Translation of Poem by Innokenty Annensky, Иннокентий Анненский, DECRESCENDO

 

Иннокентий Анненский

(1855-1909)

Decrescendo

Из тучи с тучей в безумном споре
Родится шквал, —
Под ним зыбучий в пустынном море
Вскипает вал.

Он полон страсти, он мчится гневный,
Грозя брегам.
А вслед из пастей за ним стозевный
И рев и гам…

То, как железный, он канет в бездны
И роет муть,
То, бык могучий, нацелит тучи
Хвостом хлестнуть…

Но ближе… ближе, и вал уж ниже,
Не стало сил,
К ладье воздушной хребет послушный
Он наклонил…

И вот чуть плещет, кружа осадок,
А гнев иссяк…
Песок так мягок, припек так гладок:
Плесни — и ляг!

 1910 ?

 

Decrescendo: Ослабевая (ит.) – музыкальный термин, означающий постепенное убывание звучности.

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Literal Translation

Decrescendo
 
From storm cloud to storm cloud in a frenetic squabble
A squall is born.
Beneath it, rippling on the empty sea,
A billow surges up.
 
Full of passion, it hurtles on angrily,
Threatening the shores.
Following after it come, gaping in the hundreds,
Maws of dins and roars.
 
Now, as if made of iron, it slices into the abysses
And churns up the muck,
Now, a mighty bull, it takes aim at the storm clouds,
To lash [them] with its tail.
 
But nearer and nearer, and the billow is lower now,
Its energies expended.
Toward an airy [buoyant] sea vessel it bows
Its obedient crag. . .
 
And now it barely makes splashes, swirling sediment about,
Its fury has waned. . .
The sand is so soft, blazing sunspots so smooth:
Just one last splash and lie down!
 
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                                            Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
 
                                       Decrescendo
 
Cloud crashes storm cloud, O my, what a clamor,
A squall is born.
From empty sea rippling, with clangorous clangor,
A billow is torn.
 
The billow’s all fervor-crazed, hurtles frenetically,
Threatens the shores.
Foaming maws gaping in hundreds splenetically,
Bellows and roars.
 
Billow like steel blade slashes abysses,
Churns up the muck.
Like a bull snorting, its tail all twitches
To lash clouds amuck. 
 
But nearer now, nearer, the billow’s much slower,
Its forces are sapped.
The crag of the billow bows down ever lower,
The tumult is barely intact.
 
And now things are splashy and sediment swirly,
The fury has waned . . .
The beach sand is soft and the sunspots all twirly,
Last splash . . . and squall’s drained!

 

 

 

 

Translation of Poem by Marina Tsvetaeva, МАРИНА ЦВЕТАЕВА, "Я знаю правду!" I KNOW THE TRUTH

 

МАРИНА ЦВЕТАЕВА
(1892-1941)
 
Я знаю правду! Все прежние правды — прочь!
Не надо людям с людьми на земле бороться.
Смотрите: вечер, смотрите: уж скоро ночь.
О чём — поэты, любовники, полководцы?
 
Уж ветер стелется, уже земля в росе,
Уж скоро звёздная в небе застынет вьюга,
И под землёю скоро уснем мы все,
Кто на земле не давали уснуть друг другу.
 
Oct. 3, 1915
 
d
 
                                          Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
 
I know the truth! Away with all past truths!
People of the earth, don’t fight with fellow-shmoes!
Look: evening; look: night comes next forsooth!   
What use are poets, lovers, generalissimos?
 
Lo, the winds are swirling low, the earth’s bedewed in woe or weal,
And soon on heaven’s breast a star-flecked snowstorm will congeal,
While underground we all will soon find deepest sleep,
We who on this earth denied each other sleepings deep.
 
[date of translation: April, 2025]

Translations: The Bestest of the Best: THIRTEEN, Fyodor Tyutchev, Ф. И. Тютчев, "SILENTIUM!"

 

 

Fedor Tyutchev

(1803-1873)

Ф. И. Тютчев

Silentium!

Молчи, скрывайся и таи
И чувства и мечты свои –
Пускай в душевной глубине
Встают и заходят оне
Безмолвно, как звезды в ночи, –
Любуйся ими – и молчи.

 

Как сердцу высказать себя?
Другому как понять тебя?
Поймет ли он, чем ты живешь?
Мысль изреченная есть ложь.
Взрывая, возмутишь ключи, –
Питайся ими – и молчи.

 

Лишь жить в себе самом умей –
Есть целый мир в душе твоей
Таинственно-волшебных дум;
Их оглушит наружный шум,
Дневные разгонят лучи, –
Внимай их пенью – и молчи!..

(Not later than 1830)

 

Literal Translation

                     Silentium!

Be silent, conceal yourself and hide
Both your feelings and your [day]dreams—
Let them stand up and walk on
In the depths of your soul
Silently, like stars in the night—
Esteem [admire] them—and be silent.
 
How can the heart express itself?
How can another understand you?
Will he understand by what you live?
A thought uttered is a lie.
By stirring them up, you’ll muddy the founts (springs)—
Take nourishment from them—and be silent.
 
 
Learn to live solely within yourself—
In your soul there’s a whole world
Of secretly magical thoughts;
External noise deafens them,
Diurnal rays disperse them—
Hearken unto their singing—and be silent!

d

                                              Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

Silentium!

Speak not, live covertly and hide

Your feelings and your dreams inside—

Let them rise up and walk with grace

In the depths of your soul’s most seemly place,

As silent as night stars in tenderness wrought—

Cherish your fancies: hush now—speak not.

 

How can one heart to another get through?

Can an alien someone comprehend you?

The crux of your soul no one else can descry,

And once past your lips any thought is a lie.

By stirring the wellsprings you’ll bring up the rot—

Drink deep from their nourishing waters—speak not.

 

Learn to live solely inside your own life—

That shadowy world in your soul-realm is rife

With cryptic thoughts, beguiling gems;

The world’s foul clamor deafens them,

Dispersed they are by light, distraught—

Harken to their song—speak not!

Translation dates and places: Flagstaff, Yuma, Los Angeles, April, 2021

 

 

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Translator’s Note

First published in 1833, in the newspaper Molva (Rumor), “Silentium” is probably Tyutchev’s best known work, and one of the most renowned poems in the Russian language. Down through the years, millions of Russians have learned it by heart, including Dmitry Mendeleev and Lev Tolstoy, who once was quoted as saying, “What an astonishing thing! I don’t know a better poem.” The fourth line of the second stanza—“A thought uttered is a lie (Once past your lips any thought is a lie)”—has become proverbial.

 

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Two More Lovely Translations of “Silentium!”

Speak not, lie hidden, and conceal
the way you dream, the things you feel.
Deep in your spirit let them rise
akin to stars in crystal skies
that set before the night is blurred:
delight in them and speak no word.

How can a heart expression find?
How should another know your mind?
Will he discern what quickens you?
A thought once uttered is untrue.
Dimmed is the fountainhead when stirred:
drink at the source and speak no word.

Live in your inner self alone
within your soul a world has grown,
the magic of veiled thoughts that might
be blinded by the outer light,
drowned in the noise of day, unheard...
take in their song and speak no word.

Translated by Vladimir Nabokov

 

 

Seal thou thy lips, to none impart
The secret dreams that fill thy heart.
Within it let them blaze and die
As do the silent stars on high
When o’er the earth night’s shadows stray –
Delight in them – and silent stay.

Thy sentiments to none confide;
From those about thee thy thoughts hide,
For when voiced what are they but lies!..
Churn up a stream, and silt will rise
And darken it… Drink, drink thou deep
Of waters clear – and silent keep.

Live in the world of self — thy soul
Of magic thoughts contains a whole
Bright universe… Let not the noise
And light of day dispel the joys
That meditation gives to thee…
Hear thy heart’s song – and silent be!

Translated by Irina Zheleznova

 

 

 

 

Dostoevsky and Suslova

 

Mixed Up Guy

From Dostoevsky’s notebooks for his novel The Devils: “Stavrogin [the central character], when he believes does not believe that he believes, and when he does not believe, does not believe that he does not believe.” Dostoevsky himself had the same problem.

 

Dostoevsky and Suslova

“One evening he stood at the edge of the Catherine Canal and peered into the dark water where the reflected flames of the gas lamps flickered dully, thinking of the best that still remained to him in life, of Apollinaria. He took out of his black moiré briefcase a large photograph of a young woman in a smart, light-colored dress with a Parisian cut. A sharp pang pierced his heart. He looked closely at the serious face. A young woman in a white blouse with a slightly open neck gazed at him from the dark background. The elongated oval of her face and her bright forehead were strikingly pure. The dark hair, parted smoothly and lifted high in a tight braid that encircled the head, shone like silk in the sun. Huge, reflective, deep-set eyes looked out with surprise and almost naivety, as if asking a question, or sympathizing with someone’s sorrow. The face was cloudlessly serene. Intense thought and, perhaps, secret suffering, had given the features a refined spirituality. Only the lips had a touch of the common people.”

Leonid Grossman biography of Dostoevsky

 

Immediately after this pensive scene in St. Petersburg, Dostoevsky stops staring at the photograph and rushes off to Western Europe to join Apollinaria (Polina) Suslova. Now Grossman, who has made this whole scene up and put things into Dostoevsky’s mind and soul—“A sharp pang pierced his heart,” give us a break—can also put down the picture, into which he has read so much, and go back to inventing more fictitious scenes from the life of a great writer. It appears, however, that, while contemplating the image of Polina’s face, Grossman has failed to see a lot of other traits that are apparent from what little we know of her: her immaturity, silly romantic inclinations, love of playing sadomasochistic games, and, probably most central of all: her basic stupidity.

 

The Redoubtable Polina

When she was a young woman the passionate Polina Suslova had a lot of fun tormenting Dostoevsky; this was when they travelled together in Europe in 1863. When she was forty she married the philosopher and gadfly Vas. Vas. Rozanov, who was twenty-four. Why did you do it, Vas. Vas.? How could you have been so thoughtless? Didn’t anybody warn you? She was said to have had one redeeming feature: she always kindly asked Vas. Vas. to remove his spectacles before slapping him about the head and face.

[excerpted from the book by U.R. Bowie, Here We Be. Where Be We?]

Translations: The Bestest of the Best: TWELVE, Fyodor Tyutchev, "Слезы людские," TEARS

 

Fyodor Tyutchev
(1803-1873)

 

Слезы людские, о слезы людские,
Льетесь вы ранней и поздней порой…
Льетесь безвестные, льетесь незримые,
Неистощимые, неисчислимые, —
Льетесь, как льются струи дождевые
В осень глухую порою ночной.

Autumn, 1849

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

Tears

O tears of humanity, humankind’s tears,
Flowing in early times, flowing for years…
You flow in obscurity, flow on invisibly,
Never exhaustibly, ever innumerably –
Flowing the same way that rainwater streams
In desolate autumn through nocturnal dreams.

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 Translator’s Note

According to I.S. Aksakov, “once, on a rainy evening in autumn, Tyutchev returned home by hired droshky, almost wet through, and said to his daughter, ‘j’ai fait quelques rimes [I’ve composed a few verses].’ While they were helping him out of his [wet] clothing, he dictated to her the lines of his charming poem, ‘Tears of humanity.’” See two-volume collection of Tyutchev’s works, Moscow (Nauka Publishers), 1965, Vol. 1, p. 383.

Translations: THE BESTEST OF THE BEST: Eleven, Ivan Bunin, "Настанет день — исчезну я," THE DAY WILL COME

                                                        Image by Jorg Hempel: Tortoiseshell

[Note: I am reposting the very best of my translations of Russian poetry, URB]

Ivan Bunin

(1870-1953)

 

Настанет день — исчезну я,

А в этой комнате пустой

Все то же будет: стол, скамья

Да образ, древний и простой.

 

И так же будет залетать

Цветная бабочка в шелку —

Порхать, шуршать и трепетать

По голубому потолку.

 

И так же будет неба дно

Смотреть в открытое окно

И море ровной синевой

Манить в простор пустынный свой.

 

                                                     August 10, 1916

 

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TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

Upon its first publication the poem had a title: “Без меня (Without Me).” In his Speak, Memory (p. 128), Vladimir Nabokov mentions “Bunin’s impeccable evocation of what is certainly a Tortoiseshell.” Nabokov translates the second stanza literally as follows:

And there will fly into the room
A colored butterfly in silk
To flutter, rustle and pit-pat
On the blue ceiling . . .

 

LITERAL TRANSLATION
(by U.R. Bowie)
 
The day will come; I will disappear,
And in this empty room
Everything will be the same: the table, bench,
The icon, ancient and stark.
 
And in just the same way will fly in
That colored butterfly in silk,
To flit, to rustle, to pitter-pat
Against the light-blue ceiling.
 
And in just the same way will the bottom of the sky
Gaze into the open window,
And the steady blue of the sea
Will beckon into its empty expanse.

 

d
 
                                                  Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

The day will come; I’ll disappear,
While in this selfsame empty room,
That table, bench, icon austere
The same contours of space consume.
 
And just as now will flutter in
That silken butterfly serene,
To rustle, palpitate and ding
Against the ceiling’s bluish-green.
 
And the sky’s horizon, cerulean glow
Will peer in, gaze through this window,
While the steady unruffled blue of the sea
Beckons toward emptiness: “Come. Follow me.”
 

Christ and Flesh

 

Christ In The Flesh and Not

In Christian Gnosticism the docetic idea is that Christ’s body in flesh was a mere illusion. Christ was a protean deity who could appear in various guises simultaneously. For example, at the very moment his illusory body in flesh was undergoing crucifixion, He appeared in another guise to a disciple far from Golgotha and told him that the crucifixion was a chimera.

Joseph Campbell, Occidental Mythology, p. 365-73.

 

The Trouble A God Has When Taking On Flesh

Church Councils have debated over things like this forever and a day. If all men are sinners and Christ was not a sinner, then Christ could not have been truly a man in the flesh. If Christ is truly a man in flesh then he is a sexual creature as well, tempted by lust.

[excerpted from the book by U.R. Bowie, Here We Be. Where Be We?]

How and Why We've Come to What We've Come To

 

How and Why It Happened

I’ve finally figured out what the problem with America is. The problem is that Yogi Berra’s dead. They should have passed a law or something; God should have intervened. But nobody did, and now Yogi’s dead and our beautiful country is in the toilet.

[excerpted from the book by U.R. Bowie, Here We Be. Where Be We?]

Translations: The Bestest of the Best: TEN Igor Chinnov, "Не кажется ли тебе," DON'T YOU FEEL

 

Igor Chinnov
(1909-1996)

 

Не кажется ли тебе,

что после смерти

мы будем жить

где-то на окраине Альдебарана

или в столице

Страны Семи Измерений?

 

Истлеет Вселенная,

а мы будем жить

где-то недалеко от Вселенной,

гуляя, как ни в чем не бывало,

по светлому берегу Вечности.

 

И когда Смерть

в платье из розовой антиматерии,

скучая от безделья,

подойдет к нам опять,

мы скажем: –Прелестное платье!

Где вы купили его?

 

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

Don’t you feel

That after death

We’ll live

Somewhere in the environs of Aldebaran,

Or in the capital city of

The Land of Seven Dimensions?

 

The Universe will rot,

But we’ll live on

Somewhere not far from the Universe,

Strolling, as if nothing had happened,

Along the shimmering shore of Eternity.

 

And when Death,

In her pinafore of rose-pink antimatter,

Bored in her idleness,

Sidles up to us once more,

We’ll say: “What a lovely dress!

Wherever did you buy it?”

 

Translation of poem by A.A. Fet, А.А. Фет, "На рассвете," DAWN

 

А.А. Фет

(1820-1892)

 

На рассвете

 

Плавно у ночи с чела
Мягкая падает мгла;
С поля широкого тень
Жмется под ближнюю сень;
Жаждою света горя,
Выйти стыдится заря;
Холодно, ясно, бело,
Дрогнуло птицы крыло...
Солнца еще не видать,
А на душе благодать.

 1 апреля 1886

 

d

                                         Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

                     Dawn

Flowing from brow of the night
Mist and haze hillocks bedight;
Huddled neath canopy near
Shadows from fields cohere;
Burning with thirst for the light,
Daybreak hangs back out of sight;
Cold it is, all white and clear,
Bird’s wing atremble o’er mere . . .
Sunrays are screened by the knoll,
God’s grace pervades all my soul.

James Crombie Photo: Starling Murmuration