Translation of Poem by Anna Akhmatova, Анна Ахматова, "Стал мне реже сниться, слава Богу," THANK GOD, MY DREAMWORLD'S LEANER, SPARSER

 

Анна Ахматова
(1889-1966)

Стал мне реже сниться, слава Богу,
Больше не мерещится везде.
Лег туман на белую дорогу,
Тени побежали по воде.

И весь день не замолкали звоны
Над простором вспаханной земли,
Здесь всего сильнее от Ионы
Колокольни лаврские вдали.

Подстригаю на кустах сирени
Ветки те, что нынче отцвели,
По валам старинных укреплений
Два монаха медленно прошли.

Мир родной, понятный и телесный
Для меня, незрячей, оживи.
Исцелил мне душу царь небесный
Ледяным покоем нелюбви.

1912. Kiev

d

Literal Translation by Judith Hemschmeyer
(with amendations in brackets by URB)

 

I dream of him less often now, thank God,
He doesn't appear everywhere anymore. [I don’t fancy that I see him everywhere anymore]
Fog lies on the white road,
Shadows start to run along the water.

And the ringing [pealing] goes on all day.
Over the endless expanse of ploughed fields,
Ever louder sound the bells
From Jonah’s Monastery far away.

[mistranslation of last two lines here:
On account of the massive Iona (Jonah) bell here
(as if resounding off of it?),
The belltowers from the Lavra Monastery far away ring out still louder.]
 

I am clipping today’s wilted branches
From the lilac bushes;
On the ramparts of the ancient fortress,
Two monks stroll. [have strolled past]

Revive for me, who cannot see,
The familiar [dear], comprehensible, corporeal world.
The heavenly king has already healed my soul
With the peace of unlove, icy cold.

 

 

d

                                       Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
 
Thank God my dreamworld’s leaner, sparser now,
Imaginings of him flow not so amply.
On road the fog and whiteness blend somehow,
While shadows run and play on waters damply.
 
And all day long the bells flaunt resonations
Above the plowed-up land, the vast greenway;
Attempting to outshine our massive Jonah,
The Lavra’s belltowers ring out far away.
 
In amidst the lilacs pruning upstarts,
I trim the branches where the blooms are shaded;
Along the walls past buttresses and ramparts
Slowly walk two monks in habits faded.
 
O precious world, a realm coherent, whole, 
For me, alone, unseeing, come alive!
The Lord Above has healed my ailing soul,
On doses of un-love ice-cold I thrive. 

 

d

Translator’s Note

Материал из Викитеки — свободной библиотеки

Second Stanza: Иона — Киевский Свято-Троицкий мужской монастырь на правом берегу Днепра, в нескольких километрах от Киево-Печерской лавры. Основан киевским подвижником, старцем Ионой (ум. в 1902 г.). В 1896 г. Иона купил для колокольни монастыря огромный колокол весом в 1150 пудов.

This poem is set in Kiev near the Holy Trinity Men’s Monastery on the right bank of the Dnieper River, several kilometers away from the renowned Kiev Cave Monastery—which is the “Lavra” mentioned in the poem (Kievo-Pecherskaja Lavra). The Holy Trinity Monastery was founded by the Kiev anchorite-zealot Father Jonah (who died in 1902). In 1896 Jonah bought for the belltower of his monastery an enormous bell that weighed some 1150 poods (20.7 tons). The word “Iona” (Jonah) in the second stanza alludes, apparently, to the massive so-called Iona Bell.

                                                                    fietzfotos on pixabay

Translation of Poem by Anna Akhmatova, Анна Ахматова, "Здесь все то же, то же, что и прежде," EVERYTHING'S THE SAME HERE

                                                                     Modigliani Sketch, 1911

Анна Ахматова
(1889-1966)

Здесь все то же, то же, что и прежде,
Здесь напрасным кажется мечтать.
В доме у дороги непроезжей
Надо рано ставни запирать.

Тихий дом мой пусть и неприветлив,
Он на лес глядит одним окном,
В нем кого-то вынули из петли
И бранили мертвого потом.

Был он грустен или тайно-весел,
Только смерть — большое торжество.
На истертом красном плюше кресел
Изредка мелькает тень его.

И часы с кукушкой ночи рады,
Все слышней их четкий разговор.
В щелочку смотрю я: конокрады
Зажигают под холмом костер.

И, пророча близкое ненастье,
Низко, низко стелется дымок.
Мне не страшно. Я ношу на счастье
Темно-синий шелковый шнурок.

 May, 1912

d

                                             Literal Translation by Judith Hemschemeyer
                                               (slight amendations in brackets by URB)
 

Here everything is the same as before, just the same,
Here it seems useless to dream.
In a house on a seldom-traveled [impassable] road,
One must close the shutters early.
 
My silent house is empty and unfriendly [inhospitable],
Through one window it peers at the woods.
In it someone was cut from a noose
And afterwards the body was cursed.
 
Whether he was melancholy or secretly happy,
There remains only death—the great victory [a triumphant occasion].
On the worn, red plush of the armchairs
His shadow flickers occasionally.
 
And the cuckoo clock is happy at night,
Its precise conversation more audible.
I watch through a chink: horse thieves
Are lighting a campfire at the foot of the hill.
 
And, foretelling foul weather,
The smoke creeps low along the ground.
I’m not afraid. I wear for luck
A dark blue cord of silk.
 

d
 
                                          Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

Everything’s the same here as before,
Daydreaming is, it seems, a futile chore.
In the house beside the road mud-cluttered,
Early must the windows be tight shuttered. 

My home is quiet, although rather glum,
One window faces out on forest foggy.
Inside here a hanged man was un-hung,
Later they reviled, abused the body.
 
Be he sad, or was he wry, amusing,
Nonetheless, death’s one big howdy-do.
On the threadbare plush of armchairs musing,
His shadow now and then will perch askew. 
 
The cuckoo clock exults in the midnight quagmire,
Its conversation, clacks and clicks, rings true.
Looking through a crack I see a campfire,
Where horse-thieves sit and plot their derring-do.
 
Prognosticating soon-to-come foul weather,
Lower, ever lower swirls a cloud of smoky mist.
Fear not. My lucky charm’s here, wheresoever:
A dark-blue silken cord around my wrist.
 

Translation of Poem by Anna Akhmatova, Анна Ахматова, "Бессонница," INSOMNIA

 

Анна Ахматова
(1889-1966)

Бессонница

 

Где-то кошки жалобно мяукают,
Звук шагов я издали ловлю...
Хорошо твои слова баюкают:
Третий месяц я от них не сплю.

Ты опять, опять со мной, бессонница!
Неподвижный лик твой узнаю.
Что, красавица, что, беззаконница,
Разве плохо я тебе пою?

Окна тканью белою завершены,
Полумрак струится голубой... 
Или дальней вестью мы утешены?
Отчего мне так легко с тобой?

Winter, 1912
Tsarskoe Selo

d

Literal Translation by Judith Hemschemeyer

Somewhere cats are mewing pitifully,
I catch the sound of distant steps...
Your words are a wonderful lullaby:
Because of them for three months I haven't slept.

Insomnia, you are with me again, again!
I recognize your fixed countenance.
What is it, my outlaw, what is it, my pretty one,
Do I sing so badly to you?

White cloth curtains the windows,
Dim light streams blue...
Or are we being consoled by news from afar?
Why do I feel so at ease with you?

d

                                           Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

                                                                            Insomnia

Somewhere the felines are plaintively mewling,
I catch tip-taps of footsteps from afar near daybreak. . .
The lullaby tones of your words are so soothing:
For three solid months now they keep me awake.
 
Once again you are with me, insomnia dear,
With your motionless visage so flawless.
You beautiful creature, so wanton and lawless,
Do my songs not ring soft in your ear?
 
The windows are trimmed in some off-white motif,
The blue light of gloaming streams through. . .
Or can we in news from afar find relief?
Why is it I feel so at ease when with you?

 

Translation of Poem by Anna Akhmatova, Анна Ахматова, "Слаб голос мой, но воля не слабеет," MY VOICE IS WEAK

 

Анна Ахматова
(1889-1966)

Слаб голос мой, но воля не слабеет,
Мне даже легче стало без любви.
Высоко небо, горный ветер веет,
И непорочны помыслы мои.

Ушла к другим бессонница-сиделка,
Я не томлюсь над серою золой,
И башенных часов кривая стрелка
Смертельной мне не кажется стрелой.

Как прошлое над сердцем власть теряет!
Освобожденье близко. Все прощу,
Следя, как луч взбегает и сбегает
По влажному весеннему плющу.

1912

d

Literal Translation by Judith Hemschemeyer
(with amendations in brackets by URB)
 
Weak is my voice, but my will isn’t weakening,
It’s even become easier for me without love.
The sky is sublime [high], a mountain wind is blowing,
And my thoughts are pure [chaste].
 
Insomnia, my nightnurse, is visiting elsewhere,
I’m not brooding by a cold hearth,
And the crooked hand of the tower clock
Doesn’t look like the arrow of death.
 
How the past loses power over the heart!
Liberation is at hand. I forgive everything.
I’m keeping track of a sunbeam running up and down
The first moist ivy of spring.
 

d

 

Literary Translation by Rupert Moreton

My voice is weak, but not my resolution,
A loveless life is easier for me.
The sky is high, from hill breathes absolution
And from all accusation I am free.

The night-nurse of insomnia has departed,
The ashen sulphur’s ceased to cause me pain,
Though towers’ crooked handed clocks have charted,
To death they seem to me to point in vain.

The heart from past has sealed its liberation!
All is forgiven. Freedom now is mine.
I’m watching now the playing ray’s gyration
Along the sodden springtime ivy’s twine.

d

                                             Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

My voice is weak, my will, though, does not weaken,
I’m even now at ease, without love’s pain.
Lofty’s the sky, the highland winds browbeaten,
Chaste are my thoughts and ever less profane. 
 
My night nurse called Insomnia has departed,
I’m languishing no longer over grayness of the ash,
And that crooked hand on tower clock contorted
Seems not so deathly lethal with its gnash. 
 
How quick the past its grip on heartstrings looses! 
All’s forgiven now, for liberation’s near,
Watching how a light ray runs, suffuses
Sodden vernal ivy twines austere. 
 

 

Translation of Poem by Anna Akhmatova, Анна Ахматова, "Умирая, томлюсь о бессмертье," WHILE DYING I LONG FOR IMMORTAL LIFE'S REVELS

 

Анна Ахматова
(1889-1966)

Умирая, томлюсь о бессмертье.
Низко облако пыльной мглы...
Пусть хоть голые красные черти,
Пусть хоть чан зловонной смолы.

Приползайте ко мне, лукавьте,
Угрозы из ветхих книг,
Только память вы мне оставьте,
Только память в последний миг.

Чтоб в томительной веренице
Не чужим показался ты,
Я готова платить сторицей
За улыбки и за мечты.

Смертный час, наклонясь, напоит
Прозрачной сулемой.
А люди придут, зароют
Мое тело и голос мой.

1912, Tsarskoe Selo

d

                                           Literal Translation by Judith Hemschemeyer
                                           (with slight amendments in brackets by URB)
 
Dying, I am tormented by immortality.
There’s a low-hanging cloud of dusty haze . . .
Let there be [at least] naked red devils,
Let there be [at least] vats of stinking pitch.
 
Crawl up to me, play your tricks,
Your [You] threats from antiquated books,
Only leave me my memory,
Only, at the last gasp, my memory.
 
So that you won’t be [seem] a stranger to me
In the agonizing line,
I am ready to pay a hundredfold
For a smile and for a dream [for some smiles and daydreams].
 
The hour of death, bowing, [bending down] slakes my thirst [will give me to drink]
With clear, corrosive lye. [transparent corrosive lye]
And people [will] come and bury
My body and my voice.
 
d

                                         Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

While dying I long for immortal life’s revels,
A cloud of dusty mist descends from afar . . .
So what if there’s nothing but naked red devils,
Or naught but a vat full of foul-smelling tar?
 
Crawl your way up to me, prestidigitate,
All you threats from an old-testament tome,
But leave me my memory intact and illimitate,
Just a last fleeting glimpse of memorial loam.  
 
In that wearisome queue at my bier, 
So that you look in place, and not frayed at the seams,
I’m prepared now to pay out quite dear
For a few scattered smiles and daydreams.
 
Pale Death, bending down, will proffer to me
A glass of translucent sheer corrosive lye;
They’ll bear me away, just one more absentee,
Then bury my body and voice; say goodbye.

 

Translation of Poem by Anna Akhmatova, Анна Ахматова, "Помолись о нищей, о потерянной," PRAY FOR THE MENDICANT SOUL

 

Анна Ахматова
(1889-1966)

Помолись о нищей, о потерянной,
О моей живой душе.
Ты, в своих путях всегда уверенный,
Свет узревший в шалаше.

И тебе печально-благодарная
Я за это расскажу потом,
Как меня томила ночь угарная,
Как дышало утро льдом.

В этой жизни я немного видела,
Только пела и ждала.
Знаю, брата я не ненавидела
И сестру не предала.

Отчего же Бог меня наказывал
Каждый день и каждый час?
Или это Ангел мне указывал
Свет, невидимый для нас?

May, 1912
Florence

d

Literal Translation by Judith Hemschemeyer
(amended in brackets by URB)
 
[I ask you to, omit] pray for my poor, my perplexed [lost],
For my living soul,
You, always certain of your path,
Having seen light shining from the hut.
 
And then, sadly grateful,
I will relate to you
How the night of ecstasy exhausted me, [nothing about ecstasy in the original]
How the morning breathed ice.
 
I saw little of this life,
I only sang and waited.
I know I didn’t hate my brother
And I didn’t betray my sister.
 
Why then did God punish me
Every day and every hour?
Or was this an angel showing me
A world [a light] that none of us can see?

d

                                              Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

Pray for the mendicant soul that is lost,
For my soul still alive in the bustle,
You, who walk paths that are never star-crossed,
Who discern specks of light in a hovel.
 
And feeling a smidgen of grim gratefulness,
I’ll tell you a tale not so nice,
How the fumes in my night breathed out balefulness,
How the morning air wafted sheer ice.
 
I’ve not seen a lot of this life,
I’ve sung, patience shown, weaved brocade,
But I’ve not hated brothers, sown strife,
And my sisters I’ve never betrayed.
 
Why does God punish me, chastise,
Every day, every hour of my days?
Or is that how his Angel shows slantwise
Those unseen specks of light in the haze?
 

 

Translation of Poem by Igor Chinnov, Игорь Чиннов, "Motifs décoratifs"

 

 Игорь Чиннов
(1909-1996)

 

Motifs décoratifs, et non but de l’Histoire
                                                           Jules Laforgue
 
Черная птица на черном и снежном суку —
иероглиф печали.
Черный репейник в снегу —
идиограмма зимы.
 
Тени, твоя и моя, на белом сугробе —
граффити молчанья.
 
Треплются черные ветки кустов и деревьев.
Как беспокойна
китайская каллиграфия зимнего сада
и как беспредметна —
абстракция света и снега.
 
[«Композиция» Париж: Рифма, 1972, стр. 60]
 
d
 
                                            Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
 
Motifs décoratifs, et non but de l’Histoire
                                                           Jules Laforgue
 
 
A black bird on the black and the snow-spattered earth—
a hieroglyph of sorrow.
A black burr of burdock in snow—
an ideogram of winter.
 
Shadows, yours and mine, on a white bank of snow—
graffiti of silence.
 
Black branches of bushes and trees all aflutter.
How restless
the Chinese calligraphy of that winter garden
and how objectless—
an abstraction of light and of snow.
 

Palaver Trees

 

Palaver Trees

Some places have what in Africa are called “palaver trees,” venerable and highly respected old trees “where dignitaries would meet and negotiate, where holy men would sit with worry beads,” where children would play, climbing about in the branches, where any number of other people might gather, to sit doing one of man’s favorite things: running their mouths and flapping their tongues; in a word, palavering.

Thomas Pakenham, Remarkable Trees of the World

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

Translation of Poem by Aleksandr Pushkin, Александр Пушкин, "Брожу ли я вдоль улиц шумных," WHEN DOWN THE FESTIVE STREETS I WANDER

 

Александр Пушкин
(1799-1837)

Брожу ли я вдоль улиц шумных…

Брожу ли я вдоль улиц шумных,
Вхожу ль во многолюдный храм,
Сижу ль меж юношей безумных,
Я предаюсь моим мечтам.

Я говорю: промчатся годы,
И сколько здесь ни видно нас,
Мы все сойдем под вечны своды —
И чей-нибудь уж близок час.

Гляжу ль на дуб уединенный,
Я мыслю: патриарх лесов
Переживет мой век забвенный,
Как пережил он век отцов.

Младенца ль милого ласкаю,
Уже я думаю: прости!
Тебе я место уступаю:
Мне время тлеть, тебе цвести.

День каждый, каждую годину
Привык я думой провождать,
Грядущей смерти годовщину
Меж их стараясь угадать.

И где мне смерть пошлет судьбина?
В бою ли, в странствии, в волнах?
Или соседняя долина
Мой примет охладелый прах?

И хоть бесчувственному телу
Равно повсюду истлевать,
Но ближе к милому пределу
Мне все б хотелось почивать.

И пусть у гробового входа
Младая будет жизнь играть,
И равнодушная природа
Красою вечною сиять.

1829 г.

 

d

                                                                         Literal Translation
Whether I wander along noisy streets,
Or go into a cathedral full of people,
Or sit amidst madcap youths,
I devote myself to my daydreams.
 
I say: years will rush past,
And however many of us may be seen here now,
We’ll all descend beneath eternal vaults—
And someone’s hour is already near at hand.
 
Glancing at a solitary oak,
I think: this patriarch of the forest
Will outlive my oblivious age,
Just as it outlived the age of my fathers.
 
If I caress a dear young child,
Already I’m thinking: farewell!
I cede my place to you:
Time has come for me to rot, for you to bloom.
 
I’ve grown accustomed to see off with a thought
Each day, each year [that passes],
Amidst them trying to guess
The [future] anniversary of my imminent death.
 
And where will fate send me my death?
In battle, in wanderings, in waves?
Or will the neighboring vale
Receive my cold remains?
 
And although the body void of sensations
Cares not where it may decay,
I’d all the same prefer to rest
Near to the lands I love.
 
And let it be that at the entry to my grave
Young life will be at play,
And indifferent nature
Will gleam with its eternal beauty.
 
d
 
                                   Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
 
When down the festive streets I wander,
Whenever in crowded temples stand,
When with my madcap friends time squander,
I muse and bask in daydreams grand. 
 
I think: the years hasten past so infernally, 
Just cast a gaze upon those seated here,
We’ll all of us pass neath the vaults of eternity,
And someone’s hour already draws near. 

When gazing upon an oak lone and secluded,
I ponder: this forest patriarch
Will live far past my age deluded,
Watching me as it watched all my forebears depart.
 
While I caress a dear young child,
I’m bidding him farewell, saying goodbye,
Ceding my place with a gracious smile:
“Your time to bloom, my time to die.”
 
With each day’s, each year’s hasty passage,
I contemplate my waning breath,
Attempting to read fate’s dire message,
The anniversary day of my death.
 
And where will fate send death to me,
In war, in travel, in sea’s storm?
Or will some dale or nearby lea
Receive my body to feed the worm?
 
And though my flesh insensible
Cares not where it may waste away,
Long rest I’d find delectable
In earth beside some dear byway.
 
And at the entry to my grave
May young life ever gambol, frolic,
May rains insouciant soothe and lave
This scene of beauty, calm, bucolic.

 

 

Translation of Poem by Bella Akhmadulina, Белла Ахмадулина, "Бабочка," THE BUTTERFLY

 

Белла Ахмадулина
(1937-2010)

                                                                     Бабочка
 Антонине Чернышевой

День октября шестнадцатый столь тёпел,
жара в окне так приторно желта,
что бабочка, усопшая меж стёкол,
смерть прервала для краткого житья.
 
Не страшно ли, не скушно ли? Не зря ли
очнулась ты от участи сестер,
жаднейшая до бренных лакомств яви
средь прочих шоколадниц и сластён?
 
Из мёртвой хватки, из загробной дрёмы
ты рвёшься так, что, слух острее будь,
пришлось бы мне, как на аэродроме,
глаза прикрыть и голову пригнуть.
 
Перстам неотпускающим, незримым
отдав щепотку боли и пыльцы,
пари, предавшись помыслам орлиным,
сверкай и нежься, гибни и прости.
 
Умру иль нет, но прежде изнурю я
свечу и лоб: пусть выдумают – как
благословлю я xищность жизнелюбья
с добычей жизни в меркнущих зрачках.
 
Пора! В окне горит огонь-затворник.
Усугубилась складка меж бровей.
Пишу: октябрь, шестнадцатое, вторник –
и Воскресенье бабочки моей.
 
1979

d

                                             Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

                                                                     The Butterfly
 
for Antonina Chernysheva
 
That day of October (the sixteenth) was warm and caressing,
the heat in the window so cloyingly yellow therefore,
that the butterfly trapped in between the two panes, evanescing,
interrupted her death for to live just a teeny bit more.
 
Isn’t it creepy and tedious—sheer aggravating,
that you’re the one spared the sad fate of your fellow flybutters,
you the most greedy sweet-tooth on a bloom wings pulsating, 
midst all of the other chocolatiers and sweets-lovers? 
 
From out of death’s clutches, from deep in an afterlife’s slumber
you burst forth so cogently; if my poor hearing were keen,
I’d have to do now what I do when the airport planes thunder:
duck down my head, cover my eyes, vacate the scene.
 
Give a pinch of pain, a dash of pollen fine
to unseen fingers unreleasing you,
then sail off aloft in feelings aquiline:
scintillate, luxuriate, then perish and adieu.
 
I’ll die or not, but first I’ll drain, consume
the candlelight and flame: let someone figure how
I bless the stark rapacity of love-for-life in bloom,
with life’s prey coruscating in my dim eyes, on my brow.
 
It’s time! In window burns the flame of last sunray;
the crease between my brows exacerbated,
I write: October sixteenth, Tuesday is it dated:
my butterfly’s sweet Resurrection Day.

 

 

Poem by Bobby Goosey, "Elephantiasis"

 

Bobby Lee Goosey
 
A Warning Against Giving Pet Elephants Piggyback Rides, For This Practice May Lead to the                                                            Dread Disease of Elephantiasis
 

Wee little Tiatus had an elephant named Sialas,
Wee little Tiatus rode mounted on Sialas,
And sometimes, for fun, big ole Sialas rode Tiatus.
But elephant Sialas had elephantiasis,
And poor wee little Tiatus caught elephantiasis.
 
Take care and beware of dread elephantiasis,
Let us ride on their backs, let us walk them beside us,
But never, not ever let elephants ride us,
For when elephants ride us they cause elephantiasis,
This fact you can verify—ask poor wee sad Tiatus.
 
[from Bobby Goosey’s Compendium of Perfectly Sensible Nonsense]

Translation of Poem by Igor Chinnov, Игорь Чиннов, "Утоли мои печали," ASSUAGE MY SORROWS

                                                         Icon "Assuage My Sorrows"

Игорь Чиннов
(1909-1996)

 

Утоли мои печали
Летним ветром, лунным светом,
Запахом начала мая,
Шорохом ночного моря.
 
Утоли мои печали
Голосом немого друга,
Парусом, плечом и плеском.
 
Утоли мои печали
Темным взглядом, тихим словом.
 
Утоли мои печали.

[from the collection «Партитура» Издание «Нового журнала» Нью Йорк, 1970, стр. 25]

 
d

                                                    Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

                                                        O Mother of God, Assuage My Sorrows
 
Spread a soft balm on my most poignant sores,
With summer breeze, with moonlight ray,
With scents and smells of early May,
With break of waves on midnight shores.
 
Spread a demulcent on teeth when they gnash,
With the voice of my silent and speechless friend,
With sail, warm shoulder, and gentle sea-splash.
 
Spread an emollient on joys deferred,
With sombre glance and quiet word,
 
Spread assuagement on my pain.

 

 

The Bestest of the Best, TWENTY-NINE, Vladimir Mayakovsky, ВЛАДИМИР МАЯКОВСКИЙ, "Я счастлив!" I'M HAPPY!

 

[note: I am reposting on my blog what I consider the best of my translations of Russian poetry, URB]

ВЛАДИМИР МАЯКОВСКИЙ
(1893-1930)

 

 

Я счастлив!

Граждане,
      у меня
          огромная радость.
Разулыбьте
      сочувственные лица.
Мне
  обязательно
        поделиться надо,
стихами
    хотя бы
        поделиться.

Я
 сегодня
     дышу как слон,
походка
    моя
      легка,
и ночь
   пронеслась,
        как чудесный сон,
без единого
      кашля и плевка.

Неизмеримо
      выросли
          удовольствий дозы.
Дни осени —
      баней воняют,
а мне
   цветут,
       извините, —
           розы,
и я их,
   представьте,
          обоняю.

И мысли
    и рифмы
         покрасивели
                и особенные,
аж вытаращит
        глаза
           редактор.
Стал вынослив
        и работоспособен,
как лошадь
      или даже —
            трактор.

Бюджет
    и желудок
         абсолютно превосходен,
укреплен
     и приведен в равновесие.
Стопроцентная
        экономия
             на основном расходе —
и поздоровел
       и прибавил в весе я.

Как будто
     на язык
         за кусом кус
кладут
   воздушнейшие торта —
такой
   установился
         феерический вкус
в благоуханных
        апартаментах
                рта.

Голова
   снаружи
        всегда чиста,
а теперь
    чиста и изнутри.
В день
    придумывает
          не меньше листа,
хоть Толстому
       ноздрю утри.

Женщины
     окружили,
          платья испестря,
все
  спрашивают
        имя и отчество,
я стал
   определенный
           весельчак и остряк —
ну просто —
      душа общества.
Я
 порозовел
      и пополнел в лице,
забыл
   и гриппы
       и кровать.

Граждане,
     вас
       интересует рецепт?
Открыть?
     или…
        не открывать?
Граждане,
     вы
       утомились от жданья,
готовы
    корить и крыть.
Не волнуйтесь,
        сообщаю:
             граждане —
                  я
сегодня —
     бросил курить.

1929

 

 

d
 
                                        Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
 

                                                                I’m Happy!
 
Fellow citizens,
I feel great smacking
heaps of joy.
Stretch wide in grins congenial
your sympathetic mouths and lips.
By all means must my bliss deploy;
at least in a poem
I’ll tell of all this here this.
 
Today I breathe deepest of elephant breaths,
my gait strides on lightly and spritely,
and the night has rushed by
like a dream deep in depths,
unhindered by hackings and snortings—
not even slightly!
 
The pleasure I take in a shot of the booze
has grown without measure much greater,
the fall days autumnal of bathhouse vapes ooze,
and me (please forgive me!),
in my noggin bloom roses,
and (can you imagine?) me
sniffing them?
(my nose is)!
 
And my thoughts and my rhymes
are more beautifulized,
made to gape out and
boggle my editor’s eyes,
I’ve grown tough now, and robust,
at work I’m more workable,  
like a plough horse industrious,
or a tractor unirkable.
 
My budget and insides
are going great guns,
finances and guts are  
in harmony dwelling.
My disbursement of funds
for expenses primary
is way less by the hundreds of sums,
and I’m feeling much healthier,
putting on weight;
all my spirits, you see,
are large-swelling.
 
As if on my tongue,
in tidbit by tidbit,
were placed bits and bits
of the most luscious torts;
so that tastelets beguiling throw
wild hissy fits,
while cha-chas are dancing
of all kinds of sorts,
and mad whirlings whirling
in whirl west by south
on the fragrant sweet-smelling
first floor of my mouth.
 
My head on its outside
is spick-and-span clean,
and now on its inside
is spotless, shipshape,
that head thinks up poems
by the numbers umpteen;
Tolstoy would be envious,
nostrils agape.
 
The babes all surround me,
dress baubles aglitter;
they ask me my name
as they giggle and twitter;
I’m a wit now, a gadabout,
quipster and joker—
I’m the life of the
whole freaking party
freaked out.
I’ve got back my health,
and my cheeks are more plumper,
no more colds, no more flus
in my whole commonwealth.
 
Fellow citizens,
should I tell you the source
of my rejuvenation?
Divulge and disclose
how it all came to be?
You’ve waited to hear
what’s the cause, or causation,
and you’re short now on patience;
you’re right, I agree.
So: don’t worry, I’ll tell you
with no further lags:
today I quit smoking,
I done gave up the fags!

 

d

 

Translator’s Note

 This rollicking piece of fun, so typical of Mayakovsky at his most high-spirited and playful, was published in the newspaper “Evening Moscow” in December of 1929. Only four months later, on April 14, 1930, he committed suicide by shooting himself in the heart.