Sunday, August 20, 2023

Nonsense from Bobby Goosey, GROWING INTO GROWN

 


Bobby Lee Goosey

 

Growing into Grown

Are you a kid? You are? Have you got a big toe? You don’t know? Take a look at your feet; you have toes on them, and for 100% sure you have a big toe: in fact you have two. Don’t you? Yes, you do.

Have you ever thought to watch a big toe grow? Because it is growing, you know. Every minute of the day. And even in the nighttime while you sleep. It’s growing. And your ears are too. And your nose. And every little pimple on your butt. They’re all growing.

So why not sit down some time—when you have nothing else to do—and watch things grow? You can use a mirror to watch your nose. Go get a mirror.

Okay. Are you watching your nose? Are you? You are? In the mirror, right? You say you can’t see anything? You say nothing’s changing; your nose won’t grow? You tell me you don’t really believe what I’m telling you—about how your nose and toes and ears and pimples all grow?

Well, thing is they all like to grow, but they like to go/grow slow. Then again, maybe they don’t like being watched. Even you, I suspect, while you’re growing—and you are—wouldn’t want people staring at you as you grow. Now, would you? Saying, “Look at that there kid; now ain’t he/she growing, though!”

Tell you what to do. Tell you how to check to make sure that your growing is going as growing should go. Before you go to bed tonight take out a ruler, a measuring stick. Measure your big toe, the one on your right foot. Or the one on your left foot, either one’s okay. Write down how many inches it is.

Now then. Do you like to suck a finger, to help you go to sleep? You do? Which one? Not the thumb? Okay, right, the index finger. So. Before you go to bed tonight—and right after you measure your big toe—measure that index finger, your sucking finger.

Then all you have to do when you wake up in the morning is: take your big toe, same one, and measure it again with the ruler. If you’re growing at the proper rate it will be a half-inch longer. Then take your sucking finger out of your mouth. Is it wet? Good. Measure it again.

Your sucking finger should be about one inch longer. It should be growing faster than your big toe. Why? It grows faster because it gets more water. Toes and fingers are like plants: they need watering. So, anyway, that’s it: that’s how to tell if your growing is going as your growing should go.

What if you discover that your big toe and your sucking finger aren’t growing that fast? Don’t worry. They’ll grow. That’s their job. If you want your big toe to grow faster dip it in water a few times a day. Or use it tonight to suck your way to sleep; give your index finger a rest.

And if none of this makes sense to you don’t worry about it. There’s no point in worrying about growing. Or, in fact, about anything else on earth. People tend to think that things in their lives won’t work out. That’s why people worry. But the worriers have it wrong; in the end of all ends things all work out. There’s nothing on earth that won’t work out; all it takes is time. Don’t forget that. And your growing grows all by itself. You’ll see. One day you’ll wake up all full-grown. Your nose, your ears. And your big toes too. Grown. What a relief. You’ll say, “Dang. I’m all done growing and now I’m growed!”


 


Tuesday, August 8, 2023

Translation of Poem by Ivan Bunin, Иван Бунин, "Одиночество," LONELINESS

                                 Monument to Ivan Bunin in Voronezh, Sculptor A.I. Burganov



Ivan Bunin

(1870-1953)

 

Иван Бунин

Одиночество

И ветер, и дождик, и мгла
Над холодной пустыней воды.
Здесь жизнь до весны умерла,
До весны опустели сады.
Я на даче один. Мне темно
За мольбертом, и дует в окно.

 

Вчера ты была у меня,
Но тебе уж тоскливо со мной.
Под вечер ненастного дня
Ты мне стала казаться женой…
Что ж, прощай! Как-нибудь до весны
Проживу и один — без жены…

 

Сегодня идут без конца
Те же тучи — гряда за грядой.
Твой след под дождем у крыльца
Расплылся, налился водой.
И мне больно глядеть одному
В предвечернюю серую тьму.

 

Мне крикнуть хотелось вослед:
«Воротись, я сроднился с тобой!»
Но для женщины прошлого нет:
Разлюбила — и стал ей чужой.
Что ж! Камин затоплю, буду пить…
Хорошо бы собаку купить.

 [1903-1905]

 

d

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

Loneliness

 

The wind, and the rain, mist and dread,

Hanging low over wastelands of water.   

Here all life until spring has gone dead,

Scant gardens are winter’s best augur.

I’m alone at the dacha, in gloaming,  

At my easel; the wind soughing, droning.


You were here with me just yesterday,

But with me you were restless and sad.

In the rain, twilight murk, disarray,

You seemed like a wife, or comrade . . .

So be it, farewell! Till spring and new life

I’ll live by myself, with no wife . . .

 

The rainclouds glide on, on and on, 

One cloudbank, one more, then the same.

Your footprint by the porch almost gone,

Diffuse, formless now, filled with rain.

And it pains me to be alone, gazing

At the gray twilight haze all-embracing.

 

I wanted to cry after you:

“Come back, you’re a part of me now!”

But for woman what’s loved hitherto

Counts for naught—not a touch, not a vow.  

So be it! I’ll light a fire in the hearth

And I’ll drink till besotted;

Might just get me a dog,

One that’s black and white spotted.

 

                       Monument to the dog Bim in Voronezh ("White Bim with the Black Ear")



d

Translator’s Addendum

Alternate Endings (Jocular) With Creative Rhymes

(The Many Words Drinkers Use, Courtesy of Roget’s Thesaurus)

 


Silly

I’ll light a fire in the hearth, and I’ll drink myself silly;

Might just get me a dog, feed him buckwheat with chili.

 

Sloshed

I’ll light a fire in the hearth and I’ll get myself sloshed;

Might just buy me a dog, take him out for long walks.

 

 

Blotto

I’ll light a fire in the hearth and I’ll drink till I’m blotto;

Might just buy me a dog, name him Buster, or Otto.

 

Dizzy

I’ll light a fire in the hearth, and I’ll drink myself dizzy;

Might just get me a dog, one all fluffy and frizzy.

 

Stinko

I’ll light a fire in the hearth, and I’ll drink myself stinko;

Might just get me a dog, or a nice pet flamingo.

 

Crocked

I’ll light a fire in the hearth and I’ll get myself crocked;

Might just buy me a dog, one with spots and tail lopped.

 

Ivan Bunin declaims his poem:

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V8JpNfXnjKI




Saturday, August 5, 2023

Bobby Goosey Nonsense: DON'T LET YOUR VOLCANO GO OUT

 


 

Bobby Lee Goosey

 

 

Don’t Let Your Volcano Go Out!

or

How My Pet Volcano Passed Away

 

I had a pet volcano, but I let him go out. He was such a warm friend. He burned and sissed and fumed and belched up gasses, and he kept my room warm in the winter.

But one night, when he was burning bright, I let him go out. He woke me up scratching at the door. Said he had to go outside and urp up some lava. I should never have let him go out, but I let him go out.

Now he’s extinct. He doesn’t siss and fume and warm my room. He just sits there unsissingly, mouth gaping. I don’t think you could even call him a pet volcano anymore.

Now he’s more like a pet rock. Sad, but that’s what you get when you let your volcano go out.

 

[from Bobby Goosey’s Compendium of Perfectly Sensible Nonsense]



Translation of Poem by Arseny Tarkovsky, Арсений Тарковский, "Жили-были," THE YEAR NINETEEN

 


Арсений Тарковский

(1907-1989)

Жили-были


Вся Россия голодала,
Чуть жила на холоду,
Граммофоны, одеяла,
Стулья, шапки, что попало
На пшено и соль меняла
В девятнадцатом году.

Брата старшего убили,
И отец уже ослеп,
Всё имущество спустили,
Жили, как в пустой могиле,
Жили-были, воду пили
И пекли крапивный хлеб.

 

Мать согнулась, постарела,
Поседела в сорок лет
И на худенькое тело
Рвань по-нищенски надела;
Ляжет спать – я то и дело:
Дышит мама или нет?

 

Гости что-то стали редки
В девятнадцатом году.
Сердобольные соседки
Тоже, будто птицы в клетке
На своей засохшей ветке,
Жили у себя в аду.

 

Но картошки гниловатой
Нам соседка принесла
И сказала:
– Как богато
Жили нищие когда-то.
Бог Россию виноватой
Счел за Гришкины дела.

 

Вечер был. Сказала:
– Ешьте! –
Подала лепешки мать.
Муза в розовой одежде,
Не являвшаяся прежде,
Вдруг предстала мне в надежде
Не давать ночами спать.

 

Первое стихотворенье
Сочинял я, как в бреду:
«Из картошки в воскресенье
Мама испекла печенье!»
Так познал я вдохновенье
В девятнадцатом году.

 

 

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

The Year Nineteen

 

Half dead of the cold,

All of Russia starved,

Gramophones and blankets,

Chairs and caps, what have you,

Swapped for grain and salt,

In the year Nineteen.

My older brother killed,

Father now gone blind,

All we owned was squandered,

Lived as if in empty grave,

Lived our lives and water drank,

From nettle leaves we baked our bread.


Mother bent and older,

Hair gone gray at age of forty,

On her puny body now

She wears what beggars wear: sackcloth;

Goes to bed, sometimes I think,

Is mama breathing still, or not?

Guests who come to our abode

A rare thing now, in year Nineteen.

Our neighbors, oldsters weak of heart,

Live, as we, like birds in cages,

Perched up on their brittle branch,

Cheeping in their private hell.

But one neighbor brought to us

A few potatoes, rotten mostly,

And she said:

“How rich they lived,

Our panhandlers once.

God poor Russia judges harshly

For all of Grishka’s nasty work.”

 

It was evening when she came.

“Eat!” she said.

Mama served up tater fritters.

Never having come before,

My muse showed up in rose-pink blouse,

Accosted me in hopes of keeping

Me from sleeping through the night.

In a haze delirious,

I composed my first poem ever:

“Using shreds of spuds she scraped,

Mama tasty pastries baked.”

Thus inspiration I first knew

In lovely year Nineteen.

 

d

 

Translator’s Note

 In the fifth stanza “Grishka” is Grigory Rasputin.




                                                              Aleksei Aronov, "Twilight"


Friday, August 4, 2023

Articles by U.R. Bowie (Posted on blog “U.R. Bowie on Russian Literature” and on Dactyl Review Website)

 


Articles by U.R. Bowie

(Posted on blog “U.R. Bowie on Russian Literature” and on Dactyl Review Website)

[As of August 4, 2023]

 

Book Review Articles

Lee K. Abbott, ALL THINGS ALL AT ONCE

Julian Barnes, THE SENSE OF AN ENDING

Elif Batuman, THE IDIOT

Charles Baxter, THE FEAST OF LOVE

Charles Baxter, THERE’S SOMETHING I WANT YOU TO DO

David Bezmozgis, THE FREE WORLD

David Bezmozgis, THE BETRAYERS

Italo Calvino, If on a winter's night a traveler

J.M. Coetzee, THE MASTER OF PETERSBURG

Don DeLillo, LIBRA

Jeffrey Eugenides, THE VIRGIN SUICIDES

Penelope Fitzgerald, THE BEGINNING OF SPRING

Ford Madox Ford, THE GOOD SOLDIER

Michael Frayn, THE TRICK OF IT

Paul Fung, DOSTOEVSKY AND THE EPILEPTIC MODE OF BEING

Nadine Gordimer, THE PICKUP

Lauren Groff, FLORIDA

Petrie Harbouri, THE BROTHERS CARBURI

Aleksandar Hemon, THE MAKING OF ZOMBIE WARS

Aleksandar Hemon, LOVE AND OBSTACLES

Kazuo Ishiguro, A PALE VIEW OF HILLS

Cormac McCarthy, THE ROAD

Ian McEwan, NUTSHELL

Ian McEwan, ENDURING LOVE

Vladimir Nabokov, LETTERS TO VERA

Viet Thanh Nguyen, THE SYMPATHIZER

Edna O’Brien, NIGHT

Tim O'Brien, THE THINGS THEY CARRIED

Tea Obreht, THE TIGER'S WIFE

Sarah Quigley, THE CONDUCTOR

Sam Riviere, DEAD SOULS

René de Saint-Denis, THE SONGS AND LAMENTS OF LOŌMOS  

George Saunders, CIVILWARLAND in BAD DECLINE

George Saunders, TENTH OF DECEMBER

George Saunders, LINCOLN IN THE BARDO

Marian Schwartz Translation of ANNA KARENINA

W.G. Sebald, AUSTERLITZ

Maxim D. Shrayer, LEAVING RUSSIA: A JEWISH STORY

Maxim D. Shrayer, BUNIN AND NABOKOV

Olga Tokarczuk, FLIGHTS

Yury Tynyanov, YOUNG PUSHKIN

Meg Wolitzer (editor), THE BEST AMERICAN SHORT STORIES, 2017

 

Miscellaneous Articles

 

THE GREAT BOONDOGGLE OF THE AMERICAN SHORT STORY

A Personal and Critical Essay on FLANNERY O'CONNOR

THE DANCING BEAR IN THE GRAND RUSSIAN ROUND AND ROUND

Russian Attitudes toward Humor and Irony: NIKOLAI GOGOL

The Onomastics of the Russian Leaders (The History of Surnames)

On the Russian "Narod" (Common Man) and On Playing Games of Make Believe

THE TATAR YOKE AND THE CHECHEN WARS

ON LITERARY TRANSLATION. Translating Substandard Speech (просторечие), IVAN BUNIN

ON LITERARY TRANSLATION: "Sympathy for the Traitor"

ISAAC BABEL THE LAUGHER

ISAAC BABEL THE SUBVERSIVE, THE INCENDIARY

ISAAC BABEL THE JEW

ISAAC BABEL DRINKS TEA

ISAAC BABEL IN PEREDELKINO

ISAAC BABEL ON WRITING

ISAAC BABEL'S "SIN OF JESUS" THE GOGOLIAN ORCHESTRATION OF VOICES

U.R. BOWIE TRANSLATES BABEL'S "SIN OF JESUS" INTO ENGLISH

ISAAC BABEL. FINAL DAYS OF TORMENT. DIRE FOREBODINGS

MAX ERNST and The Transgressive Nature of Looking

ON GEORGE SAUNDERS ANALYSIS OF ANTON CHEKHOV STORY, “In the Cart”

SHE OF THE ICE-BLUE EYES: Ariadna Efron (1912-1975)

 

 



Wednesday, August 2, 2023

Translation of Poem by Boris Chichibabin, БОРИС ЧИЧИБАБИН, "И опять – тишина, тишина, тишина" ONCE AGAIN SILENCE

 

БОРИС ЧИЧИБАБИН

(1923-1994)

 

И опять – тишина, тишина, тишина.

Я лежу, изнемогший, счастливый и кроткий.

Солнце лоб мой печёт, моя грудь сожжена,

И почиет пчела на моём подбородке.

 

Я блаженствую молча. Никто не придёт.

Я хмелею от запахов нежных, не зная,

то трава, или хвои целительный мёд,

или в небо роса испарилась лесная.

 

Всё, что вижу вокруг, беспредельно любя,

как я рад, как печально и горестно рад я,

что могу хоть на миг отдохнуть от себя,

полежать на траве с нераскрытой тетрадью.

 

Это самое лучшее, что мне дано:

так лежать без движений, без жажды, без цели,

чтобы мысли бродили, как бродит вино,

в моём тёплом, усталом, задумчивом теле.

 

И не страшно душе – хорошо и легко

слиться с листьями леса, с растительным соком,

с золотыми цветами в тени облаков,

с муравьиной землёю и с небом высоким.

 

1962

 

d

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

Once Again Silence

 

Once again, here she be: quietude, quietude.

Exhausted I lie, meek with joy, no chagrin,   

My forehead is sunbaked, my chest warmth-bedewed;

A honeybee’s perched fast asleep on my chin.

 

No one will come. I’m in bliss pure quiescent,

drunk on aromas and wondering whence

comes the fragrance (that honey-hued balm opalescent),

from dew or from woods evergreen and immense.

 

All I see roundabout is boundless with love,

I’m exultant and blessedly sad (mournful-jocund);

I’m at rest from myself and afflictions thereof,

as I lie on the grass with my notebook unopened.

 

That’s the best of the best that is given to me:

just to lie here immobile, craving naught, aimlessly,

while meander my thoughts like a flow of Chablis

through the warmth of my weary insides, listlessly.   

 

And my soul’s free of fear; all is well, light and easy,

as I merge with the sap, wonder what plants surmise;  

I’m at one with gold flowers in cloud shadows breezy,

with pismire earth and with heavenly skies.  

 



Tuesday, August 1, 2023

Translation of Poem by Marina Tsvetaeva, МАРИНА ЦВЕТАЕВА, "Молитва," A PRAYER

 

МАРИНА ЦВЕТАЕВА

(1892-1941)

 

 

 

Молитва

Христос и Бог! Я жажду чуда

Теперь, сейчас, в начале дня!

О, дай мне умереть, покуда

Вся жизнь как книга для меня.

 

Ты мудрый, Ты не скажешь строго:

— «Терпи, еще не кончен срок».

Ты сам мне подал — слишком много!

Я жажду сразу — всех дорог!

 

Всего хочу: с душой цыгана

Идти под песни на разбой,

За всех страдать под звук органа

и амазонкой мчаться в бой;

 

Гадать по звездам в черной башне,

Вести детей вперед, сквозь тень…

Чтоб был легендой — день вчерашний,

Чтоб был безумьем — каждый день!

 

Люблю и крест, и шелк, и каски,

Моя душа мгновений след…

Ты дал мне детство — лучше сказки

И дай мне смерть — в семнадцать лет!

 

Sept. 26, 1909

Tarusa

 

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

A Prayer

 

Lord God and Christ! I thirst for wonders,

Just now, right now, at dawn of day!

O, let me die bereft yet of the thunders,

While life’s still a book in a showcase display.

 

Omniscient one, Thou willst not utter,

“Persist, thy end lies far ahead.”

My soul Thou kindled, now I sputter;

All roads at once I thirst to tread!

 

I want the whole of it: the gypsy ethos,

To the strains of an organ to suffer for man;

Lusty songs I’d bawl out amidst plunder and chaos,

Be an Amazon queen in defense of homeland.   

 

I’d conjure by stars ’neath a black tower spire,

Hold a child by the hand, lead her through the dim drabness . . .

A legend I’d make out of yesterday’s mire,

Each and every day I’d strive for madness!

 

I love soldiers’ spiked helmets, the cross, and soft cashmere,

Ephemeral trace of my soul’s earthly breath . . .

Thou gave me child years by a fairyland mere,

Now at age seventeen please send me a Death!

 

 

d

Translator’s Note

A poem reeking with almost hysterical teenaged Amor fati. A bit of too, too much here. As if to say, “Give me all you’ve got, Lord; I want to live life to the full. And, by the way, send me an early death.” This recalls, in some respects, another of Tsvetaeva’s verses, the much better and more mature poem written four years later, in Dec., 1913, "Уж сколько их упало в эту бездну" ("So many have been swallowed up and perished).” Here are two stanzas in my literary translation:

To all of you appeal I, to intimates and strangers—

For, after all, I’ve always lacked a simple sense of measure—

I say to all, “Believe me, please,” we’re all too prone to dangers,  

Please send to me some love as well, through fair or stormy weather.

 

You’ll do that, won’t you? Day and night, in written word

Or spoken. Send artless yeses, guileless nos, and sympathy aplenty,

For fact is little me’s so sad, a woeful dickeybird,

And one more thing you need to know: today I’m only twenty!

 

One can’t help thinking that—given the short life that Marina Tsvetaeva was to lead, and given the horrendous griefs and depredations she would bear—she might better have prayed at age seventeen for succor and peace of mind: more tranquil days beside a softly lapping mere in her beloved Tarusa. Not that that prayer was likely to have been answered.

 

This tumultuous prayer—composed, oddly enough, amidst the serenity of Tarusa—asks for two things at once. Marina prays, first of all, for an early death at age seventeen, and that plea is not answered. She prays as well for a wild and chaotic life, for the chance to live rapturously, while burning the candle at both ends. The Lord saw fit to grant her that wish, maybe ten times over.

 

                                                           Max Ernst, "La Fuite," 1940