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.

 

Illegal Dreams

 

In Dostoevsky’s novella, The Village of Stepanchikovo, the petty tyrant Foma Fomich informs a servant that he is not allowed to dream of a white bear. Every morning he questions him: “All right, what did you see in your dreams?” And every morning the poor wretch owns up, sobbing: “Forgive me, Foma Fomich, but last night I dreamed again of a white bear.”

 We old-timer Southerners in The Age of the Covid, whom do we see in our dreams? The illegal Robert E. Lee. When we were children, sweating our way through the segregated schools of the Old South, in the age before air conditioning, we were taught one firm irrefutable truth: Robert E. Lee is the greatest man who ever lived.

 

--You’re not allowed to dream of Robert E. Lee anymore. He’s officially illegal; we’re tearing all his statues down.

                --Fine. If you say so.

                (Two days pass)

                --Okay, dammit, tell me who you dreamed of last night.

                --Urghh. Sorry. Robert E. Lee.

 

Our Stone-Age Ancestors Were Smart

“There are Neolithic skulls dating from 6500 B.C. with holes that testify to trepanation, a treatment that involved drilling through the cranium, presumably to let out malign spirits.”

New Yorker, April 20, 2020

 Drill a hole in my head, let the bad vibes out. And release the illegals who still take up space in my brain: Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson, Christopher Columbus.

 (sings) Oh I wish I was in the Land of Cotton, old times there are not forgotten, look away . . . urghh, sorry, I forgot that song is illegal.

[excerpted from the book by U.R. Bowie, HERE WE BE. WHERE BE WE?]

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.

 

 

 

 

Translation of Poem by VLADIMIR NABOKOV, "The Swallow (The Swift)" "Ласточка"

 

Владимир Набоков

(1899-1977)

Ласточка

Однажды мы под вечер оба
стояли на старом мосту.
Скажи мне, спросил я, до гроба
запомнишь вон ласточку ту?
И ты отвечала: еще бы!

И как мы заплакали оба,
как вскрикнула жизнь на лету…
До завтра, навеки, до гроба —
однажды, на старом мосту…

 

Literal Translation

 

The Swallow

 

Once toward evening the two of us

Were standing on an old bridge.

Tell me, I asked, to the grave

Will you remember that swallow there?

And you answered: Of course!

 

And how the two of us wept,

How life on the fly cried out . . .

Until tomorrow, for ages, to the grave—

Once on an old bridge . . .

 

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

The Swallow

 

One day close to gloaming’s first sigh, 

You and I on a bridge near the shore.

See that swallow, I said, that swooped by;  

In your mind till we die will she soar?

And you answered, She will; I swear!

 

With what fervor the both of us wept,

How the life-bird cried out on the fly!

Till we die and for eons windswept, 

On an old bridge at gloaming’s first sigh. 

d

 

Translation by Vladimir Nabokov

(with new bird in title role)

The Swift

One night between sunset and river

On an old bridge we stood, you and I.

Will you ever forget it, I queried,

That particular swift that went by?

And you answered, so earnestly: Never!

 

And what sobs made us suddenly shiver,

What a cry life emitted in flight!

Till we die, till tomorrow, for ever,

You and I on the old bridge one night.

 

 Nabokov reads the poem in Russian and English:

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tdn5SxFAMEg&ab_channel=JiffySpook

 

GLADYS, Nonsense Verse from the book, HERE WE BE. WHERE BE WE?

                                                                      Hindu Goddess Kali

Gladys

We feed a cow on fat feed fodder;

We fat the cow, then eat her.

We fat all creatures else to fat us,

And we fat ourselves for Gladys.

 

We feed a sow soft sodden fodder;

We fat the sow, then sup her.

We fatten sows to fat ourselves,

Then Gladys sups ourselves for supper.

 

O woe is us, the fact is sad is

That old Gladys is so glad is

Gladys that we fat and pad us;

 

We fat the piglets, calves to fat us;

But in the end we’re chomped by Gladys.

Just a munch and a crunch and a gulp and she’s had us:

Old green-bellied greedy-gutted great-gobbed Gladys.

[excerpted from the book by U.R. Bowie, HERE WE BE. WHERE BE WE? IN THE SHITSTORM YEAR OF 2020]

THE BREAD WETTER, from Bobby Goosey's Nonsense Verse for Kids

 

 The Bread Wetter

Little Joe Tomato has a problem,

He’s seeing Dr. Pediatrician Wing.

His problem’s not with food or malnutritioning

(He gets a lot to eat; he’s plump and red).

His problem’s not with social malconditioning

(He intermingles well with peers, so his teacher said).

It isn’t that he sleeps too deep and sometimes wets the bed.

No. But in a rye-bread sandwich Joey wets the bread instead.

Little Joe Tomato wets the bread.

from Bobby Goosey's Nonsense Verse for Kids

Translation of Poem by Nikolai Zabolotsky, Николай Заболоцкий, "Ласточка," THE SWALLOW

 

Николай Заболоцкий

(1903-1958)

 

Ласточка

Славно ласточка щебечет,
Ловко крыльями стрижет,
Всем ветрам она перечит,
Но и силы бережет.
Реет верхом, реет низом,
Догоняет комара
И в избушке под карнизом
Отдыхает до утра.

Удивлен ее повадкой,
Устремляюсь я в зенит,
И душа моя касаткой
В отдаленный край летит.
Реет, плачет, словно птица,
В заколдованном краю,
Слабым клювиком стучится
В душу бедную твою.

Но душа твоя угасла,
На дверях висит замок.
Догорело в лампе масло,
И не светит фитилек.
Горько ласточка рыдает
И не знает, как помочь,
И с кладбища улетает
В заколдованную ночь.

1958

 

 

d

 

Literal Translation

 

The Swallow

 

Gloriously the swallow chirps,

Skillfully clips with her wings,

Opposes all the winds,

But preserves her strength.

Flits up, flits down,

Overtakes a mosquito,

And in her little hut beneath the cornice

Rests until the morning.

 

Struck by her behavior,

I rush out into the zenith,

And my soul, hirundine now,

Flies off to distant lands.

It flits, weeps, as a bird does,

In that enchanted realm,

With weak little beak it pecks

At your poor soul.

 

But your soul has expired,

A lock hangs on the doors.

The oil in the lamp has burned down,

And the little wick does not gleam.

Bitterly the swallow sobs

And does not know how to help,

And from the graveyard flies off

Into the enchanted night.

 

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

The Swallow

 

Through the world chirps the swallow un-chagrined,

Her wings slice the air with consummate perfection; 

Intrepid she fends off the fiercest of winds,

Preserving her strength, never prone to dejection.

Up she flits, down she flits, to the sky’s edge,

Snaps up a mosquito in mid-swoop, and diving,

Into her hovel she scoots neath the ledge;

She’ll rest there till sunrise, at ease with life, thriving.

 

In thrall to her stalwart and sprightly panache,

I set off in search of some far Land of Beulah;

My soul is hirundine, in yearning awash,

Can it be that I’ll find you in Ultima Thule?

My essence swoops up with an avian twitter,

Seeks sustenance, perches on wonderland knoll,

Finds what could be you in a dim spot aglitter,

With its weak little beak pecks at your forlorn soul.

 

But your soul, woe is me, has relinquished all glimmer,

On the door of your lifeforce there hangs a dire lock.

The oil in the lamp has burned down, lost its shimmer,

And the dark has the wick in a wretched headlock. 

The swallow sobs bitterly, tweets out despair,

For she has not a clue how to be of assistance;

With a gurgle-twit cry she goes swoop through the air,

From the graveyard and off into night’s grim persistence.