Translation of Poem by Osip Mandelstam, Осип Мандельштам, "Когда Психея-жизнь спускается к теням," "When Psyche, Soul of Life"

                                                         Mesquite Flat Dunes, Death Valley

Осип Мандельштам

(1891-1938)

Когда Психея-жизнь спускается к теням
В полупрозрачный лес, вослед за Персефоной,
Слепая ласточка бросается к ногам
С стигийской нежностью и веткою зеленой.

 

Навстречу беженке спешит толпа теней,
Товарку новую встречая причитаньем,
И руки слабые ломают перед ней
С недоумением и робким упованьем.

 

Кто держит зеркальце, кто баночку духов,--
Душа ведь женщина, ей нравятся безделки,
И лес безлиственный прозрачных голосов
Сухие жалобы кропят, как дождик мелкий.

 

И в нежной сутолке не зная, что начать,
Душа не узнает прозрачные дубравы,
Дохнет на зеркало и медлит передать
Лепешку медную с туманной переправы. 

 

November, 1920

 

d

Literal Translation

When Psyche-Life descends toward the shades,

Into the translucent forest, following behind Persephone,

A blind swallow throws herself at her feet

With Stygian tenderness and a green branch.

 

A mob of shades rushes to greet the refugee,

Welcoming their new companion with keening,

And they wring their weak hands in front of her

In bewilderment and timid hope.

 

One holds a small mirror, another a bottle of perfume;

After all, the Soul is a woman and loves trinkets,

And the leafless forest of transparent voices

Sprinkles dry entreaties, like a soft rainfall.

 

And in the tender bustle not knowing where to begin,

The Soul does not recognize the transparent oak groves;

It breathes on the mirror and is slow to hand over

The little copper wafer from the foggy ferry crossing.

 

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie (Un-rhymed, un-metered)

 

When Psyche, Soul of Life, a.k.a. Anima,

Descends toward the shades of Netherworld,

Into the wood translucent,

Following the pathway of Persephone,

A blind swallow swoops down before her,

At her feet genuflects,

With tenderness Stygian and

A twig spring-green in beak.

 

Rushing toward the refugee,

A throng of netherland shades

Wails threnodies and lamentations keens,

By way of saying Hi to their new cohort;

Bewildered, placing timid hope in her,

They cringe and wring their enervated hands.

One holds a compact mirror,

Another a flacon of fragrance;

For Psyche-Anima, you see, is a woman,

One who dearly loves her baubles and bric-a-brac;

Meanwhile, the leafless forest  

With the voices transparent

Drizzles down grievances dry,

Like a soft rainfall spitting mist.

 

In all this commotion and bustle of tenderness,

Not knowing where to begin,

Psyche-Soul feels estranged, disaffected

In the midst of the transparent oak groves;

 

She breathes on the compact,

Mists up the mirror,

Neglects to hand over

The small copper token

From the fog-hued ferry crossing

Over darkened Stygian waters

Safely landed.