Bobby Goosey, "Humanity’s Sigh in a Mackerel Sky"

                                                        Mackerel Sky in Lincolnshire

Bobby Lee Goosey

 

Humanity’s Sigh in a Mackerel Sky

The mackerel’s sigh is never long dry. Whenever the mackerel, a fish, sighs, he/she sighs underwater since the mackerel lives in the sea. One day she/he feels sad and sighs underwater and that sigh forms a wet bubble that drifts up and up and up until it reaches the surface of the sea and then gives a moist pop into the air and then all the moisture of that sigh drifts up into the sky. To make for a mackerel sky.

There the moist blends with that mass of mackerel clouds and soon comes back down to the sea as soft rainfall and that soft rainfall mingles with the salt waters of the sea and drifts down to where the mackerel is swimming about and he/she breathes that same wet sigh back in through the gills. And just as that sigh felt good going out, it feels good coming back in.

People are just like mackerels. When a child sighs, that sigh goes out in a moist air bubble into the air and drifts up into the sky, where it joins a mass of clouds and soon the clouds gather and darken and make for a mackerel sky, and then the sigh comes back down to the earth as soft rainfall, and that soft rainfall mingles with the earth and makes the watermelon seed to sprout and the watermelon then grows bigger, and bigger and bigger and finally ripens.

Then the child slices through the green of the melon to its red heart, and eats of the red of the luscious melon and takes that now reddish sigh back in through her/his gullet. And just as that wet sigh felt good uncolored going out, so it feels good colored red coming back in. Some say that humanity’s eye is never long dry. Perhaps. But, then again, we must never forget that humanity’s sigh is never long dry. And the mackerel sky is never long dry. And sighs properly moistened always make for the best sighs.

[From Bobby Goosey's Compendium of Perfectly Sensible Nonsense]

Translation of song by VLADIMIR VYSOTSKY, Владимир Высоцкий, "Одна научная загадка, или почему аборигены съели Кука," "Why Did the Tottenhots Eat Cook?"

                                      Captain James Cook Watches a Human Sacrifice in Tahiti

Владимир Высоцкий

(1938-1980)

 

Одна научная загадка, или почему аборигены съели Кука

Не хватайтесь за чужие талии,
Вырвавшись из рук своих подруг.
Вспомните, как к берегам Австралии,
Подплывал покойный ныне Кук.

Как в кружок, усевшись под азалии,
Поедом с восхода до зари,
Ели в этой солнечной Австралии
Друга дружку злые дикари.

 

Но почему аборигены съели Кука?
За что – неясно,– молчит наука.
Мне представляется совсем простая штука:
Хотели кушать – и съели Кука.

 

Есть вариант, что ихний вождь – большая бука,–
Кричал, что очень вкусный кок на судне Кука.
Ошибка вышла – вот о чем молчит наука,–
Хотели кока, а съели Кука.

 

И вовсе не было подвоха или трюка,
Вошли без стука, почти без звука,
Пустили в действие дубинку из бамбука –
Тюк! – прямо в темя – и нету Кука.

 

Но есть, однако же, еще предположенье,
Что Кука съели из большого уваженья.
Что всех науськивал колдун – хитрец и злюка:
– Ату, ребята! хватайте Кука!

 

Кто уплетет его без соли и без лука,
Тот сильным, смелым, добрым будет, вроде Кука! –
Кому-то под руку попался каменюка,–
Метнул, гадюка, и нету Кука.

 

А дикари теперь заламывают руки,
Ломают копья, ломают луки,
Сожгли и бросили дубинки из бамбука,–
Переживают, что съели Кука.

 

1976

Источник: В. Высоцкий. Собрание сочинений в одном томе. Издательство: Альфа-книга, 2011

d

 

Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

A Matter for Historical and Scientific Enquiry: Why Did the Tottenhots Eat Cook?

 

When you have at home a nice warm cozy nook,

Why go gallivanting off to distant foreign lands?

Bear in mind how once the now late Captain known as Cook

Went a-sailing to Australia’s far-flung burning sands.

Hunkered down from dawn to I’ve forgotten what,

Beneath azalea bushes in a circle,

There in sunny Aussieland the Hottentots

Ate each other till their cheeks went purple.

But why, o why, did they consume poor Cook?

How come? What riddle is the answer wrapped in?

Could be they couldn’t find their best cookbook,

But they felt hungry, so they ate the Captain.

Or maybe this is how the thing transpired.

They heard tell of Cook’s fine tasty cook.

Then somehow their plan got all unwired:

They aimed to eat the cook,

But by mistake

They ate up Cook.

It really wasn’t much of a hullaballoo,

They didn’t knock at the door,

They went barging right on through.

They brought along a cudgel

Made of solid pure bamboo,

Went clonk on the noggin

And the Captain whimpered oooh.

 

There are, of course, a few

Who have their own hypothesis:

That Captain Cook was eaten

Out of sheer respectfulness.
The Hottentots’ witch doctor said,

“We want by hook or crook

Each and every attribute

Of sly and clever Cook.

 

“So anyone who scarfs him down

And thoroughly digests him,

Will soon be just as strong and brave,

A conscientious, upright guy like Captain!”

 

The meanest of the Tottenhots

Picked up a rock and thwacked him

Upside the head,

His aim was good,

He cold-cocked Cook;

He wacked him.

 

But now that Cook’s consumed and gone,

The Hottentots feel bad,

Instead of good digestion

They have conscience pangs;

They’re sad.

 

They squat beneath azalea bushes

All day long and wishing

That they’d dined on Captain’s cook,

They’re mired in contrition:

“Why o why did we eat Cook,

His traits we’ve not acquired,

And since we ate the Captain

Our digestion’s uninspired.”

 

 Vysotsky sings:

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5RR1qLznRAI&t=53s

 

Fed Up

                                                12th Century Icon: Спас нерукотворный

 

Fed Up

You know how we got into this mess we’re in? You don’t? Well, it ain’t but one problem: God’s mad. He don’t like the way we been doing Him. God’s mad at the whole world, so the whole world is in the toilet.  So is Jesus. He’s mad too. Jesus, He cometh down unto the earth and saith: “Turn the other cheek.” Now, you ever met a single solitary mortal who done it? Hell, no. Jesus said, “Love thy brethren and sistren as thou dost loveth thyself.” We didn’t do it. We ain’t never done it. Jesus and God said, “Leave behind your wicked ways and follow after me.” Nobody done it. You see, it’s just so long you can get away with doing Jesus and God wrong. Then you pay the piper. That’s the pickle we each and every one of us is in right this minute on this God’s green earth of the year of our Lord 2020: we paying. Put on your face mask, hunker down at home, your head up your ass, wear all the masks you like, it still won’t make no nevermind. You’ll still pay. Dearly. On account of God and Jesus is fed up.

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

In the Throes of the Coronavirus

 

In The Throes of Covid-19

How does it feel when the Covid gets you? “The pain was like a long, steady sunburn inside my chest; the weight was like a lead apron. It seemed more sensible to crawl from place to place rather than walk. My mind had moved a few inches to the left of its usual place, and I developed what I realized later were actual paranoid delusions.

“The first wave subsided, and I thought I had escaped, but the second hit with redoubled intensity a week later. My delusions became even more bizarre. I came to believe that someone had put a Godzilla statue outside my window on purpose to freak me out—this, it transpired, was the silhouette of two black streetlights, one superimposed on the other.

 “‘Florida and Ohio, man,’ the barista at the local café said to my husband, when he asked about the tourist trade. ‘People here at least acknowledge that it’s real. But people from Florida and Ohio don’t even seem to think it’s happening.’ Having lived in both places, I believe him.”

Patricia Lockwood in LRB, July 16, 2020

Yes. I understand. I too have lived many years of my life in those two states. And also (shudder) in the madhouse called South Carolina.

 

I love Carolina, though. I still love you, South Carolina, love all y’all crazy folks who live there. Even the tight-assed Baptists? Yeah (sigh), even the tight-assed Baptists.

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

Translation of Poem by Evgeny Evtushenko, Евгений Евтушенко, "Со мною вот что происходит," MISAPPREHENSIONS (The Way Things Are With Me)

 

Евгений Евтушенко

Evgeny Evtushenko

(1932-2017) 

For Bella Akhmadulina

Со мною вот что происходит:
ко мне мой старый друг не ходит,
а ходят в мелкой суете
разнообразные не те.
И он
не с теми ходит где-то
и тоже понимает это,
и наш раздор необъясним,
и оба мучимся мы с ним.
Со мною вот что происходит:
совсем не та ко мне приходит,
мне руки на плечи кладёт
и у другой меня крадёт.
А той -
скажите, бога ради,
кому на плечи руки класть?

Та,
у которой я украден,
в отместку тоже станет красть.
Не сразу этим же ответит,
а будет жить с собой в борьбе
и неосознанно наметит
кого-то дальнего себе.
О, сколько
нервных
и недужных,
ненужных связей,
дружб ненужных!
Куда от этого я денусь?!
О, кто-нибудь,
приди,
нарушь
чужих людей соединённость
и разобщённость
близких душ!

1957

 

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

Misapprehensions

(The Way Things Are With Me)

                                                                                             For Bella Akhmadulina

Here's the way things are with me:

My best friend won’t come to see me,

But scads of others, a dork, say, a lout

Come messing around and screwing about.

While he,

He’s somewhere out there

With dorks of his own,

Aware of the problem, solution unknown,

And our falling out not one soul can explain,

But it torments us both,

And we’re both feeling pain.

 

Here's the way things are with me:

A girl I’ve no use for comes to see me,

Upon my shoulders her hands she does lay,

And from a girl I have need of

She steals me away.

While she (the one for whom my feelings long)

For God’s sake!

Who’s she got left to put her hands upon?

 

She

(The one from whom I was stolen away)

Starts stealing as well, for some payback, let’s say.

She’ll not know exactly why she’s getting even,

At odds with herself, she’ll be plotting and scheming,

And she’ll seek for some something,

Go looking for love,

With a dork of a someone

She has no need of.

 

O, how many there are of these

Nerve-wracking,

And morbid,

And useless

Liaisons;

How many
Of friendships

That we have no use for!

Where do I go to get shed of this problem?

 

O, somebody, please,

Come,

Disassemble,

Un-connect,

Take apart

All the bonds and the ties and connections

Of people who are strangers to one another,

And reconnect,

Put back together,

Rewire

The disconnections,

Disengagements,

Misapprehensions

Of souls

That to souls

Are so near

And so dear!

 

 

 S. Nikitin sings the song from the film, "The Irony of Fate," music by M. Tariverdiev

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fZV4Ga0N_Jw

Translation of Poem by Innokenty Annensky, Иннокентий Фёдорович Анненский, "После концерта," AFTER THE CONCERT

 

Иннокентий Фёдорович Анненский

(1855-1909)

 

                                                             После концерта

В аллею чёрные спустились небеса,
Но сердцу в эту ночь не превозмочь усталость...
Погасшие огни, немые голоса,
Неужто это всё, что от мечты осталось?

О, как печален был одежд её атлас,
И вырез жутко бел среди наплечий чёрных!
Как жалко было мне её недвижных глаз
И снежной лайки рук, молитвенно-покорных!

 

А сколько было там развеяно души
Среди рассеянных, мятежных и бесслёзных!
Что звуков пролито, взлелеянных в тиши,
Сиреневых и ласковых и звёздных!

 

Так с нити порванной в волненьи иногда,
Средь месячных лучей, и нежны и огнисты,
В росистую траву катятся аметисты
И гибнут без следа.

 

 

d

 

Literal Translation

 

After the Concert

 

The black skies have descended upon the garden walkway,

But tonight my heart cannot overcome its weariness . . .

Lights extinguished, the low murmur of voices,

Can it be that this is all that remains of a dream?

 

O how sad was the satin of the clothing she wore,

And the decolletage so gruesome white against the black shoulder straps!

How I pitied her motionless eyes

And the snow-white of her hands in kid gloves, suppliant and submissive!

 

And how much soul was scattered about there

Amidst the absent-minded, the rebellious and the tearless!

And how many sounds spilled out, nurtured in the quiet,

The lilac sounds, affectionate and starlit!

 

So it sometimes is that a thread is broken in a moment of emotion,

And a string of amethysts, soft and gleaming in moonlight,

Goes rolling in beads into the dew-laden grass,

And the beads are lost without a trace.

 

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

After the Concert

 

Upon the garden promenade the pitch-black skies are hanging,

And weariness lies heavily upon my jaded soul . . .

The lights extinguished, voices muted, tinny sounds of clanging,

Can this be all that’s left for me of life’s bright farandole?

 

The satin of the clothes she wore so dim with sadness spangled,

The gruesome-white decolletage against black shoulder bands.

How pitiful her eyes’ fixed stare at pathways quinque-angled,

And snow-white of her kidskin gloves on meek beseeching hands.  

 

How much there was of soul that lay there scattered randomly,

Amidst distractedness of mind and fractious unwept tears.

The silent sounds spilled out and spread, were nurtured scantily:

Lilac murmurs, starlit whispers, tender music of the spheres.

 

Just so it is that string is torn in times of fraught emotion,

And amethysts once strung on neck come to a dire impasse;

The beads a-gleam in moonlit beams go rolling into motion,

To end up lost without a trace in swaths of dew-laved grass.

 

Translation of Poem by Robert Rozhdestvensky, Роберт Рождественский, "На Земле безжалостно маленькой," Updated to the Year 2022

                          Graffiti Left By Russian Soldiers on Village Wall in Ukraine, Oct., 2022

                            "No matter what we do, no way we make it out of this life alive."

                                              ON AN EARTH PATHETICALLY SMALL

Роберт Рождественский

(1932-1994)

 

На Земле безжалостно маленькой
жил да был человек маленький.
У него была служба маленькая.
И маленький очень портфель.
Получал он зарплату маленькую…

 

И однажды —
прекрасным утром —
постучалась к нему в окошко
небольшая,
казалось,
война…

 

Автомат ему выдали маленький.
Сапоги ему выдали маленькие.
Каску выдали маленькую
и маленькую —
по размерам —
шинель.

 

…А когда он упал — некрасиво, неправильно,
в атакующем крике вывернув рот,
то на всей земле не хватило мрамора,
чтобы вырубить парня
в полный рост!

 

1969

 

d

 

Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

Once upon a time

on an Earth quite piteously small

there lived a small, small man.

His job was minuscule to extremes.

He carried the smallest of briefcases.

His salary was nothing to write home about . . .

 

Then one fine day—

on a lovely, lovely morn—

came knocking at his window

quite the miniature,

so it seemed,

tiny little war . . .

 

They issued him a small rifle.

And then a little pair of boots.

Issued him a small-sized helmet

and an ever so small

as sizes go

field jacket.

 

. . . And when he fell—

his mouth stretched wide into attacking scream—

not a pretty sight,

and not for reasons good enough,

then you could search the whole wide world,

and nowhere find the marble enough

to sculpt out this little man,

standing

as tall as he should

sculpted stand!

 

d

 

Translator’s Note

 

The Robert Rozhdestvensky poem from 1969 belongs to a long and hallowed tradition of Russian poetry that glorifies the common man who went to war against Hitler and defeated him. Unfortunately, in the year 2022, given the advent of Putin’s War against Ukraine, nothing now remains to glorify about the Russian fighting man. On the contrary, the Russian army, along with the whole Russian Federation is now bathed in ignominious infamy and shame. Those of us who have been Russophiles nearly all our lives no longer find much to be Russophilic about. Given modern circumstances, I have re-translated the poem from the point of view of a Ukrainian soldier and brought it up to date.

 

d

 

Translation/Adaptation, With Variations Updating to the Year 2022

 by U.R. Bowie

 

 

Once upon a time

on an Earth quite pathetically small

there lived in Ukieland a small, small man.

His job was minuscule to extremes.

He carried the smallest of briefcases.

His salary was teeny-teetoncey.

 

Then one fine day—

on a lovely, lovely morn—

came knocking at his Ukie window

a tiny little fellow named Pooty-Poot,

bringing

(along with reams of grandiose illusions),

quite the miniature,

so it seemed,

teensy-weensy war

(what he called a “special military operation”).

 

They issued the Ukie a small AK.

And then a little pair of boots.

Issued him a small-sized Kevlar helmet

and an ever so small

as sizes go

field jacket

 

(camouflaged,

courtesy of the U.S.A., who also sent

lots and lots and lots and lots

of rockets,

but not a single,

solitary

teensy-weensy

U.S.A.

soldier). . .

 

. . . And when he fell—

his mouth stretched wide into attacking scream—

having done his small all,

for the Glory of All Ukieland,

then you could search the whole wide world,

and nowhere find the marble enough

to sculpt out this little man,

standing Ukie proud

and waving Ukie flag,

as tall as he should

sculpted stand!