A PRAYER FOR HEALING AND LAST RITES PRAYER

A Prayer for Healing and Last Rites Prayer

“Lord, gaze with eyes of compassion, during this, the Time of the Great Plague, upon thy servant [name], grant unto him/her the healing of the mind, the healing of the body, the healing of the spirit. Restore unto her/him [name] the fullness and the wholeness as it was when he/she was created.

May the Lord bless you and keep you, may the Lord let his face shine upon you and be gracious unto you. May the Lord look upon you with kindness and beneficence, may the Lord grant you peace. As the Lord didst heal the sick by touch, so do I, the acolyte of the Lord, now lay hands upon you [name], anointing you with the oil of rejoicing for the healing of your mind, body, spirit, soul.

And if such healing is not to be, I anoint you [name] with the oil of rejoicing in a life now lived through, and with the oil of acceptance of the end of that life and the beginning of a new existence for [name], in that place where we all once were before coming into being, and whither we all must return. Amen.”

Note by U.R. Bowie

I discovered the basics of the text above from an article reprinted in the Gainesville Sun from the Palm Beach Post (April 27, 2020) about a priest, Father Gabriel Ghanoum, who has been visiting hospitals in Palm Beach County, Florida, to administer healing to those sick with coronavirus, and Last Rites to those dying of it. The text as printed was titled “Sacrament of the Sick, or The Last Rites prayer that Father Gabriel says to dying COVID-19 patients at JFK Medical Center.” Don’t have any idea where the text originates, but I suspect that Father Gabriel himself came up with it by improvising on certain other sacred text.

I have made considerable changes in that text printed in the newspaper. It seems to me that the text is of two minds as written: it combines a prayer of healing with a prayer for the dying. To make that more clear I have added the final paragraph, intended only for the dying. That final paragraph is almost completely my own invention. In addition, I have tried to make the prayer more broad, applicable to almost anyone dying who wishes to address any Deity, not necessarily a Christian deity. I offer this variant for what it’s worth, if anything.

d

In checking the Internet for the exact words used in the Catholic or Eastern Orthodox rituals of Extreme Unction, I was unable to find such a text. Nor do I have any idea about how the dying are anointed with oil. What follows below are explanations on the Internet of what such a text should consist of.

ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH

Catholic priests perform the Sacrament of Extreme Unction based on the Bible.

Roman Catholics recognize seven sacraments, which serve as rites of Christian initiation and passage throughout a person’s life, however brief or long that life may endure. Extreme Unction, also called Last Rites and Anointing of the Sick, is the final sacrament for Catholic faithful. A gravely ill or injured Roman Catholic may receive the Sacrament of Extreme Unction. In her final moments, a Catholic receives strength and comfort with a last anointing in preparation for the next stage in the soul’s spiritual journey.

Scriptural Basis

As is true for all of the sacraments, the Sacrament of Extreme Unction has a scriptural basis. According to the Traditional Roman Catholicism website, the author of James 5:14-15 calls for priests to pray over the sick and to anoint them “in the name of the Lord.” This sacred action has the power to save the ill and dying and to forgive sins.

Conditions for Extreme Unction

Roman Catholic doctrine establishes criteria for the conditions of Extreme Unction. The person who is ill or injured must have achieved the age of reason, 7 years old, he must repent of his sins and be in a state of grace and he must accept that God may will him to be healed or die.

The Words in the Vernacular

Once the recipient receives the Sacraments of Penance and Holy Eucharist, in that order, a Roman Catholic priest performs the Sacrament of Extreme Unction. The priest makes the sign of the cross on various parts of the person’s body and speaks the words in the vernacular, “Through this Holy Unction or oil, and through the great goodness of His mercy, may God pardon thee whatever sins thou hast committed by evil use of sight (sight, hearing, smell, taste and speech, touch, ability to walk).” The last word varies according to the part of the body over which the priest is making the sign of the cross. In cases in which death threatens quickly, the priest may make the sign of the cross on the person’s forehead and say, “Through this holy unction may the Lord pardon thee whatever sins or faults thou hast committed,” according to the Fish Eaters website.

d

Prayer of Commendation

As the time of death approaches, this prayer may be said.

Go forth, Christian soul, from this world
in the name of God the almighty Father,
who created you,
in the name of Jesus Christ, Son of the living God,
who suffered for you,
in the name of the Holy Spirit,
who was poured out upon you,
go forth, faithful Christian.

May you live in peace this day,
may your home be with God in Zion,
with Mary, the Virgin Mother of God,
with Joseph, and all the Angels and Saints.

---

Prayers after Death

Prayer for the Dead

In your hands, O Lord,
we humbly entrust our brothers and sisters.
In this life you embraced them with your tender love;
deliver them now from every evil
and bid them eternal rest.

The old order has passed away:
welcome them into paradise,
where there will be no sorrow, no weeping or pain,
but fullness of peace and joy
with your Son and the Holy Spirit
forever and ever.
Amen.

d

EASTERN ORTHODOX CHURCH

Holy Unction

When one is ill and in pain, this can very often be a time of life when one feels alone and isolated. The Sacrament of the Anointing of the Sick, or Holy Unction as it is also known, reminds us that when we are in pain, either physical, emotional, or spiritual, Christ is present with us through the ministry of His Church. He is among us to offer strength to meet the challenges of life, and even the approach of death.

As with Chrismation, oil is also used in this Sacrament as a sign of God's presence, strength, and forgiveness. After the reading of seven Epistle lessons, seven Gospel lessons and the offering of seven prayers, which are all devoted to healing, the priest anoints the body with the Holy Oil. Orthodoxy does not view this Sacrament as available only to those who are near death. It is offered to all who are sick in body, mind, or spirit.

Christ came to the world to "bear our infirmities." One of the signs of His divine Messiahship was to heal the sick. The power of healing remains in the Church since Christ himself remains in the Church through the Holy Spirit.

The Sacrament of the Unction of the sick is the Church's specific prayer for healing. If the faith of the believers is strong enough, and if it is the will of God, there is every reason to believe that the Lord can heal those who are diseased.

The biblical basis for the Sacrament is found in James 5:14-16:

Is any among you sick, let him call for the presbyters of the church, and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord; and the prayer of faith will save the sick man, and the Lord will raise him up; and if he has committed sins, he will be forgiven. Therefore, confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, that you may be healed.

S

The Orthodox Church is ever mindful of the spiritual state of the dying and has a number of prayers which assist the soul to pass from this world into God's care. First, and most important of all, is the necessity of ensuring that a priest is called to hear the last confession and administer Holy Communion to the dying. This singularly important moment, depends upon the family of the dying person making arrangements early enough for the priest to visit the person in question, whilst he/she is still able to communicate. If the dying person is beyond communicating, the priest will not be able to administer Holy Communion, but would generally read the Canon for the Departure of the Soul from the Body. If the person is already deceased when the priest arrives, then he will read the Canon After the Departure of the Soul from the Body. As it may not be possible for the family of the departed to be present at this time, it is important for the family to have a requiem (panikhida) sung in church, when the family is able to assemble. This service is referred to as the Panikhida of the First Day.

Translation of Poem by A.K. Tolstoy, "TROPARION" from John Damascene

А. К. Толстой. Поэма «Иоанн Дамаскин»

Тропарь

«Какая сладость в жизни сей
Земной печали непричастна?
Чьё ожиданье не напрасно?
И где счастливый меж людей?
Всё то превратно, всё ничтожно,
Что мы с трудом приобрели, —
Какая слава на земли
Стоит тверда и непреложна?
Всё пепел, призрак, тень и дым,
Исчезнет всё как вихорь пыльный,
И перед смертью мы стоим
И безоружны и бессильны.
Рука могучего слаба,
Ничтожны царские веленья —
Прими усопшего раба,
Господь, в блаженные селенья!

Как ярый витязь смерть нашла,
Меня как хищник низложила,
Свой зев разинула могила
И всё житейское взяла.
Спасайтесь, сродники и чада,
Из гроба к вам взываю я,
Спасайтесь, братья и друзья,
Да не узрите пламень ада!
Вся жизнь есть царство суеты,
И, дуновенье смерти чуя,
Мы увядаем, как цветы, —
Почто же мы мятемся всуе?
Престолы наши суть гроба,
Чертоги наши — разрушенье, —
Прими усопшего раба,
Господь, в блаженные селенья!

Средь груды тлеющих костей
Кто царь? кто раб? судья иль воин?
Кто царства божия достоин?
И кто отверженный злодей?
О братья, где сребро и злато?
Где сонмы многие рабов?
Среди неведомых гробов
Кто есть убогий, кто богатый?
Всё пепел, дым, и пыль, и прах,
Всё призрак, тень и привиденье —
Лишь у тебя на небесах,
Господь, и пристань и спасенье!
Исчезнет всё, что было плоть,
Величье наше будет тленье —
Прими усопшего, Господь,
В твои блаженные селенья!

И ты, предстательница всем!
И ты, заступница скорбящим!
К тебе о брате, здесь лежащем,
К тебе, святая, вопием!
Моли божественного сына,
Его, пречистая, моли,
Дабы отживший на земли
Оставил здесь свои кручины!
Всё пепел, прах, и дым, и тень!
О други, призраку не верьте!
Когда дохнёт в нежданный день
Дыханье тлительное смерти,
Мы все поляжем, как хлеба,
Серпом подрезанные в нивах, —
Прими усопшего раба,
Господь, в селениях счастливых!

Иду в незнаемый я путь,
Иду меж страха и надежды;
Мой взор угас, остыла грудь,
Не внемлет слух, сомкнуты вежды;
Лежу безгласен, недвижим,
Не слышу братского рыданья,
И от кадила синий дым
Не мне струит благоуханье;
Но вечным сном пока я сплю,
Моя любовь не умирает,
И ею, братья, вас молю,
Да каждый к Господу взывает:
Господь! В тот день, когда труба
Вострубит мира преставление, —
Прими усопшего раба
В твои блаженные селенья!»

(1852)

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

Aleksei Konstantinovich Tolstoy

(1817-1875)

Troparion from the Poem “John Damascene”

What sort of bliss is there in life

That has no truck with earthly grief?

What hoping-waiting is not rife

With vanity, what joy not brief?

All that with toil we have acquired

Is evanescent, fleeting, vain, 

What earthly glory stands not mired

In fickleness, in useless strain?

Ashes all is, shade and smoke,

Like clouds of dust life blows away,

While we stand helpless, void of hope

On day of judgment, Death’s dread day.

The mighty hand now limp, despised,

The tsar’s decrees have force no more,

Receive, O Lord, thy thrall demised

Onto Mount Zion’s blessed shore!

A knight on horseback, Death appeared,

And laid me low, ripped me asunder,

The yawning grave before me leered

And swallowed life once wreathed with wonder.

O save yourselves, my kith and kin,

From rot of grave I call to you,

My friends and brothers, eschew sin,

Look not on hell fire’s dire purview!

Vain life too short soon Death devours,

And when we breathe bereavement’s air,

We fade away like withered flowers,

Why thrash and writhe in that dread snare?

Those once enthroned are soon chastised,

Resplendent mansions are no more,

Receive, O Lord, thy thrall demised

Onto Mount Zion’s blessed shore!

Amidst the heaps of rotting bone

Who’s judge, who’s serf or king?

Who’s found a place in heaven’s home,

And who deserves hell’s baleful sting?

O brothers, where is silver, gold,

Where multitudes of chattel, slaves?

Both rich and poor are as slime mold

Amidst the scores of nameless graves.

All smoke and ashes, dust and rot,

Phantasms, spectres, shades, that’s all,

Alone with God we dwell unfraught,

On His celestial blue atoll.

All carnal flesh will vaporize,

All grandeur will be nevermore, 

Receive, O Lord, the dead, demised

Onto Mount Zion’s blessed shore!

And Thou, who intercedes for all,

Who succors those in grief and pain,

O Holy Mother, hear our call,

Please help the dead who cry in vain.

Theotokos, to Thy Son pray,

Pray unto Him, Dei Mater pure,

That he who’s lived through life’s dismay

Might with his death his griefs immure.

For all is ashes, smoke and rot,

O friends, put not your faith in whimsey.

When that day comes we’re left not aught,

Death breathes on flesh gone dry and flimsy.

We’ll all be mown like fresh-grown wheat,

Cut down, laid low by sickle’s blade.

Receive, O Lord, each thrall discrete

To Zion’s precious promenade!

I tread an unknown path chagrined,

I walk that wire twixt fear and hope;

My breast grown cold, my eyesight dimmed,

I tremble on that dread tightrope.  

I lie stock-still, my voice a croak,

My brother’s sobs I cannot hear,

And not for me the dove-blue smoke

That wafts from censer past my bier.

But though I sleep the timeless rest,

My earthly love will never die,

Please heed, my brethren, this request,

Lift up to God your voice on High:

When mortals, Lord, demoralized,

Hear trumpets sound the judgment call,

Receive, O Lord, the dead, demised

Where joy and rapture conquer all!

 Note by Dimitri Obolensky in the front matter of his Penguin Book of Russian Verse, 1965.

“Count Aleksei Tolstoy, a distant cousin of the renowned novelist and a childhood friend of Tsar Aleksandr II, was a resolute champion of the freedom of art in a utilitarian age. His poetry is idealistic and full of joyful vitality. He excelled in the short sentimental lyric, in the historical ballad, and especially in humorous verse—a field in which he has no peer among Russian poets. The ‘Troparion’ from his long poem John Damascene is a paraphrase of parts of the burial service of the Orthodox Church.”

                                                     "Nasturtiums" by John McCartin

Bobby Goosey's Nonsense Verse The Influence of SHEL SILVERSTEIN "Chester," "My Beard," "Tsk, Tusk"

Bobby Goosey, author of Bobby Goosey's Nonsense Verse for Kids, writes, at times, under the influence of the great Shel Silverstein. Here are some examples.


First Shel Silverstein:

Then Bobby Goosey:

THREE PESTESSES, from Bobby Goosey's Nonsense Verse

Caricature of R. Bowie, St. Petersburg, 1999

Artwork by Vladimir Zenkin

Natalia Goncharova, "Pillars of Salt," 1908

PODCAST READING AND INTERVIEW WITH U.R. BOWIE, "The Strange Recital"

                                                   THE STRANGE RECITAL
                          "A Podcast about fiction that questions the nature of reality"

The podcast begins with a reading of the beginning of a story by U.R. Bowie, "Such Is the Scent of Our Sweet Opalescence," followed by an interview with the author and reader of the text, U.R. Bowie






https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2NZo4T1756s&feature=youtu.be

                        Original Text of the Interview (Varies Slightly from the Recorded Version)

Such is the Scent of Our Sweet Opalescence

BR:      Hello, mister U.R. Bowie! You must get a lot of people making a bad pun on your initials: “And you are….?”

RB:      And who are you? Actually, my real name is Robert Bowie. I always thought it was unique, until I once googled it and found there to be scads of Robert Bowies all over, including one serial killer in the state of Maine. I published three books early on under my own name, but when it came time to start publishing my fiction, I wanted something unique, so I just added the extra initial, U. And the name is unique, except even it does not prevent me from running perpetually into my nemesis on the Internet, David Bowie. Ask me why he’s my nemesis.

Why is he your nemesis?

Because his real name was David Jones, but when he decided to become a pop star he borrowed my last name, without ever bothering to learn how to pronounce it. So that the incorrect pronunciation of my surname has spread wildly now, all over the world, like the coronavirus. It’s BOO-EE, BOO-EE, BOO-EE.

TN:      Thanks for joining us by phone on the podcast. Even if you lived near our studio, which you don’t, we would still have had to do this by phone because of the lovely pandemic that has befallen us. Hope you’re staying safe and healthy.

RB:      Well, I’ve been sheltering in place, hunkering down. Actually, I was already hunkered down about as far as I could get, and then they told me I had to hunker still more. So I’m sheltering and hunkering, and social distancing. Which is easy for me, since I’ve been doing it all my life: social distancing. We introverts know how to “social distance.” Most writers of fiction are that type: basically hermits. Nikolai Gogol was the ultimate extreme in social distancing.

BR:      What we just heard is the opening of a long-ish short story. So give us a rough idea -- where does the story go from here?

RB:

It begins with a guy, UV Lamb, who was hit by lightning and was supposed to die and did not. In not dying at his appointed time, he somehow has violated certain principals of the universe—which says, “Die when your time comes, sucker.” Consequently, he must suffer. So suffer he does, until he suffers his way through to where the story began, and this time he does it right—the way he should have done in the first place. Happy ending.

TN:      I like the fact that your main character, U.V. Lamb, is a professional pataphysician. That’s a job I’ve always wanted. Where can I apply?

RB: Pataphysics is the science of that which is superinduced upon metaphysics. To become a pataphysician you need specialized training in France, where you have to study a lot of books written in French, and listen to a lot of lectures in gobbledygook, given by professors who have read similar deconstructuring gobbledygook in books by Foucault and Blanchot. Stuff about how nothing on earth is real—as if we didn’t already know that. The main character of my story, UV, cannot speak French, but he has somehow picked up the necessary education to land a job at the Interlachen Collider (in North Florida), working not only as patapysician, but also as physics assister/insister and lead quarker. Ask me what a physics assister does.

What does a physics assister do?

A physics assister assists physicists, and a physics insister insists on assisting assisters who assist and insist physicists. There.

BR:      Opalescence… what exactly is that, and what does it smell like?

RB:      The English language is full of beautiful words. Opalescence is one. Another, just to take one example, is acquiescence. That would make a great title for a book: Opalescent Acquiescence. I love the sound of the word, opalescence, the very feel of it. What does it mean? Something opalescent has the look of a pearl, it emits an iridescent shimmer, has a milkiness, like that of an opal. So everything about the word is lovely. How does it taste? Nice. How does it smell? Well, I quote from the story: “that milky-pearly and pinkish kind of smell, reminds me of fresh papaya pulp.”

BR:      I wonder… are you the first to portray Death as a simple country guy from the South who grins too much? Good name -- Delmas W. Pruitt.

RB: Good question. I don’t know exactly where my subconscious mind came up with Delmas Pruitt. He’s not exactly Death, but he is one of Death’s representatives on earth. His job is to do the dirty work of Death and then accompany the demised to the Great By and By. I’m sure there are scads of other writers who have written stories about encounters with the representatives of Death, but I can’t think of any off hand. As for the names in my fictions, I get them all out of the obituary columns in the local newspapers. The obits are full of fascinating, even opalescent people with wonderful names.

TN:      “Such is the Scent of Our Sweet Opalescence” is the title piece from a collection of stories. On the back of the book, it says these stories are, and I quote: “written expressly for readers who disdain the dominant American insipid genre of ‘domestic literary fiction.’” You’re definitely setting yourself as an outsider. Can you say a little more about that?

RB:      Probably should not go into this here, as it sets me off on lengthy rants and raves. I have written at length elsewhere on the sorry state of the American short story. See my book reviews, for example, on the website, Dactyl Review, where I am the contributing editor. Or look at the interviews posted on my personal website, urbowie.com. In brief, I believe, for example, that The New Yorker should stop publishing so much trashy fiction, and that all creative writing programs in all American universities should be abolished.

BR:      I’m taking a cue from your website, where I see you’re a scholar of Russian language and culture… I happen to be reading The Master and Margarita right now, and I know it’s a favorite book of Tom’s. Has Bulgakov been an influence on your work?

RB: That novel, “The Master and Margarita,” was hands down the favorite of all the books I taught back when I was a professor of Russian literature. Take Jesus Christ and a mobster cat, who walks on his hind legs, works for the devil, and shoots a pistol, and put all that together into a love story. As for influence on my own writing, I could name practically all the great Russians, but especially Chekhov, Bunin, Nabokov, Bulgakov, and Gogol, Gogol, Gogol.

TN:      It appears that your latest work is a spy novel that comes in two thick volumes. Give us a quick glimpse of that story, if you can.

RB: Yes, that’s by far the longest book I’ve written. It’s not exactly a spy novel, but more like a takeoff on a spy novel. I know a little bit about spookery, because back when I was in the army I used to be a spook, doing field work for the None Such Agency. What I’ve done with this book is take a lot of my own experiences and fictionalize them. The book, in a word, tells the story of a semi-spook recruited to work with Russian intelligence operatives in Central Asia, back when everyone was searching for Osama bin Laden. While waiting in Samarkand for something to happen—nothing does—the semi-spook goes back to his childhood and tells the story of how his life in spookery began. He brings that story gradually up to the present, to the day when he boards a Russian helicopter that is off to pick up Osama, to purchase him from a group of Islamic terrorists who hold him in an open-air cage in the desert.

BR:      If you had to identify a core philosophy or two that are essential to your fiction, what would they be?

RB: “Core philosophy” is maybe too highfalutin to describe my fiction. I guess the main thing is that I always have had an intense love for words. Кто я? Я филолог. Что делает филолог? Филолог любит. Что любит филолог? Филолог любит СЛОВА. I have a Ph.D. in Russian language and literature. I’m a philologist, a practitioner of philology. It’s all there in the very word. From “philos” (love) and “logos” (word). No one without an intense love for words should be writing creative literary fiction. Okay, maybe it’s okay to write fiction, but don’t pretend that the words “creative,” and “literary” apply. Unless you love words. That’s the one prerequisite.

TN:      Back to what's on everybody's mind... how is our current condition of self-quarantine affecting your work and your life?

RB: I sit here writing books every day, same as always. As I mentioned before, I’m hunkered down about as far as I can get, so I can’t hunker down any farther. Then again, I’ve always been afflicted with chronic anxiety, so the virus can’t elevate the anxiety much more. In a word, I’m fine! Then again, I pay close attention to all the medical advisories put out by the office of Mike (The Dense) Pence. Here’s one that came out this morning: “HELP STOMP OUT THE PLAGUE. If you see a virus bug flying through the air, put on medical surgical latex gloves, grab the virus, put it on the ground, and stomp on it. Three times. God bless America.”

BR:      Thank you, Robert. We appreciate your time and your contribution to our podcast. Take care.

TN:      I hope the grocery store isn’t all out of papaya. I want to sniff some opalescence.

RB:      Sniff, sniff, sniff . . . Ahhhhhhhh.

(END)

Translation of Poem by A.A. FET, "SWALLOWS," "Ласточки"

Afanasy Fet

(1820-1892)

Ласточки

Природы праздный соглядатай,

Люблю, забывши все кругом,

Следить за ласточкой стрельчатой

Над вечереющим прудом.

Вот понеслась и зачертила -

И страшно, чтобы гладь стекла

Стихией чуждой не схватила

Молниевидного крыла.

И снова то же дерзновенье

И та же темная струя,-

Не таково ли вдохновенье

И человеческого я?

Не так ли я, сосуд скудельный,

Дерзаю на запретный путь,

Стихии чуждой, запредельной,

Стремясь хоть каплю зачерпнуть?

1884

Literal Translation

Swallows

Nature’s idle spy,

I [the poet] love, forgetting all around me,

To follow the arrow-like [movements of a] swallow

Over a pond as twilight approaches.

There it went rushing, and sketched out its pattern,

And you fear that the smooth glassy surface,

With its elemental force, might seize

The lightning zig-zag of the wing.

Then once again comes the same daring [swoop]

And the same dark spurt [of flight].

Does not inspiration work like that

Within the human soul?

Do not I, a clay vessel, in the same way

Dare to venture onto a forbidden path,

With its elemental force, beyond the pale,

Striving to scoop up at least one small drop?

d

Literary Translation by Vladimir Nabokov

The Swallow

When prying idly into Nature

I am particularly fond

Of watching the arrow of a swallow

Over the sunset of a pond.

See—there it goes, and skims, and glances:

The alien element, I fear,

Roused from its glassy sleep might capture

Black lightning quivering so near.

There—once again that fearless shadow

Over a frowning ripple ran.

Have we not here the living image

Of active poetry in man—

Of something leading me, banned mortal,

To venture where I dare not stop—

Striving to scoop from a forbidden

Mysterious element one drop?

Date of translation: 1943. From Vladimir Nabokov, Verses and Versions (compilation published by Harcourt, Inc., 2008), p. 307

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Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

Swallows

I love to play the idle spy,

And watch, oblivious to all,

A swoop-flit swallow on the fly,

O’er pond as evening nears nightfall.

Look there, see how she darts and skims

Along the lip of glazed-smooth mere;

I’m worried lest a ripple’s whims

Snatch up her blitzwing on the veer.

But she dares more exuberation,

Pursues her games of dark spurt-swoop;

Is this not much like lucubration,

Inspired poets’ loop-de-loop?

Is this not how I soar where banned,

O’er God’s wild seas with my tin cup,  

Illicit veers through barred dreamland,

In hopes one drop I can scoop up?

Date of translation: March 30, 2020

Translator’s Notes

On swallows. What sounds do swallows make? I found this on the Internet: "The swallow songs are high-pitched and liquid, composed of three sounds--a chirp, a whine, and a gurgle--which they mix and match in a variety of patterns. Both males and females sing." The marvels of the Internet also allow us to listen to the exact sounds these birds produce. 

Fet makes no mention of swallows' songs in "Swallows," but another of his more popular poems, "A Wondrous Moscow Day in May," (also translated on my blog, see below), begins like this in my translation:

A wondrous Moscow day in May,

Each cross on church aglitter,

Outside the swallows roundelay,

Their gurgle-chirp and twitter.

As long as poetry has existed, writers have tried to describe the flight of swallows in metaphorical terms, but, as far as I know, nobody has ever captured the picture in perfect metaphor.

In the original text of "Lastochki" (last stanza, first line), the poet refers to himself as “sosud skudel’nyj,” which is a Biblical phrase, meaning “earthen vessel” or “clay vessel.” Now archaic, the phrase appears in the works of many Russian writers of the nineteenth century, in reference to the limits on man, his transient nature; it is an allusion to human weakness in the face of universal forces.

Fet’s first-person poet takes this “earthen vessel,” or “clay pot”—the embodiment of his mortal self—with him when inspiration sends him off on a flight like a swallow over a universal pond, or over the seas of God’s vast universe. He strives to scoop up at least a meager droplet of the liquid of Ultimate Reality, which he will then turn into immortal art—somehow infringing on territory belonging to the deities in his illegal quest. We are reminded of Prometheus. 

The best I could do with this phrase in translation was “tin cup.” After all, the poet on his quest flight needed something to do the scooping with. Also apparently stumped, in translating “sosud skudel’nyj,” Nabokov gave up on referring to any kind of vessel or container; he settled on “banned mortal,” a different paraphrase.

But then, any attempt to translate rhymed and metered poetry, while retaining the meter and rhymes, amounts to paraphrase. When I go through the process, I hope to come up with a good new poem in English. I don’t pretend that my poem (translation/adaptation) is an exact, word-to-word transcription of the original in Russian. I do hope, however, that the new poem in English captures the gist and spirit of the original Russian poem.

In 1943, when Nabokov translated this Fet poem, “Lastochki,” he was still trying to do the same thing I’m doing now. Later, after his struggles with translating Pushkin’s great narrative in verse, Evgeny Onegin, he gave up on this kind of translation altogether, stating in his usual peremptory way that such paraphrase is illegal, an affront to the original poem and poet. The best we can do with poetry, he said, is make a literal translation, such as the one I have provided for “Lastochki” above. Take a look at it. It’s not poetry, is it?

Or take a look at Nabokov’s translation of Eugene Onegin. That may be an accurate effort, but it’s not poetry either. Of course, his four-volume translation of Pushkin’s immortal work is magnificent, a genuine tour de force; not for the first volume (the pony translation), but for the remaining three, the voluminous scholarly notes and articles.

                Avenue of the Baobabs, Morondava, Madagascar, Photo by Thomas Pakenham

Declamation of the poem by Sergei Chonishvili

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t5jPjJBypII