Saturday, September 26, 2026

French Folk Ditty "Frère Jacques" in Russian, German and English

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F4H9MgzC88w


French Folk Ditty Frère Jacques in Russian, German and English

 (Online on website livejournal.com)

I learned this ditty at school in the 1940s, in Florida, in English and French. The French original apparently concerns a lazy monk who sleeps through the morning church services and must be awakened. I wonder how many millions of children have learned it (are still learning it?) in various languages in schools all over the world.

 Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques,

Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?

Sonnez les matines! Sonnez les matines!

Ding, dang, dong. Ding, dang, dong.

 

Братец Яков, братец Яков,

Спишь ли ты? Спишь ли ты?

Слышишь звон на башне? Слышишь звон на башне?

Динь-дон-дон. Динь-дон-дон.

 

Bruder Jakob, Bruder Jakob,

schläfst du noch, schläfst du noch?

Hörst du nicht die Glocken, hörst du nicht die Glocken?

Ding ding dong, ding ding dong.

 

Are you sleeping, are you sleeping,

Brother John, brother John?

Morning bells are ringing, morning bells are ringing.

Ding ding dong, ding ding dong.

 

A Variant in Russian:

Артишоки, артишоки

И миндаль, и миндаль

Не растут на ж..е, не растут на ж..е,

Очень жаль. Очень жаль.

 

Artichokes and artichokers,

Almonds too, red and blue,

On your butt they don’t grow,

On your butt they won’t grow,

Too bad too, too bad too.

 

Песенка французская по происхождению. Альтернативый перевод на немецкий Meister Jakob. Кстати, на страничке этой песенки в немецкой википедии есть куча переводов на разные языки.

 

 



Friday, September 25, 2026

Translation of Poem by Marina Tsvetaeva, Марина Цветаева, "Кабы нас с тобой да судьба свела," IF ONLY RANK DESTINY LINKED YOU AND ME

 


Марина Цветаева


Marina Tsvetaeva
(1892-1941)
 
Кабы нас с тобой да судьба свела —
Ох, веселые пошли бы по земле дела!
Не один бы нам поклонился град,
Ох мой родный, мой природный, мой безродный брат!
 
Как последний сгас на мосту фонарь —
Я кабацкая царица, ты кабацкий царь.
Присягай, народ, моему царю!
Присягай его царице, – всех собой дарю!
 
Кабы нас с тобой да судьба свела,
Поработали бы царские на нас колокола!
Поднялся бы звон по Москве-реке
О прекрасной самозванке и ее дружке.
 
Нагулявшись, наплясавшись на шальном пиру,
Покачались бы мы, братец, на ночном ветру...
И пылила бы дороженька – бела, бела, —
Кабы нас с тобой – да судьба свела!
 
25 октября 1916

d

                                               Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

If only rank destiny linked you and me,
How joyous our path through this lifetime would be!
They’d bow down to us, one town, then another,
O my dearly born, native-born, classless-act brother!
 
As the last torch burns out over bridge and wellspring,
I’m the queen of the lushes, you’re the reprobate-king.
Pledge your troth, O ye riffraff, to my liege and best brother!
Pledge the selfsame to queen-me, and I’ll rule like no other!
 
If only rank destiny linked you and me,
The royal bellringers would ring out in glee!
They’d peal out their clamor along Moscow River,
For the fake queen and liege they’d go ding-dong and blither.

We’d make raucous whoopie at a wild-ass to-do,
With rapscallion bliss we’d the night air bestrew,
The roadway’d be dusted in clouds white and free,
If only rank destiny linked you and me!

 

 


Translation of Poem by Lidia Chukovskaya, Лидия Чуковская, "Куда они бросили тело твоё?" QUESTIONS FOR A LOVED ONE DEMISED

 



Лидия Чуковская
(1907-1996)


Куда они бросили тело твоё? В люк?
Где расстреливали? В подвале?
Слышал ли ты звук
Выстрела? Нет, едва ли.
Выстрел в затылок милосерд:
Вдребезги память.
Вспомнил ли ты тот рассвет? Нет.
Торопился падать.

 1956


Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

                                                 Questions for a Loved One Demised

Where did they throw your body?

In some ditch?

Where did they shoot you?

In some basement niche?

 

Did you hear the sound of the shot?

No, hardly, unlikely enough.

A shot in the occiput is merciful,

Shatters your brainwaves to flinders and fluff.

 

Did you recall the dawn of that day?

No. You had pressing things to deal with:

Like Hurry up, fall,

Like passing away.

 

Translator’s Note

 

Matvei Bronshtein (1906-1938), an eminent physicist and Lidia Chukovskaya’s husband, was arrested in 1937, executed (shot) in 1938. The usual way of executing people in the years of Stalin’s Terror involved none of the niceties associated with this business in Western countries. No last meal. No last walk down the corridors of Death Row, priest at your elbow, bidding farewell to your fellow inmates. No final words to the world at large before they pulled the plug.

 

You were led out of your cell as if on the way to another session of interrogation. You had no idea that you were about to be shot. Your jailer, who walked, as usual, behind you, quietly took out a pistol and shot you in the back of the head. No one bothered to notify relatives, either that the execution was imminent, or afterward, when the deed had been done. The body was disposed of, most often in some common grave with other prisoners. Lidia Chukovskaya found out that her husband had been shot only in 1939. She was lucky. Many relatives of executed “enemies of the people” found out their fate only ten years after the fact, or even twenty.

 


Matvei Bronshtein

Translation of Poem by Evgeny Evtushenko, ЕВГЕНИЙ ЕВТУШЕНКО , "Ты спрашивала шепотом," THE YOU WHO WHISPERED


 

ЕВГЕНИЙ ЕВТУШЕНКО
(1932-2017)

 

Ты спрашивала шепотом:
«А что потом?
А что потом?»
Постель была расстелена,
и ты была растеряна...
Но вот идешь по городу,
несешь красиво голову,
надменность рыжей челочки,
и каблучки-иголочки.
В твоих глазах –
насмешливость,
и в них приказ –
не смешивать
тебя
с той самой,
бывшею,
любимой
и любившею.
Но это –
дело зряшное.
Ты для меня –
вчерашняя,
с беспомощно забывшейся
той челочкою сбившейся.
И как себя поставишь ты,
и как считать заставишь ты,
что там другая женщина
со мной лежала шепчуще
и спрашивала шепотом:
«А что потом?
А что потом?»

1957


d
 
                                               Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
 
                                                             The You Who Whispered
You asked me—in a whisper now—
“So what comes next,
and when, and how?”
We made the bed,
arranged whatnot,
while you looked bad,
shook-up, distraught . . .
 
Today you trek the city street,
your head held high, demeanor sweet,
on heels high, stiletto-thin,
your ginger bangs all smug,
pert grin.
 
Your eyes agleam
with mockery,
they order, “Do not mix up
me
with that girl
on her back and meek,
the lovelorn lass,
all loving, weak.”
 
But that game won’t
play out with me,
you yesterday’s
the you I see,
shamefaced and helpless,  
nerves a mess,
bangs a-tangle,
hot, undressed. 
 
So how will you now present yourself?
How force me into that new view of you?
“That was a different woman back there,
the feverish one with the messy hair,
who lay with you and murmured true-blue,
who asked in a whisper,
(that pitiful cow),
‘So what comes next,
and when, and how?’”

 


                                      Note from Facebook Online (Best Verses of Favorite Poets)

Журнальная публикация этих стихов в 1959 году вызвала яростное шельмование в прессе. Эротические стихи бросали тень на суровое, безупречное и эталонно скучное "облико морале" советской молодёжи. Однако скандальная критика только подогревала интерес. При этом, не слишком дотошный читатель, не затрудняясь поисками оригинала , довольствовался ходившими по рукам искаженными, часто вульгарными, копиями.

Автору долгое время запрещалось включать эти стихи в сборники, или он вынужден был публиковать их в "причесанном" виде.


Tuesday, September 8, 2026

Достоевский, "БЕЛЫЕ НОЧИ," Dostoevsky's "White Nights" Runs Amuck

                                   Cheap Gimcrack Cover Art of White Nights Bestseller in Brazil


                                                             Illustrations by M. Dobuzhinsky




White Nights Runs Amuck in Brazil, Spain, England

Thanks apparently to an “influencer” in Brazil, Marcelo Nogueira, who has scads of followers on BookTok—the literary affiliate of TikTok—young readers all over the world have taken to Dostoevsky’s early novella (1848), «Белые ночи» (White Nights). Sales are over the top in at least the three countries mentioned above. In Russia itself, where even young readers may have already been familiar with this work, no such enthusiastic new readership appears to have developed.

Influenced by the young Dostoevsky’s attraction to German Romantic fiction and the School of Sentimentality, this short work describes the ecstasies of a dreamer-narrator enthused by his fantastical reveries about brotherly bonding and romantic love. He meets by chance a young girl, Nastenka, and falls madly in love with her. She, however, has set her heart on a rival, who soon is to return to her. As one critic has written, everything in this story is “illumined by the gentle light of Petersburg’s white nights,” the long evenings of midsummer.

In fact, White Nights is probably the most gentle, the softest of all fictional works written by Dostoevsky. As Mochulsky has noted, it “strikes a chord of serene and joyful melody, a note of lightness and gentle irony that is simply not there in Dostoevsky’s later, most famous works.” In the late forties of the nineteenth century, when this story was written and published, the School of Realism—later to be embraced by such titans as Turgenev, Tolstoy, and Dostoevsky himself—was already on the horizon. With White Nights he may have been playing with an already outmoded literary genre, half parodying the sentimental novel of the eighteenth century.

It is not hard to imagine how this story of a lonely young dreamer, isolated from the world at large, could appeal to puerile readers of our own time. The work’s popularity can be attributed, at least in part, to its length. It is barely long enough to be called a novella, and could be viewed as a long story. As for the love relationship in White Nights, the dreamer-narrator is a romantic idealist, as is the girl Nastenka. Neither of these two main (practically only) characters is a sensualist, and erotic love is absent in the book. They meet in person only a few times, and if they had cell phones in those days, one could imagine their communicating with each other exclusively by text.

Nastenka is unlike hardly any other female character in Dostoevsky’s fictions. She is full of life and charm, a simple, but not stupid girl of seventeen. Her portrayal demonstrates that even in his earliest writings Dostoevsky had a subtle grasp of human psychology. But in his mature works the females are much more complicated, neurotic, dominated by pride, often, in fact, hysterical and irrational. They are deeply wounded by the way men use, or try to use them. Dostoevsky’s favorite theme—later thoroughly developed by Nabokov in Lolita—featuring old lechers in pursuit of very young girls, is foreshadowed in this book, in the scene where the Dreamer recues Nastenka from a lecherous old man. That theme, in fact, was adumbrated even in Dostoevsky’s first published fictional work, the epistolary novel Poor People.

You wonder if the young readers of White Nights these days will graduate up to the more profound works of this profoundly psychological and philosophical writer. White Nights leads us—if we wish to take the trip—directly to two more works featuring Petersburg dreamers. The first of these, published in 1864, is Notes from the Underground. The critic Victor Terras has written that the unnamed narrator of this novella, a disillusioned romantic dreamer of forty, is simply the young Dreamer of White Nights some twenty years later. But the Underground Man, one of the most perverse and deliberately paradoxical figures in all of world literature, has left behind all the softness, love of humanity, and gentle irony of his predecessor. The work is comic, yes, humorous, but in a deeply dark way. Typically, in fact (unlike White Nights), "Dostoevskian."

One step further and we come to Crime and Punishment, the first of Dostoevsky’s great broad-themed and lengthy novels, published in 1866. Its lonely dreamer protagonist, Raskolnikov, sits dazed, half-crazy, making big plans in his cramped, stuffy room, which resembles a coffin. He staggers his way through the grungy streets of St. Petersburg, disturbed enough to border frequently on insanity. Raskolnikov, among other things, is a murderer. The “Nastenka” character, the young girl Sonya of Crime and Punishment, is a tormented prostitute, and one of the subplots of the book involves her attempts to bring Raskolnikov to atone for his crime and return to Jesus.

In terms of artistic quality Dobuzhinsky's wonderful illustrations to White Nights, scenes of St. Petersburg on the Griboyedov Canal, are better than the novella itself.

 



Saturday, September 5, 2026

The Bestest of the Best, THIRTY-ONE, Boris Chichibabin, БОРИС ЧИЧИБАБИН, "Меня одолевает острое," THE ISLE OF JUMBLE

 


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


БОРИС ЧИЧИБАБИН
(1923-1994)

 

Меня одолевает острое
и давящее чувство осени.
Живу на даче, как на острове.
и все друзья меня забросили.
 
Ни с кем не пью, не философствую,
забыл и знать, как сердце влюбчиво.
Долбаю землю пересохшую
да перечитываю Тютчева.
 
В слепую глубь ломлюсь напористо
и не тужу о вдохновении,
а по утрам трясусь на поезде
служить в трамвайном управлении.
 
В обед слоняюсь по базарам,
где жмот зовет меня папашей,
и весь мой мир засыпан жаром
и золотом листвы опавшей…
 
Не вижу снов, не слышу зова,
и будням я не вождь, а данник.
Как на себя, гляжу на дальних,
а на себя — как на чужого.
 
С меня, как с гаврика на следствии,
слетает позы позолота.
Никто — ни завтра, ни впоследствии
не постучит в мои ворота.
 
Я — просто я. А был, наверное,
как все, придуман ненароком.
Все тише, все обыкновеннее
я разговариваю с Богом.
 
1965
 
 
d
 
                                            Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
 
                                                              The Isle of Jumble
 
Acute, oppressive and autumnal,
these feelings my sad soul besmirch;
I live at a dacha, on the Isle of Jumble,
my friends have left me in the lurch.
 
I share no drinks, philosophizing,
can’t even recall the amorous heart.
I pound and rend the dry earth, sighing,  
reread old Tyutchev right from the start.
 
Into blind abysses I push doggedly on,
and never a thought do I give inspiration;
my mornings I’m rattling as train moves along
to work at the Bureau of Tramcar Cunctation.
 
I slink through the flea market scene at lunch,
where some lowlife dork calls me gramps or pa,  
and my world is awash in heat and grunge,
and fallen leaves all golden with awe.
 
I have no dreams, I hear no call,
I’m no bossman at work; I’m a paltry lackey;
I look at myself and I see others all,
or I look at myself and see odd ticky-tacky.
 
Like some scalawag whom the gendarmes are grilling,
I toss off the persiflage gilded pure gold;
no one—tomorrow nor ever, Lord willing—
will knock at the gates of my humble abode.
 
I’m nobody but me, and most probab-ably,
like all, I was thought up to be by pure chance;
soft-voiced, like His buddy, quite affab-ably,  
I palaver with God, while He peers back askance. 

 

                                                                  Colorado Potato Beetle



Friday, September 4, 2026

Translation of Poem by Ivan Elagin, Иван Елагин, "Амнистия," AMNESTY

 


Иван Елагин
(1918-1987)

Амнистия

 

Ещё жив человек,
Расстрелявший отца моего
Летом в Киеве, в тридцать восьмом.
 
Вероятно, на пенсию вышел.
Живёт на покое
И дело привычное бросил.
 
Ну, а если он умер –
Наверное, жив человек,
Что пред самым расстрелом
Толстой
Проволокою
Закручивал
Руки
Отцу моему
За спиной.
 
Верно, тоже на пенсию вышел.
А если он умер,
То, наверное, жив человек,
Что пытал на допросах отца.
 
Этот, верно, на очень хорошую пенсию вышел.
 
Может быть, конвоир ещё жив,
Что отца выводил на расстрел.
 
Если б я захотел,
Я на родину мог бы вернуться.
 
Я слышал,
Что все эти люди
Простили меня.
 

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

                                                                         Amnesty
 
He’s still alive,
The man who shot my father.
In Kiev, summer, 1938.
 
Most likely retired now.
Living in peace.
Left his old avocations behind.
 
And if he has died now,
Another one’s still alive,
The one who right before
The execution
Used 
Thick
Barbed wire
To bind
My father’s hands
Behind his back.
 
Could be that one’s retired now too.
But if he has died,
Most likely another is still alive:
The one who interrogated,
Tortured
My father.
 
That one, I’d guess, got a fine retirement plan.

Perhaps the convoy guard is still alive,
The one who led my father
Out to be shot.
 
If I wanted to
I could return to my homeland.
 
So I’ve heard,
All of those people
Have forgiven me now.

                                                              
                                                                 Information Online

Иван Венедиктович Елагин ( наст. фамилия Матвеев, 1 декабря 1918 - 8 февраля 1987) - русский поэт.

 Сын поэта-футуриста Венедикта Марта, расстрелянного в 1938 году, и двоюродный брат известной поэтессы, автора песен Новеллы Матвеевой – крупнейший русский поэт второй волны эмиграции.

 Младенческие годы Ивана прошли в Харбине, куда семья уехала после революции, но в 1923 году будущий поэт с родителями вновь вернулся в Россию. После расстрела отца и смерти матери, Иван остался совсем один, но сумел поступить в Киевский медицинский институт. В 19 лет женился на молодой поэтессе Ольге Анстей. Во время стремительного наступления немцев летом 1941–го Иван с женой не успели эвакуироваться и остались в оккупации. В это время Иван работал в больнице, в акушерском отделении.

 Во время отхода немецких войск Иван и Ольга покинули Киев, а позже перешли в американскую зону оккупации, чтобы не оставаться в СССР, где их обоих ждал бы арест, а, возможно, и расстрел. Их первый ребёнок умер после родов в 1943-м, вторая дочь - Елена родилась в 1945 году. До конца 40–х годов супруги жили в лагерях для перемещённых лиц. Репатриации они избежали. Тогда же Иван, стихи которого уже стали достаточно известны, взял псевдоним Елагин, навсегда заменивший его подлинную фамилию.

С 1950 года жил в США, где, по приезде, развёлся с женой. Причина развода – новая любовь Ольги. Они, впрочем, сохранили дружеские отношения на всю жизнь. Работал на радиостанции «Свобода». Работая журналистом, одновременно учился в Колумбийском университете, затем в Нью–Йоркском университете. Преподавал в качестве профессора в колледже Миддлбери.

 В 1969 году Елагин получил степень доктора в Нью–Йоркском университете. С 1970–го он – профессор Питтсбургского университета, где преподавал русскую литературу. Умер в феврале 1987 года в возрасте 68 лет.

 

 



Saturday, August 29, 2026

Ever Feel Like Being A Seed? (The Ritual Function of Orgy) MIRCEA ELIADE

 


The Ritual Function of Orgy

“The orgy sets flowing the sacred energy of life. Human beings become at one with the forces of the universe. They break down the barriers between man, society, nature and the gods; they help force life and the seeds of things to move from one level to another, from one zone of reality to the next.”

Mircea Eliade, Patterns in Comparative Religion

 “Like seeds that lose their shape in the great underground, merging, disintegrating and becoming something different (germination), so men lose their individuality in the orgy, combining into a single living unity . . . They try once more to enter the primal, pre-formal, chaotic state—a state that corresponds in the cosmological order to the chaotic formlessness before the creation. Man yearns to be seed, not person.”

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







Friday, August 28, 2026

Poem by Bobby Goosey, SOLEDAD QUIETUS

 


Bobby Lee Goosey

                                               This Poem Is Dedicated to Soledad Quietus
You’re the
Topmost upmost utmost
Ghost
(How I’d like to get to know you better)

Sitting on the
Upmost, utmost uttermost
Post
(How I’d like to get to know you better)

Standing on the
Westmost eastmost furthermost
Coast
(How I’d like to get to know you better)

Gnawing on the
Cooked most burntmost turkeyleg
Roast
(How I’d like to get to know you better
How I’d like to help you eat that roast
Bet it tastes real fine with burnt black toast)
 
You’re the
Utmost, upmost, toppermost, uttermost
Lastmost, vastmost
Ghost.



Saturday, August 22, 2026

Translation of Poem by Igor Chinnov, Игорь Чиннов, "А может быть, всё же – спасибо за это," GRATEFULNESS

                                James Crombie Photo of Starling Murmuration in Ireland


Игорь Чиннов
(1909-1996)
 
А может быть, всё же – спасибо за это:
За нежность туманно-жемчужного света,
За свежесть дождём всколыхнутого сада,
За первые знаки – уже – листопада.
 
Спасибо, что облако меркнет и тает
Над этой в закат улетающей стаей,
И розовый свет приближается к морю…
Ну что же, спасибо. Да разве я спорю…
 
[«Пасторали» Рифма: Париж, 1976, стр. 105]
 
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                                     Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

                                       Gratefulness
 
But, could be, nonetheless, I’ll say thanks all the same:
For that light with a tender and hazy-pearl sheen,
For that mist reeking freshness on rain-scrambled lane,
For the first signs in fall of a leaf-fall serene. 
 
Thanks, God, for clouds wispy o’er air jasmine-scented,
For starlings near sunset in mass murmuration,
For that rosy-pink gleam there, on sea’s condensation . . .
Yeah, even so, thanks—do I sound discontented?
 


Monday, August 17, 2026

Translation of Poem by Anna Akhmatova, Анна Ахматова, "Молитва," A PRAYER

 


Анна Ахматова
(1889-1966)


Молитва

Дай мне горькие годы недуга,
Задыханья, бессонницу, жар,
Отыми и ребёнка, и друга,
И таинственный песенный дар —
Так молюсь за Твоей литургией
После стольких томительных дней,
Чтобы туча над тёмной Россией
Стала облаком в славе лучей.


May, 1915. Day of the Holy Ghost
St. Petersburg

 

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                                                       Literal Translation by Judith Hemschemeyer
                                                                                     
                    Prayer

Give me bitter years of sickness,
Suffocation, insomnia, fever,
Take my child and my lover,
And my mysterious gift of song—
This I pray at your liturgy
After so many tormented days,
So that the stormcloud over darkened Russia
Might become a cloud of glorious rays.
 
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                                     Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
 
                                                                    A Prayer
 
Send me bitter long years of illness on end,
Labored breathing, insomnia, fever,
Take my one offspring, take my best friend
And my gift as a poet, dream-weaver.
So goes my prayer during liturgy mass,
After tormenting weeks of travail,
I pray that the nimbus that looms o’er dark Rus
Turn to clouds steeped in glory, bright-hale.

 

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Translator’s Note

 So much for the efficacy of prayer. The year 1915 was early on in the morass of chaos and grief that was to plague Holy Rus and its denizens (including Anna Akhmatova) in the twentieth century. Still to come were the further horrors of the First World War, two revolutions, a civil war, various famines, then what was billed as the Glorious Socialist Paradise, the Soviet Union, which included the Leninist Terror, more famine, another World War, the mass arrests of the Stalinist Terror, the Gulag Archipelago, etc., etc. With the collapse of the USSR the nineties promised a new democratic Russia, but that decade came with economic collapse, followed by the new capitalist oligarchs and their seizure of the country’s natural wealth. And then came next what was old hat in Russian history: a new authoritarian leader, Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin. Who decided, in 2022, that only war with Ukraine could save his country from utter second-class status as a world power.