Wednesday, October 23, 2019

Translation into English of poem by EDUARD BAGRITSKY, " Я сладко изнемог от тишины и снов," "So sweetly enervated I, by silence and by dreams"


                                                                        Max Ernst




Eduard Bagritsky

(1895-1934)


Я сладко изнемог от тишины и снов,
От скуки медленной и песен неумелых,
Мне любы петухи на полотенцах белых
И копоть древняя суровых образов.

Под жаркий шорох мух проходит день за днем,
Благочестивейшим исполненный смиреньем,
Бормочет перепел под низким потолком,
Да пахнет в праздники малиновым вареньем.

А по ночам томит гусиный нежный пух,
Лампада душная мучительно мигает,
И, шею вытянув, протяжно запевает
На полотенце вышитый петух.

Так мне, о господи, ты скромный дал приют,
Под кровом благостным, не знающим волненья,
Где дни тяжелые, как с ложечки варенье,
Густыми каплями текут, текут, текут.
 
                                                                                       1919


Literal Translation

Silence and dreams, and a languid boredom
Have left me sweetly enervated,
I’m fond of the roosters on white dishtowels
And of ancient soot on austere icons.

Day after day goes by to the hot rustle of flies,
Each day replete with the most pious humility,
A quail murmurs beneath the low ceiling,
And on festive days there’s the aroma of raspberry jam.

And at night you languish in soft goose-down feathers,
The stifling icon lamp blinks agonizingly,
And the embroidered rooster on the dishtowel
Stretches out his neck and crows at length.

And so, O Lord, you’ve given me a modest hideaway,
Beneath a soothing roof that knows not agitation,
Where the heavy [oppressive] days, as jam from a spoon,
In thick droplets go dripping, dripping, dripping.





Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie


So sweetly enervated I, by silence and by dreams,
By boredom creeping slowly past, and songs ineptly sung,
I love the crowing roosters on the dishtowel barnyard scenes,
The ancient soot on icons, in the parlor corner hung.

Day follows day, the flies toil on, exacerbating rustle,
My life abounds with piety, with actions cautionary,  
Beneath the placid eaves above the cooing pigeons bustle,
On festive days the air is rife with jam of lingonberry.

With night’s unease I turn and writhe in goose-down feathers soft,
The stifling icon lamp’s aglitter, blinking misery,
Then one embroidered rooster in the dishtowel barnyard loft
Extends his scrawny neck, exults, and crows his reveille.

O Lord, thou hast provided me a modest warm cocoon,
Beneath a tranquil roof that holds my life in trusteeship,  
Where day by viscous day seeps by, as jam from kitchen spoon,
In thick and gooey droplets falls,
With drip, and drip, and drip.






Translator’s Notes

Biographical Information on Bagritsky, from the Internet
(Translation of Highlights Here, Full Text in Russian Below)

Eduard Georgievich Bagritsky, whose real surname was Dzjubin or Dzjuban), was born on October 22 (Nov. 3, NS), 1895, in Odessa to a Jewish family that practiced its religion seriously. He studied to be a land surveyor but never worked at that profession.
Beginning in 1915, he published his verses under various pseudonyms, both male and female (Eduard Bagritsky, Nina Voskresenskaja), and soon he had become one of the most remarkable of the young Odessa writers who were later to be stars in the pantheon of Soviet Literature: Yury Olesha, Ilya Il’f, Valentin Kataev, Vera Inber, and others.
In 1918 he joined the Red Army during the Civil War, working in the political arm of the partisan movement, writing politically motivational verses. After the war he worked in Odessa as a poet and artist, publishing his works in newspapers and humor magazines under various pseudonyms: A Guy Named Vasya, Nina Voskresenskaja (again), and The People’s Correspondent Gortsev.
In 1925 he moved to Moscow and joined various literary circles then in mode, including the Constructivists. In 1928 his verse collection titled “Southwest” came out, and a second collection, “The Victors,” appeared in 1932.
Beginning with the year 1930 his asthma intensified—a disease from which he had suffered since childhood; he died on February 16, 1934, in Moscow. His widow, Lidia Suok, was arrested in 1937 and sent to a labor camp; she was released only in 1956. Their son Vsevolod fought in The Great Patriotic War (WW II), died at the front in 1942.
dddfffffffffddddddddd
Эдуард Георгиевич Багрицкий (настоящая фамилия Дзюбин (Дзюбан); 1895—1934) — русский поэт, переводчик и драматург, родился 22 октября (3 ноября) 1895 г. в Одессе в буржуазной еврейской семье с сильными религиозными традициями. Окончил землемерные курсы, но по профессии не работал.
С 1915 г. под псевдонимом «Эдуард Багрицкий» и женской маской «Нина Воскресенская» начал публиковать свои стихи в одесских литературных альманахах и вскоре стал одной из самых заметных фигур в группе молодых одесских литераторов, впоследствии ставших крупными советскими писателями (Юрий Олеша, Илья Ильф, Валентин Катаев, Лев Славин, Семён Кирсанов, Вера Инбер).
В 1918 г., во время Гражданской войны, добровольцем вступил в Красную Армию, работал в политотделе особого партизанского отряда имени ВЦИК, писал агитационные стихи.
После войны работал в Одессе, сотрудничая, как поэт и художник, в ЮгРОСТА (Южное бюро Украинского отделения Российского телеграфного агентства) вместе с Ю. Олешей, В. Нарбутом, С. Бондариным, В. Катаевым. Публиковался в одесских газетах и юмористических журналах под псевдонимами «Некто Вася», «Нина Воскресенская», «Рабкор Горцев».
В 1925г. Багрицкий приехал в Москву и стал членом литературной группы «Перевал», через год примкнул к конструктивистам. В 1928г. у него вышел сборник стихов «Юго-запад». Второй сборник, «Победители», появился в 1932г.
С начала 1930г.  у Багрицкого обострилась астма — болезнь, от которой он страдал с детства. Он умер 16 февраля 1934г. в Москве. Вдова поэта, Лидия Густавовна Суок, была репрессирована в 1937 (вернулась из заключения в 1956). Сын Всеволод погиб на фронте в 1942 г.


Friday, October 4, 2019

Translation of Poem by SERGEI ESENIN, "Мы теперь уходим понемногу" "One by One We All Are Now Departing"

Sergei Esenin with Isadora Duncan



Sergei Esenin
(1895-1925)

Мы теперь уходим понемногу
В ту страну, где тишь и благодать.
Может быть, и скоро мне в дорогу
Бренные пожитки собирать.
Милые березовые чащи!
Ты, земля! И вы, равнин пески!
Перед этим сонмом уходящих
Я не в силах скрыть своей тоски.
Слишком я любил на этом свете
Все, что душу облекает в плоть.
Мир осинам, что, раскинув ветви,
Загляделись в розовую водь.
Много дум я в тишине продумал,
Много песен про себя сложил,
И на этой на земле угрюмой
Счастлив тем, что я дышал и жил.
Счастлив тем, что целовал я женщин,
Мял цветы, валялся на траве,
И зверье, как братьев наших меньших,
Никогда не бил по голове.
Знаю я, что не цветут там чащи,
Не звенит лебяжьей шеей рожь.
Оттого пред сонмом уходящих
Я всегда испытываю дрожь.
Знаю я, что в той стране не будет
Этих нив, златящихся во мгле.
Оттого и дороги мне люди,
Что живут со мною на земле.
1924

Literal Translation

Little by little we all are departing
For the land of quiet and abundant grace.
Could be that soon it’s time for me as well
To pack my bag and baggage for the trip.

Dear groves of birch!
And you, o earth, you, sandy plains!
Faced with this assemblage of departers,
I cannot hide my anguish.

I have loved too much in this world
All that clothes the soul with flesh.
Peace be unto the aspens that, spreading their branches,
Have gazed into the rose-colored waters.

Many thoughts I have pondered over in silence,
Many songs I have composed in my mind,
And on this gloomy earth
I’m happy to have lived and breathed.

I’m happy that I’ve had women to kiss,
That I’ve crumpled flowers and lolled about on the grass,
And never have beaten on the head
The animals, our little brothers.

I know that Over There no thickets blossom,
Nor do rye-stalks jingle their swan necks.
That’s why when faced with the throngs of departers,
I always tend to shake and tremble.

I know that in the land to come
There will be no rye fields gleaming golden in the haze.
That’s why so dear to me are the people
Who live with me upon this earth.

d

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

One by one we all are now departing
For realms where silence and beatitude abide.
And I as well, perhaps, will soon be starting
To pack my bag and baggage for the ride.

Dear groves of oak and birches so resplendent,
And you, O earth! You too, sand-laden plains!
In parting with these things that drift ascendant,
An anguish in me reeks, my soul constrains.

All things that clothe the weary soul with flesh,
This world of transient charm too much I’ve loved.
Like aspen trees that spread their limbs afresh
And gaze on rosy waters from above.

The thoughts in silence that I’ve often pondered,
The many songs inside myself composed,
And notwithstanding worldly joys I’ve squandered,
I’m happy that I’ve lived and breathed, reposed,

That I’ve had women’s kisses I’m content,
Lolled on the grass, communed with flower beds,
And never to vindictiveness gave vent
By beating cats or doggies on the heads.

I know that Over There no thickets bloom resplendent,
No rye stalks bend their swan’s necks in the breeze.
That’s why the parting with the lovely things ascendant
Leaves plagued with pain my heart, with anguish squeezed. 

I know that distant realm is lacking sorely
In golden-tufted wheat fields broadly spread.
That’s why I cherish friends, the ones who warmly
Clap me on the back and break black bread.

d

Translator’s Notes
In the original manuscript of this poem the title is “Ровесникам” (“To My Coevals” [persons of the same age as I]). The poem is dedicated to a good friend of Esenin, the poet Александр Ширяевец (Aleksandr Vasilievich Shirjaevets [1887-1924]). In Moscow, on May 15, 1924, Shirjaevets died suddenly of meningitis, and Esenin was deeply shaken by his death.



                              Gravesite Monument to Great Russian Actor and Comedian Yuri Nikulin  
                                                             Novodevichy Cemetery, Moscow




 Performance in Song of the Esenin Poem by Efimich (Oleg Sharandanov)https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PF8kFRBnKfA



Translation of Poem by NIKOLAI TIKHONOV, "The Wind" "ВЕТЕР"

Mikhail Nesterov



Nikolai Tikhonov
(1896-1979)


ВЕТЕР
Вперебежку, вприпрыжку, по перекрытым
Проходам рынка, хромая влет
Стеной, бульваром, газетой рваной,
Еще не дочитанной, не дораскрытой,
Вчера родилась — сейчас умрет,
Над старой стеною часы проверив,
У моря отрезал углы, как раз —
Ты помнишь ветер над зимним рассветом,
Что прыгал, что все перепутывал сети,
Что выкуп просил за себя и за нас?
Сегодня он тот же в трубе и, редея,
Рассыпался в цепь, как стрелки, холодея,
И, грудью ударив, растаял, как залп,
Но что б он сказал, залетев в наши стены,
Мы квиты с ним, правда, но что б он сказал?


Literal Translation

The Wind

Running full tilt, skipping along, past the covered
Passageways of the marketplace, limping on the fly,
By way of the wall, the boulevard, the ripped-up newspaper,
The one not read all the way through, not all the way unfolded,
The one born yesterday—only soon to die.

Having checked out the clock on the old wall,
He lopped off the corners of the sea, just like that.
You remember the wind over the dawn of winter,
He who kept jumping, who entangled all the nets,
Who demanded a ransom be paid, for himself and for us.

Today he’s in the chimney same as before, and, slackening off,
He’s spreading out, deploying in a line like infantry troops, growing colder,
Then, bursting out into hand-to-hand fighting, he’s melted away like a salvo.
But what would he say, if he flew inside our walls?
True, we’ve settled accounts with him, we’re quits, but what would he say?


Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

The Wind

Full-tilt racer, skip along, gusty guy,
Blows through the marketplace,
Limping on the fly,
Skirting walls blustery,
Making streets sigh,
Poor tattered newspaper, not yet read,
Pages in disarray, not widespread,
Born only yesterday, soon to be dead,

Checks out a wall clock on the town hall,
Lops off the corners of the sea-scape mall,
Do you recall the early morns
Of winters and the wind,
‘Member how he agitated,
Tangled nets and skimmed
All about the central square,
“Pay the ransom, folks,
If you don’t I’ll go on gusting,
Wrack your ribs with pokes”?

Today he blows the same sufflation,
Wheezing in the chimney still,
Same old windbag, same jactation,
Dressed in flimsy dishabille,  
Hear him slacken off his flurry?
He double-times his marching troops,
Watches as they scamper-scurry,
Whips away their headgear, whoops,  
Stings their eyesight, makes it blurry,
Mustering his feints, employs
His biggest guns in booms of noise,

But what would he say,
Were he to fly right now
Inside our walls?
True, we’ve long since settled
Accounts with him; we and he are quits.
But still, what would he say?



                                                        Marc Chagall, "Over the Town"