Sophocles, "Antigone," Polish Theater Poster
Осип Мандельштам
(1891-1938)
Ласточка
Я слово позабыл, что я хотел сказать.
Слепая ласточка в чертог теней вернётся,
На крыльях срезанных, с прозрачными играть.
B беспамятстве ночная песнь поётся.
Не слышно птиц. Бессмертник не цветёт.
Прозрачны гривы табуна ночного.
B сухой реке пустой челнок плывёт.
Среди кузнечиков беспамятствует слово.
И медленно растёт, как бы шатёр иль храм,
То вдруг прикинется безумной Антигоной,
То мёртвой ласточкой бросается к ногам,
С стигийской нежностью и веткою зелёной.
О, если бы вернуть и зрячих пальцев стыд,
И выпуклую радость узнаванья.
Я так боюсь рыданья Аонид,
Тумана, звона и зиянья!
А
смертным власть дана любить и узнавать,
Для них и звук в персты прольётся,
Но я забыл, что я хочу сказать,
И мысль бесплотная в чертог теней вернётся.
Bсё не о том прозрачная твердит,
Всё ласточка, подружка, Антигона...
И на губах, как чёрный лёд, горит
Стигийского воспоминанье звона.
1920
d
Literal Translation
The
Swallow
I’ve forgotten the word
that I was trying to say.
The blind swallow will
return to the palace of shades,
On clipped wings, will
play with transparencies.
The night song in oblivion
is sung.
The birds cannot be heard.
The immortelle does not bloom.
Transparent are the manes
of the night herd.
In a dry river an empty
bark floats.
Amidst the grasshoppers
the word loses consciousness.
And slowly it grows, as if
some tent or temple,
First suddenly pretending
to be a mad Antigone,
Then a dead swallow that
throws itself at your feet,
With Stygian tenderness
and a green branch.
O, if only to return the
shame even of sighted fingers,
And the bulging joy of
recognition.
I so fear the sobs of the
Aonides, [Muses]
And the fog, peals,
gapings!
But to mortals is given
the power to love and to recognize,
For them even sound will
flow through fingers,
But I have forgotten what
I’m trying to say,
And incorporeal thought
will return to the palace of shades.
All the time the
transparency repeats the wrong thing,
All the time it’s swallow,
girlfriend, Antigone . . .
And on the lips, like
black ice, there burns
The remembrance of the
Stygian peal.
d
Literary
Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie (un-rhymed, un-metered)
Blind
Swallows
On tip of brain-tongue had
the—damn—forgot the word I had.
So flits the blind swallow
back into the old manse of shades,
On wings now clipped, her
swoops maligned,
To play with things
transparent.
While the song of night,
mind dim, benumbed, goes on trilling its ditty.
Can’t hear the birds sing
anymore; the immortelle won’t bloom.
Transparent are the manes
on the steeds of galloping night.
An empty bark afloat on a
river gone dry.
While word amidst the grasshoppers
Falls helplessly in
swoon.
Then slowly something grows—feel
it?—like a tent going up, or a temple;
Takes turns pretending:
I’m Antigone crazed, or no—
I’m a dead swallow who
throws herself at your feet,
With Stygian tenderness
And a green twig in her
beak.
O, if only to bring back
the shame of the sighted fingers that see,
To grasp once more the
bulging, tumescent joy of cognition.
I do so fear the sobs of
the Aonides, my Muses,
And the haze,
And the peals, and the
gapes!
But unto mortals is given
the power to love and to be cognizant,
For them pure sound will
flow its way through fingers,
But yea, woe, damn; I’ve
forgotten what I wanted to say!
And now fleshless thought
must slink its way back,
Into the old manse of shades.
Transparency, you see, goes on and on with
not getting it right,
On and on with its bleating: swallow,
girlfriend, Antigone . . .
While on my lips, on the tip of the
tongue
Of my black-iced brain, burns
The remembrance of that primordial
Peal of the Stygian bells.
d
Translator’s Note
Сommentary on this
poem by Irina Surat, from her article in Russian about various Russian poems
featuring swallows (in the journal Novy Mir, “Tri veka russkoj poezii”),
available online:
http://www.nm1925.ru/Archive/Journal6_2007_4/Content/Publication6_1981/Default.aspx
Among her most interesting points:
this is a poem about trying to write poetry, about the thing of words on the
tip of the tongue of your mind that keep slipping away. The poet never does
recapture the exact words he wanted, but, paradoxically, he writes a lovely
poem, with all the right words, about how blind swallows cannot get their
swoops right in his mind.
