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 Emacs-File-stamp: "/home/ysverdlov/leninist.biz/en/1969/FSP533/20071206/199.tx" __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 mejiecT jiHCThes H ad)mii TW cnHuib, Hbio-HopK, TW ciTiiuii,, llapn/i; IlyCTb B3M OTB6THT BOIUV1 CHbl, XOTHT JIH pyccKne BOHHLI. ^a, MM yineeM aoesaTb, UO H6 XOTHM, IToGbl OHHTI, coji«aTbi nanajin B 6010 na aeMJiio rpycTHyro CBOIO. CnpocHTe Bbi y MaTepeii. CnpocHTe y asenbi Moeii. H BM Tor«a HOHHTb ,HOJI;KHF>I, XOTHT JHI pyccKiie noiiiiM. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 176To Mark Bemes
Say, do the Russians want a war?---
Go ask our land, then ask once more
That silence lingering in the air
Above the birch and poplar there.
Beneath those trees lie soldier lads
Whose sons will answer for their dads.
To add to what you learned before,
Say---Do the Russians want a war?
Those soldiers died on every hand
Not only for their own dear land,
But so the world at night could sleep
And never have to wake and weep.
New York and Paris spend their nights
Asleep beneath the leaves and lights.
The answer's in their dreams, be sure.
Say---Do the Russians want a war?
Sure, we know how to fight a war,
But we don't want to see once more
The soldiers falling all around,
Their countryside a battleground.
Ask those who give the soldiers life,
Go ask my mother, ask my wife,
Then you will have to ask no more,
Say---Do the Russians want a war?
Translated by Tom Batting
177 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Snivelling Fascism^^*^^ __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ CoiuiHDbiii CTpaiia VTCCOB, laei;, Tyiaanoii, JiecopyCoB, pi.Toaiton, itan, nam KopaSjib Bcrpeiaji, iici.piwacb ripiicTaHb Bcnjiecitajm njiaxifO IMK MOmHO HCJia MOJIOflOCTb H3fl MOJIOM, K8K MM CXOflHJIII B TOJIKOTHC JHOflCKOH ii /i;a.m pyitii, naxiiymiio MopeM, aBTOJIOM II CMOJICHOK) IICIIbKoii!.. IIJIOXIIX HapOflOB HCT. Ho 6ea n BaM citaucy, XO3HCB IIC BHHfl: y Kawfloro iiapo^a--- CBOH ra^i.i. Tan H npo ra^oa. CjiymaiiTe MeiiH. CTHxoTBopeiiHe naniicano B CBHSH c npoBOKannonIIMMH BwctynjienHiiMH npaBr.ix CHJI na VIII Bce-- MHpHOM (JleCTHBaJIO MO.lOflMKII II CTyflGHTOB B Xcjlb-- CHIIKU B 1962 ro;;y. [180:]iiii Meiin npocTJiT aa OTO (jjinim.T,
0aiiiii3M H auaji nu Kimrau u no a TyT ero yaH^eji nanny. iI>aniii:tM CTOHJI, ;ii>iina i! .in no MHC HIICKII, y Opon.iOBoii CKyjibnTypi.i Ky.'ineuon. Opajia u MCTaJiacb B ni>;nioM niinrc opana paary.ijiniiiiixcii 101111,011. <I>amn3My tpJifliKKii noflCaBJuiJiii GoflpocTii. 0amH3M /KCHa.'i c npHmejiKOM lymiraiu, niBbipmi B (pccTiiBajibHbie a CyTMJIKII , IIOH CBHCTKH H ra.M. <DaniH."iM xpycJiMB Rbui B oroii On GI.IJI coiiJiun, narjiocTii. H CeJioCpwc. OH <iyTb HC JIGS OT HeiiaencTH na cxciiy u IIOA iiJiamaMii npnTa.i ;(oxjiwx i;pwc. B3JioxMa>ieiiHbiii , CJiH>iinBbiii, nep co BCCX cTopoii u yaioiiioKaji rauu;ai\i H Ha H (j)iiiniaM on. OH noxBa.in.icH aoi;a;)noio a caM SOHJCH rfle-TO B rji [182:] H B pOK-II-pOJIJIC HJI11 TUIICTe Wpri C IlpnCMHIIMKOM, BHCHU4.HM lia 3x, Kyaiieuw, lly '1TO >KC Bbl (iC.'iMOJIBCTBUBilJIH?! Ci;a/Ky no HPCTII--- MHC iiac ni.i.io Hta.'ib. Bbi no;i,nii.iii Gbi 6pOH3OBbie MOJIOTbl H paanecJiii 6i»i B KJionbH axy maajib! EeciiJiiich, iti.uii, JIP.'SJIII BOH 113 KOiKIl, na CBoii iiapoH nwTancii fipociiTi. TOIH.... Citasa.'iii sine--- noMiimai HO yconuiHM <DHIIJIJIHflHH CIlpaBJIHGT B UTOT flCHb. Ho B OTIIX noAJicnax, iiycTb naxe IOHI.IX, B CJHOIie HX HCTCpHICCKIIX pGICH nepe^o MHOIO OHUIJI «rnTncpiorciiA»--- II3BCCT1IMC BCCSI JICJIII IiajKl'ieii. «Xai'uib riiTJiop!»--- B KpIIKC C.II.TIIHI.IOCI, HCTOII1IIOM. TaiJ HOT KTO HX pOAHMblC OTUbl! TaK BOT noMHiiKH no KaiaiM ycoiuuiiM XOTGJIH CnpaBHTb 8TH Ho IIC yr.'ioBaTO y KJiyoa «CiiyTiiiiK»--- npfliuo rpyflb na cTeHow Bcxajiii pyccKHe pe6aTa, KHK IIX OTHW, 3ai;pi>in 4>auiH3My nyTb. «HO---(J)CCTIIBa.ril)!))--- B3BHBaJicn noil lunaiibn, [184:] «Ho---KOMMylII13M!»--- GblJI HIIKIlii pCB HCHCTOB. II ccjin 6 KOMMyiiHCTOM lie SMJI n, TO B DTy IIOMb a craji 6w __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ _-_-_^^*^^ The poem was written after provocative right-wing manifestations at the VI11 World Youth Festival of Helsinki in 1962.
178 Finland,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ country of seagulls
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and cliff's,
fishermen,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ timbermen,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ stoney earth!
Shall I ever forget,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ how,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ greeting our ship,
the landing-stage sparkled
with a handkerchief surf,
how strong
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ rang the song of the young
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ as we
passed through the welcoming crowd,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ row by row
shaking strong hands,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ that smelt of the sea,
car-grease
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and well-tarred tow!
There are no bad nations.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ But without false mercy
I'll tell you---
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ no blame on my hosts---
every nation
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ has its own vermin.
So I'll talk about vermin.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Here goes.
I hope
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ I'll be forgiven by Finns
for calling a spade
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ a spade.
I'd learnt about fascism
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ from books and films
but here
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ I saw it alive,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ in full play.
It stood,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ breathing whiskey
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ into my face,
fascism,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ near the Blacksmiths' statue,
drunken yells
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ all over the place
flying
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ like clots of spittle
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ at you.
They swigged new courage
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ from whiskey flasks,
munched chewing gum
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ with demented gusto,
hurled empty bottles
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and stones at us
as we drove by
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ in festival buses.
Yet they feared us,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ for all their wolf-pack
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ audacily,
the snivelling,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ warty,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ dirty beasts,
their hatred switched on
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ to full capacity,
hiding dead rats
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ their raincoats beneath.
The drooling,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ unkempt
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and sweat-faced ruffians
grabbed at girls,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ lunged about
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ with a hullabaloo,
jeering
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ at Malis
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and Ghanaians,
at Frenchmen,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ at Germans,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ at you, Finns, too,
howling,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ their would-be prowess flaunting.
hiding
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ how much they were really afraid,
with rock-n-roll
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and twist contorting,
girt with transistors,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ U.S.-made.
Now, Blacksmiths,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ tell me,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ why were you silent?
The hoodlums raged on,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ but you kept mum:
you ought to have lifted
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ your great bronze hammers
and hammered them flat,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ the fascist scum.
They ranted and raved
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ all decorum scorning,
dead-set
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ to bring shame
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ on their nation's head.
I'm told,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ all Finland
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ that day was mourning
in sad solemnity
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ for her dead.
But in those scoundrels,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ though only lads,
came alive
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ the Hitlerjugend of old---
the well-known butchers' creche
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ which our dads
had taught a lesson
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ worth its weight in gold.
"Heil Hitler!''
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ echoed in their drunken yells.
So that's who they honoured
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ on Remembrance Day!
We know
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ who their ancestors were
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ jolly well,
a marvellous lineage,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ I must say.
Yet I'll never forget, too,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ how firmly stood
our Russian boys,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ to their fathers true,
at the Sputnik club
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ resolved to stay put,
not to let
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ the shadow of fascism through.
``No---festival!''
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ rose
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ the hoodlums' roar.
``No---Communism!''
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ came the outcry
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ dirty.
I swear,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ if I hadn't done so before,
that night
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ I'd have joined the Party,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ for certain!
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
185 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Envy __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 3ami;vyio n. Oxoro ccicpcTa nc pacicpMDivi n paiibiiic fi :maio, «1TO 5KHBCT MajIL'JIHUKa H o'iciib n saBH^yio cmy. UaK Oil a lie GMJI Tan CecxiiTpocTen H CMCJI. TOMy, i;ai; on n Tai; CMenTbcn n ;;CTCTBO lie ysicji. On BC'iiio xofliiT B ccaflimax n iiiiiiui;ax--- H GWJI nccr.ua npii'iecamicii, Hejieii. Bee TO Mecxa, ITO upoiiyciiaa H B KimVKicnx, on lie iipoiiycTHT. On n TyT ciuibiioii. On oyftCT 'iccTCii HCCCTKOH npjuioToio, ajiy HC npomaa aa cro floSpo, H TaM, r^e H nepo 6pocaji: «Hc CTOIIT...»--- OH cKa>Ker: «CTOHT!»--- [188:] H BfKJbMCT On, CCJIH lie paonmiscT. TflC H HH On, CCJIH yw ran paapyGiiT, , ii n paapyujiio. , lie a H H IIO.[H)O.IH), Hi\ pa.i.noo.iH). ft CKporo aasucTb. By fly yjibioarbCH. fl npiiTBOpioch, naic Cy^To n npocTau: «Kojiy-TO >KC ne^i. im;in yjiuGaTbcn, KOSiy-TO iKC IJPflb IiaflO iKIITh IIO T<1K...» Ho cicoJibiio (i mi niiyniaJi cede n :m>, y Kaiimoro cnon...», nine lie saSbiTb, >ITO ecrb .Mjijii.iiniiiica ITO OH floSbCTcn Gojibuiero, WM n. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 186 I'm full of envy.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ It's a truth I never
Disclosed before.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Yes, call it just a whim.
There lives a boy some place---
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ My friend? My
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ neighbour?
No.... I don't know him
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ but I envy him.
I like the daring way he fights his battles;
I was more straight-laced, less naively bold.
I like his laugh, so unrestrained, so artless;
Mine was less childlike, if (he truth be told.
My hair was plastered neatly---
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ his is tousled;
My knees were pink---
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ his knees are black and blue.
In books,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ I skipped the parts
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ that bored or puzzled---
He never does;
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ he reads them.... reads them through.
Towards evil unforgiving, he will brusquely
Dismiss its righteous words.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Whereas I may
Throw down my pen: "It doesn't pay, too risky,"---
He'll pick up his.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ``It does!" he'll calmly say.
A knot he can't untie, he'll cut;
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ whilst striving
To do the same, I cannot hope to win.
I know that, once in love,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ he'll not stop loving,
While I keep falling out of love and in.
I'll mask my envy.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ I will smile, pretending
To be more guileless than I really am,
And say in tones remotely condescending,
"Not all of us can hope to be the same.''
But all my words, I know, sound lame and cmpfy.
I can't forget, no matter how I try,
That there's a boy right in this very city,
A boy who will achieve
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ much more than I.
Translated by Irina Zheleznova
189 __ALPHA_LVL1__ NIKOLAI ZABOLOTSKY
Nikolai Zabolotsky (1903--1058) was a major Soviet poet. Fame came to him with the publication of his book of verse entitled ``Columns'' (1929). The main theme of Zabolotsky's poetry is Nature and its ties with Man, approached from a philosophical point of view. At first (until the 1930s) lie seemed most strongly aware of the destructive character of Nature, perceiving it in a pantheistic and mythological light. Then a new theme appeared: reason bringing harmony into the sanguinary contradictions of blind Nature. In the middle of the 1960s (his best poems of this period are "Peasant Spokesmen'', "The Opposition of Mars'', "TIte Ugly Girl" and "Last Love'') Zabolotsky turned to socio-psyehological problems and strove for classic lucidity and better balanced imagery. His Russian translations of Georgian poetry also earned him high praise.
[190] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [191] __ALPHA_LVL2__ Peasant Spokesmen __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ XoflOKH B amiynax noiuaiitucro IIOKDOH, Ha flajieuiix ccji, na-sa OKU, lIIjiH oil ii, neecrtOMbic, Tpoe--- Ho MHpcKOMy «ejiy XOAOKH. Pycb MCTaJiacb B rojiofle H 6ype, Bee" cMcmaJiocb, cflBimyToe spaa. Tya BoiwaJioB, Kpm! B KOMCHflaType, HejiOBCibe rope Gea npimpac. TojibKO 3TH Tpoe noie»iy-TO Bbi«ejiHJiHCb B cuoniime JHOflefi, He KpH'iajin 6eiiieno H JIIOTO, He jioMajm cTpoii cxapbiMii B TO, ITO 3flecb naflejiana nyTHHKH, a cania Majio, nai; EcTb nepra, npncyman napo«y: MWCJIHT OH He pasyMOM oflimM, Bcio CBOK> flymesHyio npiipofly Ha I II H JIIOAH CBH3bIBaK)T C HHM. OTTOFO npeKpacnw Hauiii Haiuii necHii, cJioascHiiwe B Jia«. B IIHX H yM H cepAne 6es onacKii Ha OAHOM iiapenbH [194:] Tpoe Jiajio HTO cJioBa! BbiJia ne B aTOM cyTb. HO 33TO B flyilie OHH CKOHH.IH Mnoroe 3a flojirnfi aroT nyTb. IIOTOMy, 6bITb MOJKCT, U TBHJlHCb B HX rjiasax Tpeno/Kiii>ie ornn B HO3AHHH lac, nor«a ocTaHOBHjm y nopora CiaoJibHoro OHH. Ho Kor«a paflyuiHbiii HX xotijiiiii. HCJIOBCK B noxepTOM ims/KaHe, CaM paSoToii «o cmepTH n3Maiin. C HHMH rOBOpHJI HaKOpOTKC, FoBOpHJI O CKyflHOM HX pailOHP, o Toil nope, i;or«a aneKTpHHecKHe KOHH Ha noJiH Hapo«Horo Tpy«a, Kan SKHSHb paciipainiT Kpi.i.ibii, KaK, socnpHHyB flyxom, aecb napo;t 3oJioTbie x.ieobi iiaooii.n.;! IIo cTpane, juiKya, noneecT,--- Torfla THWCJiaa TpeBora B Tpex cep;max pacxaflJia, KBK COH, H BHC3aiiHo BH^HO cxano MHoro H3 TOrO, 1TO BHflGJI TOflbKO OH. H KOTOMKH CaMH pa3BH3aJIHCb , Cepoii nbWbio B KOMnaTe H B pyitax CTM«JIHBO patanwe Kpenfleji«. C BTHM yromeHbCM K JleiiHHy KpecTbHHe EjIH BCC. H TOpbKHM 6bIJI H BKyCHbIM nap ncTep:mHnoii SCMJIH. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 192 In sheepskin coats of homely peasant cut
From villages far south of the Oka
They came, three strangers. Each had left his hut
To put his case about the way things are.
All Russia tossed, distraught by war and famine
With everything confused, disturbed, displaced.
She roared and argued, trains and stations cramming
With human misery, unhidden, open-faced.
Only those three strangers waited mildly
In a crowd that craved for bread and news,
Neither shouting frenziedly and wildly,
Nor upsetting order in the queues.
On the havoc born of need and hunger
Looked three pairs of travel-tired old eyes;
Sorrowful they stood there, lost in wonder,
Saying almost nothing, peasantwise.
There's a trait I treasure in my people:
They never reason with the mind alone,
But their hearts, too, are involved so deeply
That thought and feeling mingle into one.
That is why our folktales are so splendid,
So sincere and sensitive our songs
In that all-expressive language rendered
That to heart and mind alike belongs.
Though little spoke the three, (heir hearts were
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ burning.
What are words? Real truth is past their power.
All that they had felt upon their journey
Was hidden in their breasts until its hour.
Maybe that was why an anxious flicker
Came into the eyes on faces white
When they stopped, their heartbeats getting quicker,
At the gales of Smolny late at night.
But when their host, a man of over fifty
In a well-worn suit of darkish grey,
Tired to death himself with work and worry,
Addressed them in his simple, kindly way,
Talked about their famine-ridden village
And about the none-too-distant time
When an iron horse would do the tillage
And of how the yields would start to climb.
How life would flourish, filled with man-made
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ wonders
And the people, happy in their hearts,
Would reap the golden harvest of abundance,
Gladness lighting up their native parts---
Only then the heavy, anxious feeling
Vanished from the bosoms of the three
And suddenly they too began discerning
Much that he alone till then could see.
And their knapsacks got undone as if by magic
Powdering the floor around with dust
And out of them---too tasty to imagine---
Come home-baked krendels, little else but crust.
And they treated Lenin with those dainties
Offered with a humble, open hand.
Everybody ate. 'Twas sweet and bitter,
The meagre fruit of the tormented land.
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
195 __ALPHA_LVL2__ The Ugly Girl __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ spyriix iirpaiouinx Ona HanoMnnacT jmryiuoHKa. 3anpaiwieHa B TpycM xyaaa pyGamoiiisa , KoJieiKH pi.iHtCBaTbie uyflpeii Paccbinanbi, por AJIIIIICII, 3yoi;n jiiiua ocTpbi H nci;pacnrii,i. Orn,bi KynajiH no CeroflHH MaJibmiuH, He Topoimch K ooe«y, FOHHIOT no Aoopy, aaoi.mmn npo nefi, Ona JK aa IIIIMII SeraeT no cjie«y. Ily/Kan pa^ocTb TBK ase, Kan CBOH, TOMHT ee H BOH HS cepflu,a PBCTCH, H fleBOiKa JiHKyeT H cMeeTcx, OxBaiennaH ciacTbeM SWTHH. HII TCHH saBHCTH, HH yMwwia xyfloro Em,e He anaex STO cymeciBO. Efi BC& Ha CBCT6 T3K 6e3MCpHO HOBO, Tan HJHBO Bce°, ITO «JIH IIHMX MCPTBO! H HO xo««y H flyMaTb, iia6.iKW»n, I!TO 6y«eT ;ienb, nor^a ona, punan, YBH^HT c yatacoM, -ITO iiocpeflH noflpyr Ona Bcero .mini, CeflHaa AypnyuiKa! Mne BepiiTb XOMCTCJI, MTO cep«i;e ne nrpyniKa, ero eflna JIH MOHJIIO [198:] MHO BCpHTb XO'ICTCJI, 'ITO IHCTblH UTOT KoTopbiii B rjiyGniie cc ropHT, Bcro Cojib CBOH) OAHH nepeSojiHT H iiepexonHT caMbiii THttuuiii H nycTb 'icpTbi ec Hexopomii H HBTOM eii npanbcxuTb cKaH rpauiui «yuiH CKBO3HT B JIKIOOM CC A eCJIH 3TO T3K, TO HTO CCTb KpaCOTa H noieiwy ee oSojKecTBajiioT JIH)HH? Cocyfl ona, B KOTOPOM nycTOTa, HJIH oroiib, McpnaKHHM" B cocyae? __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 196 The sparse, untidy, ginger-coloured curls
In meagre whisps about her head lie scattered;
Her little blouse is faded, old and tattered.
She looks a freak among the boys and girls
Playing around her, poor, misshapen creature
With crooked teeth and sharp, ungainly features.
Not far away two handsome little lads
Enjoy the bicycles just bought them by their
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ dads.
They ride about with happy turns and twists,
While she runs after, happy as the boys,
Though they are scarce aware that she exists.
Her heart is filled with other children's joys,
She laughs, their thoughtlessness forgiving,
An ugly little urchin with shrill voice,
In raptures at the sheer delight of living.
No shade of spite nor any evil notion
Has ever found its way into her head.
All in the world arouses her emotion,
All is alive to her which some of us think dead.
And as I look I try to quench the fear
That there must come a day, perhaps quite near,
When all her ugliness the child at last will
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ know,
And life for her will be deprived of joy,
I would not think the heart is just a toy
That can be broken by a single blow;
197
~
198
I still would hope that the unblemished beacon
Which shines within her with such brilliant light,
Will overcome the pain and burn as bright,
Will brave the worst of storms and never weaken.
Perhaps there is no beauty in her face
To captivate a man's imagination,
And yet her soul is lit with such a grace
That fills each step with animation.
If she be ugly, what is beauty then?
Why is it worshipped everywhere by men?
Is all its value in the outward form,
Or is it something hidden, live and warm?
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
199 Emacs-File-stamp: "/home/ysverdlov/leninist.biz/en/1969/FSP533/20071206/299.tx" __EMAIL__ webmaster@leninist.biz __OCR__ ABBYY 6 Professional (2007.12.06) __WHERE_PAGE_NUMBERS__ bottom __FOOTNOTE_MARKER_STYLE__ [*]+ __ENDNOTE_MARKER_STYLE__ [0-9]+ ~ __ALPHA_LVL1__ SILVA KAPUTIKYAN
Silva Kaputikyan (b. 1919) is an Armenian poetess who began to publish her works in 1933. She was educated at Yerevan University from which she graduated in 1941. In the last ten years a change has come into her poetry. Her earlier vision of the world was rather superficial and illustrative (``These Days'', "On the Bank of the Zanga'', and "My Own" published in the period 1945--55) but then she began to come into her own as a mature poet (``Lyric Verse'', 1955; ``Verses'', 1959; "Reflection on the Crossroads'', I960; and others) tackling serious moral problems of the society around her.
[200] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [201] __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [princesses' unthinking existence] HeSpe/Kiio H mcApo n ;i;n;mj, IIo«o6no peScHity, no«o6H BbiTb MOJKCT, H cJiaSoro CJIHUIKOM Sbuia, BblTb MOHjeT, fl CHJIOK) BIIpaBC FOpflMTbCH. fl BcpHjia CMCJIO, MHB jiraJHi B o6mane, Ho---B»iecTO npoKJiHTbn,--- Caiua OT nero oTBpaTn;ia H HTO6 TOJlbKO H6 BHflCTb 6FO IIOKaHIIHli ! He uiJia HH aa KCM H, oviiipeHbeM Ffle 6 flsept sanepeTb---OTBOpaJia H B ropflbine CBOCH He ciHTaJia HeapHMbie 6eflbi CBOII H noTepn F^e nyaoio Bepnyxb---ne SeasaJia Bfforonny. BecneiHO Tepaaa naxoflKH CBOH. FHC THXO 6w n.iaicarb, cMeflJiacb H SBOHKO. He6pe<Kno H me^po fl H<nynb npo>Kn.!ia, Ho«o6HO peSeHKy, nofloSno uapime,--- BblTb MOWCT, H CJiaSoiO WIHU1KOM 6bIJia, BbiTb Moatex, H ciuioro BnpaBe rop»MTbcji. 202 Impulsive and lavish I lived all my days,
A childish, princesses' unthinking existence.
Perhaps I should feel I was weak in my ways,
Or maybe feel pride in my strength and consistence.
I trusted unwisely and listened to lies.
On sensing a falsehood, not blaming, nor ranting,
J turned in disgust and averted my eyes
For fear of the sight of deception recanting.
When doors should be closed, I would fling the doors
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ wide.
In nobody's wake would I walk with breath bated.
All losses and ills by my soul, in its pride,
Remained unperceived and as evils not rated.
I always said "Go!" when I should have said "Stay!"
I never thought anyone worth running after,
And all that I found I would soon throw away.
I should have wept softly, but burst into laughter.
Impulsive and lavish I lived all my days,
A childish, princesses' unthinking existence.
Perhaps I should feel I was weak in my ways,
Or maybe feel pride in my strength and consistence.
Translated by Tom Batting
203 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Among Sevan's Mountains __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 15 ropax KyiiaHCb B CTpyHX CBCTH, OAHHOKO CTOHJia H B THIIIH ceuaHcKHx Kpyi. CTOHJia H BblCOKO, T3K BblCOKO, 4 TO njie'i MOHX op&ii KpbuiOM KacaJioi, A Horn oOBHBa.io JJI.IMOM Tyq. KaKBM orpoMHbiM, ropflMM Miip Ho Bflpyr, aaobiB o BBKOBOM npocxope, ft IIOCMOTpCJia BHH3, Hllja JKHJIbH, Hma TponimKH Ha KPCMHUCTOM B3ropi,c. IIo -leJioBCKV CTocKoaajiacb H!.. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 204 Among Sevan's steep mountains, stark and soundless,
I stood alone, in streams of light I bathed
And stood on high, until the heights seemed boundless ~
And eagles brushed my back with spreading pinion,
While round my legs the whispy clouds were swathed.
How huge the earth then seemed in proud dominion!
A sudden urge---forgetting ageless spaces---
I dropped my gaze to seek some path that ran
Among the rocky waste to dwelling places,
For deep within my heart I longed for Man...!
Translated by Tom Bolting
205 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Song of the Way __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ IleciiH KaK xopomo nopoft noKimyrb n «OM H ropos CBOH poflHoii H B Map, MTO npefl ToSoii paCKHIIJ'T, OrnpaBHTbcH COBCCM OAHOH! TH& na seiwjie eme Roporji TaK 6eCKOH6MBO XOpOUIH? TflC BCTCp CTpailCTBHH H TDeBOril TaK ocBewaioin AJIH «yiun? KpaCOTOH 3CMHOH) rop«a, Korfla MejibKamT npefl TOOOIO BeciHCJienHbie ropo^a. HH C K6M H3 BCTDCMHWX IIC UHaiCOMa, Hfleiijb KaK 6y«To 6w o«na, Ho snaeuib, MTO H aflecb TH AOM<T, B ceMbio Sojibiiiyro BKjnoMeiia. HycTb imorfla MCHH HC anamr, OTKy^a a, Hfly ny«a,--- HO He3HaKOMyH> BCTpCMaiOT FocTenpHHMCTBOM ropofla. KaK xopomo B Kpaio flancKom Ho HOBHM yjiimaiw npoSTH H B Jim;ax, MTO IMIH.HHT HS OKOII, 0JIH3KOC [208:] H cfijm.iHTbCH c<) BceiMH, .'inaji, HTO 3flecb Bea#e TBOH CCMI>H H MTO Bea«e TW Kai! po^nan, H CO CBOHMll II CHOJI, Ffle cpaay CTaiieuib o.in;ji;oii BCCM TLI, CTOJIbKO floSpOTW, xoTb poSito, XOTB c aKU,eHTOM 3aroBopHiiib no-pyccKH TM. KaK xopomo, flyuiOH) Jtofipan Bcefi PoflHHw upocTop, BepHyxbcH ociiOVKCinioii, Soflpoii K iiofliio/Khio SenocHcatHbix rop, BoilTH K rtPyai>«M H C iKliiKHHH HOBOli BlIHO CBOHX Ca«OB HCHHTb H HOfl pO^HMblM KpOBOM CHOB8 /KHTI>!.. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 206 How good at times to leave the places,
The house, the town, that saw your birth
And over roads through unknown spaces
To walk alone upon our earth.
What other land has paths unending
Where always lovely scenes unroll?
What restless winds forever wending
Can hring such freshness to the soul?
Unfettered earthly beauty flashing
Inspires the heart with joy and pride
As past you countless towns go dashing
When down some far-off road you ride.
Although you seem alone, not meeting
A soul you know throughout the day,
You're sure there waits a friendly
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ greeting
From your great family on the way.
Sometimes the people do not know me,
Where 1 shall go, or where I've been,
Yet generous towns a welcome show me---
A passer-by they'd never seen.
How good to walk in distant places,
Through streets where every house is new,
And in the windows notice faces
That seem so near and dear to you.
Then being drawn to those around you,
And feeling kinship deep and warm,
You know these ties have always bound you,
Since you and they one family form;
You're one of them, there's no discussion,
They'll show such kindness when you start
To speak in rather halting Russian
That you will guess you've won their heart.
How good it is, upon returning
From travelling through our mighty land,
To sense fresh force within you burning
And see the snow-capped range at hand;
To visit friends and find much stronger
The thirst for wines our gardens give
And in your home that waits no longer
To work rejoicing and---to live!
Translated by Tom Batting
209 __ALPHA_LVL1__ SEMYON KIRSANOV
Semyon Kirsanov (b. 1906) is an ardent propagandist of Mayakovsky with whom he was friends. Kirsanov's earlier poetry---the books ``Aim'' (1926), '`` Experiments'' (1927) and "My Birthday Song" (1928)---bear evidence of his formalistic experimenting with words. In the 1930s he enthusiastically advocated the principles of ``leftist'' art, being a member of LEF, as this literary group was called, and fully supported publicist poetry based on facts and newspaper material. Still, his most important works---``Cinderella'' (1936), "Your Poem" (1937) and "Seven Days of the Week" (1956) are lyrical in mood, and in them facts and naturalistic descriptions play a less important role than symbols and allegory. The chief characteristics of the work of this poet, who extols the omnipotence of the intellect, are the virtuosity in his use of words, the. ingenuity of his plots, and the chiselled polish of the structure of his poems.
[210] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [211] __ALPHA_LVL2__ This World __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 3TOT MHp Moii pojnioii, Moii seMiioii, Moii Kpy/Kani,iuicH map! Cojmu,e B Htapniix pyitax, Kan roHiap, BJiajKHyro r Jinny, c jiroSoBbio JienH, oitpyrjiHH, KepaiwHiecKOM KociviH'iecKHX 6ypi. H naBo«iiT iia.'iiinacT B ie ,\iop>i. H, rue na«o,---aanax, H, rue iiaflo,---:tap>i. H Kor.ua TM oracjiaii II BCCb o6o<K)KCII--- CBOC ooMwnaeT AO/KAC.M '.'12 H oTxoflHT :ta H :ia oojiai.'a IIOCMOTpeTb Iia TBOpCIIHO llll OTIIHTb, If II IlpMOaBHTb TaKaa i;pacn! AO -iero a« STOT map roimapy yflajicn! On, pyuaiMH Jiyieii CKBO3b TymaiiM CBCTJI, Haiti CBOC lyflo: ---Bepn, MOJI, «HTH, , HG paaSeii--- Ha roHiapnoM itpyry __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 212 My own planet, my Earth,
~ ~ ~ My globe spinning through space!
By the sun's flaming hands
~ ~ ~ You were launched on your race.
On his wheel your moist clay
~ ~ ~ He lovingly threw
And with tender caresses
~ ~ ~ Gave life unto you.
In the kilns of the cosmos
~ ~ ~ Where cosmic storms blaze
You were fired and were tempered
~ ~ ~ And coaled with glaze.
When at last you were finished
~ ~ ~ And fired, shining new,
The sun poured the oceans
~ ~ ~ And seas onto you.
With dawns and with sunsets
~ ~ ~ He painted you too,
Then washed you with showers
~ ~ ~ He sent from the blue ~
O'er the firmament wide
~ ~ ~ He then stepped aside,
Looked down on his masterpiece,
~ ~ ~ Beaming with pride.
For that globe was just perfect,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ No more and no less
And the potter was happy
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ At such a success.
Through distant mists shining
~ ~ ~ On the planet he smiled,
Then gave it to Man,
~ ~ ~ Saying: "Take it, my child!
``Take care not to break it,
~ ~ ~ For surely, I feel,
I'll never repeat it
~ ~ ~ On my potter's wheel!''
Translated by Louis Zellikoff
215 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Hours __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ }1 ffysiaji, ITO 'lacbi---off mi. A oKasajiocb, 1TO OHH H Kane.ibKii, H oKeaubi, II KapJIHKH, H llC.rilKMHI.T. H ecTb HMiToatHbie acna, HHiTOJKHefi Majioro Miipi;a, TblCHTOJICTbH- JIHflllliyTM... Ho ecTh BCJIHKHC MHHyTH, H TOJIbKO HMH UCHCH BCK, H HMH Be'ICH 'ICJIOB6K, H BO3Mein,aK)T B iioJiHoii Mepc BCC ffHH nycTbie, ece noTepn. fl 3H3JI TaKHG. Jl H HH ceKyHffbi He CeKyHffbl--- B MHp IH'.IIi'llllIOH).--- MIIOH)! H paaac KOH'iiuiocb Bqepa, HjibH'i ci;a;!a.i:---Ilopa! [218:] HeT.' Bpe.MH Jlciiiina nee iimpe B 9TOM MHpC. H TUK iioBciofly. 3naeT Miip qacbi KapiuaHOB n uitapTiip H Te---6ea iiin;aKiix KPOHUITCUHOB--- <iacbi UIcKCimpoB, iaci>i BHHIUTCHHOB! __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 216 All hours once seemed the same to me.
But it appears
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ that they can be
Like tiny droplets and like seas,
Like mighty mountains and like fleas.
Some ages leave no trace behind
By which to be recalled to mind;
Millenniums---
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Lilliputian midgets...
There also are
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ grand, glorious minutes---
By them alone an age is prized
And men---by them immortalised,
In which we find
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ full compensation
For empty days, for all frustration.
These I knew too, when I drank love's
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ fill.
Each second I remember still;
Worlds in themselves, they will extend
Throughout my life until its end!
That great moment will ever last
When Lenin said: "The die is cast''?
~ ~ Yes,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Lenin's time spreads ever wider
Across our life---no sunlight brighter.
Thus in all things.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ We measure time
By clocks that tick and clocks that chime,
But how to measure all the ages.
That will be lived
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ by Shakespeare's pages?
Translated by Louis Zellikoff
219 __ALPHA_LVL1__ DAVID KUGULTINOV
David Kugultinov (b. 1922), a -well-known Kalmyk poet, who was awarded the Russian Federation Literary Prize for 1967. His father was a schoolteacher. David Kugultinov had his first book "Poems of Youth" published in 1940, the year he completed his 10-year secondary education. That same year he was admitted to membership of the Union of Soviet. Writers. He began the war as a private and then worked as a correspondent on his division's newspaper. After the war he graduated from the Literary Institute in Moscow. Since then David Kugultinov has published ten books in Kalmyk and Russian. His philosophical poetry treats the essence of eternal human values and concepts. Kugultinov's attitude to life and art is a firmly positive one: he is a genuinely modern poet, a man of courage and integrity. The main theme of his collections: "The Vision of'the Heart'', "The Sun's Equal'', "I Am Your Contemporary"', "To Earn a Friend's Lore" and others, is Man and his attitude to the world around him, to people and to the problems of our times.
[220] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [221] __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [o mother-land] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ MaTb-Po;rHHa ! . . Taie JHOHII iia.'ii.inajiu Ee HSflpeBJie... BnpaBj(y---HO ona JIH HaM JKM3Hb ^ajia, 11 ciijibi it nac isjni.ia H sa pyKy eanjia n noBejia?.. Ona meApa no-MaTepHHCKH ,---3Haio... Ho PoflHiia---ona H «oib Bee jiyimee---H xpyfl H CaMoaaSseHHo OT«aein MH efi, KaK TOJIbKO flBTHM OTflBIOT---Ilp<),HJICHI)JO EwcTpoTeKymnx , KpaTKHX nannix ^neii... 3,neci> nee MOC!.. Bepn ero, yupo'ib, O Pofliina MOH!.. O Ma-n. n AOMI.! __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 222 O Mother-Land! So people ever called her
From times of old... and truly, was it not her
Who gave us breath, and swelled our strength and health?
In hers our hands allied, became our guide?
Unstinting she, as mothers are---hereafter
Though Mother-Land... she yet is like a daughter.
And all the best---in work and inspiration---
Unselfishly, we give her in return,
As if to children---an extension
Of our swift-flowing, earthly short sojourn.
Here, all is mine!... But take it, grow, expand,
Sweet Mother, Daughter! You, my Mother-Land!
Translated by Gladys Evans
223 __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [my soul doth sing] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ Kor^a AJIHHO jKeJiamibie c.iona CnemaT KO MHB,---oKJiHKny HX Korfla, B MOH ipyn cerojnm nponin;;ui, OTMCT.IUB OOJIHK aaBTpamiiero «HH 11 Ka/KCTCH, iITO BCH CVflbOa .IK>SCKaH Ceflnac SHBHCHT TOJIBKO OT MOIIH,--- Co6biTbn oona/KaioTcn 30 Kopun, Bee T6HH HcqesaioT na Jiexy, Bee Jiuua iiajiyiaioT floSpoTy, H ece cepjma cTanoBHTCH npocTopHeii, Tor«a H nysh-eii JIIOAJIM... H pyua CneinHT aa sibicjibio... H Ayma Jieriia. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 224 When those long-wished-for words rush to my mind
And in their proper sequence are alined,
When with my toil, Today I penetrate
And I Tomorrow's features clearly see,
And when it seems to me, Mankind's own fate
Just now depends on no one else but me---
The very root of things before me stands,
All shadows fly away to leave no trace,
And kindness radiates from every face,
And every heart with tenderness expands---
My people need me then ... as from a spring,
The thoughts flow from my pen ... my soul doth sing.
Translated by Louis Zellikoff
225 __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [friendship on love] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ Kor^a HcomfliyT CHJI MOHX H, BonpeKH paccyjjKy, Bflpyr, KaK KOHb, icii HOBO A B enxpe BblpOHHJI H3 pyK, MOH K Te6e H peib H3 pOJJHHKOB MCHTbl He HcnyraeiiibCH JIH TH? Kai; npejKfle JIH, lie naocran, TH 6y«euib jroyrom 3BaTb MCHH? KaK npeJKRe Jib B Tafiuw, ^oporaa, TM 6yjjenab nocBHinaxb MCHH? H c flCTCKoii pa^ocTbio TaKoio B rjiaaa flooepiHBo ciwoTpeTb, H pyKy MaJieHbKoii pyitoro Mne nowHMaTb B MHHyTbi Bcxpeii? ...He nanol Bojibiue He inory! Mae oojibuo. lIpHKOBailllblii K flOBCpbK) TBOOMy, KJIHHH npyroro, Ae.iaroci. iicsonbHO CooGnpiHKOM Tsoeii JUOOBH K ne.My. H---Kan 6ea cjies nopoio njia'iyT--- Pesnyio H Be;s npaea H 6ea CJIOB... [228:] Ilpouiy Te6n: C HUM 060 MIIC, A HC O HCM CO MIIOIO TLI roBopii, ;IK>OJI H.II> ne jiioGfl. He Maxb H ue iioflpyra ;i. HHbie TbI MHC CJTOUa H MblCJIH IIplITOTOBL. II ne BBepjiii MHO Taiin CBOHX OTiii.me, H ApyjKGoii He Kapau MOIO JIIOOOHI.. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 226 When all my resolutions prove in vain
And, leaping over reason
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ in one flash,
Like some great steed whose rider dropped the rein
In sweeping whirlwind dash,
My love for you comes rearing, rushing
And words---
At last set free---
From the sources of my dreams rise gushing,
Will you not feel fear of me?
Will you be the same and greet me,
Call me friend, just as before?
And, my dear, each time you meet me
Will you bare your soul once more?
Will your smile be sweet, unworried,
And in your eyes will trust still shine?
With a gesture, calm, unhurried,
Will you place your hand in mine?
...No! No more! Stop! You must!
This pain is far beyond all bearing.
You have me shackled. It is not just!
For, hating him whose secrets I am sharing,
I accede to your love by accepting your trust.
As men can weep, yet no tears dim their sight,
My jealous heart
Is mute, deprived of right....
Hear my plea---
Do speak of me to him,
But not of him to me.
Whether or not you love another
I am no confidant, or mother.
I beg you---
Start to seek out other words than those
You used to show your inner heart.
Secrets in me do not repose
And friendship on love
No longer impose.
Translated by Tom Bolting
229 __ALPHA_LVL1__ ARKADI KULESHOV
Arkadi Kuleshov (b. 1914). This well-known Byelorussian poet was the son oj a schoolteacher and himself studied at the Minsk Teachers' Training College. His first poetic work was published in 1936. The patriotic poems "Brigade Flag" (1942), ``Cymbalon'', "House No. 24" (1944) and the volume "Verses and Poems" (1962) won him wide popularity. A master of epic poetry, Kuleshov follows the tradition of psychological reflection. The style of his lyric verse is vividly metaphorical.
Arkadi Kuleshov is also known as a translator of poetry into Byelorussian; his translation of Pushkin's "Eugene Onegin'', for instance, received high praise from the critics.
[230] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [231] __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [my clock] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ Hacbi MOH---He co.iHua AHCK B SCHHTC, He cepAue, 6yflopa5Kam.ee rpyjnb. Bpamaacb paauoMcpno no opSnre, CaM3 36MJIH MOH H3MepaCT nyTb. H HOICH Ha M6CT6 H6 CTOHT Ha HX ;KHBOM, MeabKaiomcw oupaiie BiiflHbi flopor H peieK py minimi. Koepbi eecHbi npeoSpasHTCH B aero, KpyjKenbe Jineronafla---B nepsbiii cner, fl. HC xoiy, iTo6 neKor^a BCC axo XOTH 6 Ha MHF ocTaiioBnjio 6er. SacrbiHCT cep^e, COJIHUB B Tyiax crmieT, HO TM, SOMJIH, BBpTHCb, «ITo6 MHO HOMO'Ib: He flafi ynacxb na TCMHOH r«e «na lie 6y«eT, __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 232 My clock is not the sun that rides the skies
And not the heart that pulses in this breast.
My pace is measured by this steady Earth that flies
Along its orbit, never stopping for a test.
Night follows day in regular succession
Above the continents resembling screens in motion
With roads and rivers like gay ribbons flashing
Across their face framed by the heaving ocean.
In time soft spring gives way to summer's grandeur,
The whirl of falling leaves---to sweeping snow.
I dread to think of all this coming to a standstill
If only for a moment---who can know?
This heart may freeze---this sun forever hide,
But you, my Earth, my last support, spin on!
Don't let me fall upon the darkened side
Where night will reign, daylight forever gone.
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
233 __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [neither stars nor flowers] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ HOT, 3BK3H a He xeaTaio c HeoocKJioHa, B jiyrax ne pay uocennne UBCTW, HTo6 OT MenH Kan flap flyuiH BjuoGaeimoii MX oJiarocK.'iomio iipiiiniMa.ia Tbi. HycKaii U,UCTI,I necTpeiOT Ha HOJIJIHC, HxoS MM c ToSoft GpoflHJiii cpeflii mix. OHH yBHHyT K Beiepy B CTaitaHO, Kait MM 6es coJiiiua cpe/(n CTCII HCMMX. IlyTb K 3B63flaM ^OJIOr---38 THCHiejieTbH ^O HHX H pCSBblM KOHb H6 flOBeSCT. 3a HHMH 6bl IIOMiiaJICH H B paK6T6, JJa nos^Ho oxripaBJiHTbCH MUG B HOJICT. Harpy3KH cep«i<e Bbi^epwaTb He CMOWBT, B rpy^H aaraoxnyTb MOH MOTOP FOTOB. OH nwjib ^opor H Geaflopoatnii, ero 6e3 asea^ H 5ea UBCTOB! __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 234 No, not for me to catch the stars above
Or pluck the springtime flowers in meadows fair
To carry them to you as gifts of love
To be accepted with a gracious air.
Let flowers remain ungathered in the glade
For us to roam among them arm in arm.
Put them in flowerbowls and by evening they will fade:
The lack of air and sunshine does them harm.
The distance to the stars is far too great.
All I can do is watch them in the night.
A rocket might have helped---but it is late,
Too late for me to undertake the flight.
The strain would be too heavy for this heart,
An engine near the limit of its powers,
Clogged by the dust of countless roads and paths.
So take just it with neither stars nor flowers.
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
235 __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [my muse] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ CpasHiiTb 6bi mysy c maTepbw MOGM, Ho CJIOB HB Haxoagr n AJIH cpaunoiinii. MaTb ofliia, KaK COJIHUC B Ona caMofi noasim BeceiiHHii, CpamiHTb H MOP SM Mysy c nepnoii xponKoii, HTO necHio ooue.ia BOKpyr cena, Korfla 6 MeiiH c MOCIO Myaoii powitoii Tponua He Kor^a 6 H3 pyK iiojieii ne ncpc/(a.'iii MCHH npoce.ii;ii peabcoBWM nyTsin, A pejibcw---uoBoii, HeorjiHRHofl KaKoe Myae H cpamienbc Ona MOH cy«b6a Ha 6eaoM CBCTB, C iieyracHMoii iKa/Kfloio B rjiasax: TponiiHKH BCJiefl aa neii SeryT, nan eii aeTHT aa iiuinxoM iiuijix __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 236 My muse---I would compare her with my mother
But what comparison between them can there be?
I had one mother and will never have another,
Dearer she is than even poetry to me.
I might compare my muse to the first path
Which started me towards the realm of verse,
If that first path had not led on to roads
That took me all across the universe.
Passing me on to motorways and rails,
That path fell long ago into disuse,
And I go on, led by a light that never fails.
Then what comparison is there to fit my muse?
She is my destiny that travels with mankind
With unabated longing in her eyes.
Path after path, road after road is left behind,
And new horizons endlessly arise.
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
237 __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [greet the golden age] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ KpyjKcnbe JiHCTona^a B ncpnwii ciier HpeoGpasHTCH---see B npiipoflc PHAOM. >1 CJIOBIIO Ci.i i;oMan;iyio napa^oM Jfpyx Bpavi;biix CHJI y iiorpaimmibix BOX, CpaateiibeM ciierona^a c A--- noB6.iHTe.ib BCCX flopor 11 pei«, PcryjiiipoBmiii; i.apyceJin axoii, KaK 6yffro He nponocHT nafl MeHH JIHCTKOM, CHOKHHKOK), CKBOSI. TOJimy nTMoc<)>cpi>i 6ypHi,iii BCK. B KpyjKenbe JICT HCCIHHKOH iia fl RbUI 3epIIOM II IlbUIbHJ Iia TOKy. ,HBafli(aTbifl BBK cTajieiomiiii nai\ieTn;i Moii itpaiiHini cpoi;. Ho uasjio cTapni;y HpHpofle pyKH npoTany BOT DTH II, i namero B rpn«ymee __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 238 The whirl of snow succeeds the whirl of leaves.
All things in nature come in ordered alternation.
I seem to supervise the confrontation
Of hostile forces which a time-built frontier cleaves:
Of leaves and snow engaged in livelong altercation.
I am the lord of all the roads and streams,
The regulator of this whole merry-go-round,
Although I, too, am swept across the ground
Like leaves or snow flakes or a rocket Venus-bound,
Swept by Time's whirl beyond the sky's farthest extremes.
These whirling years I'm like a particle ill-fated
Of sand, a grain of dust or wheat on threshing ground.
The aging twentieth century has dated
My time-limit. And yet, if only to confound
Fate, I'll extend these hands with unabated
Fervour to greet the Golden Age so long-awaited.
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
239 __ALPHA_LVL1__ KAISYN KULIEV
Kaisyn Kuliev (b. 1917) is a native of KabardinoBalkaria in the Caucasus. An exceptionally gifted lyric poet, he writes in the aphoristic, austerely reserved manner peculiar to Caucasian folk poetry. He writes of fortitude in the face of tribulation, staunchness of spirit, and on such simple universal themes as love, motherhood, and fidelity to one's duty. "The Wounded Stone" (1964), considered his best collection of recent years, has been awarded the Russian Federation State Prize.
In his latest book "Peace to Your House" (1966), Kaisyn Kuliev for the first time in his career used the traditional genre of Caucasian poetry---eight and twelve-line stanzas.
[240] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [241] __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [broken mothers' hearts] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ F^e-To CTOHGT ;KcnmnHa HaneisacT necnio Bo'im.iii cTpax, Tpeeorn Bccii SCMJIH IIpoHHKaiOT B necHio KOflbi6ejibHyH>. nyjieii Ha Boime jiK>6oH IIopajKaeT cep;we MaTepHHCKoe. KTO 6 HH Bwnrpa.i nocaeflHiiii 6ofi, Ho CTpaaaex cepAue MaxepHHCKoe. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 242 Far away a woman can be heard
Moaning as she croons a lullaby.
All the fears and worries of the world
Weave themselves into that lullaby.
Every bullet fired in a war
Finds its mark---a mother's heart.
And whoever victory may score,
There'll be broken mothers' hearts.
Translated by Olga Shartse
243 __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [when children cry] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ «PacTcx peSenoK njia«ja»---ecTi> Ho ecJiH njiai pe6eHKa cjibiuiy TaK (io.ibHo cepjwy Moemy KaK 6yflTo ropw n Tpaype BOKpyr. fl noMiiio, KaK fleTeii Sefla BoeHnaH FuaJia B KpoBii, cpe^b uw/K/Keimhix Mire KaateTca: pw^aeT BCH Korfla a (yiwiny nnaiymnx __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 244 ``When children cry, they grow,'' so people say.
But when I hear a youngster cry forlornly,
My heart turns over with such dreadful pain,
The very mountains round me seem to put on mourning.
I can't forget those children in the burnt-out rye,
The gory flames of war upon them creeping...
And every time I hear a youngster cry
I fancy that the Universe is weeping.
Translated by Olga Shartse
245 __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [hour of trial] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ i XnpocHMM IIpOHHK B MOM HOM, H H OUilTh H jifim OcBeHiniMa nojiaer sa HUM. HepnceT OH, Miie flyuiy vine-ran. Semaa--- Ham floiu poflHoii, efliinbiii SOM. Korfla B lien npasAHHK, n ero yiacTHHK, CMeiocb, njiHiuy---nee XO^HT xoflynoM, Ho CCJIH B HCM ueciacTbe, H neciacTen. Mw nee---orpafla AOMB. CiiJioii uccx On ycTOHTb cnoco6en B name BpeMH. KTO BTO cepflucM nonnji---TIejioBei»: IlHTb MO5K6T H3 OflHOH peKH CO BCCMH. Ha npaa^HHKax TBOHX njinuiy n floni, rfle H poc,---aemjifl BIOJI Ho B flCHb 6eflbl I'OTOB n MCpTBblM HBCTb, HacTb, TBoii nopor Bpary ne ycTynaji. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 246 The acrid smoke of Hiroshima
Has seeped into my home.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Again I feel involved.
The smoke of Auschwitz next seeps in,
And as it thickens,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ anguish fills my soul.
Our land is home to us, our common home.
When there's a celebration on I dance with zest,
I laugh and sing, all's merriment and fun.
But when misfortune visits us, I am distressed.
We form the wall around this house,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and it can
In unity withstand and weather anything.
All those who feel it thus,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ deserve the name of Man,
And can imbibe with others from the common spring.
My home where I was reared! My land so fair!
At all your holidays I will be gay,
But in your hour of trial I'll be prepared
To die but keep the enemy away.
Translated by Olga Shartse
247 __ALPHA_LVL2__ A Woman's A woman's bathing in the stream.
Bemused, the sun upon her beams,
And on her shoulders gently lays
The fingers of its golden rays.
The willows cast their shadows far
To touch the woman's face and arms.
The reeds look on in silence bound,
Nor do the pebbles make a sound.
There is no evil anywhere,
No death, no sorrow, no despair,
No storms, no winter any more,
No prison bars, no need, no war.
The world's at rest. Peace reigns supreme.
A woman's bathing in the stream.
Translated by Olga Shnrtse
249 __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [speech of mountain people] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 3accb roBOpHT, lie iioBbimaji TOJIOC, HenpnxoTJiHB KpecrbmicKiiii paaroBop, Ho CJIOBO COBCpUieHHO, CJIOBHO KOJIOC, BecxHTpocTiio , isai; KaMeiiiibiii aa6op. TpeBOJKHT paccyamaioiiurx ne BeinocTb, Ho cTapwii cnop: MTO HCTuna, IITO npax? H B pe'IH HX HCT CJIOBU «qCJIOBe*IHOCTb» , A npOCTO leJIOBCMHOCTb B I1X CJlOBaX. TeieT HenpiixoTJiHBaji Cecc^a, BbiBaa TOJibKo TGM oMpa'icua, MTO HO'ibto TCJiisa najia y coce;(a, 4TO HOT KOpMOB H flaJICKa BCCIia. [252:] H o nacyiinioM xjieSe BiiOBb a Pe<ib ropcKiix Myflpei;oB, H pe«ib caiwa PO«HOH aeMJiero naxneT H noxoflHT Ha HX iieJicrKHii xjieG H na Kopma. fl HC BCTynaro B cnopw-paaroeopw, MHC BCC paBiio, KTO npaii H KTO HC npaa, MHO (viaflito iipocxo cJiwuiaTt pem>, B KOTopoii H JioopoTa xjie6»>B, H Jiyflpocri. Tpaa. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 250 The speech of mountain people is not flowery, it's
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ stern.
Their conversation is so simple and abridged,
So artless that I fear to put a word in out of turn,
Just as a horse fears stepping off the road onto
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ a bridge.
Their conversation is of social graces shorn.
The peasant talk is low in voice and tone.
But every word's as perfect as an ear of corn,
As simply chiselled and as solid as a wall of stone.
And in their talk they do not stop to muse
On age-old questions: what is truth, what vanity?
The word ``humanity'' as such they never use,
But everything they say bespeaks humanity.
The only things that can disturb the gentle flow
Is news that someone's heifer died the night before,
Or apprehension that the fodder's running low
And spring will not be come for a month or more.
The conversation of the mountain sages
Revolves round vital problems of the day,
Their very speech, unchanging through the ages,
As fragrant as their hard-earned bread and hay.
To join in their debates I don't make bold:
It matters not to me who's right, who's wrong.
I simply like to hear their speech that holds
The wisdom of the herbs, the kindliness of corn.
Translated by Olga Shartse
253 __ALPHA_LVL1__ VLADIMIR LUGOVSKOY
Vladimir Lugovskoy (190L-1957) enteri'.tl the literary scene at the same time as Selvinsky, Antokolsky, Tikhonov and Bagritsky. Originally he belonged to the constructivist group of poets and sought to express the wisdom of the revolution in a dry, m.atter-of-fact manner, using stark, precise formulae. In the 1930s Lugovskoy did a lot of travelling, discovering for himself the world of Central Asia and the Caucasus, which was then going through a turbulent process of revolutionary transformation.
The last years of Lugovskoy's life were marked by an extraordinary upsurge of creative energy. His philosophical epic "The Middle of the Century" comprising twenty-five lyric poems, his lyric collections "The Summer Equinox" and "Blue Spring" capture the reader's imagination with their wealth of ideas and their emotional force.
[254] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [255] __ALPHA_LVL2__ Introduction I'm at the middle of the twentieth century.
I've seen a lot.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ But much I did not see.
I missed so many things around and in me,
I failed to see them in my soul and in the
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ world.
Still, try to understand, here's my confession:
I took a part in happenings tremendous
In human history.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ What must I do,
Man from the ranks, an offspring of the age?
Speak of our times. Unique. Unprecedented.
Speak of the giant towering above the world
And on his mighty shoulders hoisting
The burden of the planet's life and fate.
How singular is life!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ In people's minds
Whole worlds go toppling, countries perish,
And nations follow paths outlined for them
In men's nocturnal brooding thoughts,
And yet, you're just a drop of water in the
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ocean
Of history.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ But then this history's in you.
You're in it. And you're answerable for it.
For everything---for victories, for glory,
For anguish, for mistakes,
257
~
258
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and for the men
Who led you.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ For your flag, your emblem and your anthem.
I know I shrank from squarely facing things.
My weakness blinded me, my shyness dwarfed.
The vanity of living, the allure of earthly joys,
Of purely carnal warmth held me too fast.
But even if I'd had the keenest vision
There's very little that I could have seen
I stumbled, fell, got back on to my feet,
And carried on.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Alas, I am no prophet,
I'm just a poet who extols his times, his epoch,
That's packed to bursting point, alive and vital,
A time of great import for all the world of men.
My epoch, I belong to you with all my being,
I'm yours until my dying thought, all yours!
And I am proud that I was with you always,
With you, my time, whose motive forces were
The Revolution, Lenin, and the People.
I live by them. They live in me. We are as one.
And as I write these lines today I seem to hear
The voices and I seem to see the thoughts
Of others, friends, the living and the dead.
I've written everything the way I saw it,
The way I had imagined it, as best I could
It pains me now that I've left out so much,
But I would need ten lifetimes at the very least
To paint in words the richness of our life,
And that which we have brought into the world
In this mid-century to take the place of old.
There's always something fabulous about the truth
And I, I see the fabulous in everything:
In nature, and in struggle, and in life itself.
And I am yours, my epoch, yours completely!
I hear the crunch of footsteps of the snow outside.
A man is walking past. How vigorous his stride!
How young! How red his cheeks, how bright his eyes!
He seems to scorn the cold, his coat's so light.
He's carrying a rolled-uji magazine.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Hello!
Hello, our youth. Hello, our future. Wait for me!
I'm here with you, I'm coining. See this book?
I hold it out to him.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Here, take it, it's for you.
Translated by Olga Shartse
261 __ALPHA_LVL2__ The Woman I Had Known __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ Ta, KOTopyio a BHHJI HOT, xa, KOTopyio H aiia.'i Ona JKIIBCT B BblCOTHOM flOMC, OH BMCTpoiw efi Aaiy, OH pennycT, OH PMJKHH nepjiaHCHT ee BOJIOC MHO fta/ise a«pec, Be«b Ta, KOTopyio a ;iiia.i, A GbUIO T3K, HC cymecTiiyoT. ITO 3JIOC mope FpeMCJio rjiyxo, B Sepcr GHJIO, Tyro, ii CyCcn. HecJiocb it nopory oiia Tor^a oiia MCHJI T3K HpOCTHO [264:] 1TO Mbl BCTpOM Mopein 6bi.no TRK. ITO SJioc Mope Tor«a na CKJionax B Geper on.'io. OCTDOJIHCTHHK pOC H ue.ibiii MCCHU. Tor^a itou Hac c 9Tofi H 6bui nosoSen cBery, KO.lMJ'lIIli no ry«pony. CBOflHJI Tyieii cjiyiaii Be«b na OTKOcax necne, 3Bony. OCTpOJIHCTHHK DOC BO;;III>I Mbi OI.IJIH, KOJHOHHH. MOJIOflbl, II ecJia 6 11 lIOHIIMaiO. moiii;a, H citasaji ITO ymnpaio . flouuia «o pan. Ona «pyra MM Obl.'IH, noniiMaio! Ho BaacTb ee Tan rposHo ciejia Kan pan Bee, }KHByK) TK3Hb B ee flyuie neno,--- Bee iinpciiijiu B KpaciJBoe, Tyroc TGJIO. H [266:] ee, OT napuKiviaxepcKHX co inuojibm.ix JICT ce^an, iipnupac Ta nosoJiOTeJia. SKIIBBT Eft HJ/KHO C K3KHM-TO /Itn/UII.IM rODCM. BCG uemn, ITO cy«b6a Bee npimn/KaTi>, H IJBCTOK II KOpCHb. H MHp Ho B Miipe 33 TO, '1TO OH c iieii MM CTpaCTblO no nocnopiiM. Toil He 6wTb HH BCTpOM xa, KOTOpyro H lie cymecTByeT. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 262 The woman I had known
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ does not exist.
She shares a smart apartment
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ with her worthy husband,
He built a summer place for her,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ he's jealous of his
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ bliss,
Her permed and tinted hair
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ he loves to kiss.
I have no need of her address,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ I will not write
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ or call her.
For, after all,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ the woman I had known
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ does not exist.
And yet,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ it all has been:
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ the angry, pounding surf,
That beat as hollowly and tautly
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ as an Eastern drum,
And rushed to lick the doorstep of that woman's
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ home.
She loved me,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ violently,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ fiercely then.
We'd be like wind
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and sea,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ she promised me again,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ again.
It's true,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ it all has been:
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ the angry, pounding surf,
The hillsides
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ with the prickly holly overrun,
The wind-borne rain
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ that poured a whole month long,
When under every raincloud,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ blotting out the sun,
We met,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ that woman and myself,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ at every turn.
And it was beautiful.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Like light,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ like ringing bells,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ like song.
We two were poor and young.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Of course, I understand.
We lived on stale old pies
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ which we thought tasted grand.
And if I'd told her then that I was soon to die
She would have moved both heaven and earth,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and hell itself
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ defied ~
To hold on to my soul
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ with greedy, grasping hands.
We two were poor and young.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Of course, I understand.
But then,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ her thirst for power over men became a morbid
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ germ,
An ugly cancer,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ eating living cells away.
And everything that in her soul had sung and burned
Turned into flesh---
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ her body,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ beautiful and firm.
The hair I loved,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ with its unruly strand of early grey,
Was dyed a brilliant golden-red
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and tightly penned.
This woman's life is tense with greed
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ that's like despair:
Whatever there's to take
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ she feels that she must seize.
A flower if she picks,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ the roots she does not spare,
She tramples all,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ she hates the world
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ for being free.
We have no cause to clash,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ no passion left to share.
This woman will not ever be the wind,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ nor yet the sea.
That other one,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ the one that I had known,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ exists no more
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ for me.
Translated by Olga Shartse
267 __ALPHA_LVL2__ 0<m>rpa(p A photographer's busy printing
Some pictures he made long ago.
It's night. Just the new moon glinting
On the smoking mountain below.
Flakes of dry snow are flying,
The season of rains is done.
He's busy printing and drying,
And faces emerge one by one.
They seem to rise up from the ocean,
So strangely they come into view,
Like moons from the void in their motion,
And suddenly---there is you.
Your face, insecure as a phantom,
Looks up from the little black bath.
A wind blowing down from the mountain
Strews leaves on the garden path...
The ruby light falls on the photo,
Your laughing face lilts up and gleams,
It wants to break free of the water,
It wants to come back in dreams.
Oh, hurry, rise up from the water,
And surface the wave with your eyes.
My breath will, I promise you, warm you,
My memory'II bring you to life!
But you have already hardened.
The ripple of water is still.
You must have forgotten about me
Your look is so stony and chill.
The film holds so many others,
Good people---living or gone,
Who'll pass over death by this causcuay,
And come back again from beyond.
But life is hard and demanding,
And you can't live it over again.
Alas, there is no understanding
Each other to the end...
The people still hidden from sight
Keep urging him on and on.
The newspaper office is closed for the night.
He's working there all alone.
Translated by Olga Shartse
271 __ALPHA_LVL1__ MIKHAIL LUKONIN
Mikhail Lukonin (b. 1918) ivns born into a peasant family. After school he worked at a factory and then enrolled at the Literary Institute in Moscow. When the war with Germany broke out he joined up at once and the glory of the people's heroism is reflected in his first slim volume, entitled ``Heartbeat'', which came out in 1947.
His attitude to the role of art is akin to that of Mayakovsky, and his credo "to be in the thick of the epoch's events and happenings" lent his poetry its civic character. Mikhail Lukonin's most widely-read works are his poem "Declaration of Love'', his cycles "Long Distance Poetry'', "Testing for Rupture'', "The Road to Peace'', and his latest book ``Overcoming''.
[272] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [273] __ALPHA_LVL2__ My Friends __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ Mon rocniiTa.il.. Bee B 6eJioM. CTCHM naxnyT cwponaTWM MC.TOM. 3anejienaB nac Tyro B oAOHJia H noflrpyHHB naA TCM, KBK MM iviajiu, HamyBuiHcii, fio^y no nojiy ronn:ia CecTpa. A MI>I r.i)i;(e.ni na no.n.i. 11 HUM B rjiasa luicrajia ciiiwna, Bofla, iio.ii>!. KpyjKHJiacfc rojioaa. Cjiona i;py/KiiJiHci.: ---APyrl KQKOG HMH'IC? Cy66oTa? ---BOT, He BHHty IIoJi roJiyGoB B BO«C, a nosflyx AMMiar. ---nocJiymaii, flpyr...--- H ncc o neii, o neii... ;uieii. . Hx c ^OJKKII ncex I;O|>M 11:111. A H y>Ke cn^eji ciiHiioii i; CTCIIC. II ican Jiu meii iia o^enjie CTMJIII. 3aan;(ycT rajiitncT ocjieniniiii MHO H TOBOpHT npo TO, itait ;(Ba/inaTi> ;nieii He mi;(UT. If--- o neii, o neii, o neii... [276:] A HOT eecrpa, TM imcbMa iipojuiKTyii c'ii. ---Ona no CMOIKCT, Apyr, TJ'T CJIOiKHOCTb BCTb... ---Kai«an C.IO;KHOCTI>? Tbi o noii no nyuaii. ---BOT Tbi obi u:iH;icfl! --->!?... ---BoAb pyun CCTI.?! ---fl HC cMory! ---Tl.l CM(»KOIIII>!.. - GJIOIS no :maio! ---fl «a»i cJionn! ---fl HC iiiooiui . . . - Jliofm!.. fl aayiy Te6n, npnnoMHHan... H B3HJI nepo. A OH citaaaji:---«I'oAiia!i!» fl sanncaji. OH: ---«,HyMaii, <m> y6irr...»--- «JKmiy»,---n iinrmca.i. On: A n, y iipanflw Bcefi na nouo«y, BOAHJI nepoM: «,jJo5KAHCb, MOJI narpa;;a ! . .» On:---«He iK?pHycb...» A H: «IIpHfly!.. IIpnny!..» niicbitia OT nee. OH neji H luiaitaji, nepataa y npocBeTJieHHwx rjiaa. Tenepb MBIIH npocii.'ia BCH naJiaTa: ---IIHHIH!.. Hx Mor oGn^eTb MOH oTKaa. ~ I [iimn I.. ---Ho Tw sue caivi cyMcciiib, Jicsoii! lliiiini!.. ---IIo Tbi ;KO niiAiniib caM?! Bee B GCJIOM. CTCHH naxnyT CbiponaTMM MOJIOJI, FAC DTO BCC? HH :>nyKa. Hii Aynin. y.ibH, r)\c BM?.. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 274 In hospital.
Whiteness is all.
Damply the whitewash smells on each wall.
Swaddling us tight in blankets once more
small as children, with jokes well-meant,
the nurse chased water across the door.
And still at the floorboards gazing we lay
and into our eyes a deep blue spread,
floorboards, water....
Swirled every head,
all words went swirling.
``What day's today?''
``Saturday, why?''
``It's twenty days then since I went blind.''
Light-blue the floor and the air a haze.
``Listen, my friend,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ be happy about her. Your love won't
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ end.''
They brought our dinner. From spoons they were fed.
I sat up, pillow-propped, quietly,
while the soup-drops chilled on the blanketed bed
and the eyeless tankman who envied me
talked of bis sight
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ twenty days gone,
and talked of his girl,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ talked on and on.
``See, here's the nurse,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ she'll take down your letter.''
"No, there's a problem,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ friend, understand.''
"What problem? Don't mind her,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ who could be Letter?"
"If only you....''
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ``I?''
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ``Well, haven't you hands?"
"But 1 can't.''
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ``That's not so.''
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ``The words won't be right.''
``I'll tell them.''
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ``I've never yet loved---"
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ``Then it's
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ time:
I'll tell you the way, I'll remember. Now write.''
I took up the pen and he told me, "My own.''
I wrote it. He added,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ``Consider me dead.''
``I'm alive,'' I wrote, and he said,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ``Don't expect me.''
And I, in the cause of the whole truth, wrote down,
"Expect me, my darling, directly.''
He said, ``Won't return.''
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ I wrote, "Coming soon.''
Her letters answered, he sang and he wept.
He held her letters to eyes with no light.
Now the whole ward kept pleading with me:
"Write!''
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ A refusal would sound a sad slight.
"Write.''
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ``You could write it yourself with your left.''
"Write!''
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ``You can see: why not do it?''
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ``You write!''
Whiteness is all.
Damply the whitewash smells on each wall.
Where has it gone? Not a soul, not a sound.
Friends, where are you?
The dawn breaks over the mooring-place. I'm homing. The helmsman beside me stands.
In memory all from the outset I trace. The land slides closer, bringing old friends. At the gates of the lock a motor now starts; an engine's been driving the millworks for long. And I--- ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ I know that my silence is wrong. The words I've been trusted with burn in my heart. ``Write,'' they dictate. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ The line leaps in my mind. ``Write about us, ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ cry out till all heed.'' ``I can't.'' ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ``But you can.'' ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ``What right words can I find?'' ``I'll tell you. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Love life, and that's all that you need.''
279 __ALPHA_LVL2__ From the cycle TESTING FOR RUPTURE __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ Sir" jpvf fiq ..paon n .6PU!J I l[\ pill?~^^1^^O|I| 3AOq 1<-'<IA\>, ..paaij ||i; ||i piiiiu ^iu HI sdnaj oni| 'sn «Ba I,, ; a)iJA\,, jA\ioic3 on y--- jiioCdj^ j.)Bii o 11 inii]|--- B.'KMl.L!) illii)[f M;) iiHO aim j.(n^j.MiiK---jiiiniiji--- imoiro j.ndo.1 ainti ,)i<iiiii,)i,uli)|[ 'anmliiu on OM:< qxuiiiroic u \ t" V iraoiidoMi j.oB}ia.(ii udj./( a H 'OBB.I.OBC BII iiiVoam: dcuow uifitae aiiK OM xaWaa XIIOK ^dayadon HXKKBU a aay Waaoa HOW xoy BirBhiidii X. j.ac.ioir) 1Jnoi| £111 iii lunq ipiAv pajsnj) naoq OA,I spjo.u oi|j, SI ODIIOJIS Xlll ]EI|J A\OU?| ] ---I P"V aqj JfuiAi.ip iwaq SjOuigua IIB ispujs AVOU .lOfoiu »? jpo[ am jo sajnS aip IV spuauj p[o SiiiSui.i(| 'jasoja sapijs pu«[ ai|jy aoi:.i| j jasjno aij) UIGJJ \i\i Xjouiaui nj spunks am apisaq ui:uisui[oi| aqx 'Suiuioii HI,] aDi?|d-SuiJooui ain J.IAO Ha nanna .HCIIblTAHHE HA PASPblB" HOT nOMini! y IIpocTO Hc-ry. (I iipoBepjui HOAaoHO II flaBHO. HioSan 6ojii> ocTamrr cpayy MCTV, A 0'iacTbe---ner. BecnaMHTno OHO. OHO KaK iHWflyx---qyocrnycM H .iiiae.M. KCTCCTBCIIHO , K8K BO3AyX H BOflH. BOT no'iemy H ire aanoMHiiacM, H K ScAHM HO rOTOBbl () C'iacTi>e II TO H3JIHU1HO. Kan ccp«i;c---iio.iaraeTcn B rpy^n, HoKa HG CTHCIIOT 0O.lb, OHO HCCJIbHIIHO, H KaSKOTCH--- CTOJICTbH BHCpOAII. yfliinjipiia TW: n c.MOiocij, HO ii;iaiy. [282:] II pOCTIITbCfl C 6CJIMM CBCTO5I HO CHOIIiy. A n jHoSyio GOJIB nopemiaiy, rt iia^iflTbio oCn/i no flopo/uy. c'iacTi>o ii no MM---BflOX H BM/lOX, Ciui:!aniii i! o/uio. Hac iiepcccoptiTh MCIIJI ii ITpocTo no ,nano. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 280 Happiness has no memory---
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ you just can't find it!
I checked it yesterday
And years ago.
The slightest sorrow leaves a scar behind it.
But happiness, which has no memory---
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 0, no!
It's like the air---we know it's there, and
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ breathe it;
It's natural, like sunshine, and like air;
And that is why
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ its memory dies with it,
And we for troubles never are prepared.
When you have happiness---
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ no words are needed---
It's like your heart-its place is in your breast;
Until it's pierced by pain, you never heed it,
You think you'll live
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ for centuries at least.
You wonder at my smiles?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ no tears of anguish?
My lack of haste to bid this world farewell?
There is no pain on earth I cannot vanquish---
And as for insults, they can go to hell.
Give up my happiness which lias no memory? No, never!
We're systole and diastole,
Two in one.
No insults or misfortunes
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ can dissever
My happiness and me it simply can't be done.
Translated by Louis Zcllikuff
283 __ALPHA_LVL1__ LEONID MARTYNOV
Leonid Martynov (b. 1905) is a true virtuoso, a skilled master of language with a sensitive understanding of the secret inner associations of words. Martynov's writing is distinguished for the peculiar harmonizing of sounds he achieves in his separate lines, verses and sometimes whole poems. At the same time Martynov is first and foremost a poet of ideas which he expresses in a vivid, original way. He belongs to this fast-moving age, responding with remarkable keenness to all that is new in this constantly changing world of ours. His intellectual curiosity is reflected in his fantastic, almost fairy-tale poems which are yet written in the spirit of scientific analysis and scientific forecasting, making a very modern impact. Leonid Martynov is one of the leading translators of Western classics and Slav poets. In 1966 he was awarded the Russian Federation State Prize.
[284] ~ [285] __ALPHA_LVL2__ Echo __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ Kclio MTO raisoc (viyiiiJioci. co IMIHIHI? Punopio H c ToGoii OAHOIO, A CJIOB3 MOII IIOICMy-TO HoBTOpJHOTCH 33 CT6HOH), H 3ByH3T OHH B Ty JKC MHHyTy B o.iiiiKiiiLX poujax 11 ;(a.">nirx nymax, B 6jiH3Jie>Kam.iix JHOACKHX H Ha BCHIBCKHX nenejmmax, H noBCH)«y cpe^H HSHuymnx. 3naeuib, B cymHocTH,---aro I'accTOHime ue noMcxa HH flJiH CMexa u uu A-' y^HBHTejibHo momiioe axo! 0'ieBiiffiio, TtiKan 3iioxa. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 286 It's the strangest thing!...
I speak to you, and my «ords ring out
All around.
They resound
In nearby streets and far-off groves,
On sites of fires and levelled graves,
In fields and woods beyond the river,
In the homes of the living__
And it's good
That it should
Be so!... Sighs, gasps, laughter
Have learnt to travel.
What's this mighty echo?
But a sign of the present epoch!
Translated by Irina Zheleznoua
287 __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [thirsting for song] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ I!TO-TO HoBoe B Miipe. lIe.TOBeiecTBy XOICTCH nccon. JIlO^H MUCJIflT O JHOTHC, O JIIIpC. Miip Sea neccH HeHHTepecen. Bexep, BCTBH, BeCCHHHH CblpOCTI., M nepHM, K3K HCTJiCBumii nainipyc, HpouiJioroAHHe rpanbi. 4ejioBeiecTBy XOICTCJI IICCCH. JIioHfi npaiiw. H H«y n IIo 3TO»iy Miipy. fl xoiy OTMCKaTb 9Ty anpy, HflH---K3K T8M 3OBCTCH OH I1WHC IIa.nbU.CB, xpeneTiibix OT Topo^a H nycTbuiii, IIIyM, iioflo6Hi>iii npnuoio MopcKOMy. xoiercji po^y flnv;e.Koiny. OIIII, 3TH CTpyHbl, Mc;HiU H 6y«TO qyryuiiM, IIpOBOAOB TCJKMbOHHblX HO TOIIblllC li ire TOJHHC, VMIKIIIIOT: ---(), rpoiii. /itc! Ho cine lie ycne.i H iiorporaTb Cjibiuiy ryji OT/;a.ieiiHbiii, l>y«To TAC-TO B 3a jmoHtame pa5 o6na/KCHiibiii, npoisaJKCHiibiii; BocKpecacT iieniiiino Kaaiicimwii , I!TO e.'iymi.iocb, lie MO;KCT npo^e/ranim. ---3ro H!---roBOpiiT.---OTO H BO;U>! [290:] Ha aepCBbiix poawaioTCJi .IIICTI.H, Ha meriiHbi poatflaioTCfl KIICTH, XOJICT pacTpecKHBaexcH c xpycTOM, II CMblBaCTCH BCHK8H n-lCCCIIb... ^ejio naxHCT ncuyccTBOM. lIeflOBC'iecTBy XOICTCH neceii. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 288 Something new,
Something new---
Mankind thirsting for song.
Hurry up, bring lutes, bring lyres.
Of a world without song---
Yes, it's true!---
Men have tired.
Windy spring,
Running clouds,
Trees in wild flight,
Last year's grasses like time-blackened
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ scrolls.
Men are hungry for song,
Men are hungry for song,
And they're right.
Oh, to find
That proverbial lyre,
Strings like flexible wire
That respond to the lingers of genius
With a quiver ecstatic and sensuous.
Cities, deserts, the roll of the tide---
Men long, men long
For song.
Here they are, these strings
They ring
Like bells made of copper or iron...
Their plea is inspired:
"Touch us, poet, come on,
We have won!''
I'm about to touch them, and suddenly hear,
Coming near
From a distance,
An insistent
And curious hum---voices, voices, voices---
Of slaves freed, no more in chains,
Of lepers cured, no more in pain,
Of the slain, the innocent slain,
Resurrected, and shouting, helpless willi wonder,
``Look! It's us! We're alive again!''
New leaves on the trees are born,
New brushes are born of bristle,
Fresh sheets of canvas unroll
With an eager rustle.
Mould is washed away,
Welcome, art!
Man waits for song
With thirsting heart.
Translated by Irlna Zheleznova
291 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Water __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ BjiaroBOJiiuia JlHThCfl! Qua CTOJlIi MHCTa, 'Iro mi iianiiTiirji, 1 1 II yiHMTIiCH. W ;>T(» fii.ijio iiecnpocTa. Eii Ho xKtTaJin MBM, rana M rope'lii niuvrymnx Jio:i Kii i lie xnaTOJio II pi.ioi.i, VKiipnoii i IT Kii lie xnara-io Run. noJTiiiicToii, VA\ no xiuiTaJio TCMI. ne;t,ne. K'A ilSII.'lllII IIC XIUlTtKIO MncToii, 1/U3 __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 292 Water?
Yes, it's water.
And here we have the surety:
It follows water's laws;
It falls in drops,
It flows,
It passes all the tests of clarity and purity---
But does it serve to slake
Your thirst, or wash your clothes?
It scorns to deck its rim with rushes, reeds
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and sedges---
No sheen of silv'ry fish in dim mysterious deeps,
No waving water-reeds. And round its tidy edges
No song-bird sings, and ne'er a willow weeps.
Water?
Yes, it's water;
It's proved by all the data,
Although it knows no wave of storm or strife.
And this
This H20
This aqua distillata
Has all that water has
Yes,
All but life.
Translated liy Archie Jolmstone
293 __ALPHA_LVL1__ JUSTINAS MARCINKEVI&Chat;IUS
Justlnas Marcinkcvicius (b. l'J31), a gifted Lithuanian poet of epic cast, is best known for his "Twelfth Spring'', "Publicist Poem" "Blood and Ashes" (1957-- 1965) and has also published collections of lyric verse. He tackles a wide range of themes such as the evolution of social concepts under the influence of life's changing conditions; the individual and the community in wartime; problems of the atomic age; the individual's psychological make-up. His most popular work is the passionate anti-war poem "Blood and Ashes''. Marcinkevicius has made excellent translations into Lithuanian of the Estonian epic poem ``Kalevipocg'' and the Finnish ``Ifalevala'', as well as poems by Adam Mickiewicz, Pushkin and Lermontov.
[294] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [295] __ALPHA_LVL2__ Prelude There was a village and it is no more.
It has been burnt alive with all its people.
With those who had to live,
With those who had to die,
And those who had as yet to come into the
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ world.
There was a village, and it is no more.
Not true!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ The village does exist! It's there!
It's burning to this day!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ It is in flames today!
And it will go on burning while the ones
Who set it to the flames remain alive.
So part asunder, vicious blaze!
Asunder, tongues of fire!
And let me have a look at who is burning there.
I know that boy.... He was the one who told me,
As I remember it, this boy had said to me:
``I need this life of mine so I can live.''
How much he needed, and how little too!
My dear young friend, my brother, why did no!
You say instead that fateful day:
``I need this life of mine so I can struggle!''
How hot it feels inside my breast.
There's something burning there.
Must be my heart.
Burn bright, my heart. You've got to keep on burning,
So that no people may be ever burnt alive again.
A man, a Dzukian,^^*^^ was working in the field.
The fallow land he tilled for autumn sowing.
They stopped him short when he was halfway down the row.
The plough he stuck into (he ground where he left olY
Remains there to this day.
It has not rusted.
There is no sign of rust on it because
That ploughman comes back every single night
And, rolling up his trousers made of sacking,
He says a prayer and begins to plough.
His furrow stretches on and on forever,
From Pirciupis to Pancrai, from Panerai to Auschwitz,
And then again from Auschwitz to Mauthausen.
It is as infinite as life itself,
A furrow tracing life's eternal course
It challenges the trenches dug for death.
May never rust corrode that plough.
Translated by Ulga Shartse
_-_-_^^*^^ Dzukia---the south-eastern part of Lithuania.
299 Emacs-File-stamp: "/home/ysverdlov/leninist.biz/en/1969/FSP533/20071206/399.tx" __EMAIL__ webmaster@leninist.biz __OCR__ ABBYY 6 Professional (2007.12.08) __WHERE_PAGE_NUMBERS__ bottom __FOOTNOTE_MARKER_STYLE__ [*]+ __ENDNOTE_MARKER_STYLE__ [0-9]+ __ALPHA_LVL1__ SAMUEL MARSHAK
Samuel Marshak (1887--1960) was an outstanding Soviet translator and poet. As a young man, Marshak lived for a time in the house of Maxim Gorky, and the famous writer's approval of his first attempts at poetry writing played an enormous role in launching the young poet on his career. In 1911, with Gorky's assistance, Marshak went to England to continue his education and until 1914 attended lectures at London University. In 1915--16 he published his first translations of William Blake and some Scottish folk ballads. Marshak wrote lyric poems, satirical verses, plays and critical articles, but he is best known as a translator and children's writer. He translated much of Shakespeare, Shelley, Byron, Burns, Blake, Kipling, and many other poets, as well as non-Russian poets of the Soviet Union.
Marshak's poetic gift attained its peak in his "Lyric Notebook'', an inspired collection on which he worked for many years. It contains philosophical reflections on life and death, meditations on the value of life and the value of art, and thoughts about time and eternity. Samuel Marshak was awarded the Lenin Prize in 1963.
[300] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [301] __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [bed under pressure] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ n TOT ;KC HTO, B nocTCJib no jiowact Cjibimaji ncpBbiii cnoii rpoMKiiii CMCX H lie .tiia.i, ITO a MeHbiiie Bcex. H Bcer^a-TO sine AHH 6i>iJio MBJIO, JJaHte B canibic ftoJirnc j|,jiji Bcero, HTO BICHH J(py/iif)i>i, Apaitif, iirpw, ^U II IIWH'IC (lOpIOCb SI C A Jf JIOiKyCb AO CHX Hop C HPOXOTOl'i, If 1101:010 HO'iiioMy lie pafl, Kai; HKC rpCTii CTO.ICTI>H na.'tci^. He 3H36T BC'IHOCTb HH pOflCTBa, IIH HJIPMeilir. lly;«fla eii 6oJib poa;;;enMii H CMepTeii. A y MCHbiiioii cecTpu ee---y Bpeiuemi--- EeciHcJieHHoe MHOJKCCTBO __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 302 Am I dreaming, or really and truly
It was I, v,ho in bed so unruly,
Laughed so loud for the first time one night
Not aware I was only a mite?
The days were too brief in duration,
And the longest seemed always too short---
My plans would be doomed to frustration,
Games unfinished and fights left unfought.
And I still go to hed under pressure,
In the calm of the night find no pleasure.
And in sleep I still see my worst foe
Just as (hiee spore and ten years ago.
Translatr<i bij Louis Zellikoj]
303 __ALPHA_LVL2__ [eternity] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ paspeuiawTCH OT 6 pencil n. npHHocHT rofl, H flenb, H iac. B pynax y nac qacTHna IlycKaii OHO paGoTficr nan nac! IlycTb mepiiT iiaiu CTHXH CTOHOIO "JOTKOIO, 1'aGoTy, iwiflCKy, n.'ianaiibe, noJioT II--- flo.'iroe OHO HJIH itopoTiioo--- IlycTb BMCCTC c iia.Mii UTO-TO coa^aor. Beryu;aH MHiiyxa HesaMCTHaji MHpy HOflBIir HJHI CTHX. ---H BC'iuocTb, cTapaw, 6c;!;(('Tiia;i, nJieMfliuiiiicon CBOIIX. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 304 Eternity knows neither kith nor kin.
The pangs of birth and death she's never known,
While Time, her younger sister, unlike her
Has countless sons and daughters of her own.
The centuries bring forth new life---and pass.
Each day, each year, each hour brings fruit untried;
While we the slightest span of Time still grasp,
Let's make her serve us e'er she flies from sight.
So let our Time be filled with merry song,
With toil and dance and flights o'er space and sea;
Though brief her span, or though it last for long,
Let her, with us, create---and in creation, BE.
Unseen, into the void, the fleeting minutes soar,
Give birth to glorious deeds and poems in their race.
And see---Eternity, who children never bore,
Enfolds her sister's sons in proud embrace.
Translated by Louis Zellikoff
305 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Immortality __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ Bbra H BHJI H GecneieH, H6o lie aiiaji a o Gyflymeii cjiepxii, H5o lie 3H3JI H, 'ITO BCK MOii IIC BM, «ITO yMeeTe HtHT B CMepTb, Kan SeccMepTiiwe MHP OTOT 6yfleT Bcer^a aa «iac, aa MniOBCHbc «o ne iiopi.Tc, 'Ml __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 306 For four years on end
Immortal was I.
For four years on end
Light-hearted was I.
For I never knew I would die one fine day,
For I never knew I would not live for aye.
You who know how to make life sweet and pleasant,
Like children, immortal---believe not in death;
Death's time is the future---but never the present,
Though you may be breathing your very last breath.
Translated by Louis Zellikoff
307 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Lily of the Valley __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ HepneeT jiec, TCHJIOM pas6y>neiiiibiii, BeceHiieii cfaipocxbio o6i>}ir. A yw Ha HHTOHKax OT BeTpa KaJKfloro ByTOHOB Kpyrjibie 6y6eHqnKH ElUC SaKpblTbl H HJIOTHbl, Ho coJiHU,e pacicpbiBaex Beii'iiiKii y KOJJOKOJIbtlHKOB Bl'CHbl. npapoflofi GepeiKHo cnejienyTbiii , SaBepHyTbiii B sejieHwii HHCT, Pacxex UBCTOK B rjiyma xpynoK H TOMHTCH JICC B6CHOK) paHHCH), H BCIO CiaCTJIHByH) TOCKy H BCC CBOB Sjiaroyxamie On OTflaji ropbitoMy __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 308 Stirred by the first faint ice-free pulse,
The forest, grumbling, clings to winter's sleep
But spring's own pearls, strung onto threads of green
Quiver with life at every breath of wind.
Like tender human babe in swaddling clothes
The newborn nestled in her funneled leaf,
And now within her maiden bower she grows
Fragrant, vulnerable, exquisite.
Fragile flower and thick limbed forest share
The bitter sweetness of the fevered spring,
The agony of life's slow-thawing veins
The ecstasy of life's thrusting growth.
Translated by Archie Johnstons
309 __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [lose not one hour] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ Ha Bcex 'iacax BI>I MOJKCTC iipoieeTi. C.'ioBa upocTwe IICTHIIM rjiyooKoii: TcpHH BpCMJI, MM TepHCM 'leCTb. A coBCCTb ocracTCH iiocjie cpoua. Olia HJMBCT B flylUC HC HO PaCKaHHbC BCCrfla IIpUXOflMT IIOS^IIO. A iecTh na *iac yitaaMBacT nam HpoTHHyToii pyKoro---cTpe.iKoii rpoanoii. HTo6 Hama coaccTb lie i;a.tnn.ia nac, He noTepHiiTe KpaTunii OTOT lac. HycKaii, i;aK CTPCJIKH B ncwiACHb, Gyayx BMOCTC Be;icnbji Hameii COBCCTH n MCCTH! Sll __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 310 On every clock this message you can find---
Ils simple words a truth profound contains---
Who squanders time, casts honour to the wind,
Though Time expires, your conscience will remain.
It dwells within the soul, not heeding hours;
Repentance always comes a bit too late,
While honour points towards the fleeting hours
With outstretched linger, like the hand of fate.
To keep your conscience from reproaches free,
Lose not one hour, however brief it be;
Just as at noon the clock's two hands together
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ stand,
Let honour always go with conscience hand-in-hand.
Translated by Louis Zellikoff
311 __ALPHA_LVL1__ EDUARDAS MIE&Zhat;ELAITIS
I'lduardas Miezelaitis (b. 1919) is a popular Lithuanian poet and 1962 Lenin Prize winner. "All that I have written is really a lyrical monologue on the time-honoured theme of Man and his stubborn battle against humiliation, oppression and need,'' he wrote. "Man is the most precious thing on dearth. Man is my first, my truest love and my constant concern.'' Miezelaitis is the author of about twenty books (the first one was published in 1943) but he is best known for his book of philosophical lyric poetry entitled ``Man'', about which he wrote: "1 travelled along many long roads before I arrived at the tlwughts and conclusions which I have set out in this book.'' The style of his intellectual and emotional verse is free, and the images are hyperbolic. Many of the verses are hymns to the powerful intellect of Man, the toiler and fighter who has harnessed atomic energy and explored outer space. The poem ``Man'' has had a great influence on the shaping of many of our young poets.
[312] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [313] __ALPHA_LVL2__ Ashes These russet-hned ashes, tlie giavel of hones underneath
Like the rust-covered splinters of less than two decades
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ago---
What were they a shepherd-boy's bare, sunbiiint feet
Running after a butterfly as it would flit to and fro?
Or the tiny, soft elbows and hands of a child
Round the neck of a mother whose ashes lie here with the
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ rest?
Or (he arms of a man, big and strong, yet so mild
As they fondled a baby pressed close to his breast?
Aye, these rust-coloured ashes the wind now strews over
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ the fields ~
Shone in eyes that had clouded witli tears, gleamed and
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ laughed with delight,
Glowed as hearts that had felt all a living heart feels,
Smiled as lips that were somebody's music and light,
Burned with passion, knew pleasure, anxiety, pain,
Could forget and remember, accuse and reproach and
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ forgive,
Throbbed with thought in the intricate cells of a brain,
Nurtured dreams and desires, wished to love and be loved,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ yearned to live!
And this hair---all these locks, all these plaits, all
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ these curls ~
Lying heaped in a lifeless and orderless pile,
That hot fingers would twine and untwine to the murmur
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ of passionate words,
That hot lips would touch softly and linger a while.
Hopes of happiness, dreams of pure joy that can now
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ never be,
The glitter of eyes huge, reflecting the light of the
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ soul---
Burned in dread crematorium tires by inhuman decree,
Ashes, only these ashes are left of them all.
Flying over the remnants of liarlicd wire, a hinl from
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ the forest ~
Unexplainably hesitant, hovers around and around
A wild rose, of all roses the reddest and saddest
That had chosen to bloom on this blood-sodden ground.
And a pain---how, I wonder, my heart can endure it---
Of a sharpness never experienced yet
Tears and pierces my flesh like a bullet
Bedded deep in my throat, not to let me draw breath or
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ forget.
Overwhelmed by the horrors, unhearing, unseeing,
Unable to stir with the weight of the anguish I feel,
With the dust of the dead in my hand, from the depths
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ of my being
To all who are living today I appeal!
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
317 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Lips __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ Fyoi.i---Kpacnoio :ioiiToii, C.IOHIIO eb.iar, 'iro paao/man n (torn. ---3To ecTb naui noc-ie/uini! !--- Jl C jrayabHMII IIOH). OTH ryGbi no B cii.'iax >KiiTb Sea c.'ia^ocTii neon, 11 co. in Mopc'Koii, H HeSec TCMIIO-CUHHX, II Geceflbi MyjKCKoii. FyGi.i iK^yx iiainipoc, FyGbi /KasK^yT n Me^a, n <iaio. II na KaSKflbiii upoKJiHTuii sonpoc Jl HCMCflJieHHo oxBeiiaio. ry6i>i II ]J OToii reMii n rjiyon Bi»inoj(iiT CJiona no enema. ycxa.iH, 1'IcJin cjKaTM OHII---pa.r!o;i;iMii, llToGbi iiTimiiitMi cTaeii cjiona m\n JIK>AI>MII. C.'IOBIIO iiTiiua. jiexa.'io IMNI;^'. 11 ffyiua >iTooi>i ciiona HX it TOM ;KC mea^e. c rpiifiyiibi ('. ryG cpunaiOTCH, CJIOBIIO 113 Tyi, FpOMM, MOJIHHH, Cypii, Ho rposa MHHOBaJia, H CBCTIITCH COJIIICIIIblii Jlyl. FyGbi---pafly/KHoii apitoii Ha 6e3o6^aiHOM neSe Jim;a, H---ciacTJiHBbiii H ;i;apKiiii IIon,ejryii 6e3 i;oima! CJIUIHHT JKCHmiffla, CJIbllllllT To, ITO MM roBOpHTb eii AO.IVKIIM, XOTb CJIOB3 3TII THUie Camori Tiixoii aeitmoii TIIIJIMIM.I CJIOBIIO MIIK1I, WIHBaiOTCH, M orHCM aaHHwaeTCH siait, Fy6w B ry6w BjmnaioTCH CoiHO-KpacHbie B TCMHWX ;(OMax. ---HCHMM II flo6pbIM--- necHio npocnyBiinixcJi IITIIU. BMCCTG c BecejiwH H nPCHIO CBIICTIIIHh. H IIOXO«KOIO Berpa, CJIOBHO BBTep MCH« iipo'iHX uerpon, IIoBTopHeuib aa BeTpom Ero necHio 6ea CJIOB. THXO. THXO. AjIblMH II K He6y---JKa K __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 318 Lips like scarlet ribbons parting,
Or a banner that fierce fighting rends---
``...'tis the final conflict starting...''
I am singing with friends.
For those lips not to perish
They need sweetness of berries,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ the sea's briny smell.
They need blue skies we cherish,
Conversation as well.
Lips may hold cigarettes,
Lips for tea and for honey are yearning.
Every question men ask me is met
By an answer from my lips returning.
Those two lips when half open
Are dark as a nest
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ where the heart,
Hatching thoughts to be spoken,
Unhurriedly lets them depart.
When your tense lips arc feeling
Tired and weak, make them open again.
Like a flock of birds wheeling
Send your words winging high for all men.
When your lips have once freed them,
Let those words sweep the skies like the birds.
Your soul had to breed them,
But now in its nest again let it brood over words.
Lips a tribune's call sounding
Can hurl words like a bolt from the clouds,
Setting thunder resounding.
But the danger once past
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ we see sunbeams can pierce
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ sombre shrouds.
Lips may be rainbow arcs bending
Through the sky of an untroubled face---
Clinging kiss without ending,
Joyful, ardent embrace.
Women hear words yet unspoken---
Words we owe them extolling their worth
In the silence unbroken,
As profound as our earth.
Like poppies, lips fusing
Fill with passion, till flowers ignite,
Their warm essence diffusing,
Richly red
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ in the shadows of night.
When a new day is dawning
And the birds make the lucent air ring
You will whistle
To welcome the morning
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and with the birds sing.
Fresh and bright as the wind,
You repeat
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ the wind's song you have heard,
Soft and light as the wind,
With a lilt, but no word.
Softly, so softly,
Songs linger on cool scarlet lips
That for heaven are longing,
For joys ever longing---
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Those lips---
Translated by Tom Bolting
321 __ALPHA_LVL1__ ALEXANDER MEZHIROV
Alexander Mezhirov (b. 1023) begun it-riling poetry (luring tin: irur. /[is first efforts ircre clearly inspired by ISlok, but then the harsh realities of war imposed their own, stronger influence, on his poetry. His work bears the imprint---more distinctly than does that of his contemporaries -of the tragedy of those irlio grew up in inn'. It speaks of the sobering pain of broken illusions, of learning humaneness by mustering one's egotism and of the search for a source oj spiritual support in those -years oj fire, bloodshed and death. iMczhiroi: it'/is wounded anil demobbed, anil in 797.'i he entered the Corky Literary Institute in Moscoir. His first colle.e.tion of poetry entitled "It's a Long .Itoad" came out in 1947. His best known bonks are ``/'oerns" (1957), ``Windshield'' (19H1) and " Farewell to Snoie" (19<H).
__NOTE__ "322" really appears as page number at bottom of page even though this page has the poet's photo and bio and all (?) other photo/bio pages are UNNUMBERED. 322 __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [323] __ALPHA_LVL2__ Sprites of Music When war, the cursed, bloody war
Our souls and bodies smote and shattered,
The sprites of music wept and swore,
They wailed and sang and roared and stuttered.
Theirs was a mighty overture
Addressed to all
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ without distinction:
We'll light....
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ We'll win....
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ We will endure,
Surviving bloodshed and destruction!
In dugouts songs rang out galore,
Accordions bayed as loud as demons,
And to the men these tunes meant more
Than did Beethoven to the Germans.
Across the land,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ from shore to shore,
A string stretched taut, unceasing, quivered
When war, the cursed, bloody war
Our souls and bodies crushed and shivered.
A crippled soldier in a square
And Shostakovich on the Neva
In raging sound
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ their hearts laid bare,
By one resolve and passion driven.
Translated by Irina Zheleznova
325 __ALPHA_LVL2__ February She passes through the gateway, tall and slim,
Her face with its unchanging wintry pallor
Impassive---
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ A stout man in beaver collar
Stamps up and down the pavement...
It is time!
It's time, it's time For one last tryst, one nioie
Delicious, brief, but oh, such painful meeting,
Of which she knows and cannot help repealing
That it will come to nothing as before.
She pauses for a moment in the street,
Her graceful figure tense with hesitation....
Will she go back?...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ With fresh determination
She walks ahead, reluctant to retreat.
Two little girls stop short as she goes by,
And watch her every movement, fascinated,
Her ease, her polish, the exaggerated
Arch of her brow above the deep-set eye.
They note in open, innocent delight
All of the special little things about her,
Admire her shoes, her gauzy scarf, and whisper,
"That coat's a dream! So fluffy and so light.''
``Why must they stare?" she asks herself, and sighs,
"God help them.'' Then, her mood now wistful, mellow,
"I too once loved Arbat^^*^^ and used to follow
Its marvels, awed, with watchful, jealous eyes.''
And this indeed was true, she had__ And yet
The fact that youth and age with one another
Of changing places dream, she did not bother
To think about, and so could not admit.
Far from the gate, the girls, the gaping street,
She drives away into the whirling darkness.
The February frost has lost its sharpness
And almost seems aware of its defeat.
An icicle from winter into spring
Drops tunefully and, jangling, falls lo pieces,
And as it slowly melts it never ceases,
Defying sleep, its gleeful song to sing.
Your street is not too narrow, nor too A\ide;
The windows meet each other's gaze unblinking.
A playful wind, across the ledges sprinting,
Plucks at the curtains and will not subside.
Your courtyard is a well turned upside down,
The blue of sky is like the purest water.
You'll dip in it one fateful day when winter
Gives way to spring,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and, drunk with rapture, drown.
The world outside, still cold and shivering,
Is clad in snowy robes that gleam and glisten.
An icicle---come, hold your breath and listen---
Drops tunefully from winter into spring.
Translated by Irina Zheleznova
_-_-_^^*^^ Arbal---busy slreel in Iho centre of Moscow.
329 __ALPHA_LVL1__ SERGEI MIKHALKOV
SiTgfi Mil;h:ill;ov (b. lUl.'i) is <i iriil/'li/ known children's poet and satirica I writer. There run hardly be n child in the Soviet Union who does not knoir his poetry !>i/ heart. Mikhalkov has irritten humorous rei'sex, songs, fables, ff.uilletons, plays (``('onceited llnhbit" and ``Sombrero'') and screenplays (``The Ncir Adrentiires of PKSS in Boots" and others), lie is also chief editor of ``Fitil'' (Fuse), a, ireclcli/ series of short satirical films which wras started sereral years ago. \Iikhalkov has translated "Three Little. I`igs'' into Russian and many other nursery rhymes and stories for children.
[330] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [331] __ALPHA_LVL2__ The Satyrist and the Sapper __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ H cancp iioxosi; iia caiiepa, f\py;tbnt--- MnHHpyeT OH, H Minmpyio nl 3aaa<ia canepa, KOJU. B nopeui> csiorpcTi,, Bpara noflopnaTb, ca.MOJiy yu,eJicTb. Ho ecflii TH flpo;i;F> omymaemb B pyitax, Epocaii CBOIO cflyatSy B cariepnbix Boiicitax, Beflb ecxb ate iia CBBTC flpyrne nocTw--- Hy, ci;a;i;eM, niicaxi, narpa^nue JIHCTW! 3«ecb cjieflyeT TO;KB cnopoBKy HMeTb, I!TOO JIIICT 5ca noMapicn ocpopsniTb cysicxb!. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 332 The satyrist acts like the sapper, you know:
They both lay their mines to get rid of the foe.
Yes, to blow up the foe and themselves to stay whole
Is the sapper's and satyrist's ultimate goal.
But if you feel shaky at mention of war
Then better not enter the Sappers' Corps.
There's plenty of posts where you don't have to kill,
For instance, the one where award lists you fill.
There's a snag here, too, namely: the skill that it
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ takes
To fill in a blank-form without mistakes.
Translated by Dorian Rottenbcrg
333 __ALPHA_LVL2__ The Crane and the Pig __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ JKypaBJii> M B «.rreciii>ix IIenaTax», Ha nwcTaiiKO i;;ipi'iiii xyflo/KiiHKon nopiiaTbix, Ilpoiiiioiuo.'i iiecJibixaHiibiii JloprpCTOM iKypaiuui Xanpoiibn Kai; iia fcuiapo c HUM iipn neex cuonn.iaci>. If TOT n cepflnax oil no :iarpnni;y /(a.'i! Bee na<ia;iocb, i;ai; n CKa.-ia;i, c iioprpoTa. XanpoHhH xpH>Kiiy:ia: «Kan ni>icTait;unoT .r)To?» «I[TO IIMCHH<>?» noc.'ihinia.'iocb n OTHCT. «/!,;> ncio -yry Ma.'tiuo, lii.viio'iaii nain nopTpeT!» l Bi.r «Kai; cnx nop lid MTO no eymecTny Xanpoiibio -ran :tafle.io! XOTIITC :uiaTi>? TyT HOT n MOM f>i.i.:io fle.ro: /Kypaiuib f>i>Ki rpacpiiKOM - on i.vinmoM pncoiia.i. Xaitpoiibji inrra'ii;oM i;apTinii>[ Ma.iriwi.ia. Ma:u;oi: iia no.-ioTiie /Kypaiui. ne npicuiaua.i. Illi-piixoii na iKi.Ki-riir C[inni>;i ne npn::naita.ia. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 334 At Woodland Gallery, a year or two ago,
When works by feathered artists were on show---
There suddenly broke out a dreadful scandal.
Employing language lit but for a vandal,
"I say,"
Quoth Mrs. Pig, "who put this on display?"
"What do yon mean?" the Crane retorted.
"Why, all this mess, including your own portrait.''
"Excuse me,...''
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ``Yes, oh yes! Is that the way to paint?"
"I beg your pardon, but...''
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ``Most certainly it ain't!''
``Now, don't you think you've gone too far, my friend?"
Need 1 recount the whole discussion to the end?
What was it, though, made Mrs. Pig so sore?
You want to know?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Well, here's the matter's core:
Engraver Crane, who used his beak to etch
Thought painting worthy only of a wretch.
For paintress Pig, who daubed her colours with her
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ snout,
Engraving wasn't art beyond all doubt!
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
335 __ALPHA_LVL2__ The Fool A horse should be feared from the tail-end, my friend:
From the fore-end---the cow and the bull.
But---
~ ~ from all points of view,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ from beginning to end,
Beware, beware of the fool!
Whenever a fool is installed in the place
Intended by right for the wise
The fool's true identity promptly to trace
Is hard for the keenest of eyes.
For sometimes a fool may be glib and polite,
Not at all an inveterate brute.
The fool may be able to speak and to write
Or to be quite impressively mute.
One fool single-handed can muddle, my friend,
So much in a moment's course
That ten hundred men will be helpless to mend
By wisdom, patience or force.
But here we may mention a general rule
To be followed by wise men hereafter:
Though there's plentiful reasons to fear a fool,
Remember: a fool fears laughter!
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
337 __ALPHA_LVL1__ SERGEI NAROVCHATOV
Sergei Narovchatov (b. 1919) interrupted his education in 1939 to volunteer for the Finnish front, enrolled at the Literary Institute when he came back and then joined up again when Hitler invaded Russia. He began by writing poetry about the war and still frequently returns to war themes. The mood of his poetry is highy romantic, and his handling of lofty subjects is remarkably subtle and stirringly profound, without a trace of affectation. Narovchatov is an essentially Russian poet. He turns again and again to Russia's heroic history, her wide open spaces, her people, her legends and her songs, which provide the substance of such poems as "Vasily Duslayev'', "The Song About Ataman Sernyon Dezhnev''. His admiration for Lermontov must have inspired him to write the book "Lermontov's Lyricism'', a serious and competent study. Narovchatov's reviews and articles on modern poetry often appear in the Soviet press.
[338] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [339] __ALPHA_LVL2__ Those Years __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ H re fl iipoxoflHJi, cKpHiin ayfiaum, MIIMO CoSK/KCHHMX CCJI. Ka3HCHItI>IX Ho ropecTHoii, no pyccitoii, no 3ai!eru,amioi! OT fle^oB H OTUOB 3anoMHHa.n nan AepcnimMii H Bexep, pasHociiBiiiiiii /Kapioiii npax, H fleBymeit, 6n6.ieiici;iiMii PacnHTbix Ha paiiicoMOBCKiix H BOpOHbC KpyJKHJIOCb 6e3 6OH3HH, H Kopuiyn paaa «o6wiy na rjiasax, H MCTHJI BCC SeciHHCTBa H BCG flaymii B cBoen neiajm flpeanHM HCCHHM paBiiwii, fl cejia, CJIOBIIO JieTonwci., jmcTaji H B Ka<K;(oii 6a6e BHACJI flpocJiaBiiy, Bo BCCX pyibnx HeiipHflBy ymianaji. KpoBii cBoeii, CBOHM CBHTUHUM Bepin>iii, (LiOBa cTapHHHbie n noBTopH.i cKopQa: ---I'occiiH, MBTII! CBCTC Moii oeaM KoTopoii MecTbK) MCTIITI> Mtie 3 __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 340 Grating my teeth in pain, I passed
Burned-down village and tortured town;
Through war-torn Russia, my very own,
The heritage of a cherished past.
They sank in my heart, the tossing flames,
The smouldering windswept ashes,
Girls crucified in the streets and lanes,
On doors and window sashes.
The ravens gorged without shame or fear,
The buzzards clawed corpses bare and stark,
And all the horrors both far and near
Were marked with the crawling spider's mark.
Watching the widows bent with their woes
I re-fell the sorrow of ancient songs,
At one with the trees in their mournful rows,
With the streams running tears at the country's
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ wrongs.
I passed by ruins to find still more,
Through my country scathed by the flames of war.
``Russia, mother, light of my eyes,
Can any revenge suffice?''
Translated by Dorian Hottenberg
341 __ALPHA_LVL2__ 3a coBCTCKyio Meetings of Young Pioneers... oh, how distant!
Aurora's^^*^^ guns blaze in the tire-lit glade---
Boys seeing visions in bonfire tongues leaping,
They see the quick flash of Budyonny's blade.
Which of these tousled ones, then, was not dreaming
Of dying a hero in some battled hour?
And leaving three words on a stone as a reminder:
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ For Soviet Power!
Young boys taking manhood, young boys waking adult,
So wild and untried on the threshold of life;
But still they endured the war blizzard so blinding:
Fierce, beyond dreams of their fathers, that strife.
Each put his whole soul into one single passion,
Those years, forty-one, forty-five; when the flower
Of youth---honest soldiers---was spent for the nation,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ For Soviet Power!
'Tis you I remember, on good days and bad days,
You absent---in victory, when War Two was won;
You absent---when Sputnik was launched to the
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ space-ways,
When virgin, brown steppes were exposed to the sun.
Today's living, and I, in our heart of hearts carry
A part of your hearts, like an undying flower.
And I stake my oath, cast my vote, and forever,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ For Soviet Power!
Translated by Gladys Evans
_-_-_^^*^^ Cruiser Aurora fired the first shot to signal the start of Iho October Revolution, 1917.
343 __ALPHA_LVL1__ BORIS PASTERNAK
Boris Pasternak (1890--19CO) was a poet of world stature whose genius was complex and contradictory. The son of a well-known painter, he was taught composition by Scriabin and received his philosophical education in Germany; thus Pasternak absorbed the quintessence of twentieth century culture. His withdrawal from the trivia of life and the bustle of the surrounding world was an intrinsic part of his nature. At the same time he lived an inner life that was packed to ten times the normal capacity, and in his poetry responded sensitively to all the major, cardinal changes in theworld. His early poetry was perhaps overcomplicated in form, but his later style was classically clear. By constructing his poetry on several planes at once, by using his own original syntax and the associative linking of images, he revealed the essence of phenomena and brought out their philosophical content with superb skill.
Boris Pasternak was also an outstanding Russian translator of Shakespeare and Goethe.
[344] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [345] __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [the aim of art] tiblTb anaMCHIlTblM HCKpaCHBO. He 9TO IIORUMaeT BBI>lCb. He naflo aaao^HTb apxiuia, pyitonHCHMH TpacTHCt. ---caiviooT.ua'ia, A ne myMHxa, lie yciiex. Hosopno, HHicro ne ana'ia, npHTieii iia ycxax y BCCX. Ho HaRO >KHTb 6ea caiuosBaHCTBa , TaK JKHTb, HToCbl B KOHnp KOHU.OB it ceGe JIKIOODI. npocTpaiicTBa , 6y#ymero 3OB. H na^o ocTaBJiHTb npo6ejn»i B cy«b6e, a ne cpe^H 6ymar, MecTa H r.'iaBhi /KHSHH na HOJIHX. H oKynaTbcH n H npHTaTb B iieii CBOH mam, Kan npaiexcH B Tyiuaue Kor^a B iieii He BH^aTb HH ura. no iKHBOMy cjie«y TBoii nyTb :ia IDI;;I. , Ho nopaHtciibii or Tbl ca.M HC rtOJIJKCII OTJIHIUTb. 11 ,ni).i/Keii mi (','innoii ;(o.ii,i;<>ii He OTCTyiiaibCJi <»T junta, Ho SblTb iKHBblM, JKHBblM II Td.ll.l.O, '/KlIliblM II TOJIbKO flO KOHUU. 346 It's unbecoming to be famous.
It isn't that that lifts aloft.
Maintaining archives tends to maim us.
Hoard MSS and you are lost.
The aim of art is self-discharge
And not the clap-trap of success.
It's shameless to be looming large
For merits which are but a guess.
Live on through life without imposture,
Live so as in the final end
To hear the love-call of the future,
Expanse and distance to befriend.
Hiatus---leave them in your fortune
But not by any means in papers.
Although the process be a torture,
Let whole chapters of life escape us.
And ducking down into obscurity,
Conceal your steps beneath its cloak.
So landscapes sometimes hide their purity
Beneath a veil of fog or smoke.
Though others will retrace in hot
Pursuit the imprints of your feet,
347
~
[348]
Remember: you yourself must not
Distinguish triumph from defeat.
Not even by the slightest fraction
Must you your proper self transcend.
Just be alive, in thought and action,
Alive and always to the end.
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
349 __ALPHA_LVL2__ EBB On shore the trees stand looking on
While midday casts the clouds on bet
Into the meditative pond
For want of any other net.
And like a net the sky sinks in
The pensively expectant waters
And into it the bathers swim,
Fathers, mothers, sons and daughters.
Then half a dozen girls come out
Without a stir among the shoots
And rivulets of water spout
As they wring out their bathing suits.
And, firing the imagination,
The coils of fabric coil and twist
As though the serpent of temptation
Had really marked them for its nest.
0 woman, on your looks I dote,
But have no mental blanks to fill;
You're like the stricture in a throat
Seized by an unexpected thrill.
You seem created as a draft,
A stanza from anolhcr sequence,
351
~
352
As if indeed the handicraft
Of somebody who knew no equals,
Made of my rib while asleep I lay,
You broke the clasping arms apart,
The very image of dismay,
A spasm that grips and wrings man's heart.
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
353 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Kor.ua pa3ry;meTCn A dish-like lake, serene and spacious,
Converging stormclouds overhead
And there, beyond, the alpine glaciers,
Lustrous and stark, sublime and dread.
The lighting alters and the woods
Go through a constant change of colour,
Now burning, now beneath a hood
Of heart-oppressing, ash-like colour.
When at the end of rainy days
The heavy clouds abruptly pass
What festive blue the sky displays
And how triumphant looks the grass.
The wind dies down, the distance clears,
Bright sunshine floods the hills and plains
And then the foliage appears
Like paintings seen through stained-glass panes.
So from illumined chapel-windows
Saints, hermits, tsars and bishopry
Each in his brightly shining nimbus
Look out upon eternity.
I too am sometimes blessed to hear them,
The distant echoes of the choir,
355
~
356
As if inside a vast cathedral---
The earth's expanse in grand attire.
My world, my universe, my nature,
Your livelong service to the end
Wilh a believer's palpitation,
With tears of gladness I'll attend.
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
357 __ALPHA_LVL1__ ALEXANDER PROKOFIEV
Alexander Prokofiev (b. WOO) is a well-known bard of the Russian north. He was born and raised in the family of a fisherman. His early poetry (the first book ``Midday'' came out in 1931) is distinguished for its emotional spontaneity, colourful idiom and revolutionary enthusiasm. During the Great Patriotic War he wrote a poem called ``Russia'' which became an immensely popular lyric song. Prokofiev, who paints wonderful word-pictures of the Russian landscape, makes extensive use of traditional Russian poetic means, rhythms, idioms, and folk-song metaphors. His reflections on life, which make up the content of his most recent poetry, are set in the form of lyrical parables.
In 1961, Alexander Prokofiev was awarded the Lenin Prize.
[358] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [359] __ALPHA_LVL2__ My Biography __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ ft. xoa«y lie no rpacpmty--- IIo TpOIIHHKaM H MXa.M. Ben MOH 6iiorpa<pHH Pasoiii.'iacb no CTHxam. BCH---OT Kpaeiioro duiara J(o JIOMTH Ha CTOJie, BCH---OT nepBoro uiara IIO pOAHMOH 36MJI6. BCH---OT necnii neeyqeii, 3OB6.M H nOCM, B 3aoiie/Kbe MOCM. OT iiOAcne/KHiiKOB MII.II.IX Ha Bemneii aape JIf) OTUOBCKOli MOrHJIbl Ha crapoM Syrpe. BCH---OT jmcTbee onajiux /J,0 BCCCHHHX BCTBCii, ^o 3Be3flbi nHTHiiajioii Ha nanaxo MOCI'I. MH, rfle naflo, ne Tpa(j)iuin IIlI lyHSHM, HU pOflHC... BCH MOH 6norpacpiin Ha poflHoii cTopone: He n Kai;oii-T<> orpajic, A it Bcrpax eepxonwx, M n noxojuioii Terpaflu, H B CTMXHX (bpOIITOBLIX , M n «ejiax, n n oiia<ie, Toii, UTO JIIOTOH ;«>Byr, H B ttpy.-jbnx, -ITO OTiia.'iu, H B flpyabjix, ITO Hi KTO-TO BC'iiio HOA TyiaMii, sa fliieM---HH cTpoitn, WIOBO aainyiHJiH, B TIICKII. Hy HX K flbHBOJiy c KBOTOH, yTBepWHaromeii jienb, H rjiySHHHoii SCBOTOH, ft 5K6 3iiaio flopory, TTyTb H3BeMHbiii, KpyToM, H noKa, cJiasa 6ory, He snaKOM c HeiwoTofi! __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 360 My agenda's no mystery---
Life's steep byroads I climb,
And the whole of my history
Is depicted in rhyme.
All---from red banner soaring
To the bread in my hand,
From first footsteps, exploring,
That I made o'er my land,
From old memories clinging,
That with present entwine,
To the folksongs they're singing
In that homeland of mine,
From the snowdrops that hurried
Through the winter's last snow
To the grave where they buried
My old folks long ago.
All---from dry leaves descending
To the spring's stirring sap,
To the five rays extending
From the star on my cap.
I have made no concessions,
Not to stranger nor wife....
My land has my confessions,
Has the tale of my life.
Not in lone shelter hiding,
But in wind's frenzied roar,
In notes jotted while striding,
And in poems of war,
In disfavour that smarted,
And in deeds that have shone,
In the friends now departed,
And in those that live on.
Some are never contented---
Not a line all the day---
All the words they've tormented,
But have nothing to say.
May their quotas go perish,
That just help them to laze,
And the languor they cherish,
That just wastes all their days.
But I know where I'm going,
That the way's hard and long,
And, thank God, I'm o'erflowing
For the present with song.
Translated by Eugene Felgenhauer
363 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Bosupamoime Not the eagle, nor the wild wind have such tidings
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ brought to me,
But our lads who'd been a-sailing through the endless,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ starry sea.
Joy and gladness, joy and gladness over all our country
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ring,
I've no worries in the world, 'tis of merriment I sing.
How I wish I could announce it with the hoots of ships
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ at sea,
How I wish I could bedeck it with some flowers
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ from the lea,
With the nightingale's sweet ballads that o'er stream
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and forest ring,
Only trouble is the songbirds in this season do not sing!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ But the space above's been shaken,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Heaven's dome much higher raised;
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Merriment we've not forsaken---
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Since the dawn we haven't lazed.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Everyone in welcome waving
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Caps and kerchiefs in the street;
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Even old, like young behaving,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Have grown lighter on their feet.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Seeing such a welcome ringing
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ For our lads on every hand,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Gaily dancing, loudly singing
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Is our native Russian land.
Every field and copse rejoices,
With the singing maiden voices,
Is repeating o'er and o'er
What our land is famous for:
For its
Rousing songs,
For its fearlessness...
Russia,
Land of mine,
Land of peerlessness!
Translated by Eugene Felgenhaiier
367 __ALPHA_LVL2__ \JieS The table is spread
With nothing
But bread,
Home-made and browned.
We all sit spell-bound.
Ten souls today,
Ten souls today,
Mother, cut away,
Mother, cut away,
That your sons and daughters
The quicker may
Eat a piece of bread
Cut without delay!
That is what our eyes all say!
Let me have the brownest part,
With the (ire still breathing in its heart!
Cut, cut,
Mother, do!
Mother,
Eat a little too!
Translated by Eugene Felgenhauer
369 __ALPHA_LVL1__ ROBERT ROZHDESTVENSKY
Robert Rozhdestvensky (U. 1932) is one of our most popular young poets, and a follower of Mayakovsky whose belief that modern poetry should be based on rail fact he shares. His style is dramatic and direct. Using Robert Rozhdestvensky's poems, the composer Dmitri Kabalettsky has written a ``Requiem'', in memory of those who died in the war against fascism. "Letters to the Thirtieth Century" and "Sputnik Calling" are the most interesting of Robert Rozhdestvensky's collections of poetry.
[370] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [371] __ALPHA_LVL2__ llo.iomnia Tsars,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ their wisdom
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ in their scats,
had enough,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ but craved for more.
Sly-tongued schemers,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ they would bleat:
"Half my kingdom
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ will be yours!"
Half a question,
half a sigh....
Falling leaves
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and falling rain.
Half an answer....
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Clouds on high,
Weather forecast
wrong again!
In the quiet
of the night
dim blue rays
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ like shadows fall....
Half a moon
sheds half a light,
half a love,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ no light at all.
Witli the passing
of a storm
raindrops gleam
like sparkling beads.
Half-dreams
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ are
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ of fancy born,
prudent minds
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ half-measures breed.
Fickle hearts
Deception screen.
Leave them be
if you are wise.
Just a step,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and half-truths
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ seem
better,
healthier
than lies.
When a myth
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ erases fact,
Half a friend's a friend,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and more.
One fine day
I loudly knocked
at the planet's
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ fateful door.
Fear no storm,
no gloomy night;
cradling time,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ in life rejoice.
Stretch up to full,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ to towering height!
Translated by Irina Zheleznova
375 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Jlyieuan Radiation sickness!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Humanity
puts it bluntly:
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ learn to endure.
The treatment
Takes an eternity,
and there's little chance
of a cure.
Judgement's passed.
No hope,
not a glimmer.
Is it fair---
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ come, speak up and say---
that the heirs
of the Hiroshimas
for their fathers
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ are made to pay?...
Drops of dew
have a poisonous glitter,
and the air
pretends to be clean.
The complaints
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ of the guiltless
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ are bitter,
malformed infants
moan and scream.
Mauled by time,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ our ancient planet
is a gaping wound.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ You are
omnipresent,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and many-handed,
radialion sickness;
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ your scars
never heal.
Look!
~ ~ The calendar, grinning croukedly,
sheds its sheets....
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ The deadly blast
fades away with the years,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ but, wickedly,
time itself
you seek
to outlast.
In our blood-stream you rove,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ sowing panic,
to our marrow
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ you eat
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ your way,
like the germ
of an epidemic,
like the curse
of a blighted day.
You attack us in secret.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Your villainy,
like your sores,
is not pretty to see,
radiation sickness
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ of calumny
swagger,
cowardice, spiteful glee!
It's a fact,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ not a fruit of fantasy,
I am not
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ sending words
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ down the drain.
Look how beardless
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ these days
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ is hypocrisy:
it's a sign
you've cropped up again!
Radiation sickness---
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ how lavishly
You bestow your bounty.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Alas!
Exhortations won't help
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ to banish you
from the planet's
tormented face.
There's no drug
in the medical cabinet,
there's no doctor
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ to spell your doom.
Time will kill you
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ in time.
That's definite.
It's a pity
it won't be soon.
Translated by Irina Zheleznova
381 __ALPHA_LVL1__ MAXIM RYLSKY
Maxim Rylsky (1895--1964) was a major Ukrainian poet. He began writing poetry as a schoolboy, and his first book "On White Islands" was published in 1910 when he was only 15. His artistic tastes became defined at a very early age; he was in love with the 19th century classics, and there were three names he particularly revered: Pushkin, Taras Shevchenko and Adam Mickiewtcz. As a child he lived for a time in the family of the famous Ukrainian composer Lysenko, to whom he owes his love for folk songs which he carried through life with him. Maxim Rylsky's songful lyricism Is astutely psychological, his hues are reminiscent of a delicate water-colour and his picturesque descriptions are vivid and evocative. He was also an unsurpassed master of translation into Ukrainian and translated, besides the masterpieces of Hussion and Polish poetry, such works as Boileau's "Poetic Art'', Corneille's and Racine's tragedies and Voltaire's ``Pucelle''. Until his death he carried on important research at the Kiev Academy of Sciences. Maxim Rylsky was awarded the Lenin Prize in 1960.
[382] __NOTE__ Poet's name (in English and Russian) moved from HERE back one page and placed above photo and biography. [383] __ALPHA_LVL2__ KyiepcKaa B JIcnoH Ilo-naiie One heavy night, before a hoary dawn,
In silence, worn and bent with ague and age,
One heavy night in bleak November
That wounds an old man's heart like splintered glass,
He knocked at the coachman's cottage and he ordered---
The one last order to be given in his life---
The coach to be prepared, the horses harnessed,
And, mind, no noise---
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ It was upon that night
He meant to break forever with himself,
Will) Levin, the aristocrat, the count,
The country gentleman, the hussar officer,
And even with the legendary sage,
Him who had led a double life, yet caused
The wide-eyed adulation of Tolstoyans
Along with empty gossip and wild cant---
To break the last, the only living thread
(Accused and stern accuser---all in one)
And leave, and go, a wanderer unknown---
Where to---had he himself a clear idea?
A shadowed country lane; mud splashing from the
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ wheels;
The sweat of hordes; faint and pallid dawn.
And then the tiny station, and the train.
His thoughts, confused .is in a haunting nightmare;
The fever-deadened hum of conversation,
The hot embraces of the hated ague,
And death....
And then into the blue peace of the pond
Where erewhile he had bathed with peasant children
The widow, sobbing wildly, cast herself,
Unable to recover from the shock
When saved---by whom, and why, and to what end?
All Russia shuddered at the tidings, and with her
The entire world.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ The old man's wizened hand
Which had been knocking at the doors of coachman's
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ cottage,
Awoke alarm within the hearts of all alive.
At last, before his one and only judge---before
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ humanity ~
He stood as though before his own sick conscience.
That judge supreme weighed all his deeds and thoughts,
His search for truth, his doubts, bis aspirations:
The sentence which he passed was immortality.
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
387 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Huiina ajioii H uCJioii poai>i Warm rain has soaked the lawn from hedge to hedge
Perched on a twig, the dragonfly sits drying.
Sweet smells the grass. A swallow not long fledged
Starts from the nest to try its wings in flying.
A farmgirl binds her grapevines to their props
And softly laughs at what? Need we explain?
Crimson, the poppies shine like red wine-drops
Distilled from sunshine, happiness and rain.
Songs float to me from far beyond the river,
While here, beneath the porch, a welcome sight,
A bloodless war seems going on forever:
The war between the red rose and the white.
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
389 __ALPHA_LVL1__ MIKHAIL SVETLOV
Mikhail Svetlov (1903--1965) was born in the south of Russia into a poor Jewish family. He moved to Moscow as a young man and there joined a literary group known as "Komsomol Poets''. His ``Grenada'' (1926), which was Mayakovsky's favourite poem, is known to all. It expresses in a most natural way the feeling of international brotherhood which was shared by the people who made the Great October revolution. Svetlov's poetry emanates gentleness and kindness, and displays a fine sense of humour. He was a romantic, and was prone to poetise everything that surrounded him. His plays in verse: "Fairy Tale'', "Twenty Years Later'', "The Brandenburg Gate" and others made what we now call the "Svetlov Theatre''. His last and fullest collections were ``Horizon'' (1958), "Hunting Lodge" (1964), and "Poetry of Recent Years'', for which he was posthumously awarded the Lenin Prize.
[390] ~ [391] __ALPHA_LVL2__ BeccMepTHe Romantic youngsters, drunk with dreams of triumph,
They've pedalled off to continents unknown,
Two angels on two bicycles fast-flying---
My love and youth, and left me all alone.
And now I'm trying to retrace their route
With here a punctured tire and there a fall....
But steady! Here's a steep ascent the date
That made me member of the Komsomol.
Nay, when I sally forth toward the future
I won't discard the past as a thing outworn.
What? Life's a river? No, it's all a-quiver
With contradiction, whose main purpose is to warn:
For your generation---not for numeration
Hoard up your minutes as you'd hoard up gold.
But don't exchange the sterling of your talent
For jingling coin that soon grows stale and old.
Don't pay your country back with petty pence,
Don't be a nuisance to her on her course.
And then, when you have cleared life's barbed wire
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ fence,
A poet's immortality is yours.
Don't fear old age. What's greying hair? Mere trifles
Plunge headlong in, cut straight across the whirl,
And death will come to you, no grisly idol,
But just a blushing sixteen-year-old girl.
What liave you lived for? What have you created?
You can't recall? And yet you haven't lived in vain,
For he who buries you will call you to the rescue---
You and your poetry---again and yet again.
Although no kinsmen, your two spirits arc akin.
Such bonds as these survive the grimmest death.
And therefore you must go through thick and thin
And live, live on while able to draw breath.
Yes, greeting the new day with kindly eye,
Cast off your numbness and, discarding fear,
Come out to meet your poetry, your time
Full speed, full steam ahead, in full career!
So, reassured once more, dispelling doubt,
I leave the dismal office of old man,
And once again the sweet lass Youth holds out
Her rosy cheek, which if I want to kiss, I can.
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
395 __ALPHA_LVL2__ FopH3OHT The sky, it's said, came down to meet the earth,
And so, it's said, Horizon came to birth.
This son of Earth and Sky I swore to find:
I ran... he ran... and left me far behind.
Ah well, I thought, this rascal's hard to catch,
But one fine day he's going to find his match.
I see now how he slips from place to place,
From ridge to farther ridge as I pursue;
So I must spare no pains and speed my pace,
And, if I fail, begin the chase anew.
I'll leave my mark in that Horizon-land,
Cut down those ever-beckoning skyline trees,
And tame his beasts to eat out of my hand....
But ever to new boundaries he flies.
On foot, I find, I cannot match his speed;
I saddle up and mount a doughty steed;
Horizon treats this challenge with disdain....
From horse to car I change, but still in vain.
From car to plane---and in the sky I vow
This son of Sky will not escape me now!
But in the air the situation changes:
Where is the skyline to these mountain ranges?
Beneath my eyes in swift succession flowing
Are forests, lakes, fields ready for the sowing.
A wealth of scenes for me to feast my eyes on.
But where, oh where's this runaway horizon?
However fast I run or ride or fly,
Your swift retreat keeps pace with my advance;
Whatever speed I set or trick I try,
You still keep leading me a merry dance....
Horizon, you have gone without a trace.
Perhaps you never had a real existence.
But one good thing I brought back from the chase---
A lesson in endurance and persistence.
My friends and I, exploring far and wide,
Keep opening new horizons, rich and real,
And when we hear of any paths untried,
Again we'll show our courage and our zeal.
Despite all losses, bitter though they are,
We'll bring them nearer, goals that are still far!
Translated by Archie Johnstone
399 Emacs-File-stamp: "/home/ysverdlov/leninist.biz/en/1969/FSP533/20071206/499.tx" __EMAIL__ webmaster@leninist.biz __OCR__ ABBYY 6 Professional (2007.12.08) __WHERE_PAGE_NUMBERS__ bottom __FOOTNOTE_MARKER_STYLE__ [*]+ __ENDNOTE_MARKER_STYLE__ [0-9]+ __ALPHA_LVL2__ In Hospital B Hy na MTO pacciiiTbisaTb eme-To? eiib BCTpeiaioT, npososKaioT. MCIIH yn<e IIOHCTOM, KaK cejieflKy Jiyuoni, oupySKaioT. HeyjKenii MM 6e3MOJiBiibi 6y«eM, KaK B iacbi HoiHbie yipejKfleiibc? MOJKOT GbiTb, yaje He CJIWIIIHO JIH>,HHM lIoiJBOHOiHoro Hepxa c «ea, paccncTbi Biicpcgii! IlycTb Moii nbw itait Gynio ocTMBaivr, Bc(: we cepAUo y MCHH u iM 6oKcep»M Pa:iBe MW npocTMTbca Paaae «AjiJiHJiyitH» mw CIIOCM, ECJIII ace MOH cocyflw B xejie KpacHbiM nepenoJiHOHbi BIIIIOM? Bc MOB co MHoro Mne MOJiiaxb ro^a He HOSBOJIHIOT. BoHHbl C BHHTOBKaiHH MaxepH c ^eTHiuKaMH H nycKaii PHABMH (ponapcii Hoih HCCCT «ea«ypcTBo nafl 6oJihnnneii, Hy-Ka, yxpo, Hacxynaii cKopeft, Cxanb, MOC OKIIO, Moeii GoiinHneii! 400 What on earth is there lo hope for or expect?
Every day they see me off and meet me.
They're surrounding me with honour and respect
Like a fish with onions, nice and neatly.
Are we really doomed to silent gloom,
Like an office left and closed at five?
Will men no longer hear my heart-beats boom,
Signalling that I am still alive?
Damn it, no! There's still some dawns ahead.
Though it looks my gumption's cooling off,
Yet that little boxer in my chest
Doubtless, still sounds militant enough!
What is all this junk about farewell?
What mention can there be of alleluia
When with reddest wine my vessels swell?
Talk of death when life goes surging through you!
All my fire lives on in me unstifled
And the times command I have my say---
Soldiers inarch along with shouldered rifles,
Mothers bring their children out to play.
Let old warden Night be keeping vigil
Over me, this hospital, this gloom...
Come on, morning, quick---I'll make a gunhole
Of the window in my lonely room!
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
401 __ALPHA_LVL1__ PARUIR SEVAK
Paruir Sevak (b. 1924) is a gifted Armenian poet. He was educated at the Gorky Literary Institute. In his poetry he has combined the traditions of ancient Armenian, modern Russian and West-European art. In spite of his great erudition Sevak does not indulge in euphuistic intellectualism. On the contrary, his poetry is firmly rooted in real life. Paruir Sevak is both an excellent craftsman and a true artist.
[402] ~ [403] __ALPHA_LVL2__ To My Motherland __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ O YJKC JICT Tpnflu.arb yqy a TBOH fl3i>n;, HO Bee we roBopHTb c To6oro o Te6e H 6ea omnSoK HC niory--- Bcer.ua H Tepnwci. OT BOJineni>H! Korfla secnoio paimei'i TBOcti KyKyiiiKH CJfwniy KyitOBaiibe, TO MIIHTCfl. ITO KyKyuiKa, sauna jicr>, MOC KOCHOHSbl'lbO nepeBOflMT, BOCTOpr TCJIH1HH MOH, HTO nosflpaBjiHCT sa MPIIJI .iiiijyiiuuaji TeGn c TBoeii Beciioii! H Aa:ite TCHH JICTHHO TBOH MOH npH3Hann« 6e3MOJiBiio nepeROAHT H coJiHi;y TBoeiny na CHHBM ne6ocBOfle noiOT xBajieSuwii FHMII jiHmBii, TO yflJIHHHHCb, TO CSKIIMajlOb, HepHHM »3i>iKaM TBOH B caAax OCCIIHHX c flepeBbee KaiuiHwir KaTHTOi noHHTHO Kaa«flOMy, ITO BTO iwoe TopHsecTBCHHoe neciioncHbe, TBOHMH. O6 3TOM TOBOpHT H TBOH MOUO3Hblii CHCP, OH aanax #eTCTBa aajibnero npHHec, OH, K8K II II, I! TCOJI BJHOGJICH IiaBCK, H, CJIOBHO H, OH Searojioc!.. A B MIlp, Korfla c TofioK) o TcGe n roBopw,--- o, aaaje H Tor^a He wo HHoe n TBOpw, K3K nasiepflio CKyflHWMii cjioBaum MOJi'ianne Moe, 1TO6 C SoJIbK) ySeflHTbCH CHOB3 B SecciHibH coScTBeHHoro cjiosa, B MorymecTBe MOJiianbH TBoero... O KpOBHan! Tw---MHoroBCKOBan (})ai\iiijin;i MOH. A H... CyMeTb 6bl T8K MH6 WHTb, MTO0M Te6e cTHfla HC anai* sa TO, ITO TM fla.ua MHe IIMH!.. Befli. rnoe;ib iipaBo^nan---HtiiaHii iio.'ioiiinia! CyweTb 6bi TaK MHe yiaepeTb, JTOO TM... omiaKHBajia cbina! __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 404 0 Motherland!
For thirty years I have been striving after
perfection in Thy tongue, but cannot speak
to Thee without mistakes....
Again, again,
emotion makes me lose the thread and stammer ~
And when, in early Spring,
I hear Thy cuckoos calling
it strikes me
that the stuttering of the cuckoo
translates my tongue-tied utterance,
my fond, dumb ardour,
that the ecstatic bird brings Thee my greetings,
sings of Thy Spring to Thee!
And even silent Summer shadows
translate my wordless declarations
and chant adoring hymns of praise
to Thy Sun in Thine azure heaven,
now stretching long, now falling short,
like murky tongues of flame.
When, in Thy Autumn gardens,
fiery drops from all the trees are falling,
then all men recognise in this
my solemn psalmody's triumphant song,
inspired by Thy good and gracious gifts.
Thy frosty snow, too, speaks of this for me.
It brings the scent of childhood's far-off days,
like me, eternally in love with Thee
and, like me, voiceless in Thy praise.
Here, too,
where I do speak to Thee of Thee,
why, even here,
all that I have achieved
is to measure with inadequate words
the silence which is mine,
only to realise painfully again
how powerless is my poetic strain,
how mighty is the silence which is Thine.
Blood of my blood!
Thou art Thyself my surname, old and proud,
Whilst I...
so long as I have breath
must live so that no shame
should touch Thee from that name
by Thee on me bestowed!
A good death died---and half of life is won!
And I ...
I would that I die such a death
that Thou... shouldst mourn a son.
Translated by Avrll Pyman
407 __ALPHA_LVL2__ BepHTCH MHC... At times when my head
is cradled in the hot palms of your hands,
At times when my head
is laid in the seented sweetness of your lap,
I do not mind
nor call to mind
anything, anyone.
It is simply that my mind
is utterly, wholly won
to the belief that in Infinity
some planets whirl and swirl
as free of our laws of gravity
as of the grave cares of the World.
Translated by Avril Pyman
409 __ALPHA_LVL1__ ILYA SELVINSKY
Ilya Selvinsky (1899--1968) was born in the Crimea. When the Civil War began, he joined a revolutionary detachment fighting the Whites, was captured and put in prison. After the Civil War was over, Selvinsky plunged headlong into the mainstream of life. He worked as an unskilled labourer, a sailor, a stevedore, to name but a few of his different fobs, and at the same time managed to study at the Law Department of Moscow University. He had already written some poetry, and being a man of enormous energy and extremely lively temperament kept experimenting with forms and styles. In the 1920s he headed the constructivist school, proclaimed a manifesto, and revived the genre of tragedy in verse, writing about a dozen plays, several of which have been produced on the Soviet stage. An original lyricist, Selvinsky evolved his own system of ``beats'' in poetry, and introduced new rhythms and idioms. He has written many verses about animals, describing their characters, movements and distinctive traits with competence and not infrequently drawing a paradoxical parallel between these beasts and men. His philosophical and love poems of recent years throb with a thirst for life', they speak of the destructive power of time and the eternity of Nature.
[410] ~ [411] __ALPHA_LVL2__ THrp By retribution scorched, from fate he fled.
Through forest brakes with heaving flanks he races.
Towards the green of glades he turns his paces...,
His coat befrosted. Hard. Deep copper-red.
He skirts the gully, muscles hunched, morose.
His pendant body weighs on shoulder-blades.
With ease he leaps the trunks that block the
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ glades,
Again to seek the forest dark and close.
He fills his lungs. His nostrils scent the air.
He roars
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ but hears no tigress call a lover....
Then on again. For guns he has no care.
No longer does he deign to lurk in cover.
Small sun-lit mica points gleam all around.
Like spattered blood-drops cranberries dot the
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ clearing.
A sudden halt---fresh foot-prints he has found!
Ah! Tigress-paws, so feline, near, endearing!!
He skirts the gully, drawn by that fresh track
As if some law imposed and all obeyed.
With ease he clears the trunks that block the glade,
Again the virgin forest beckons back....
A dashing flame---gigantic leaps and bounds---
Ecstatic joy returns from far-off youth.
No inkling prompts that brain to sense the truth---
Those prints he left when first he made his rounds.
Translated by Tom Batting
415 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Bepesa The birch-tree glitters, catkin-laden,
Bejewelled, in her blushing bark,
And the birch-tree's eye is dark
As the eye of some fair maiden.
Once, as I was passing by
Across the freshly sprouting green,
Enthralled by something I had seen
I went up close and caught her eye....
And she seemed all afire to reach
My inmost heart, as though to test
My courage for some dangerous quest---
She only lacked the gift of speech.
The devil knows---I know not how---
But somehow, spellbound and ensnared
By a mere tree, I hardly dared
To tear my eyes from branch and bough.
And so compelling was her look,
So feminine her body gleamed,
So fatal and so sad she seemed,
And in her eyes such mute rebuke,
That I felt guilty and confess
I fled the green and took the street
As though indeed I'd chanced to meet
With some enchanted fair princess.
Translated by Avril Pyman
417 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Tragedy __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 1TO KOMnOSHTOp CJIblUIHT Ha TpH COTHH 3ByKOB SoJIbUIC HilC. Ho OHH 6e3MOJiBCTByioT HJIB cBmnyr, KjIHKCaiMH Ha HOTM yCTpCMHCb. MO/KCT 6biTb, xpare^HH noaia B TOM, 1TO OCHOBHOe HC flOJIOCb: OH noeT, itai; iiTiiua, HO npn STOM naif cKpnnBT aeMimji ocb. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 418 People say that the composer's ear
Can catch three-hundred half-tones more than ours.
He cannot reproduce these sounds he hears,
Just whistle---and make inkblots on his scores.
This insufficiency of sounds and -words
Makes tragedy, too, of the poet's practice.
For, even while he carols like a bird,
He hears the Earth turn groaning on her axis.
Translated by Avril Pyman
419 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Prelude __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ BOT ona, MOH TiixaH npHCTam,, Beper nncbMeimoro CTOJia... IfleJi H B atuaiiH, Cuuajio, na iipncTyn, Hporopaji na BTOM «OTJia. CnoJibKo na«a.i H, noAMMaJicn, CKOJibKo pe6ep OTSirro B SOHX! J\o 3nepiiHoro BOH BJiroSjiHJiCH, Henaenjieji j\o Scwin B 3y6ax. B o6jin<ieHTiH JI/KUBLIX «HCTHU» CKOJibKo rjiynocTefi flejiaa nofliac--- H 6ea cep^ua na THxyro BoanpamajicH, TOCKG THXO-THXO H«yx 'iacw, 3a ceKyHfloft ceKynfly HeTBCpTyuiKH 6yinarH IHCTW. Ilepi.H KaK cnoKofiHO. KaK xopouio. BSHJI nepo H naa Tiixoro cJioaa... Ho K8K 6y«TO H nonnnji pyasbe: Cnosa nJiaMii! BIIACHHH cuoBa! H OIIHTb IHTOpMOBbie ftCJia--- B Tiixoii KOMnare 6ypn «a KJIHKH. Beper nncbMeHHoro cxoaa. OKCAH sa HBM---THXBH. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 420 Here is my quiet, pacific harbour,
My writing-table's sheltering shore...
Life has left ashes of my ardour
In many a strenuous private war.
I've learnt to fall, get up, go on,
And take the rough in with the smooth,
I loved, and felt like baying at the moon
And hatred gnawed me like a tooth.
Arrayed in foolish Quixote's armour
I've fought false values as my foes---
Then sought out my pacific harbour,
A quiet refuge for my woe?.
Tick-lock, tick-lock, the seconds' flight
Is marked by Ihe slow minute hand
The quarto-sheets are virgin white
The pens
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ are dozing
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ in their stand.
How peacefully the seconds run.
Pacifically, I take my pen...
It is as though
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ I'd raised
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ a gun:
The flames, the visions come again!
The gale blows lusty as before,
Again, it's "all hands to the mast!"
Beyond my writing table's shore
The Ocean lies---Pacific. Vast.
Translated by Avril Pyman
421 __ALPHA_LVL1__ KONSTANTIN SIMONOV
Konstantin Simonov (b. 1915) is a well-known poet, novelist, playwright and publicist. For his work in various genres he has been awarded seven State Prizes. He does not write as much poetry nowadays, but in the 1940s he was probably the best loved poet in the Soviet Union. His wartime poem "Wait For Me"---a passionate invocation for faith and hope---enjoyed truly nationwide popularity. Simonov's lyricism is always topical, vividly expressive and extremely evocative. His most important books of verse are 'With You and Without You" (1940), "Friends and Enemies" (1947) and ``Poetry'' (1954).
[422] ~ [423] __ALPHA_LVL2__ TpH CTHXOTBOpeHHH1.
My dear friend is deceased---I am stunned with the grief.
And what am I to do, now my dear friend is gone?
Never thought, never dreamed and would never believe
That without my dear friend I would have to live on.
I was gone, when they took him away on a pall,
And the funeral rites were performed without me.
And when now I'll return, there'll be nothing at all:
There'll be nothing to hear, there'll be nothing to see.
When I go to his home, he'll no longer be there.
There's the street and the house, and the very same door,
And the plate with his name on the door, as before.
There's the rack that still carries his hat and his cane
And the study where he over books used to pore.
There is everything still---but no longer the same,
Because then he was here, whereas now, he's no more!
What before were the words to each other we spoke?
``Let us sit down and talk, sing a song, have a smoke,"
We would say: "I would like you to go through this book,"
Or: "Come over tomorrow, and we'll have a look.''
But now I'm to live with the fact that he's dead
And get used to pronouncing the words: "He once said.''
He had said, he had helped, he had followed along,
And to cheer me, he promised that he would live long.
In my mind I still see the dear features I knew,
But no more, as before, can I say to him, ``You''.
But they say, since one's dead that's the way it must be---
I'll no longer say ``you'', I shall have to say ``he''.
And instead of "I love you'', "I loved you" must say,
Not "I have a good friend'', but "I had one, one day''.
Is this so? I'm not sure, for all wrong it appears.
When a star has gone out, for a thousand more years
People here on the Earth see the light of that star.
You are warmer and brighter by far than a star,
And a short time will pass till in coffin I lie,
So for me you will shine till the day that I die.
2.
Death struck swift, and now it seems he's sleeping,
Lying pale, and nobody's today,
And the guard of honour four are keeping,
Four whose youth has somehow slipped away.
Four, for whom there is no heaven or hell,
See the fifth one off, their ranks deplete,
Bid their friend an ultimate farewell,
Knowing that they nevermore shall meet.
Eyes with steadfast resolution staring,
We shall save him yet, they seem to say.
As if on their shoulders they are bearing
A friend, severely wounded in the fray.
3.
Friendship, true, with time does not diminish,
Clutches not at clouds up in the blue;
It just tumbles, when it nears its finish,
With a rumble, just as oak-trees do.
While alive, no wind can ever bend it,
Only death of one of them will end it.
Translated by Eugene Felgenhauer
427 __ALPHA_LVL1__ BORIS SLUTSKY
Boris Slutsky (b. 1919) published his first book of poetry in 1957 when he was almost 40. He is an original poet who sees the truth of the life around him with a rare clarity of vision. He entered the literary scene when Soviet writers were struggling against the practice of embellishing and varnishing the truth and striving to cultivate a sober, realistic attitude to life. Slutsky's first poems were about the war. Those collections were entitled ``Memory'' and "Today and Yesterday''. His poetry "Physicists and Lyricists" started off a long and heated discussion, Involving readers, critics and the general public, on the role of art in modern society. Slutsky's poetry is frankly polemical, his ideas are clearly formulated (which comes of his being a lawyer, perhaps) and his tone tends to be oratorial. The work of many young poets has been strongly influenced by him. Boris Slutsky is also a well-known translator of Slav poets (Czechs, Serbians and Poles) into Russian.
[428] ~ [429] __ALPHA_LVL2__ Horses in the Ocean Horses can swim but they don't venture far---
That is a fact, and here is the story:
In times of peace, just after the war,
There was a ship by the name of Gloria.
She was out at sea one fateful day,
Across the ocean ploughing her way.
On the surging waves she tossed and rolled,
A thousand horses locked in her hold.
Four thousand horse-shoes---good luck galore!---
And yet she was never to reach the shore.
For she struck a mine and was badly rent,
And a part of her was twisted and bent.
The life-boats on board, alas, were few;
The life-boats were used to save the crew.
As for the horses, their plight was grim,
For, like it or not, they had to swim.
On and on they swam after the boats,
An island of horses with red-brown coats.
At first they were calm, for they did not dream
That the ocean was anything but a stream.
But it stretched without end like a wintry night,
And the longed-for land was never in sight.
On their watery way all their strength was spent,
And they whinnied in fear and in wonderment.
They whinnied and neighed and struggled for bieath
As down they went to their watery death.
There are things to which one gets resigned,
But those luckless horses prey on my mind.
Translated by Irina Zheleznovv
433 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Grapyx 6i>uio Miioro... There were many old women and only a few old men...
Perhaps it was life, just life, or perhaps
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ something else again ~
But it bent the old women, and the old men it broke:
Some died of heart-attacks, others of strokes.
The old women went through their closets
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and chests,
And laid out their spouses decked in their
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Sunday best.
The coffins they bought were of oak, and rather
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ expensive,
The hands of the dead looked uncannily massive....
In time, whole housefuls of flats filled slowly with
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ shadows:
Whole blockfuls appeared, whole streetfuls of widows,
Who were fearful of thieves and also of burglars,
Passed yellowish beads between yellowing fingers,
And chatted of death as of a neighbour, or friend
With whom they took tea, and on whom
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ they had learnt to depend ~
A neighbour or friend as gaunt as poor Anna Petrovna
Of long-faced and sad-eyed as Maria Andrevna.
They rose with the dawn, like sailors at sea.
And for hours on end, being hopelessly free,
Sat in baggy old smocks and shapeless old dresses
Listlessly combing their sparse, thinning tresses.
To bed they went early, like army recruits,
But sleep would not come, and they Jay there, mute,
In their dusty and darkish chambers.
And thought about things that were good to remember.
Their lives rose before them, the tool of love
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and of duty,
Their long lives of toil, and brief moments of
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ beauty....
The night tram clanged by,
In the sky
The night stars erupted....
Insomnia's vigil
Was uninterrupted.
Translated by Irina Zheleznova
437 __ALPHA_LVL2__ 0H3HKU II J Physicists are held in reverence,
Lyricists---let's be truthful---
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ in the shade.
This is not an ordinary preference,
It's a law, and is as such obeyed.
All it means is that poetic reverie
Sidetracks us from pathways of discovery,
That our verse is so much syrup,
That our feet just miss the stirrup,
That our Pegasus, as has been found,
Merely trots but never leaves the ground.
Physicists deserve the world's esteem,
Lyricists clearly don't, so it would seem.
And it's all so evident and obvious
That to take offence is stupid really.
So, instead of being envious,
Let us watch objectively and coolly
How the foam of measures rhythmic
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Drops away in sheer dejection,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ And the mantle of distinction
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Falls to
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ spirals logarithmic.
Translated by Irlna Zheleznova
439 __ALPHA_LVL1__ YAROSLAV SMELYAKOV
Yaroslav Smclyakov (b. 1913) devotes all his poetry to the man of toil, a character faithful in friendship, constant in his affections, undaunted by hardships and capable of taking the rough with the smooth. Smelyakov's roughly affectionate manner of speech creates a true-to-life picture of his character. The poet himself is a man of toil. In his lifetime he has had to work as a street-sweeper, boiler-stoker, newspaper reporter, typesetter, miner, etc. lie believes in deeds and not in words. He is also a romantic---he loves ballads, andhas a talent for creating plots with a strong impact. But whichever genre he writes inSmelyakov is always thrifty with words. His main quality is the ability to find the only correct, and sometimes unexpected, epithet.
__NOTE__ Another photo/bio. page with explicit page number. 440 ~ [441] __ALPHA_LVL2__ Paaronop o nooami In an offhand, uppish way, you said to me
You had four hundred poems about love,
While I---too bad!---had only two or three,
By any standards, plainly not enough.
Yes, all my talent, you went on to add,
(Not insignificant, to judge by the reviews)
Was wasted on all sorts of civic fads---
Rhymed comments to the flow of daily news.
The sum of what you said amounts, in fact,
To stating---and you spared no pains to show it---
That I was just a potboiler and hack
And you the genuine, one-and-only master-poet.
Ah, well, there's something to it, I confess.
Among the humdrum stuff in girlish albums---
Ever so intimate---you'll hardly find, I guess
A line of mine, unpolished, crude and callous.
And hardly, coyly opening his lips
When wineglasses and records stop their din,
Will any bald-pate at a party, between sips,
Deign to select a piece of mine to sing.
No, god forbid! There's no offence at all.
It's not without regret that I admit:
For playing such a literary role
Y. Smelyakov is perfectly unfit.
It's not for me to write on themes like the above.
I gladly leave it to the younger generation,
Preferring subjects not concerned with love;
My poems have a different destination.
The only theme that really drew my soul,
That made me take a pen into my hand
Were the events and facts, both great and small
That make up life in mine and other lands.
It isn't very much that I've composed,
Not all I wrote was really a success.
I am a rank-ami-filer, I suppose,
A daily drudger for the radio and press.
Yet all in all, I've been in luck through life,
Known it quite well, in big and small partaking
And so I like my job because it's like
Partly, at least---the job of history-making.
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
445 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Kapiuan There's a brave little soul in this town
Whose trousers have one single pocket,
And I'll try to retell to you now
With what he's accustomed to stock it.
It serves him in summer and spring
As knapsack and satchel combined,
Packed, at first glance, with any old thing
That a curious youngster can find.
Through the neighbourhood daily he roams,
To the onlooker always at leisure,
But in fact it is really for treasure
That the alleys and by-ways he combs.
He doesn't believe in toys;
No artifices for him.
But a crumpled old cartridge enjoys
His favour for no mere whim.
Alongside with nuts and washers
And objects of equal worth
He keeps in that pocket-locker
A sample of simple earth.
Wilh his own hands the red-cheeked youngster
Blueprints his future lot:
Earth and work are the things that matter.
Baubles and toys do not.
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
447 __ALPHA_LVL2__ CTOJIOBBH na oKpamie I've come to love the homely comfort
Of Moscow's factory canteens
Where big, strong hands pull hard-earned rubles
From jackets, overalls and jeans....
I love to come there of an evening
Into that teeming little world.
And meet before the cashier's window
Men used to matching deed with word.
The whitewashed walls display no splendour---
No frescoes here or costly rugs.
Just quaint, naively painted roses
Reflected in most common mugs.
The soup-plates steam with vermicelli
Or, starry, glint with scalding borsch.
The saucy barmaid clicks her money.
Newcomers trail in from the porch.
They get their food and find a table
To eat---like workers, not like earls.
The tin spoons bend between the fingers
Of muscular suburban girls.
To taste the unassuming salad
Clad in their uniforms of blue,
Gay flocks of dimpled shopgirls hasten
Into those cozy precincts too.
Occasionally, brisk and breezy,
Proud of his handsome self at heart,
In clothes an attache would envy---
A miracle of tailor's art---
With boots rolled down to flaunt their lining,
A wealth of colour in his cheeks---
Walks in a lad from a team of turners
Grown famous over recent weeks.
Keen youngsters hurry here, all eager
For the impending evening meal.
The place exudes a rich aroma
Of bread and plaster, borsch and steel.
Here minds are frank and hearts are open---
It's you for me and me for you.
I like them all and understand them
And know that I am welcome too.
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
451 __ALPHA_LVL1__ ALEXEI SURKOV
Alexei Surkov (b. 1899) rightly calls himself a '" typical representative of his generation, of those rightless, indigent millions whom, the October Revolution which they carried through made into soldiers and builders of communism...''. The son of a poor peasant, a veteran of the Civil War, an experienced organiser and orator, Surkov entered Russian poetry as a convinced champion of democratic principles in art. He has waged a constant battle with aesthetes and snobs, he despises the exotic romanticism of fantasy, and believes in the harsh truth of reality.
His wartime poetry is the best known and most popular. For many years Alexei Surkov has been one of the secretaries of the Union of Soviet Writers, and is also a member of the Presidium of the Soviet Peace Council.
[452] ~ [453] __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [no higher power] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ Tw ayMaeuib, OTO lie CTpamno Gbuio--- PeuiHTb, HTO 60 ra Ha CBCTC HOT, HTO B naincii BceneHHoii imaa ciuia XO^OM 3B633 H Tbi, MoateT 6wTb, jryiviaeiiib , Swjio npocTo, Kan BbiniiTb TJIOTOK BO^H 113 peim, npHBbumoro, cpe^Hero pocxa b ce6»i, Bceny Bonpoitii? A 3TO HO npocTo---HOMbio npocnyxbcji H, BH^H nasenbe 3BC3fl c BWCOTW, HoanaTb SecKoneqiiocTb H He ToMy, ITO B Mupe nbuiHHKa TW. He npocTo npopBaTbcn CKnoab fli,ui ToMy, KTO, /Kiniiii. GeaJicpHo ;iio6>i, IIO3HaJl, HTO TblCHHII HOKOJICHIlii H yMepjm panbiiic He npocTo anaTb, 6ecnom,aflHo HCHO, HTO cwepTb npiifleT---H cyflbGa TBOH H see, UTO B MHpe 6bi.io npenpacHo, YracneT c TBOHM GecnoKoiiHbiM A\ HTO Moa«Ho a<HTb 6ea ajuiaxa H cnaca, Be3 paiicKnx npiiManoK H a^cKux MVK H, CTpax nepecujiHB, «o cJiepTHoro 'iaca He BbinycTOTb syuiy HS co6cTBCHnwx pyK. JlflUIb CMCJIO IIOKOHUIIB C IIOCJICAUCii XHMCpOH, Cepflu,a flefleimmeii, icaic xojiofl iio'inoii, Tbi H.io'iii pacnpaBiiiiib 11 no.'iiioii Mcpoii Iloaiiaeuib paflocxb JKHSIIH aeMiioii. Cjioea lejioseTOCKOH necnii cjibima, IIoMyBCTByeujb, so By npupOAbi B OTBCT, JIH)«H---X03H6Ba MHpa H BblUIC H CHJIbI H3 CBCT6 H6T. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 454 You suppose it wasn't a horror at first
To think there's no god and another force
Exists in the godless universe
To drive the planets along their course?
Maybe you think it was very simple
---simple as drinking a glass of water---
For a soul of medium, average calibre
To acknowledge itself to be mortal?
No, it wasn't easy one day to awake
And watching the stars roll down from their heights
To behold infinity and not to quake
At the thought that we, men, were simply mites!
Not so simple to break through the mist of frustration
For a human, in love with this life and this earth,
Finding out that thousands of generations
Long before him were doomed to death from birth.
No, it wasn't easy to realise
Hard and clear, that you had to die
And all this beauty before your eyes
Would fade together with your restless I,
That life could go on without Allah or Saviour,
Heaven's enticement or Hell's torment,
So just overcome fear of death and brave your
Destiny with your head unbent.
Only boldly dispensing with the last of chimeras
That cut through the heart like the blade of a knife,
Can you put back your shoulders and in full measure
Know all the joy of this earthly life.
Hearing a human song resound
You'll understand, stirred by Nature's call:
No higher power or idea can be found:
Man alone is almighty after all.
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
457 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Moii coBpeiwenHMK With the whirlwind of time, o'er the world as it flies,
You advance, famed in legend and song,
Born to harness the waters and conquer the skies
Man and communist, friend of the good and the wise,
Bitter foe of injustice and wrong.
From beginning to end always true to mankind,
You hold truth to be highest of all.
Neither avarice nor vociferous pride
Ever marred your unwavering soul.
Restless, eager to learn and to act,
Shunning meanness and filth from the start,
You shared with your friends all the treasure you had---
The gold of your generous heart.
With humanity's happiness always in mind,
Clear in conscience before the whole world,
The fortunes, the future, the fate of mankind
In your confident hands you hold.
Bold, determined, you break the resistance
Of the shiftless, the hostile, the cold,
Marching on, despite hardship and distance
To the era that Lenin foretold.
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
459 __ALPHA_LVL1__ ALEXANDER TVARDOVSKY
Alexander Tvardovsky (b. 1910) is an outstanding Russian poet to whom clearly apply the words of Belinsky, the great 19th century critic: "The significance of a people's poet depends on how fully his own personality reflects the spirit of the nation.'' Tvardovsky's genius manifested itself most vividly in his large poems which marked historical milestones in the life of our country: "The Land of Muravia" ( collectivisation), "Vastly Terkin" and "Roadside House" (the Great Patriotic War), and "Space BeyondSpace" (elimination of the consequences of the Stalin personality cult). Soviet critics have unanimously acclaimed Tvardovsky for the depth of his historical thinking and for the authenticity with which he portrays the spirit of the ordinary people's life.
Alexander Tvardovsky is the chief editor of the literary magazine JVovy Mir and a prominent public figure. He was awarded the Lenin Prize in 1961.
[460] ~ [461] __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [life's treasure] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ HeT, VKIMIIF, M6IIH lie JJoCpoM CBOHM HC o6oiuaa, Bcero c jHixBoii flaiio MHC GIJJIO B flopory---cnexa n xciuia. II citaaoK B TpcncTiiyio H neccn cTopoiibi pofliioii, H. CTapblX IIpaSAHHKOB C nOIMMJI, H HOBblX C MySblKOli MHOii. H B aaxojiycTbe . BceiuiipHMM lyflOM IIOBWX CTapIUIIIblX 3HM C IICBy'IHM CTOIIOM X---3i\ JICCOM---caiieii. H BOCCH B flpyWHOM paSBOpOTC, Mopeii H pcvcK ua fleope, IIi;pi,i jiHryme'ibeii B GOJIOTC, CMOJIM y COCCH na nope. II JICTHHX rpoa, rpHSoB H aron, POCHCTWX Tpon B Tpaae rjiyxoii, IlacTyuibHx paflocTeii H TJIPOT, H cjica nan Kimroii floporoii. H paHiieii ropeiw H SOJIH, H flCTCKOii MCTHTCJIbHoii MC'ITbl, II fliieii, He HbicnH.-ciim.ix B IUKOJIC, H SOCOTW, H naroTM. Bcero---n cKy;niocTii ym.uioii B noxeiuKax OTiero yrJia... IICT, JKliailb MCHH H6 oGflC Hii'ien B pa^y HO ofioiujia. IIlI lUCflpoii Bblfl It CH.U Haflojiro npo aanac, II ii ncpsoii ;ipy<Kooii H I!TO BO BTOpoii lie BCTpeTnuib pas. HH cjiasbi .-laMi.icJioM ;ie.iein.iM--- OTpaaoii CJiaflKott CTpou n CJIOB, PIii Kpy.i;i;oii c flWMHMM caiuoroiioM B upyry iieBnon H TllXOHb H CIIOplHIIKOB flO CTpaCTH, l!eM TOJIK ne npocT H peib ocTpa llac'iex 6i,i.ioii u noisoii BJiacxii, HacieT AoSpa u ne«o6pa... JKHJI H GbiJi Bcer^a c Be«aji BCC, HTO cianeT c HHM, He oSouina Tpn,ni;aTHM TOAOM, 11 COpOK nepBbIM, II HIlblM... 11 CTOJibKo B cepau.e noMecTHJia, HTO flany ^aTbca no nopw, KaKHe peaKiie nun cmiy Eiuy o3Ho6u H H MTO MHO Majihie iiaiiacxii H HO3a;(a'in na nym, Korfla si aiiaio OTO ciacTbc--- He MHMOXOAOM >KH3Hb npOHTII. He MHMOXOflOM CTOpOHOH) Ee yBH^oTb 6ea XJIOHOT, Ho 3HaTb rop5oM u Bceii CIIHHOIO Ee KpyTott H /KecTKiiii HOT. H SyflTO flea Bee, MTO saxeHJi H CmrraTh ojuioii irii'iToviciioii Toro, MTO JIIO;IJIM .HOJIJKCII GMJI 3aTO nopyuoii 06010311011 JIioGaH cKpaiucua crpaj;a. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 462 Life's not been grudging of her treasure
Nor done me out of any right
But given all things in good measure
And set my way with warmth and light.
My memory's a-thrum with stories
And songs of home and village feasts,
New songs to celebrate new victories
And old processionals with priests.
And in our quiet backwood---shaken
By the vast changes of our time---
I've heard the olden Winters waken
The distant sleigh-bells' mournful chime.
Seen swift Springs follow one another,
Whole seas and streams in our backyard,
And frog-spawn on the dark bog-water,
And resin on the pine-tree's bark.
Known summer storms and forest berries,
Mushrooms, grass-tangled paths and brooks,
A herd-boy's simple joys and worries
And tears shed over well-loved books.
And early grief and disappointment,
A child's vindictive fantasy,
No shoes for school and 1 playing truant,
The dismal grind of poverty,
463
~
464
And ragged want, excluding pleasure
From my poor native backwood's night...
Life's not been grudging of her treasure
Nor docked me of a single right...
Nor stinted health---a generous helping---
Nor strength to last me in good store,
Nor missed out on first love, first friendship,
Two things that come but once---no more.
Nor fame---sweet poison of our pages,
A shifting sand on which to build---
Nor gathering of bards and sages
Round misted mugs of home-distilled.
Inveterate talkers, quiet listeners,
Subtle of tongue and sharp of wit,
Who love to argue moral issues
And history---and politics.
And in the years of Nineteen Thirty
And 'Forty-One I've played my part,
And everything that's touched my country
Has always touched me to the heart.
The wonder is it still keeps going---
Life's filled it full as it can hold
Then laid it bare to great winds blowing
From cold to hot and hot to cold.
But what care I for small misfortunes,
The failures that my way bestrew,
When well I know that true good fortune
Is not to get round life---but through,
Nor be an uninvolved spectator
Who'd ford the stream but not get wet
But, as the way runs steeper, straighter,
To share the burden and the sweat~
And think it all beginner's labour
And all one ever shaped or sowed
465
~
466
An insignificant down-payment
On a great debt to others owed.
Where there are helping hands a-plcnty
The heaviest work goes merrily.
The way ahead runs none too gently:
But should I fear it then? Not I.
Translated by Avril Pyman
467 __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [future generations] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ Eu;e n Ho Miie GyfleT crpauiHo--- Tw flypa, cMepTb: rposnuiboi Cnoeii GeaflOHHOii nycTOTofi, A MM yCJIOBHJIHCb, 1TO H aa TBoeio HJHTB H sa TBoeio MFJIOH SearjiacHofl MM---3flecb, c jKHBbiMH uaojuio. Mw TOJibito eposb Te6e Hiioro cMepTU He ;iano. II, nauieii CBH;W»HU nopyKoii, MM BMecxe 3HaeM Hy«eca: MM CJIMIIIHM B BCIHOCTH flpyr H paaiiHqaeM mnoca. H K3K 6bl UH 6bIJI cnoiiMB crm;u, TOHOK, TM DTO CJIblUIHIIIb, TM iioflTnepaHiui. MOH __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 468 Death, you're a fool: you boast and threaten
Us humans with your void forlorn
When we, between ourselves, have settled
That we'll live on beyond your bourn,~
Beyond your mute obscurity
We're here---with those that walk the earth...
Singly---we own your sovereignty,
But that is all your empire, Death!
You see, because we stick together,
A miracle has come to be!
And we can recognise each other
As voices in eternity.
However stretched communications
We'll always keep an open line...
Speak, friends of future generations!
Do you confirm these words of mine?
Translated by Avrtl Pyman
469 __ALPHA_LVL2__ CoopaxbHM no nepy In our trade we've established in manner explicit
That gods have no part in the firing of pots,
And if not the gods... then the sky is the limit,
Pile on the pressure and blow it up hot!
But it's high time we took this conclusion one further:
True, gods have no part in the firing of pots.
One lesson, however, should lead to another:
Skilled workmen are needed, if gods are not!
Translated by Avrll Pyman
471 __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [season's freshness] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ Cnera noTejmeioT cnniie BflOJib saropoflHbix flopor, II BOfli.i saii^yT Hiiamia>[ii B npo3pa*rai>iH enje necoK. npHKHnyrcn , II pasoM---B Cbipou now B noxoH OTOBctoHy PHHVTCH, Us pycen BUUHB pyln>n. II, eomian, xa.iaii, SGMJIH oQanne-r eflsa, npomnnaH cxapyio, CTpoiHTb H c BeTpoM Ha fleTCKnx «BT KaK TCHb, KOCH6TCH H cepflite noiyeT ^TO CBeatecTb nopbi :no6oii He TOJibKO 6wna, A ecTb H 6yfleT c ToSoii. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 472 Blue snow will soon be turning grey
On roadways out beyond the town
The low-lying patches churned away
By waking waters seeping down.
In clear, clean sand and seeming quiet
The waiting waters still lie low;
Then, one wild night, in steaming riot
They'll rise, the streams will overflow.
And as the earth, still all a-mush
A-thaw and sleepy, is drying out
Sprinkling the leaf-mould, with a rush
The new green grass will start to sprout.
Then alder-pollen, drifting green,
Will blow by on the breeze,
Blown up from childhood's distant scene,
Shadow-soft to the cheeks.
And again the heart shall respond enthralled
To the season's freshness, as before,
Not gone, as it seemed, beyond recall,
But with us now---and evermore.
Translated by Avril layman
473 __ALPHA_LVL1__ NIKOLAI TIKHONOV
Nikolai Tikhonov (b. 1896) is a poet born of the Revolution, a soldier and traveller. "As a schoolboy of 9 I witnessed Bloody Sunday on January 9, 1905, and as a soldier of 18 I found out what it was like to be in a world war. I joined the Red Army the year It was formed.'' This autobiographical nnte explains the militant character of Tikhonov's themes. At the same time he is an active fighter for peace, a member of the World Peace Council, and a tireless advocate of friendship among the nations. How can these two concepts go together? The answer as to how a soldier and a peace champion can be found side by side in one and the same man is given in the poet's own words: "As an old soldier who fought in four wars I could not but join this noble movement for peace---" Ttkhonov's clear-cut laconic ballads ivhich brought him renown as early as the 1920s (``The Horde" and "The Home-brew" collections) sing a hymn to strength and courage inspiredby justice. Tikhonov is a very keen traveller, and is well known in the Caucasus, Central Asia and the Far East. His translations of Soviet non-Russian poetry are the work of a true master. For his literary and public activities he'has been awarded the title of Hero of Socialist Labour.
[474] ~ [475] __ALPHA_LVL2__ [love one's native land] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ cocen cnc;i!iif»i!M cepcGpoM, najibjioii rora aojioToro, Ms Kpnii B i;paii. 11.1 flOMa n ;IOM HpOXOflHT JleHHHCKOC CJIOBO. Ha AajibRnx 6eperax, Yaw HC B nepnom noKOJienbc, Vase Ha Bcex MarepnKax H iTyr H jiroSar HMH: JleiiHii! B cepwax iiapoAin.rx Bo BCCX icpaax OH CTBJI Ho ecTb crpaHa o^na, r«e OH CBOH naiaji nyxb FflC OblJIH HpOCTb, HOIb, TOCK3 H rpoxoT 6ypb B flopore A-'"innoii, Ffle OH poflHoro Moryqne II H6o6l>flTHbIH H ace pacTymafi BOJibiibiii BeTcp... JIloSHTb POCCHH) T8K, K3K OH,--- I!TO MOHSCT 6wTb CBHTCH na cBexc! __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 476 Where firs by snow all silvered stand,
Where palms grow in the golden south,
From home to home, from land to land,
His words pass on from mouth to mouth.
On shores both near and far away,
By more than one new generation
In all five continents, today
His name is held in veneration.
He is enthroned in peoples' hearts,
And is beloved in every clime.
In one, though, he commenced his path
Unheard of since the birth of time.
A land where grief and fury reigned,
Where peals of brewing thunder rolled,
And where he loved his native tongue,
Its mines of eloquence untold.
He loved her skies, her steppes so vast,
Her mounting wind of liberty...
What can be nobler than to love
One's native land as Lenin did.
Translated by Louis Zellikoff
477 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Near Leningrad __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ HOJIJI, XOJIMI.I, jioniimbi TeMiio-ciiiuie II nepeaecKH jiericoio uojinoii, Ho icpea see---HeBBfliiMan .iiimin, HecJibiiunan---H^CT nepe^o MHOH. OT Jlaflorn BM BCMJ ee npoiiflexe, Qua K sajiHBy npniMO Ha cxapoii Kapre BM ce^^1^^ C noMCTKoii rposHoH---copoi! nepubrii rojj. Ta JIHHHJI eme^^1^^ ceroflHH «MIHHT, Ona no cepauy Banieiay HAGT, Ona niiCTBy EOT BTHX pom KOJiumeT H B HosbiH HOM no«<iepniiuaeT BXOA-- BO3MOUOIO, nOKOJieHbUM 6.1II3KHM He TBK, Kan 6y;rymHM, ona BHfliia, XoTb i«oe-rfle rpaHHTHHM oSejinci;oM H na^nncbio oxiieieHa ona. Ho, KaweTcw, ona eme HMMHTCH, H MOJIHHVI npoHiisbiBaioT mpai;, Ha iiefi, iia BTOH orueHHoii rpamine, OxCpomeH 6wfl H ocTanoBJieii npar. SaroBopnjia poma na OTKOCC, HpncJiyiiiaBcH, o IBM inyMHT ona, Kait Syflxo BCTep, HaSesKan, iipoiiociiT Eec'iiicjiemiux repoes iwieiia! __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 478 In peace lie hills and fields and dark-blue valleys,
And woods like lazy billows rise and fall;
Yet still before me, tortuous and silent,
A line, invisible, runs through them all.
All the way from Ladoga^^*^^ you'll trace it.
Right to the Gulf of Finland it does run;
You'll find it on old ordnance maps---those dated
With the dread figures---1941.
Today that line is still alive and breathing,
Knife-like, it cuts your very heart in two;
It stirs the forest leaves, like summer breezes;
Where once it ran, stand houses built anew.
Perhaps, today's young generation
Can't see it as will future eyes,
Although in its commemoration
Stone cenotaphs already rise.
Today it still seems to be smoking,
With lightnings flashing through the gloom,
That naming boundary, where, broken,
The enemy once met his doom.
But hark, they start to speak, the willows!
Come, listen to their rustling speech---
As if the wind, who knew the heroes,
Were calling out the name of each.
Translated by Louis Zellikoff
_-_-_^^*^^ Lake near Leningrad, served as the only communication route to the blockaded city.
479 __ALPHA_LVL2__ ji iio'iiioii Apnrnoii The hour was late, was lost
in the loud night.
The kolkhoz lantern tossed
its yellowing light~
over the stones, the stream
danced quick with gold,
and by that lantern beam
a tale was told,~
as if, where spindrift rays
of water clashed,
the wild scenes of my days
flickered and flashed~
and drowned, at once, spinning
in chilly race,
a story of steel flung in
my numbing face.
I could not turn, those lines
raved madly past
and rose and froze untwining,
twining fast.
Hoarse in my ears they whirred,
a voice was blown:
"Think now of what you were
and what you've grown.
``Once on my surges, gay,
you leaned and stared
when all the gold of day
and youth you shared.
``Now we're alone and hush
it's midnight, listen.
See silver-haired they rush
my waves and glisten.''
The torrent swirled to drown
in foam the boulders,
a glory of bubbles, down
their streaming shoulders.
But I'm no stone that's drowned
at the wave's will,
and no stone I'll be found,
heaven hear me, still.
The light laid open all
the scalpel'd scene,
the scattering drops, the squall
of furious green.
The lantern strewed about
its spilth of sparks
like dawn that hustles out
the heavy dark~
and in the lire of the wave
each lode was rifted
as though from the depths it heaved
glowed and lifted ~
to pierce the night, pursue
the unresting nigh I.
Aragva, once I too
was leap of light.
Translated by Jack Lindsay
483 __ALPHA_LVL1__ MIRZO TURSUN-ZADE
Mirzo Tursun-Zade (b. 1911) is today's leading Tajik poet. He grew up in the village of Karatag which had always been famed for the skill of its craftsmen: potters, tanners and weavers. The poet's father was a craftsman too. Mirzo means ``scribe'', a name which was given only to those who could read and write and was therefore a title of honour. Tursun-Zade was educated at the first Soviet boarding school to be established by the state, and then at Tashkent University. He has loved poetry since his childhood, and his first teachers, he says, were Rudakl, Hafiz and Bedil. He was one of the first to incorporate modern themes and rhythms into the traditional patterns of Eastern poetry. Most of his themes are connected with the East, and his most important works are "Indian Ballad'', "The Gissar Valley" and ``Hassan-Arbakesh''. Mirzo TursunZade is a prominent public figure, and I960 Lenin Prize winner.
[484] ~ [485] __ALPHA_LVL2__ Cccxpa MOH AcbpiiKa Who has not heard of Africa, beautiful, noble and brave,
Of the ebon-skinned beauty held fast in the chains of a
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ slave,
Of the sufferings borne by the victim of famine and
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ strife,
Torn and tortured, afar from the highways of life,
Of the ships that put off for the palm-circled harbours
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ in quest
Of live prey, from the shores of the cannibal West,~
Of the fabulous land, of the body as black as the night
Red with blood at the hands of the villainous white.
Limb from limb she was rent by the pale-featured mob;
In the heart of black Africa's jungles they did their
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ black job.
Years and centuries passed, foreign beasts marking time
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ with their whip,
Turning Africa into a slave with a ring in her lip.
With hot tears, tears of wrath, tears like diamonds did
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Africa weep ~
In the heart of the jungles, in diamond mines gloomy and
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ deep.
O my sister, how clearly I pictured you, far to the
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ South,
With an agonised death-cry distorting your sensitive
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ mouth,
With the horrified moon shrinking back in the clouds at
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ the sight ~
Of her chain-bound beloved tormented by day and by night.
Filled with wrath at those murderous deeds, the sea
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ rolled its waves;
0 how often it drowned in its depths the despair of
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ your slaves!
Galling loudly for rescue, appealing to known and
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ unknown,
From the heart of the burning Sahara came groan after
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ groan.
Pining under their yoke, longed the Arabs to slake from
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ the Nile
Their unbearable thirst---thirst for freedom from
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ conquerors vile.
Iron walls shut the continent off from the rest of the
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ world,
Iron walls of the jail into which her proud nations were
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ hurled.
Yet we welcomed live Africans here in the Spring---
They were Africa's messengers---birds on the wing.
In the shade of our gardens through summer they
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ nested,
In the land of the free from oppression they rested.
When they started back home, feathered envoys, we asked
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ them to tell
What we felt for the Africans groaning in day-to-day
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ hell.
Years and centuries passed---till at last other days
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ have arrived,
Now are Africa's hopes for delivery being revived!
Walls are falling that barred her before from the
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ world,
Soon, aye, soon from her shoulders the yoke will be
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ hurled!
For the glorious Spirit of Freedom is well on its way.
Better known to us all is the Africa of today.
For indeed, all the world has now entered upon a new
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ life.
She arises---our sister, the land where oppression ran
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ rife;
Bound for freedom, for freedom she struggles and raises
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ her voice,
And I with her, and for her all the world's other nations
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ rejoice.
Cheers for Africa's freedom re-echo through nations and
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ lands~
To new Africa gladly extending in friendship their hands.
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
491 __ALPHA_LVL1__ VLADIMIR TSYBIN
Vladimir Tsybin (b. 1932) is a descendant of Russian Cossacks who emigrated to Asia. His home was the steppe-land, encircled with snow-capped mountains. The traditions of freedom-loving Cossacks with their cult of physical strength and their enormous vitality find an interesting reflection in Tsybin's poetry. It is earthy and vivid in imagery, the comparison* are richly sensuous, and the language is colourful and dynamic. Tsybin's most recent books are ``Pulse'' and "Insomnia of the Age" (both 1963).
[492] ~ [493] __ALPHA_LVL2__ Holidays Like bees in a beehive,
my dreams when I slumber.
They promised me holidays,
gay,
without number.
Holidays!
They came with the ring
of the spring's merry laughter,
with gay, festive crowds,
and the kids skipping after,
with games
and with goodies
heaped high on the tables:
candies and boxes
with beautiful labels.
Mother I'd beg:
"Put no food at my head,
no cookies, nor creams,
but some beautiful dreams!''
And saw I most clearly
on nights, wild and dreary,
the holidays receding,
like caravans weary....
And I would shout after:
"Come back!''
Then awaken,
and mother I'd ask
who my holiday'd taken.
Like bees in a beehive,
my dreams when I'm sleeping...
"Now where are your holidays?"
At the war they are keeping....
And in the pale heaven
the morning was fading,
with stars,
like breadcrumbs of wartime parading.
Sad refugees came to my mother,
with anguish
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ behind them,~
and begged for a holiday,
but its crust
was all she could find them.
Dry crust!
Oh, those crusts, so sweet, and so bitter.
But holidays came
in each brief soldiers' letter.
They came to my mother---
by field post
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ delivered.
And I, feeling heady,
delighted
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and shivered.
Oh, holidays!
Holidays!
Our childhood losses,
Our holidays fell
'neath the stars
and the crosses.
And back came the holidays,
blinded
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and crippled.
The heads of our mothers
with grey hairs they stippled.
"Oh, soldiers! oh, soldiers!
'Neath the sod you were lying...''
And the earth was in hloom,
and the winds gently sighing.
I helieved in the holidays,
and I eagerly waited:
they'd return
like the caravans,
bringing gifts,
though belated,
for things will come true,
if you trust ever freshly,
so always believe!
and in holidays,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ specially!
Believe,
as in woodland delights,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ without number!
I bring them myself
to my mother
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ each summer.
Translated by Eugene Felgenhauer
499 Emacs-File-stamp: "/home/ysverdlov/leninist.biz/en/1969/FSP533/20071206/533.tx" __EMAIL__ webmaster@leninist.biz __OCR__ ABBYY 6 Professional (2007.12.10) __WHERE_PAGE_NUMBERS__ bottom __FOOTNOTE_MARKER_STYLE__ [*]+ __ENDNOTE_MARKER_STYLE__ [0-9]+ __ALPHA_LVL1__ SIMON CHIKOVANI
Simon Chikovani (1903--1966), an outstanding Georgian poet, was born in a mountain village on the Black Sea coast. "The breath of the sea reached the poplars in our garden---Tall mountains, smothered in a purplish mist, surrounded our village on three sides. At first I could not distinguish the distant mountains from the clouds.'' In romantic Svanetia, the highest part of Georgia where medieval towers stand gazing into bottomless chasms, Chikovani listened to ancient legends and took them down in writing. He travelled a great deal, his wanderlust remaining as strong in his later days as it was in his youth. He has written many poems about the Ukraine, Armenia and liussia. The image of the road is to be found throughout his work. Chikovani's lyricism is distinguished by its subtle psychology, its dignity, and the great expressiveness of its imagery. His most widely known poem is the "Song of David Guramishvili''. Simon Chikovani has also made superb translations of the "Lay of Igor's Host" and Taras Shevchenko's lyrical poems into Georgian.
[500] ~ [501] __ALPHA_LVL2__ Ha ccHOKoce It's mowing time; I'll whet my scythe
With dawn's first golden ray and dew;
Come out to me, beloved Life
I'll spread the fragrant hay for you.
Come, Life, to me -new deeds I'll dare,
Your harvest rich around me spread,
Your di earns and sorrows let me share
As on your breast I rest my head.
I've thirsted with the sun-parched
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ soil,
Converted wastes to gardens fair;
Now in my Autumn, from my toil,
With singing heart I home repair.
With cherished dreams I'll whet my
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ scythe ~
Until its blade outshines the sun.
Come out to me, beloved Life,
Caress me as you would your son.
But should I slumber, raise your voice
And from my eyes drive sleep away.
So, ripe in years, I may rejoice
In you as in my early day.
Wring out my heart, until it drops Bedew fair Georgia's hills and plains, And from her snow-capped mountain tops Reflect the glory of my plains.
505 __ALPHA_LVL2__ The Birth of Song __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ CTIIXH iiaiaTb---Kan iKHUHb nocTpoiiTb cuona , ii no Mory n paaraflaTb 'iepe« HiUBblX IIpllJIUBOB II OTJIIIBOB CJlOIia , xoTb flyuiy MHO aapoffbiiu IICCIIH XOKCT. HTO CTOHT CTHX, c KOTopwM iia ropTtuiii Ayiua ne XJIUIICT? Ha oro npiiauB HC OT3OBCTCH TOpIIblX BOfl JKyp'iailbC, H,BCTOK HC BS^pOrllCT, BCII1HK IIpHOTKpblB. MHC, IICCHH, MTO TBOII ociioBa? Orpa^a GJIHJKHIIX, SoJib OT pan MOHX, AOJKffb---BOcnHTarejib xjieGa aojioToro, HJIH Tymaii B Mopm,HHax rop Pjiob iia BOAC? IIjioTbi na ciiHeii r /|,i>ixaHbe ceiia, CMCTamioro B cxor Hjib y Moeii eflHHCTBeiiHoii BO B :ta oroHbKOM Gerymiiii oroiiCK? Ha'iaTb CTHXH no ;ier'io, MCM coMiieiibji CTCpeTb,---ciuioiiiiiyio piKan'inny c nyuii, n itycrax naiiTii KOJII.U.O, B ojnio SH-HOBOHM; aseiifly naopaTb (BCO n nooe xopoiiiu). II(!T no ncojiciiiioii CIIJIM iicnpoiuiniiiicii MC'iTM, ivcpaiiiPiuioii cop/ma r.iydinidii. ('TUX---OTO .la^an TJICOT iia .ia;i<>mi, CTIIX---aro IOIIOCTI. eiiopiiT c __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 506 The birtli of song is fraught with joy and sorrow,
Like building life anew---one endless quest;
Today I know not what I'll write tomorrow
Though ere its birth my song gnaws at my breast.
That song is mute though from the throat it gushes,
Which from the heart and soul doth fail to spring,
To which no streamlet sings, no blossom blushes---
It is no song, whoever it may sing.
So tell me song---what is it gives you birth?
Another's joy? The pain that burns my breast?
The showers of spring that saturate the earth?
Or mists that on the hoary mountains rest?
And tell me song, whence does your music rise?
From ripples on the lake? rafts river-borne?
The fire of my beloved's sparkling eyes?
The fragrance of the new-mown hay at dawn?
The birth of song is fraught with tribulation,
Like lighting doubt that eats your heart away,
Like choosing stars from out a constellation,
Or looking for a needle in the hay.
The dream that from the heart of hearts emerges,
No power in heaven or earth can ever slay;
For song is fragrant incense ever burning,
It is the ``Yea'' of Youth 'gainst Age's ``Nay''.
Translated by Louis Zellikoff
509 __ALPHA_LVL1__ STEFAN SHCHIPACHEV
Stepan, Shchipnchcv (b. 1889) is one of the most popular poets of the older generation, lie has a distinct identity and a place of his own in Russian poetry as a master of thumbnail stories in verse with a moral to each one of them. His style is aphoristic, and the form he often uses is that of a laconic parable. More than one generation of young people have learnt his "Lines of Love" by heart. In recent years Shchipnchcv has devoted much time and effort to the training of young poets. He continues to experiment with new rhythms and rhymes, as will be seen from his collections ``Musings'' (l!)Ci2), "A Man's Hand" (WC>4), and "Selected Works" in "Two Volumes" (1965).
[510] ~ [511] __ALPHA_LVL2__ The Palm of a Man's Hand __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ Cojibman siy/Kcitan. Ee"-- OT1CTJIHBM H jiiiiiiui nepecenaioT, Aopom TBOCH OHa OT i;iipi;ii H jionaxw rpyCcJia, iia jKCHcicoii rpy#n pooejia. 3TO HCII3IIH CJICnOK, ro^ou iipoJiCTeBiuiix cjie/n,i. B nee aaiipoKHiieTCH ne6o, aaqepnaeuib Qua mapoKa, IIjibiBenib---pacceKaex peny. B apMeiicKOM crpoio npuKiina.ia Ilo« aiiaMeiicM KpactibiM I! Qua--- iToCw rjiaflHTb pe6eHKa C .IHIOOBMO, TpCBOrofi H 'iToGw nom,eiHiioii Oupyr.TOp, Kai; u.iancTa, IIOKOIITCH JIO.IOKO It Iieii. IlycKaii M;C .r;i,ionii irroii lie GyflCT na CIICTC 'lecTiieii! __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 512 The palm of a man's hand,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ broad in span,
Big and strong,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ a manly hand.
Crossed with deep-cut, ridged lines,
The roads he will travel,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ clearly defined.
It's hard when a lever it presses,
Shy when a breast it caresses.
The palm is a cast of man's career,
A record of what he has done.
Scoop up some water, and you will sec
The sky in there, overturned.
It lakes you across to the other bank,
An oar without a snag.
Remember when you were in the ranks.
How firmly it gripped the flag?
Your palm is there to gently stroke
The baby on your lap,
And give a scoundrel, when provoked,
A ringing, smarting slap.
Your palm liolds an apple so snugly
As if it were cradling the earth.
So let it stay clean and unsullied,
Lot honesty measure its worth.
Translated by Olga Shartse
515 __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [split the word] MM TpyfliiMCH, Haa CTpo'iiwiMH lie JIOIIIIMCH, ii HHiioro lie iitiflo TOponiiTh. PaCTCT, paCTCT CTHXOB IIOwICIIIII(a, KOTOpMMII II He'll. HC paCTOIIlITb. MaflHT, IUHIIHT... A MO/KCT, ;ipn cypOBO cyasy 06 »TOM? Bee Mc-ixy TBUM, 1TO KTO-TO, KTO-TO, CJIOHIIO aTf)M, n;<pyr pacmeiniT n i\mp eorpeex IIM. 516 We're working hard, we're writing veritable screeds,
To push us on or ask for more there is no need.
The stack of poems grows forever higher,
Too damp and raw to even start a fire.
They hiss and smoke.... But maybe that's too strong.
I shouldn't judge them so. For in our hearts we long
That one of us will like (he atom split the word
And it will suddenly give warmth to all the world.
Translated by Olga Shartse
517 __ALPHA_LVL2__ C 3HMOH The trees clad in snow, and the houses too.
But week follows week and it's turning warm.
I'm sorry to say goodbye to you,
I'll miss you, your frosts and snows and storms.
You dazzled the eyes, you were so white,
And lost in that beauty magnificent
Were traces of many a life, wiped out
As if they were ski-tracks made recently.
Beneath the white stars for the last time I stand,
I never may sec you like this again.
A lump of your snow I crush in my hand,
But why do I do it, I couldn't explain....
Translated by Olga Shartse
519 __ALPHA_LVL2__ He Bcpio! Mankind to me is a river of nations
The ages, I see in imagination,
As waves rolling on towards the sea,
Wave upon wave, mighty and free,
Splashing and ringing in different tongues.
The way to the sea may still be long,
But the river is rolling, it's rolling along,
And I'll never believe that a current so strong
Could break off as suddenly as my poor song.
Translated by Olga Shartse
521 __ALPHA_LVL1__ ILYA EHRENBURG
Ilya Ehrenburg (1891--1967) was a celebrated publicist and author of novels and books on art. As a poet he was less popular, yet his book "Poetry 1938--1958" (1959) was sold out within an hour. In poetry as in prose Ehrenburg was a penetrating historian, but while in his novels and articles he recorded the passage of time in constant motion, in a stream of facts, faces and events, in his poetry he brought out the substance of life, the very essence of spiritual processes. "Spanish Poems'', "Paris 1940'', "May 9, 1945" and the titles of his other collections of verse are in themselves a chronicle of this century's main events. Ehrenburg's poetry reflects the soul of a man of the 20th century with its torments, impulses and hope.
[522] ~ [523] __FIX__ Picking titles is tricky; cannot use "verdant spring" because that would be giving the end away. __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [verdant ...] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ fla panne MoryT «ern rora, Ffle posbi njiemyT B AeKaGpe, r#e He paabimemb cJioua «Bbiora» HH B naMHTH, HH B cnoBape, ,Ha passe TBM, r^e ne5o cune H HC CJIHHHCT HH Ha «rac, r^e BCnOKOH BCKOB HOHblHe Bee TO ate JIBTO TCIHHT r.iaa, JJa passe HM XOT& TBK, XOTB BKpaTue, XoTb Ha MHHyTy, XOTb BO CH6, XoTb HBHapOKOM ftOraflBTbCH, MTO anaiHT flyMaxb o BCCHC, HTO anamiT B MaproscKHe cxyacH, Korfla oTqaHHbe Sepex, Bee HtflaTb H wflaib, nan neyiwiojKe 3ameBejinTCH rpyanbiu aen- A Mbl T3KUO 3HMbI 3HaJIH, ISiKHJIHCb B TBKH6 HTO Aaate He GWJIO Ho TOJibKO. ropaocTb H 6e«a. H B itpenKoii, .leflHHofi o(5u;<c, Cyxofi nyproii ocaenneHW, Mbi BHACJIH, yj«e He acjieiibie neeiii.i. __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 524 How can the folk in tropics dwelling,
Where roses in December grow,
Where people hardly know the spelling
Of words like ``blizzard'' and "ice floe'',
Where ever azure, ever pleasant,
Above them sails a silken sky,
Since time primordial to the present,
The selfsame summer soothes the eye.
How can they even for a twinkling,
In slumber, or in daydream learn,
How can they have the slightest inkling
Of what it means for spring to yearn,
Or how in freezing winter vainly,
When dour despondency holds sway,
To wait and wait until ungainly
And massive ice gets under way.
But we have known such wintry madness,
Have learned such coldness to abide,
No longer have we room for sadness
But only misery and pride.
With cold resentment in out being,
When blizzards blinded everything,
We pictured, without really seeing,
The halcyon days of verdant spring.
Translated by Eugene Felgenhauer
525 __ALPHA_LVL2__ The Heart of a Soldier __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ ByxraJiTep OH, CICTOB oxanita, CeiwepKH, TpoiiKH H HVJIH. H KaJKCTCH, OH CHHT, KBK IiaflKa B THweJiofi rojiySoft nbura. Ho EOT OH c flpyroM noBCTpeiajicn. HH lunpp, HH cnjiCTen, HH KOTaex. yjK Hex ero, npona.i Cyxrajrrep, OH Becb B orne npouie«uinx jrex. Kan apoCb, CTyinT coJiffaxa cepflu.e: «JJo HeTyniKOB pyKoii nonaTbb Bern! PVKOH noffaTt HO CMepTH, A H<H3Hb B OHROM---nepe6ewaTb. TM cnaHtcmb---DTO OT KOHTyanii, IIpoflffeT, naii«eT on WHSHH HIITI,, Ho HHTH cnyTaJiHCb, H yaeji YIK He pacnyTaxb---paapy6HTb. H H CBepCTHHKH pa3BaflHH H CTpOCK CBepCTHHKH, MOH Kpail, MM copoK jieT ne pasysaJiHCb, H ewiH H3M npiicHHTCH paii, Mbi He noeepHM. CTOH, HC nieuiKaii, He HJIH Toro MM a«ecb, MTo6 cnanrb! KaKott TaiM paii? EcTb ricpefic/KKa--- JJf> ITeTyuiKOB pyKoii __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 526 All day he's sitting and ledgers keeping,
With tens and sevens he conjure must.
At times it seems that he is sleeping
Among the heavy and bluish dust.
But now a comrade he has encountered.
Away all figures and gossip fly.
He is no longer an accountant,
He's all aflame with years gone by.
Tatoo the soldier's heart is beating:
"It's half a mile to Petushki!"
Run on! There can be no retreating,
One aim---to rout the enemy.
You say the reason's severe contusion,
It'll pass, he'll find the thread of life;
Alas, the threads are in such confusion,
They'll not unravel, they need a knife.
We are coevals and friends of ruins,
Of great constructions coevals we,
For forty years we've kept our shoes on,
And if in dreams we heaven see,
We'll not believe.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Hey there, don't tarry!
It's not for sleeping that here we be!
What good is heaven? We have to hurry---
It's half a mile to Petushki!
Translated by Eugene Felgenhauer
527 __ALPHA_LVL1__ ALEXANDER YASHIN
Alexander Yashin (1913--1968) was born and raised in a village in northern Hussia where the forests are dense and endless, and where the. purity of the local language, ancient superstitions, customs and dress have been preserved to this day. In the 1940s Yashin's poetry was very colourful in its language, but in subject matter it was superficial and fell far short of life's ssrious demands. However his talent matured, and the last ten or fifteen years have made him one of the best-known of our poets with a deep sense of civic responsibility and a significant message to his readers. Such is his book ``Integrity'' (1961). He sets high moral standards and demands integrity and an honest attitude to life. Lately Alexander Yashin has also made a successful debut as a prose writer.
[528] ~ [529] __ALPHA_LVL2__ * * * [things that we treasure] __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ B HeciweTHOM iiaincM GoraTCToe CJIOBB Hparouciiiibie GCTB: OxeqecTBO , BepnocTb, BpaTCTBO. A ecTb eme: CoBCCTb, Ax, ecjin or.t nee rioiniMa.iH, HTO 3To HC npocTO CJIOBB, Kaiciix 6u MM OCA H 3TO He npocTO cjiosa! __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 530 When we speak of the things that we treasure,
That we prize above all, we include
~ ~ ~ words like MOTHERLAND,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ LOYALTY,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ HONOUR,
~ ~ ~ words like FRIENDSHIP
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ BROTHERHOOD.
No, these words aren't just words, empty words.
And if only to all this were plain,
Much that plagues us today could we banish,
Much of sorrow would go, and of pain.
Nor are these only words, empty words!
Translated by Irina Zheleznova
531 __ALPHA_LVL2__ Kind Deeds __CUT_FROM_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ Mne c OTqHMOM neBeceJio Bee at OH MBHH pacTiui--- H OTToro Hopoii wajieio, ^TO He XoTb ieM-HH6y;rb nopaflosaTb ero. OH caer H THXO PaccuasbiBaeT Bee iam,e ncnoMnnaJi MCIIJI H «BoT fflypicy 6w... YSK OH 6w cnac MCHH!» 6a6ymKe B ceiie po«noM ft ronopiiji: MOJI, Tai; ee 11106,1110, HTO noflpacTy H caiw cpy6mo eft SO J^POB HarOTOBJIfO, Xae6a BOS itynjiro. MeiTaji o MHoroM, Mnoro o6em,aji... B oJioKa^c jienHHrpaACKoii CTapmta Or CMcprn 6 cnac, JJfl Ha A6Hb OnO.'JflA.'I, H ffHH Toro He BosapaTHT uci;a. Tenepb npomeji H TMOPIH «opor--- KynDTb BO3 xjieSa, AOM cpySnrb OLI MOP... Hex OTHHMa, H 6a@Ka yiuepjia... CneuiHTe Aoopi>ie __CUT_TO_HERE_OUT_OF_WEB__ 532 I was his stepson, not his son, and yet,
Though things were none too easy, I regret
That never was I truly kind or good
To him who brought me up from babyhood.
When, at the end, he lay awaiting death
He asked for me, and with his dying breath,
My mother tells me,
Whispered, "if he came,
If he but came, I would be well again!...''
I liked a poor old lady once, and said
I'd buy her bags of sweets and sacks
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ of bread,
And stack her shed with wood when I was grown,
And build a house,
A house for her alone.
Rash promises...
I made them by the score!
The Leningrad blockade,
An open door....
I asked a sick and hungry man to wait,
I said I'd come,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and did---
A day too late!
A thousand roads,
A thousand have I trod....
Now I could build that house
And buy that bread.
But they are gone who once my help did need.
Make haste!
Do not postpone a kindly deed!
Translated by Irina Zheleznova
533 __ALPHA_LVL0__ The End. [END]REQUEST TO READERS
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Please send gour comments to 21, Zubovsky Boulevard, Moscow, USSR.
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