smells that are chokingly warm,
Gusts of wind from the gulf, and, just as it was,
Scornful of all the "oh`s'' and the "ah`s'',
That arrogant smile, growing no dimmer,
That belonged to Blok,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ our epoch's tragic tenor.
3
How right he was---the lamp, the Neva,
The chemist's shop, and a mirage:
71
~
[72]
A man, a monument erected
To mark the advent of our age....
He glimpsed it all again the evening
To Pushkin's house he waved goodbye,
And like a rest he did not merit
Embraced death's wearing agony.
Translated by Irina Zhclcznova
73 __ALPHA_LVL2__ The Fourth One's memories live long and have three epochs.
The first is close, like yesterday.... Within
Its hallowed bower the soul enjoys repose,
And in its shade the hody refuge finds....
The tears stream still, the peals of laughter
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ linger,
The spot of ink still stains the desk, and, sealed
Upon the heart, the farewell kiss remains,
Indelible.... But this is not for long....
The bower recedes, and in its place there stands
A lonely house, unswept and hung with cobwebs,
Where it is cold in winter, and in summer
Insufferably hot, where lovers' letters
Turn brown with dust, and treasured pictures fade.
Where people come as to a grave to lay
A wreath of flowers, and, afterwards, at home,
Scrub at their hands with soap, and brush away
A fleeting tear, and sigh, and sigh again.
But clocks tick on, and seasons come and go,
The names of cities change, events retain
No witnesses, and memories and tears
May not be shared.... Unwanted and unsought,
The shades of loved ones shrink and slip away,
And we recoil in horror from the thought
That they might reappear.... And then the day
Dawns when, awakening with a start, and gripped
With sickening remorse, we realise
That we no longer know where lies the path
To that lone house, and run as in a dream,
75
~
[76]
Despairing mule, to where it stood, and lo!---
Discover that the walls, the things, the
peopleAre different and strange, and that we too
Are strangers there.... The bitter revelation
Then comes that we must shed the hope of
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ fitting~
The past into the pattern of our lives
For it is alien to ourselves, the way
It needs must be to someone in the street....
And then we know and are repelled at knowing
That if the dead, by any chance, returned
We should not know them, that the cherished few
With whom God chose to part us, miss us not,
That it is better so, that it is all,
Perversely, for the best....
Translated by Irlna Zheleznova.
77 __ALPHA_LVL1__ OLGA BERGHOLTZ
Olga Bergholtz (b. 1910) is the daughter of a Leningrad doctor. She grew up in that city and was educated at the State University there. Her life and her art are forever bound up with Leningrad, the cradle of the Revolution. In the grim days of the blockade she shared with her readers her last crust of bread and her last bit of warmth. Her "February Diary" and "Leningrad Poem" written in 1942 made her name a symbol of tragic art. ``Loyalty'' (1954)---a tragedy in verse---has been acclaimed as one of the greatest works of poetry produced in the last fifteen years. The theme of this tragedy is an appeal for trust in the people who in painful travail gave birth to the new, just world. Olga Bergholtz's poetry of these last few years is a passionate confession of our contemporary.
[78] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [79] __ALPHA_LVL2__ From a Wayfarer's Letters __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ Ma imceM c II II fL cepMne cBoe imKor^a HC HH B necHe, HH B rope, HH B HH B cxpacTH. IIpocTH MCiur, Miuiuii. HTO BHJIO---TO 6wJio. Miie ropbKO. H BCC-T3KH BCC 3TO---CiaCTbC. H TO, ITO a CTpauiHO, roproie Tocuyio. H TO, ITO, CTpamacb HciiaSoiaioii nanaoTii. Ha npiiapaK, na siajiyio Teiib neroflyio. MHO CTpauiHO. H Bce-TaKH ace STO---ciacTbe. O, nycTb 3TH CJieaw H aro y^yujbe, IlycTi, xjiemyT ynpeicn, KBK BCTKH n HenacTi.0. CTpaiimeii---Bcenpomenbe. C JlH)6oBb ne npoiuaeT. n BCC »TO---ciacTbc. ft 3Haio Tenepb, HTO nua yGnBaex, He W«CT cocTpa«aHb«, HC «CJIHTCH ujiacrbio. npeifpacua, noity«a ona ne yrexa, a--- [82:] A H uaM roBOpro, MTO HOT nanpacHo npovKim.ix innoii JIGT, neiiy<Kiio npoHAeHHbix nyreii, nnycTyro cJiwuiaHHtix Becxeii. Hex HenocnpiiHHTbix MHDOB, H6T MHHMO p<)3;(UHHI>IX flapOB, jiiooiiii RanpacHoii Toase HCT--- j7K)6rin o6MaHyToii, oo.ihiioii, Ce H6TJICHHO 'IHCTMH CBCT BcerAa BO nine, Bcer^a co MHOH. H HHKor^a lie HOBAHO ciiOBa na'iaTi. BCIO WHSHB, naiaxb Bccb nyrb, H T3K, MTO6 B npOUIJIOM 6bl---HH CJ1OB3 , HH cTona 6bi HC __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 80II
I have treated ray heart with a ruthless abandon
In poetry, in friendship, in grief and in passion.
Forgive me, my darling. Let bygones be bygones.
I suffer. Yet all this is joy in its fashion.
And even my black fits of burning depression,
The starting at shadows, the nervous reaction
To trifles which nourish my fearful obsession
With doom and disastei, are joy in their fashion.
I care not if I choke on these tears' salt insurgence,
Reproaches may flay me, like wet branches lashing.
More fearful by far are indifference, indulgence.
Love never forgives, yet is joy---in its fashion.
For love brooks no rival, expects no compassion.
Love---now I know it---can kill and destroy,
Just so long as it's beautiful, live and impassioned,
Just so long as it's not a mere pastime, but joy.
Translated by Avril Pyman
81 ~ 82 And this I solemnly declare:
Thai I have lived no worthless year,
Nor trodden any road for naught,
Nor closed my mind to any thought,
Nor closed my ears to any news,
Nor given gifts where none were due.
Neither do I my Love regret,
Deceived and wounded and unsure,
Whose light, imperishably pure,
Is with me yet,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ is in me yet.
And it will never be too late
To start afresh,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ begin again...
Yet from the past obliterate
No single word, no gasp of pain.
Translated by Avril Pyman
83 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Indian Summer^^*^^ __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ Ea6be JIBTO EcTh upeiMH npnp<w>i ocoSoro cneTa, HenpKoro cojrau,a, Heaaieihnero SHOH. OHO HaabiBaeTcH 6a6be JICTO H B npejiecTH cnopHT c caMoro BCCHOIO. Yate na JIHH.O OCTOPOSKHO Jiery^aa, JierKaji nayTHHa... Kan 3BOHKO IIOIOT aaiio3flajii>ie KaK nbiiHHO H rposHo nbiJiaroT KyprnHbi! OTrpeMean Moryme JIIIBHII, see OTflano THXOH H TCMHOIO iniBoii... Bee name OT BarjiHfla 6wBaio ciacTJiHBoii , ace peace H ropnio Cbinaro peBiniisoii. O MyflpocTb meflpeiiuiero SaGbero c OTpaffoii Te6n npiiHHMaio. . . H BCC we, jnoooub MOH, rfle TH, ayKHeMCH, r^e TW? A pOIHH 6e3MOJIBHbI, a 3B63«bI BCC CTpOH«e. BOT BHAHUII.---upoxoflirr nopa H, KU/KCTCH, npeMH HaBCK pasjiy<iaTi>wi. . . A H Jinuib xenepb nonnMaio, KaK iiajio JIH)OHTb, H JKaJIOTb, H HpOH^aTb, H IIpOHjaTbCH. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ _-_-_^^*^^ In Russian Indian summer is called "Woman's summer''.
84 There's a season alight with its own, strange shimmer
Of misted sun, most tenderly warm.
People call it
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Indian summer
And it rivals the spring itself in charm.
Already the flying gossamer's clinging
Lightly, warily round the face...
How full is the tone of the late birds' singing!
How fierce and festive the flower-beds blaze!
The great rains have long since passed in thunder,
The dark, silent field has yielded its all...
More often a glance strikes a spark of wonder
More seldom, but blacker the jealous fits fall.
0 generous wisdom of Indian summer,
I welcome you gratefully, but: Do you hear,
My lost love, where are you? Where are you? Come, answer!
But the woods have grown silent, the stars more
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ austere...
You see now---the season of Stardust is over.
I suppose it is time that we parted---and yet
It is only just now I've begun to discover
How to love and to cherish, forgive---
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and forget.
Translated by Avrtl Pyman
__NOTE__ Footnote moved from HERE one page back. 85 __ALPHA_LVL1__ PETRUS BROVKA
PetrusBrovka (b. 1905). The work of this well-known Byelorussian poet provides a fine example of the folksong trend in Soviet poetry. His lyricism is rooted in his native Byelorussia and conveys the inimitable colours of its woods and fields, the clear sparkle of its rivers and the bustle of its cities. Petrus Brovka loves folk themes, simple language and song-like rhythms. It is not surprising that music has been written to many of his verses. His volume of poetry "And Time Goes On" won him the Lenin Prize in 1962. Petrus Brovka is also well known as a translator of Russian and Ukrainian poetry into Byelorussian.
[86] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [87] __ALPHA_LVL2__ Life's Beginning __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ Haia.no iiaMH TOOTH He rpeiviejiH, Mbl TOJlbKO B SKHSHb BOIIIJIH. Jlnuib Maxepn y KOJibiSenefi Bsflbixa Jin , nejiii, KaK MOFJIH. H Ha pa6oTy noneuojie C co6oft Taci;a.in nac OHH. Ho« meaecT auiTa. B SHOHHOM none nac B renn. Becb fleHb B paSoTe. Ho n iioir.io He nacTynaji HOKOH lac. ---VCHH, upoBiiHita. Cnii, CWHOICK! OHH vKa>niBa.iu nac. Hopoii HC no KOpMejKKH cbina,--- IIOJiHo y MaTepn xnonoT,--- H cycnoM xjieSno-caxa DOT. Hac 6e3 npocMOTpa B ropiriKe flepeBCHCKHX H anuib noxyace Hro6 MaJibiH Ha noji He nac ne Mw Ha norn CJ-MCJIH H 6OCHKOM Mbl IIO ROJIROHy HCRHBblO CTyHBTb. [90:] Bee Sbijio 11 Miipe Bee nopa>Kajio nac KpyroM--- II BCTpemi nepobie y ffoma C KOTOM, coSaKoii, iiCTyxoM, H rpoM, ii jicTHiie aapmmbi, M CCJIbCKoil IIO'IH THIIIHIia, II 6opa iiiyM, H 3BOH KpiiHHiu>i, H aerycTOBCKaa Jiyna. POCJIH Mbl... ,3,1111 TCKJ1H OKpeiuiH pyKH, iijie'iii, OMWTM u;e»pwMii yTepUIIICb HHCTblMH BCTpaMH, Mbl Bbixoamin B Aa-iMiin'i IIVTI. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 88 There were no toasts, no loaded tables,
No songs were sung when we were born,
And just our mothers at our cradles
Crooned over us a tune forlorn.
They carried us to work each day,
With none an eye on us to keep,
And while they stacked and forked the hay
They left us in the shade to sleep.
They toiled till dark and knew no rest
When night-time came and day was done,
For then they rocked us at their breast
And hushed us: "Sleep, my baby son.''
Some days they could not nurse or mind us,
And so we wouldn't fret or weep
They stopped our mouths with pacifiers---
Rag dummies soaked in syrup sweet.
When harvest-time was at its height
They could not take us to the farm,
They left us, bundled very tight,
And prayed we wouldn't come to harm.
We wriggled free and crawled outside
Into the sunlight and the heat,
And on the prickly stubble tried
To learn to walk on shoeless feet.
The world seemed strange and very new,
All things look different when you walk,
Familiar things you thought you knew:
The cat, the chickens, and the dog...
And stranger still---the rustling trees,
The moon, the thunder and the rain,
The silence and the rising breeze,
The creaking of the bucket chain...
Day followed day... The years rolled on.
Our shoulders broadened, arms grew strong.
With faces washed by many rains,
Dried in the morning wind and sun,
We started out upon our own.
Translated by Olga Shartse
91 __ALPHA_LVL2__ The Oakleaf __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ JIHCT fl He CTpaurycb HenacTbH aaoro, Hepefl MCTejibio ycxoro--- 3a SKHSHb flepjuycb, Kan JIHCT 3a BeTKy flepatHTCfl CBOK>. B oceHHefi Mrjie, B npOMoarJioii xiwypa OH nojiwxaeT, CJIOBHO B OTBCT Ha nocBHCT Cypii H SBCHeTb. Korfla 3HMOH) Bbiora CTOHCT H 3JIO6HO mepllTCH MOpO3 OH npiiKprjuacT. i;ai; Ty BCTKy, Ha KOTOpoii poc. Ho, BeuiHCii :iopi>i;oii OH, BCTpCTHB COJmeMHblft BOCXOfl, VcTynHT MecTO jiHcrbim HOBbiiw H THXO __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 92 The darkest clouds won't terrify me,
I can withstand the fiercest winds,
I cling to life, all storms defying,
As to its branch an oakleaf clings.
Through autumn rain and gloom despairing
It blazes with a copper glint,
And when a vicious wind comes tearing
The oakleaf merely sways and rings.
In winter, when the cold turns mean
And every night a blizzard blows,
The oakleaf valiantly screens
The mother branch on which it grows.
But when the spring its magic weaves
The oakleaf welcomes it, enlhralled,
And ceding place to young green leaves
Upon the ground it softly falls.
Translated by Olga Shartse
93 __ALPHA_LVL1__ OJ&Aoverline;RS V&Aoverline;CIETIS
Oj&aoverline;rs V&aoverline;cietis (b. 1933) is a Latvian poet. His poetry first appeared in print in 1950. Since then he has published the following collections: "The wind of Distant Roads" (1956), "Under Fire" (1958) and "Meridian Through the Heart" (1959). His openly committed, free verse reflects the changes in the life of his country. Vacietis did for modern Latvian poetry what Yevtushenko did for Russian: he addressed the broad public, speaking to them as a publicist on topical, vitally important problems. His later work shows a more lyrical approach to life and the world around him.
[94] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [95] __ALPHA_LVL2__ Before the Operation __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ onepanueii ToBapmu. epai! HcSaKOHHO. Harjio. Ho no&neflHHii «enb, OTOBHAHO, Kai; roMHHflanoBen 11 Hau.iiH, B rpy«H Moeft CH«HT OCKOJIOK. fl yjKe B ro^ax. H noTOMy He Sepycb yTBepSKfla-rb, MTO cnapHfl Cflejiaji <pauincT--- MOJK6T GblTb. A SblTb MO/K6T, HCMCI^KHH paCo'IHH II jin iijieiiiibiii, Moii o,nnoiioJi'iaiiiiH, Kocacb na nyno napaSejuryjia. A iiomy cro e Toil flbiMHmeficH rpyflbl pa:!j>ajinn , HTO pail bin e iiaawBaJiocb--- Bapmasa. H C 3TOrO flHH Ha flsa-Tpii rpamsia BpyT ace eecbi, Ha KOTOpblX H B3BeUIHBaiOCb. OcoSbix H<aJio6 HCT. OCKOJIOK Ben ce6n npn.'iii>iiio, o ce6c TOJII>KO «ua paaa TaK, HTO «yx aaxsaTHJio [98:] IlepBbiii--- Korjja, BepnyBuiHCb c no6ejy)H u,eJiyHCb, MHO jrer. Bropoft--- Kor^a naj;ajio c MauiHiibi 6peBno H H jryiviaji, I!TO yflepJKy ero. BJKIM! IlocJie onepauHH H npouiy Bepnyib MHG axor OCKOJIOK. OH WHS no coce^CTBy c cepjweM, CTeHKa Gbuia TOHbme nannpocnoii SyMarn, H OH ace noflCJiynian. A cawoe rjiasnoe--- HeJibSH OTnycKaTb na CBo6o«y OCKOJIKH, Koxopbie noBbiBaJiH B rpyflii y H anaioT Ty^a Aopory. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 96 Comrade Doctor!
Illicitly,
Shamelessly,
But evidently for the last day,
A shell splinter's lurking in my heart.
~ ~ ~ I'm no longer young
~ ~ ~ And, therefore, do not undertake to claim
~ ~ ~ That shell was made by a
fascistMay be, it was.
~ ~ ~ Or, maybe, a German worker
~ ~ ~ Or a P.O.W., my brother soldier
~ ~ ~ Made it, looking askance at a pistol
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ barrel.
I've been carrying it from that smoking heap
of ruins
That once was called
Warsaw.
And since that day,
All the scales
On which I weighed myself
Have always lied, showing several grammes
Too much.
I have no special complaints.
The splinter has behaved quite decently.
Only twice did it remind me of itself,
So that I had to gasp for breath.
Once---
When I came home a victor,
And,
giving and receiving kisses,
Forgot my age.
And next---
When a log slipped from a truck
And I tried to hold it.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Comrade doctor!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ After the operation,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Please give that splinter back to me.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ It has lived so long right next to my heart,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Separated from it by a space
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Thinner than cigarette paper,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ And has overheard everything.
But the main thing, however,
Is, that splinters that have penetrated
Human breasts and know the way in,
Should never be let free.
Translated by Louis Zelltkoff
99 __EMAIL__ webmaster@leninist.biz __OCR__ ABBYY 6 Professional (2007.12.06) __WHERE_PAGE_NUMBERS__ bottom __FOOTNOTE_MARKER_STYLE__ [*]+ __ENDNOTE_MARKER_STYLE__ [0-9]+ ~ __ALPHA_LVL2__ A Valediction __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ HanyrcTBHe Gun, arc a--- 3eMJiH, TBoa ii.iaiieTa. He BCflaro, JJocTHrayT nn Te6a Bcer;;a H acro^y MOBX pa,HHOCTaHU,uii MaHKH, He Be»aK>, Mexajui MOHX paiteT Bcer«a H Bcrony BbicxoaTb JIH CMOJKCT, TbI BblCTOHIUb. Beflb TU Moff cun, B Te6a ne eepnxb--- He yBaataxb CBOHX BepmBH n oQjiaKOB ce»HHM. A---Maxb, H OT xe6a He OTopsarb MHB pyic. MOH JIK)6OBI, Te6a B pauexe He ocxaBUT, H najii>nbi MOB CHJioii npnTH3Kenbn Te6a npHTanyT, H6o TU MHC flopor. [102:] Ho Tbi HC cjiymaii Moero iipii;tbina -- «OcTaHbcn!» Cjryinaft TOJibKO--- «BosBpaTHcb cKopec!» Co 3BC3flHOli HbUIbH) Ha HOflOLUBaX - BepBHcb! Co 3B63;HibiM oTpaateHweM B rjiasax BepHHCb! Co 3B63AHOIO TpesoroH B cepflu.e--- BepHHCb! nooepeJKHU peu MOHX npoiijryT ynpyrae TponmiKii. JfajKflH npOJlblOTCfl, II, CJIOBHO BOJIOCbl TBOei'i JIK)6nM()ii, BaaroyxaH, HponnsaHHaH rpoaoBHM OHOIIO.M, PacnycTHTCH MOH onpenb. CblH, 9TO H, 3ei«jiH, TBOH njianeTa, Boai.MH c coSoio B 3B63flHyio aopory Koapiiry Moero patanoro xjieSa H TOpCTb 36MJIH. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 100 Son, this is I---
Your native planet.
I do not know
If the waves of my radio stations
Will always be received everywhere.
I do not know
If the steel of my rockets
Will always and everywhere endure.
You will endure.
You are my son,
And not to believe in you
Is not to believe
In my own hoary peaks and clouds.
When trains pull out, I feel no pain;
When ships put out to sea, my heart does not ache.
But, when the space rocket starts,
My love for you
Will throb...
I am your mother
And cannot tear my hands
Away from you.
My love
Will press you down to your seat in the rocket,
My hands will pull you back
With all the strength
Of my heart's love.
Do not heed my
``Don't go...''
But hearken to my
"Return!''
With starlight in your eyes,
Return.
With starry passion in your blood,
Return.
With Stardust clinging to your feet,
Return.
The banks of my riveis,
Woven with firm-trodden paths
And my spring showers
will greet you;
And like your darling's tresses after rain,
So will my lilac
Overflow with its own fragrance
And the odour of the storm.
Son, this is I---
Your native planet.
Before you set off on your starbound flight,
Take a piece of my bread
And a handful of me
With you.
Translated by Louis Zellikoff
103 __ALPHA_LVL1__ AARON VERGELIS
Aaron Vergelis (b. 1918), a Jewish poet, who grew up in the Ukraine, entered the literary scene in 1935. His most important books are "At the Spring" (1940), ``Thirst'' (1956), "Second Meeting" (1961) and "Poem of Space" (1962). Vergelis, a publicist and a critic, is the chief editor of the magazine "Soviet Motherland" published in Yiddish. In his poetry Vergelis traces the development of man's sense of civil responsibility.
[104] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [105] __ALPHA_LVL2__ A Day of Open Hearts __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ ,,...O6i>neAaemcn denb deepeii" OTKpbiTbix OOTJIIBJIHH) flenb H! KTO XOICT, nyerb BofifleT xoxb na HO MOHS6T OCTaeaTbCH H HaB6K OH B Moett fly me. C XOpOHlHM ICJIOBeKOM WKHBCTCH cepflu;e H BO BCCM noJiajniT, a cKBepnoro caiwo OHO He cyirrecb B cepjrue, jiHu,a B macitax. aaxjionneTCH aa BRMH, TOIHO flBepua jKeJieanoii KJICTKH. B cepflu,e MHC HC IIH A.'IH yaiiyriiBain.H, HH flJIH flCCTH. IToHMHTe: B cepflue, ff.ua flpyaefi npocTopiiom, HCT MecTa fljiH cySieKTOB c cep«neM aK oflnoro-flpyroro--- H ySpa.iiich 6poflHrn n;s-noji Kposa, HO cep«i;e HC ocTaaocb CHDOTOIO--- cTaa Kpyr xecnee, HO npocTopneft B«BOC. Cepflen; OTKpwTbix oG-bHBJinio flenb H,--- KTO XOH6T, nycTb aaxoflHT Sea Xoaty noJiHMH, iam;aMH H«y, ne npjniacb no« lyatoe HMH; K flpyBbHM CBOHM HAy H H6 TBIOCb H, H rOBOpHTb OTKpblTO HO 6oK)Cb H. [108:] C jHOftbMH BCTpeiaioch na nyrnx-floporax , H iioflBJiniocb na ^yatnx noporax, n pasroBapnsaio iia pacnyxbc: ---OrKpbiTO cepflne, B HCM K3K flOJia CyflbTc! ,HpyjKim> naBafiTC,---roBopio n BOT TaK, Bee BMBCTC, ciacTbe Cepflen; OTKpblTblX 061.HBJIHIO flCHb H,--- KTO xo'ieT, nycTb saxojnrr Sea cTecnenbn! H«y na n,TOin;a,nii , «ny n B CKsepu, cxpoMjiiocb B Mopn, B 3ao6jia'inMe apcpbi. H BCHifly Jiroflii sine cneinaT HaBCTpe«iy. «OTKpbiro cepai(e?»---BOT o ICM HX pein. «OTKPWTO!» H BcxynaioT uiaroM CSIOJIWM H wepHOKowne, n JI;O«H c 6eJibiM TO.IOM, c rjiasaMH cepbiMn n c ro,iy6i>iMn. SaxoflHT crapubi BMCCTC c MOJIOHHMH; KTO 3AOpOB6HHbI, KTO HC T3K HJieiHCTW, HO maoHoe---Tro6 pyKH 6w;rn «IHCTH, n Tojibi;o 6 cepAna ne lepcTBiijin ano6a, H iToQ c rniiJioii nyuioii HH oflnoro 6w! CBo6o,HHfalii, CHJIbRblfi, c HenoMepKinHM ssopOM, H no flaJicKnM mecTByro npocTopaiu: MHO c MaJibimaMH nmmHTbcH B Jiyrax nacy H c nacTyxaMH JlroSwe He6eca rocTenpnHMnbi necmi n noacioAy iTo6w HX 6jian>CJronnJin. II H XOly, 1TO6 B flK>AHX JIIOflH HtHJIH. SJIOflCH na Mnjiocrb He ciueii! 3Jio6bi cepflue ne OTK-pbiJioci.! CCJIH neat cep«ei< OTKPHTWX---3TO , qToSbi B cepRU,a BOIDJIH HOTOKH cnera. H H xoiy, iTo5 CBOT Boinoji , SecKOHcmio, __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 106``...A day of open doors is announced...''
A day of open hearts hereby declare I!
Welcome are all! However momentary
The visit, there'll be some who shall forever
Stay close to me.
For it is hard to sever
The bonds that to a good man bind one tightly,
While parting from a wicked man comes lightly.
Do not intrude with faces that are masked.
For straight behind you shall my heart lock fast
Its iron door. Do not ingratiate
Hoping to flatter
Or intimidate.
Know well: a heart has room for all true friends
But none for those who follow evil ends.
I've warned some few this way---and out of shelter
The scoundrels have gone running helter-skelter.
Their loss is little grief, no great disorder---
The circle closes but the ring is broader.
A day of open hearts hereby declare I!
Welcome are all!
Let none be shy, none tarry!
I walk through meadows and through forest clearing.
Under no borrowed name
I go un fearing,
I visit friends of mine, I am quite open,
In all I wish to say, I am outspoken.
All sorts of people on the road I'm meeting,
To other people's homes I take my greeting
And always say when 1 resume my roaming:
"My open heart
"Is yours to feel at home in!''
``People, let's all be friends!" is what I tell them.
``We'll win our happiness like this---together!"
A day of open hearts hereby declare I!
Welcome are all!
Let none be shy, none tarry!
Translated by Peter Tempest
109 __ALPHA_LVL1__ YEVGENI VINOKUROV
Yevgeni Vinokurov (b. 1925) is one of the most gifted Russian poets to have appeared in the last twenty years or so. He was still a boy at school when the Second World War broke out. He joined up as a volunteer, and it was at the front that he began to write poetry. After the war he enrolled at the Literary Institute and graduated in 1951. His first book of verse was called "A Man's Duty''. His "hero`s'' spiritual maturity grows with each new book, reflecting a compatible process taking place in the life of the poet's own generation. Vinokurov's poetry is a blend of philosophic symbolism, humour, and a truthful rendering of details taken from life around him. His latest books ``World'', ``Music'' and ``Characters'' (1961--1966) are a poetical encyclopedia of modern man's emotions, feelings and thoughts, clothed in plastic, dimensional images, and subjected to a profound psychological analysis.
[110] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [111] __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [to be myself] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ TOJIbKO MH6 COBCTOB 116 Mne MHOTO B 9KH3HH A H Bee TOJibKo roaoBoii ---fla, «a, KOReiHo! Jlcno! Hy, eme 6w!. nepcT, KTO TOJibKo ue MCHH 3a jiairKaHl ---fla, ara, HOHHTHO! CnacHob! Jla«Ho! ---H ne BO3paH<aJi: Hy qio MHC CTOHT. A BCflb HM npHHTHO... ---fla, «a, corjiacen! Ofi JIH! Eu-5Ke-eft! Hy fla, noucaJiyHl Bw npaeu, He CKporo... Sojibine cjiymaji H yurrejieu, TOM SoJibine a XOTCJI Swxb ca»i co5oio. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 112 I've had advice from everyone I know,
It was bestowed most subtly and astutely.
And all I did was nod my head: "That's so.
You're right.... You're right, old fellow,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ absolutely!''
One finger stiffly raised,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ they'd clutch me tight
By the lapel.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ``I'm grateful beyond measure.''
I never argued:
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ``Yes... Yes, thank you....
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Quite.''
It cost me nothing, and it gave them pleasure.
"I do agree.... I do... That's really clever!...
Without a doubt!... Of course.... I'll think it over....''
The harder did they try to shape my mind,
The more to be myself was I inclined.
Translated by Irina Zhelezr.ova
113 __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [true to themselves] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ II03T Ol.IUaJI II HHIH.IIM II H,apeM. MopcKHM 6poffJirofi nomSaJi na mope. YuiacTtiM KJiepKOM OH CKpiineji nepoM, ropSacb 3a noimoib B KOHTOpe. 6biji sa icpa;icy, i;ni; Buiioii. B TpeyrojiKe, npn napafle, On (fipeiijiuii B pyiny iMoitaJi, yMH^eH, II c necnefi yMnpaji na 6appHKa^e. Cjienei; Span pbiHKOM. Fycyin. Bopo«a. IIo 3BOHKHM Tponaw M'lajicfl no Kamcaay. Ho KCM 6bl HH OWBaJI OH, HHKOPfla HH B MOM He HSMeiiiui ce6e HH paay. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 114 Some poets begged for alms, some wielded sceptres;
Some pirated the seas; some, like Villon,
Were hanged for theft; some over musty ledgers
In gloomy offices sat poring; some till dawn
At balls of state in powdered wigs paraded
And danced the minuet with polished ease;
Some died on barricades; with psalteries
Some walked (he roads; to some the hoary ranges
Of Caucasus spelt respiie from the past....
And yet, though different their fates, through storms
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and dangers
True to themselves they stayed until the last.
Translated by Irina Zheleznova
115 __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [strength of metal] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ KpecxHJiHcb roTM. B BOHOCM 30 naei OHH BXO.HHJIH c BHHOM oCpenenHbra. Ho Hafl co6ou OHH Hepwajra MCI, KynaK ocTaJiwi «OJTVKCH H y KpoTOCTH HTO 6 sanoBe^b CMiipcni>n HH r;iacn.ia... H a. ityjiaK 6bi coxpamiTi) xoxen. «o6p. Ho B HBM nycTb 6y«eT cn;ia. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 116 The Goths of old at baptism meekly wore
A look of doom.... But when the holy waters
Washed over them, aloft they held their swords,
Their fists unbaptised left for ever after.
Whatever the commandment's stern behest,
Humility, like patience, has its limit.
Though kind at heart, yet clenched I'll keep my fist---
And may there be the strength of metal in it.
Translated by Irina Zheleznova
117 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Music A mighty elemental force is music.
The more obscure is it, the greater is
The power it wields, the more is there
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ of magic
In every note.... Suffice it that it fills
My tearless eyes with tears....
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ A mellow languor,
It courses through the veins of human kind
And is, unseen, dissolved like salt in water
In everything.... Beneath a dome confined,
Its many spirits, kindly ones and evil,
Rebel and, frenzied, all our laws defy.
What is a piece of music but a camel
That passes through the needle's narrow eye! ...
Released, the demons prance and caper wildly
And to our senses lay delighted claim.
They call to us unthinkingly and blindly
To share, defenceless, in their frantic game.
They plead with us, these carefree, thoughtless
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ demons,
Of worldly chains to break forever free.
For centuries has music's artful summons
Enticed the hearts of men unwittingly.
The bacchants, reeling, fled in mad abandon
Into the fields, and there did, drunken, stray
When, thoughtfully, a tune picked up at random
Would Orpheus on his pipe begin to play.
And when, today, with sudden, tameless passion
A symphony rings out, it rends the dark,
And strips the sober mind of self-possession
The way a knife strips birch trees of their bark.
Translated by Irlna Zheleznova
121 __ALPHA_LVL1__ ANDREI VOZNESENSKY
Andrei Voznesensky (b. 1933) was educated at an architectural institute. His first published work "The Masters" (1959) created a stir in the literary world and secured for him a place of importance among contemporary Russian poets. His books ``Mosaics'' and ``Parabola'' (both 1960) are dynamic, colourful and brilliant. In many of his poems the imagery is exaggeratedly complicated and startling. The nerve centre of his poetry is a feeling of alarm for the insecurity of the world in the atomic age. Yet at the same time Voznesensky is not a pessimist. In his later collections: "Forty Lyrical Digressions from the Poem "Triangular Pear'" (1962), ``Antiworlds'' (1964) and ``Oza'' (1965) his furious denunciation of the world of lies, hypocrisy, violence and standardisation is based on humane principles of universal brotherhood. In 1963 Voznesensky wrote a poem about Lenin which he called "Long/ umeau''.
His poetry, with its syncopated rhythms and complex imagery, conveys more than the anxieties and painful stresses of our age: Voznesensky's sensitive awareness of beauty engenders hope and faith in life.
[122] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [123] __ALPHA_LVL2__ Avia--Introduction I start on my poem as though for an epoch unknown.
My neighbours doze off in their belts
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ to the engine's
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ smooth drone.
The Murom TV masts glow red
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ cigarettes in the night.
We've lots to discuss.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Have a smoke, Time, old man---
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ here's a light.
Let's cast up results.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Like meteors racing,
The years roll along, resplendent and blazing.
We know it's high time that a mass for our Springtime
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ were sung,
That we and our girlfriends
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ no longer are young,
That in seeing us off,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ there are those who feign sadness---
Some wave Granny's shawl,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ some their fists in their
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ gladness.
0 Earth,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 'tis of April your parting glance tells me
As, silent as night, on your back you repose.
A steam-engine
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ runs on its rails
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ in the distance,
Just like the zipper
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ that fastens
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ our clothes.
O Russia beloved,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ all this is no trifle---
Each pain felt by you pierces me with pain, too.
O Bussia,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ I am
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ your capillary vessel,
Whatever hurts me, Bussia,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ also pains you.
How petty from here my achievements and failures,
My friends and adversaries, dark lobbies packing:
Forgive me,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ O Time,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ if at times
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ words fail me.
You Time, are not money---
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ yet you, too, are lacking.
Men pass
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and, in passing,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ carve out their names
On the paths they have trodden
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ in letters of flame:
To the Future some leave---as it pleases the Fates---
A pair of torn trousers,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ others---whole states.
Now Him I distinguish,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ in my mind, seek to see
The man who spoke, lisping from a record to me.
Time, help me to paint those features pervading
My notes on his school in a suburb of Paris.
Forgive me, 0 Paris, your beauties unsung.
0 Russia,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ forgive me your pathways untrodden.
Forgive me my daring in touching this subject,
Forgive me for fearing
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ to touch it ere now.
I start on my poem. And if blunder I do,
Forgive me, O Time,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ just as I pardon you.
I pose o'er my notes in the light of my torch.
Like a tiny mosquito, our 'plane buzzes forth.
And floating beside it,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ in marble-white clouds
Lies our planet---
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ like Lenin---
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ profound, lofty-browed.
Translated by Louis Zellikoff
129 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Parabolical Ballad __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ Cy;p>6a, Kan paKexa, jieTHT no uapaoo.ic OSbiiHO---BO iwpaKe H pease---no pa^yre. >KnJi orHeHHO-pwatHH xyflOJKHHK ForeH, BoreMa, a B npom.io.M---Topronwii arenr. HroS B Jlyap Kopo.'ieBcrtiiii nonaCTb H3 MoiuiapTpa, OH «aa KpyrajiH lepea flay c CyiviaTpofi! OH , aaowB cymacmecTBHe wen, jryxoxy aeMHoe. 5K[)ei(bi roroxajiii sa Kpy;i;i;oii niiisiioio: «ripHMaji---Kopoie, napaoojia---Kpyqe, He Jiyiine Jib cKonHposaTb paficKiio Kym,H?» A OH ynocHJicH paneTOH pcsymeii CitBoab Bexep, cpuBaiomiiii (panaw H ymii. II B Jlyap OH nonaji He CKBOSb rjiaBiiwii nopor--- IlapaooJioii rneBHO npooiiB HOTOJIOK! K CBOHM npas^aM, no-pasnoMy xpaSpo, lepea mc.ib, lejioBCK---no napaCo.'io. [132:] }Knjia-Ci,uia flCBOMita PHAOM B Keaprajic. MM c HCIO yiiuiHCb, saieTbi cAaBajra. Ky«a >K H yexan! H iepT M6HH HCC MCJK rpyaHbix TOHJIHCCKIIX flnycMbic-iCHUbix ITpocTH MHC HypairKyio axy napaooJiy. IIpocTbiBinne ruie-miai B MepuoM napu;(HOM . 0, KaK Tbi UBCHCJia BO Mpaice BCCJICHHOU ynpyro H upHMO---KaK npyTHK aHTCHHw! A H BCC jieiy, npuscMvifinch no HHM--- 3eMHbIM B O3HO1I1HM CBOBM nO3bIBHbIM. KaK TpyffHO ABCTCH HaM ora napaGo.'ia ! . . C.MexaH KanoHbi, npornosbi, naparpacjjbi, HecyTCH ncieyccTBo, IIo B HCTOpHH--- TpaeKTopan! B cuSnpcKoii Beciie yronaiox Kajiomn A MO5K6T 6wTb, see >ue iipaiviaH---Koponc? __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 130 Fortunes like rockets fly routes parabolical,
Rainbows less widespread than gloom diabolical.
For instance, the iiery-red painter Gaugin,
Bohemian, though sales-agent until then:
To get to the Louvre from nearby Montmartre
He looped through Tahiti, just missing Sumatra.
Sped skyward, forgetting of money-born madness,
Of cackling wives and of stifling academies.
And so
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ he surmounted
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ terrestrial gravity.
The priests of the fine arts were eager to have
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ at him:
"A parabola's fine, but a straight line's far
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ shorter.
Better copy old Eden,'' they scoffed over porter.
But Gaugin zoomed away like today's rocketeers
In a wind that went tearing at coat-tails and ears
And entered the Louvre not through the front door,
But crashed his parabola through ceiling and floor!
Each reaches his truth with his own share
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ of nerve:
A worm through a chink
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and a man by a curve.
There once lived a girl---just a few blocks away.
We took college together until one fine day.
Why on earth did I fly
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ like a blinking old ass
To mix with Tbilisi's ambiguous stars?
Don't blame me too hard for that barmy parabola,
Poor shoulders left out in the cold by a rambler!
How clear you rang out through the gloom of the
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ universe,
My slender antenna, in gales truly furious.
On and on I keep flying,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ to land by your call,
My earthly antenna left out in the cold.
It's difficult business to fly a parabola.
Yet when art, love or history is the traveller,
Then, paragraphs, canons, prognoses defying,
Parabolical trajectories they go flying....
Siberian spring drowns galoshes in water
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Perhaps, after all, though, a straight line
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ is shorter?
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
133 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Autumn in Sigulda __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ OceHb B Caryjif\e c naromioii npomairre, npomaii, sioe JieTo. nopa MHO, ua #aie cryiaT TonopaMii, MOH flOM aaCiiBaroT «om,aTi>iii, npomaiixe, Jieca MOH cGpocHJiii KDOHM, nycTbi OIIH H rpycTiiw, nan >imni; c aKKopflcona, a Mysbiny---ynecJiH, Mb!---JIIOflH, MM TOJKB nOflO/KIIH, yxo«HM MM, T8K yiK nOJIOHiCHO, H3 CT6H, MaTepefi H 3TOT IIOpHflOK HSUe'ICH, npornaii. MOH M;IM;I. y OKOH TW cxaHeiuii upoapa'iiio, itaic KOKOII, iiauepno, yManjiacb aa [136:] o pofliina, nonpomaeMCH, Syfly 3B63^a, ueTJia, He njia'iy, He nonpomaiiKa , cnacnSo, /Kiisiib, qxo 6biJia, na CTpeJib6nm;ax B 10 SajiJioB H npo6oBaji Bi>i6nTb 100, cnaciiSo, >ITO omn6aJicH, HO TpHJK^bi cnacuSo, <ITO B npoapaiiiibie MOII Exoflmio npoapcHbc, i;ai; B peanHOByio nepiaTKy KpaCHblQ MV/KCKOli Kyjiaif, «AHHpeu Bo3HeceiicKnu»--- no6biTb 6bi He CJIOBOM, He 6y.ii>;uiKOM , eme na meue TBOBH syuiHoii--- «AiiflpioiiiKoii» , ciiacn6o, 'ITO B poiu,ax ocemiiix TW scrpeTHJiacb, ITO-TO cripociuia H nca BOJioic.ia 33 oiiiciiinii;, a OH yrmpa.'iwi. cnacuoo, H OHCHJI, CIiaCHOO 33 OCOIII,, ITO TH MH6 M6HH o6l>JTCIIHJia , xosHHKa 6yflu«ia nac B BoceMb, a B npasAHHKn CHHJIO oacii.ia nJiacTHiiKa Cjiaxnoro nomiiGa, cnacnSo, HO BOT TbI yXOffHUIb, yXOflULUb, KBK noesff OTXOJ;HT, yxoflHinb... H3 nop MOHX nojibix yxo^niub, MM apoab flpyr 113 npyra \XOAH.M, 4CM H8M 9TOT flOM HeyrO«6H? Tbi PHAOM H r«e-To noMTH y [138:] n anaio, MTO MW noBTopmicn B ApyabHX n noflpyrax, B TpaBHHuax, nac 3TOT aaMCHHT n TOT,--- «npnpo«a SOHTCH nycTOT/>, cnaciiSo aa c,nyTbie Kponu, na oioiiy npii^vT MHJIJIIIOHI>I, sa eauin aaitoHbi---cnacnSo, HO JKeHU(HIia MHHTCJI HO CKJIOH8M, KaK omeHHbiii JIIICT an uaroiioM... CnacHTe! __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 134 Leaving, leaning out of a train
under the rain,
good-bye summer,
I've got to go....
Behind me they hammer
nails into shutters, blow after blow,
good-bye, I've got to go!
My woods are a vacant, joyless space---
no more leaves to doff---
like an accordion case
with the tunes carried off.
We people
are voided too,
we go when the time is due
from women, mothers, all in due course,
forced by eternal laws.
Good-bye, Mummy,
I won't be coming
so soon.
You'll stand there, transparent
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ as a cocoon,
worn out with the day.
Let's sit for a while till I start
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ away.
Good-bye, my country, as well,
I'll be star or maybe fir,
I wont't cry for more---I've had my spell,
Thanks, life, that you were.
On targets for only ten points
I tried to score a hundred,
thanks for the way I blundered,
but thanks even more~
that through my transparent shoulderblades
clairvoyance would shove
like a red male fist at first aid
through a rubber glove.
ANDREI VOZNESENSKY will come.
0 to be not a word, not a bullying bum
but the least while more on your motherly cheek,
your own Andryushka, soft and meek.
Thanks for the woods full of colour
where we met and roamed over knolls and banks,
while you dragged your dog by the collar,
a stubborn old soul it was,
thanks,
I'm revived: so thanks for the autumn,
for explaining me to myself,
The landlady woke us at eight as she ought on
weekdays; on Sundays it was like hell,
Her gramophone baring its fangs,
yet even for that
thanks.
But now you are leaving, moving away,
moving away like an out-going train,
leaving me vacant to fill with pain,
we're parting---going out of each other---
Parting again like me and mother.
You're beside me yet far away,
farther than words can say,
137
~
138
we'll all be repeated as years pass
in boyfriends and girlfriends and blades of grass,
this, that or the other is bound to replace us,
nature won't tolerate blank spaces,
thanks for the trees gone bare,
millions will fill up the gap, so why care.
Thanks for the laws whose weight I've felt,
yet---
a woman speeds over hill and plain
like a naming leaf in the wake of a train...
Help!
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
139 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Antiworlds __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ AlITHMHpW y nac cocefl ByKaniKHH, Byxranxep ueexa npoMOKauiKH. Ho, Kan BOSflyriiHbie mapbi, Ha# HUM ropiTT AHTHMHpbl! H B HHX Maril'ieCKHH, K3K «6MOH, BcCJICHHOli npaBHT, BO3Jie}KIlT AiiTii6yi;auiKnn , aKa^eMHK, H nrynaex JIojiJio6pH3a«Hfl. Ho npoMOKaniKH. fla 3flpaBCTByK)T OaHTacTbi---nocpe«ii Mypw. Bea rjiynwx ne 6wao 6w yMHbix, OaancoB---6ea KapaKyMOB. HCT /KOHUI.IIH--- B Jiecax peayT anTHMaiLiiini.i. EcTb COJJb 36MJ1II. EcTb COp 3CMJIB. HO COXHCT COKOJ1 6e3 3MCH. .Hlo6jlK1 n KpIITUKOB MOIIX. Ha mee o;inoro u;i HHX, B^aroyxaHHa n rojia, CHHCT [142:] ...ft CIUIK) C OKOlIlKaMH OTKpblTblMH, A rfle-To cBameT H He6oci<pe6i>i! Ha 6pioxe rjio6yca BIICHT. II no,no Miioii BHH3 rOJIOBOl'i, BoHSHBUiiK'b BHJiKoii B map 36MHoii, Becnc'iiibiii Mii.iwii JKHBCUIb TbI, Moii aiiTiiMiipoi; 3aie»i cpeflH Hoinoii nopw BcTpeiaroTCH 3a'I6M OHH BflBOCM H B TejICBHSOpbl PJIHAHT? HM He noHiiTi, u napu (J)pa:i. Hx nepsbiii paa---nocjieAHHH pas! 3a6bIBIIIH npo OOHTOH, SyflyT MyiHTbcn HOTOM! H yiuicn KpacHbie ropflr, Kan 6y«To 6a6o'iKii CH^HT... jieKxop MHO B'iepa Cicaaaa: «AHTIIMHPM? Mypa!» ft CIIJIK), BOpOMaiOCb CnpOCOHOK. HasepHo, npas iiaymibiii xMbipb... Moii KOT, i;ai; rjiasoM MOBHT __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 140 Next door to us there lives a clerk
The colour of a watermark.
But above his knob, where he once had curls
Like air-balloons
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ shine antiworlds!
And there, demoniac magician,
Assistant of the Lord Almighty,
An anti-clerk Academician
Lolls in the arms of Aphrodite.
But now and then the anti-clerk
Sees dreams the colour of a watermark.
Long live, long live ye antiworlds,
Fantastic among worlds absurd.
Without no fools there's be no sages.
No Saharas---no oases.
Women? No! Just anti-men.
Antimachines roar in the glen.
There's salt of earth, there's silt of earth.
Without the Earth the Sun's small worth.
My critics---I adore the lot.
One of the pack displays a pot
Bare as his knee and bright as lead---
A smacking, downright anti-head....
By open windows I sleep nights
While somewhere else it's a day, they (ell me,
With skyscrapers like stalactites
Suspended from the planet's belly.
And there, head down, at the Antipodes,
Pinned to the surface by the toes,
You live
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ as carefree as a bird,
My own, my darling antiworld!
What makes two antiworlds at night
Gloat upon one another's sight?
Why do they sit like two twin pets,
Eyes glued to television sets?
They're deaf to all that's flying past.
Their first time is both first and last.
They sit, forgetting all bon-ton,
Though sure to suffer later on.
Just watch the way their red ears glow
Like butterflies, four in a row.
... My friend, a lecturer, passed word
That antiworlds were quite absurd.
So now by night I toss and turn,
Awaking from my sundry nightmares.
My cat's green eyes switch on and burn,
Catching the world, a feline wireless.
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
143 __ALPHA_LVL1__ SAMUEL GALKIN
Samuel Calkin (1897--1960) was a well-known Jewish poet, born in Byelorussia. He first appeared in print in 1922. His poetry, which takes the form of lyrical meditations, explores with insight and sympathy the fate of the ordinary, inconspicuous man. Both his lyric poems and his plays---``Bar-Cohba'' (1939), ``Salomith'' (1940) and "Uprising in the Ghetto" (1947)---are very national in character. The tragedy of the Jewish people at different stages of history does not simply constitute the theme of his poems but sets the emotional tone to his entire work. Notes of gentleness, compassion, kindness and understanding for the grief of others are sounded in his later poetry, imbued with pure, noble and reserved emotion.
[144] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [145] __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [heavy on the waves] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ O Kopa6ae ne cy«HT no A;IHHC, H KJiyow RbiMa---He ero iwepiuio. HMCCTCH B vwjjy imaa cnjia--- HaCKOJIbKO OH THJK6JI MOpCKOH IIOJIHC. MepiiJio, BoaeeflCHiioe B saicon,--- OSlCM HOfll>l, MTO BMTCCHJieT OH, A H inra'ie siepio---cKOJib na«e>Kno On rpy:j xpamiT OT riiGcjin __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 146 A ship is judged not by its girth or grace
Nor by the volume of emitted smoke.
The yardstick used by ocean-going folk
Is just how heavy on the waves it weighs,
A measure canonised and worded in his law
By Archimedes many centuries before.
Yet I would ask---if anyone asked me---
How safe its cargo is from peril out at sea....
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
147 __ALPHA_LVL2__ On Days of Stress __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ Kor«a iioflae-icH a Jiio«cKoii nenpaBOToii, r«e CHJiy noqepirayTb, <rro6bi paaHHJiacb TOM, C KaKoii y6e>K«eHa---Kan 6y«TO enpaivib B fjeccnopHoH npanoTC ceoeii HenpaeoTa?.. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 148 When down in spirits after men have done me wrong,
Where can I find the strength to be as strong
As are the wrong-doers, who all the facts despite
Are always certain they are doing right?
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
149 __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [old age] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ TaK BOT ona, cxapocTb... SaKpwTan MesK MnpoM MciTanbH H MiipoM cBepmciibn. Bce pea<e flano HM cJiHBaTbca Tenepb, H fla/KC B CJIHHHHH HCT HdjeJICHbH. BOT cxapocTb... On,enjieHa, oupy}Kena Ojia/KKaMH, nan sarHamibiii BOJIK Ha HOJIHIIO, KpyHJHTCH, HO BCC HC npoSbCTCH OH3 Ha Kpyra saKJiaroro BoenoMHHaHHii. BOT (yrapocTb... rneBJiHBOCTb 6ea HBHWX npimmi. CTO CMWCJIOB yjibiSKH, Tecnani,HX apyr flpyra. 113 BCCX 3THX CMblCJIOB HOIIHTHefi OflHH: Tan «JTHT noSeffHTCJiH cSpouieHHwii c h-pyra. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 150 So here's old age---a tight-shut door
Between the realms of act and dream.
More and more seldom than before
They merge in union supreme.
Old age ... surrounded, cornered in
By flags as if a hunted beast,
It seeks escape, but tears its skin
Against the nails of memories.
Old age ... rage without source or cause,
Smiles, meaning what? God only knows.
The clearest meaning to be found
Is---a victor's homage from the downed.
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
151 __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [time-born merits] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ H BOT eme o ICM MOH xpCBora, MOH coMneHHfl, Mofi TaiiRbifi CTpax: BCK HbraeniRHH---aaSox B HCM 6buio MHOFO, A paflocxb jnofln BMpaHiajiB crporo,--- an MOH BCK B MOHX cxnxax? MOHcer, CKajKCT Mcwiofloe HCHSHB, MOJI, npoxoui ICJIOBCK, A B TOM, citaHarre, OTpaami OH Bpeiui, TO1HO CTHX B nOOMC H enpaee cxaxb npocJiaBJieniibiM naBCK?.. Ho HHor^a, see KOjie6anbH BSBOCH, fl Bepro, vro ce5n Tepaaio apn. KaR B cymepicax aaiueinaHa aapa, MOH BCR---B CTHxe MOCM, B era aaiuece. H aaoTpa HJU> noa^Hefi Hacxynflr cpoKH, H B ReKHH RCHb 5e3o6.iaiHO-BWCOKHfi npe^CTaHer CTHX MOH npefl cy«OM IleiaTbio BpeiHCHB saneiaTJieH. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 152 Then it is this that fills me with concern,
A source of doubts, a cause for secret fears:
Far, far too many were the worries that could burn
A human heart in these distracting years
When even Joy's expression was too stern;
Will it be present in my poetry, our time,
Or will the coming generation say
The life he lived---where is it in his rhyme,
That age of turbulence whose every day
Was like a line of poetry sublime?
Yet somehow, when I weigh all con's and pro's
It seems that I torment myself in vain.
Just as the dawn of day in twilight shows,
Some inkling of these times my lines contain.
And so tomorrow or a later day will come,
A certain day of truly cloudless grandeur,
On which my poems will be judged by the full sum
Of time-born merits---to be duly praised or branded.
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
153 __ALPHA_LVL1__ RASUL GAMZATOV
Rasul Gamzatov (b. 1923) was born in the village which bears the name of his father Gamzat Tsadasa, People's poet of Daghestan. He was educated in Moscow, and began his career by translating the Russian classics into his native Avar language.
More than thirty books of poetry by Rasul Gamzaiov have been translated into Russian and other languages. The popularity of his poetry is explained by its amazing and quite rare combination (Robert Burns can be given as an example) of natural talent, the tradition of naive ancient folk myths and songs and modern literary culture. Characteristic forms used by Rasul Gamzatov are the octave and the form of poetic, aphoristic ``inscriptions'', which Caucasian mountain dwellers used to engrave on the vaulted ceilings of their stone buildings, on tombstones, on sword handles and saddles.
In 1963 the poet was awarded the Lenin Prize.
[154] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [155] __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [baited hook] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ ii BGTOP, coJiim,e H Mpai;--- Ecjibiii pbi6aK, 'lepHbiii pwGaK. B Mupe KHK B Mope; H IO/KCTCH MHC: Mhl, C.1OBHO pblSbl, HJlblBeM B B Mupe i«aK B Mope, HC CHHT pbi6ai;n, CCTB rOTOBHT H Jia«HT KpKiqKH. B CCTH JIH IIO'III, H8 y^OIKy flHH CKopo nn BDCMH noiiMaeT MCHH? __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 156 Morning and evening, darkness and light---
Fishermen black and fishermen white.
The world's like an ocean; like fishes are we,
Like fishes that swim in the depths of the sea.
The world's like an ocean where fishermen wait,
Preparing their nets, their hooks and their bait.
How soon then, O Time, will you bring me to book
In the nets of the Night or on Day's baited hook?
Translated by Louis Zellikoff
157 __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [three songs] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ EcTb rpii saeeTHbix necim y II B HHX niOHCKoe rope n eecejibe. OAHH us necen BCGX flpyrnx cBeiviefi Ee cnaraeT MaTb nan KOJiwSeJibio. Bxopaa---TOJKO necmi inaxepeii. PyKoio rjiafln meKii aenaabte, Ee noioT na,i rpoSoiti cbiiiOBeii... A TpexbH necHji---necim __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 158 Three songs there be that thrill the human breast---
Three songs with human joy and sorrow laden.
And one of them is happier than the rest---
The song a mother sings beside a cradle.
The second by a mother, too, is sung---
Caressing icy cheeks with mourning fingers,
She sings it at the graveside of a son.
The third is sung by all the other singeis.
Translated by Louis Zellikoff
159 __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [hero's widow] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ V IOHOOIH H3 Haiuero ayjia Buna qepaoBOJiocaii B TOT rofl, Korfla no HM MHHJ'JIO, Ilpiiuijia B pasjiynijia nx noiina. JKena «Ba«uaTHJieTHero repoH CH«HT ccflaa OKOJIO IIX CbIB, IIOCHIU,HH HMH Ccro;;nn crapmo CBoero __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 160 There was a lad who once lived in our village,
He had a youthful bride with raven hair,
That self-same year when she and he turned twenty
Came war, and tore him from his bride so fair.
The hero's bride is now a hero's widow.
Her hair is grey, her eyes have lost their fire;
Their son, who bears his father's name so precious,
Today is older than his fallen sire.
Translated by Louis Zellikoff
161 __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [happiness] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ PaflocTh, noMe«jm, Kyaa TH jieTiiuib? B cepanie, KOTopoe jno6irr! HDHOCTb, Ky^a TH BepnyTbCH cnemmub? B cep;we, KOTopoe jnoSirr! Cana H cueJiocTb, icy^a BW, Kyfla? B cepflqe, KOTopoe ^IOSHT! A BH-TO Ky^a, neiajib ^a 6e«a? B cepflue, KOTopoe __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 162 ``Happiness---tarry; say whither you fly?''
``Into a loving heart.''
``Youth, to return---whither haste you and why?'
``Into a loving heart.''
``Courage and strength---tell me, whither and where?
``Into a loving heart.''
``And whither haste YOU, 0 sorrow and care?''
``Into a loving heart.''
Translated by Louis Zellikoff
163 __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [five short minutes] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ TC, KOMy ocxajioch, monter, IlHTb MHHyT rjIHflCTb H8 Gejlblfi CBCT, CyeTHTCH, jieayx BOH HS KOHCH, CJIOBHO jKHTb eme HM COTHH aer. A u;\ajin B MOJiiaHbn CTOBCKOBOM r-lHRH Ha UiyMJIHBblH CJIOBHO Bcero HM nnrh __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 164 Even some of those who have at best
Five short minutes left to live---no more,
Toil and moil without a minute's rest
As if they had some hundred years in store,~
While snowy peaks, coeval with Creation,
In silence stern regarding petty Man,
Stand frozen still in mournful expectation
As if but five more minutes were their span.
Translated by Louis Zellikoff
165 __ALPHA_LVL2__ [beacons of mankind] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ TH iiepcA IIAMII, upCMn, ne OiHTaJi BCCX jiiofleii cnoeio HeMano cpe^t Jirofleii xaitux, ibn ;i;ii;iin, Ca»ia HCTOIHHK TBoero Saaroaapno o;t;ip>fiiiunM nac repoHM H noaraM. CneTHJiocb Tw H cneTHinbCH ceKiac He COScTBGHHblM , a HX BCJIHKHM CB6TOM. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 166 Stop boasting, time, that men are but your shadows
That all their grandeur just reflects your own.
'Tis men that lend their glory to their epoch,
Aye, men illumine time with their renown.
Be grateful to the poet, thinker, hero,
Who sheds on us the light of soul and mind.
The everlasting brilliance of an era
Emerges from the beacons of mankind.
Translated by Louis Zellikoff
167 __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [o time] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ TM, BpeMfi, BCTyiiaemb co Miioii B pyKonaimiyio, IlMTaeiab npoapeiihCM, Kapaeiiib npespeHbOM, CerojujH KJieiiMHiiib aa OUIHOKH BiepauiHHC IT KpenocTH pyuiHinb---MOH 3a6jiya«fleHbH. KTO 3H3J7, 1TO OHa5KyTCH HCTHHM 3bl6l<HMH? Hero JKC CMeeuibCH TH, MCTH n Kapan, Beflb H omnSajicH TBOIIMH oiniiOKaMii, BocTopsKemio CJIOBO TBOC noBTopnn! __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 168 0 Time, you pursue me with legions of (errors
With painful disclosure, disfavour, dismay;
Today you denounce me for Yesterday's errors
And smash my delusions like castles of clay.
Who knew that old truths were so easily shaken?
Then why do you laugh at me, why such unkindness?
I erred in the things in which you were mistaken,
Repeating your words in my rapturous blindness!
Translated by Louis Zellikojf
169 __ALPHA_LVL1__ IVAN DRACH
Ivan Drach (b. 1936) numbers among the Ukraine's gifted modern poets. He was educated at Kiev University and upon graduation worked first as a teacher and then as a newspaper correspondent. His first published collection ``Sunflower'' (1960) invited attention to his striking personality and the intelligence, originality, and metaphoric boldness of his poetry. His next book "The Solar Prominences of the Heart" (1965) evoked much discussion in the press. Drach is seeking his own ways of developing modern poetic diction and in doing so draws on the wealth of the Ukrainian language. He is an innovator not only as regards form (involved associational lines, musically picturesque expressiveness, original rhythms) but also as regards content. Drach's poetry, in which he strives to bring out the general in the personal, and the universal in the national, is notable for the wide range of interests it embraces, for its intellectual depth.
[170] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [171] __ALPHA_LVL2__ The Ballad of the Pail __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ fl---<I>opMa i« niini;a. Moc T>I5KCJIbie IIiapllKH llblJIbllOli 'lepCUIHH, BarpHiibie sopn Ha HHX Tenepb OHH ;HJCMJIIOT BO MHC, it---(popiua. Moe coAepntaHHe---rpymn, ConepHHinj co.iHua, CBeTu.ibiniKii ca^a, PecnyGjinKH COKOB aaSjiyjunne B nofloji counpa.iii iix u iioib Jl---(popiua, d---Kopnyc, fL---IHIHKOBblH KOHyC. Moe coflepwanbe OT (popMbi MeiaMH MOpKOBH H flblHHMH 11O.'IHH)CI> H JIOMKOIO WCJITOH SOTBOH oropo^Hoii. >1---(popirta. H jiHi^ii uapHT naA« MHOIO, Moe coAepJKanbc B MCHH coGapaH. Korjia JK HC nano.'ineHa njioTbio aeMiioio, fl iieGoM, n ne6oM najinra «o upan. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 172 I'm a form out of zinc. I contain
Heavy pellets---the fruit of the dust-sprayed cherry.
Crimson sunsets and dawns they retain.
Now they doze in me, berry on berry.
I'm a form. In the autumn my content are pears,
The lamps of the orchard, the sun's gleaming rivals,
Stray souls of the bark-clad Republic of Sap
Gathered in aprons as welcome arrivals.
I'm a form.
I'm a body,
A cone out of zinc
Whose content is multiform---free of its form.
Filled with dagger-like carrots or beet to the brink
Or brittle green stalks, without measure or norm.
I'm a form. It's to man that I owe my birth
And what I am filled with is subject to him.
And when I am free of the flesh of the earth
I am laden with air---full of sky to the brim.
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
173 __ALPHA_LVL1__ YEVGENI YEVTUSHENKO
Yevgeni Yevtushenko (b. 1933) is a leader among modern Soviet poets. He is especially popular with students and young people. Yevtushenko's poetry is imbued with a sense of civic responsibility, it is publicistic in character, and constantly focused on the main problems of the day. At the same time it has the lyrical quality of an infinitely sincere confession. Yevtushenko travels a great deal, and has been to many countries in Europe, Asia and both North and South America. The bourgeois press at one time linked his youthful revolt against rigid dogmas with the mutiny of the Angry Young Men in the West. Yevtushenko himself has refuted this comparison. He is a consistent and ardent champion of revolutionary ideas and principles. An innovator in his own right, he develops certain of Mayakovsky's techniques especially as regards assonant rhyming.
[174] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [175] __ALPHA_LVL2__ Do the Russians Want a War? __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ M. BepHecij XOTHT JIM pyCCKHC BOHHbl? CnpocHTe BW y THIIIHHU na,n iiinpbK) naiiieii H nojieii, H y 6epe3 H TonoJieii. Cnpocirre BH y TCX MTO nofl SepeaaMH H nycTb sain CKaasyT HX ci.mi.i, XOTHT JIH pyCCKHC BOHHbl. He TOJIbKO 33 CBOIO CTpany coJiflaTM ruSjiu B Ty Boiiny, a HTOObi jnoflH Bceii SCMJIH CHOKOHHO BHflCTI. CHW MOFJIH. How mej