Translation of Poem by Ivan Bunin, "Вечер," EVENING

 

Ivan Bunin

(1870-1953)

 

Вечер

 

О счастье мы всегда лишь вспоминаем.

А счастье всюду. Может быть, оно

Вот этот сад осенний за сараем

И чистый воздух, льющийся в окно.

 

В бездонном небе легким белым краем

Встает, сияет облако. Давно

Слежу за ним… Мы мало видим, знаем,

А счастье только знающим дано.

 

Окно открыто. Пискнула и села

На подоконник птичка. И от книг

Усталый взгляд я отвожу на миг.

День вечереет, небо опустело.

Гул молотилки слышен на гумне...

Я вижу, слышу, счастлив. Все во мне.

 14 августа 1909

d

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

Evening

 

In retrospect alone we think of happiness.

But happiness is everywhere. Could be

In that autumnal garden’s roots, their sappiness,

In that pure zephyr blowing through the lea.

 

Aglow with flocculence in boundless sky,

A cloud floats up, one edge of it alight.

I follow it . . . we little see, our thoughts awry;

Happiness is meant for those who think aright.

 

The window’s open. A bird on

Windowsill is perched. My weary

Eyes I raise from books anon.

The sky is empty; eventide gone bleary.

The sound of threshing in a distant barn . . .

I see and hear, I’m happy; all’s within me warm.

 

 

Translation of Song Lyrics by Aleksandr Dolsky, Александр Дольский, СЕРДЦЕ НА ТРОТУАРЕ, "The Mishandled Heart"

 

Александр Дольский

Aleksandr Dolsky

(born 1938)

СЕРДЦЕ НА ТРОТУАРЕ

 

На тротуаре сердце лежало,

на тротуаре, солнцем согретом.

Оно чуть дышало, оно чуть дрожало,

мягкое, грустное сердце поэта.

Его уронила нечаянно утром

женщина с добрым рассеянным взглядом,

когда доставала из сумочки пудру

или помаду, или помаду.

 

А ночью подвыпивший старый бродяга

о сердце споткнулся, до смерти разбился.

Собачники утром забрали беднягу -

смотри, этот парень неделю не брился.

И сердце забрали, а старший собачник,

который не думал над тем, что неясно,

решил, что ему привалила удача:

такое хорошее, свежее мясо.

 

Жена из фасоли и сердца поэта

сварила еще неизвестное блюдо,

и сыт был собачник, и все его дети,

и все приходившие в гости к ним люди.

А после обеда неясные мысли

и светлые думы, и образов стаи

сменили в их душах тоску и угрюмость,

и все - как ни странно - поэтами стали.

 

История кончилась, в общем, удачно,

но, честно признаться, уж вы не печальтесь,

конец я придумал, все было иначе,

и сердце осталось лежать на асфальте.

И об него спотыкается кто-то,

кто-то спешит, пробегая с ним рядом,

но ищет его до сих пор по субботам

женщина с добрым рассеянным взглядом.

 

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

The Mishandled Heart

(Song Lyrics)

 

On sidewalk bare a young heart lay grieving,

on sidewalk bare well-warmed by sunrays.

The heart was palpitating, barely breathing,

Whose heart? A poet’s, prone to reveries always.

A scatterbrained woman with kindly soft gazes

this morning through carelessness misplaced the heart (dropped it)

while in her purse fumbling for new chitchat phrases,

or was it for lipstick?

Face powder?

Yes, maybe for lipstick.

 

And that night a boozehound, an old soused lowlifer

tripped on the heart, fell down, bought the farm. 

Next day some dog walkers discovered that blighter;

“Look,” they said, “there’s a sight lacking in charm.”

They noticed the heart, and one geezer dog walker,

not prone to think deeply on matters most grave, mused:

mayhap this here find my good fortune may augur;

A meal from such lovely fresh meat could be made.

 

His wife fixed some beans, added heart and fatback, 

she served up a hodgepodge unknown-to-man meal.

The dog walker dined on heart-bean-fat flapjack,

as did all of his children and neighbors genteel.

They ate and odd thoughts began plaguing their brains;

Images (hordes of them), notions arcane 

wiped from their souls all the anguish and pain,

and—strange as it seems—they all poets became.

 

So the tale ends; if the thing’s no great shakes,

you best not feel troubled, no need for dismay;

I made up the stuff about cardiac pancakes,

in fact, the poor heart’s still marooned on the walkway.

Pedestrians ambling may view it romantically,

while others skirt round it, as if round a puddle, 

but still every weekend she comes, searching frantically,

the scatterbrained lady with kindly soft gazes,

who, pocketbook fumbling for new chitchat phrases,

mislaid the heart (dropped it); or was it for lipstick?

Face powder?

Yes, maybe for lipstick.

 

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!”