Translation of Poem by Osip Mandelstam, Осип Мандельштам, "Ласточка," BLIND SWALLOWS

                                                  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.