Monday, January 26, 2026

Translation of Poem by Vladislav Khodasevich, Владислав Ходасевич, "Было на улице полутемно," OUT ON THE STREET A DAY FADING TO GLOAMING

 


Владислав Ходасевич
(1886-1939)

Было на улице полутемно.
Стукнуло где-то под крышей окно.

Свет промелькнул, занавеска взвилась,
Быстрая тень со стены сорвалась —

Счастлив, кто падает вниз головой:
Мир для него хоть на миг — а иной.

December 23, 1923. Saarow

d

                                               Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

Out on the street a day fading to gloaming.
A window in attic is knocking and groaning.
 
Brief flicker of light and the drapes billow high,
A shadow on wallpaper breaks free to die . . .
 
Happy is he who falls headlong toward Nought:
Though his world’s just a glint it’s still Ought.  


                                                Golden Gate Bridge Suicide Memorial



Bare-Bones Obit

 



A Bare-Bones, Bargain-Basement Obit


In the Gainesville Sun, March 5, 2020: “Jimmy Dale Rice, 63, Laborer, passed away on February 27, 2020. Phillip and Wiley Mortuary, Inc.”

 

All the pain, all the sweat, tears and mucous that Jimmy Dale produced over a lifetime, all the labor, and that’s the short shrift they give him in the end. Shameful.


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





Thursday, January 22, 2026

Translations: The Bestest of the Best, TWENTY-SIX, Afanasy Fet, А. А. Фет, "Был чудный майский день в Москве," A WONDROUS MOSCOW DAY IN MAY

 



А. А. Фет
(1820-1892)

 

Был чудный майский день в Москве;
Кресты церквей сверкали,
Вились касатки под окном
И звонко щебетали.

Я под окном сидел, влюблен,
Душой и юн и болен.
Как пчелы, звуки вдалеке
Жужжали с колоколен.

Вдруг звуки стройно, как орган,
Запели в отдаленьи;
Невольно дрогнула душа
При этом стройном пеньи.

И шел и рос поющий хор, —
И непонятной силой
В душе сливался лик небес
С безмолвною могилой.

И шел и рос поющий хор, —
И черною грядою
Тянулся набожно народ
С открытой головою.

И миновал поющий хор,
Его я минул взором,
И гробик розовый прошел
За громогласным хором.

Струился теплый ветерок,
Покровы колыхая,
И мне казалось, что душа
Парила молодая.

Весенний блеск, весенний шум,
Молитвы стройной звуки —
Всё тихим веяло крылом
Над грустию разлуки.

За гробом шла, шатаясь, мать.
Надгробное рыданье! —
Но мне казалось, что легко
И самое страданье.

 

1857


 

                           Literal Translation

It was a marvelous day of May in Moscow,
The crosses on churches were sparkling,
Swallows outside my window were wheeling,
Venting their clear chirps.
 
I sat in love beside the window,
My soul both young and ill.
Distant sounds, like bees,
Were buzzing from [church] bell towers.
 
Suddenly [other] sounds, harmonious, like an organ,
Sang out in the distance;
My soul involuntarily shuddered,
Upon hearing that harmonious singing.
 
Walking and growing was a singing choir,
And with ineffable power
In my soul were melded heaven’s visage
And the quietude of the grave.
 
And walked on, growing, the singing choir,
And a long black line of people
Stretched out, bare-headed,
Steeped in piety.
 
The singing choir went past,
I followed it with my gaze,
And a small, rose-colored coffin went by,
After the resonant sounds of the choir.
 
A warm breeze wafted up,
Ruffling the cerement cloths [on top of the coffin],
And it seemed to me that
The young soul was faintly respiring.
 
The gleam of spring, the vernal hum,
The harmonious sounds of prayers—
Everything spread its quiet wing
Over the sorrow of parting.
 
Staggering behind the coffin, the mother walked,
Voicing her funereal lamentations!
But to me the very thing of suffering,
Seemed easy, light and airy.
 
d
 
                                            Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
 
A wondrous Moscow day in May,
Each cross on church aglitter,
Outside the swallows roundelay,
Their gurgle-chirp and twitter.
 
By window seated in love’s sway,
My young soul sick, besotted,
The belfies’ bee-buzz far away
The air with droning slarted.  
 
Then suddenly came one more sound,
Harmonic, distant, soulful,
I sensed the core of me resound
With music sweet and doleful.  
 
Drew near a marching, surging choir,
I felt the sounds my heart engrave
With blend of heaven’s blessèd fire
And dire corruption of the grave.
 
The surging choir sang on and marched,
Behind it, hatless, trudged along
Black line of mourners, bleak, soul-parched, 
But pious, fortified by song.
 
The choir went by, I watched it go,
And next in line, to death in thrall,
Behind the songs, the mourning flow,
A coffin passed, rose-colored, small.
 
A freshet-breeze arose just then,
Puffed up the pall on coffin’s top, 
As if that young soul breathed, “Amen,”
Respired out its last full stop.
 
The gleam of spring, the vernal hum,
The flow of prayers, the soothing tune,
All life spread wide its winged humdrum
O’er valediction’s murk and gloom.
 
Behind the coffin walked the mother,
She stumbled as she wailed her plaint,
But I perceived all pain as other;
My heart felt light, void of constraint.  
 


Sunday, January 18, 2026

Translation of Poem by Vladislav Khodasevich, "Окна во двор," VIEW FROM WINDOWS THAT FACE THE COURTYARD

                                                               Courtyard in St. Petersburg


Vladislav Khodasevich
(1886-1939)

 

                   Окна во двор

Несчастный дурак в колодце двора
Причитает сегодня с утра,
И лишнего нет у меня башмака,
Чтоб бросить его в дурака.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Кастрюли, тарелки, пьянино гремят,
Баюкают няньки крикливых ребят.
С улыбкой сидит у окошка глухой,
Зачарован своей тишиной.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Курносый актер перед пыльным трюмо
Целует портреты и пишет письмо, –
И, честно гонясь за правдивой игрой,
В шестнадцатый раз умирает герой.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Отец уж надел котелок и пальто,
Но вернулся, бледный как труп:
"Сейчас же отшлепать мальчишку за то,
Что не любит луковый суп!"
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Небритый старик, отодвинув кровать,
Забивает старательно гвоздь,
Но сегодня успеет ему помешать
Идущий по лестнице гость.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Рабочий лежит на постели в цветах.
Очки на столе, медяки на глазах,
Подвязана челюсть, к ладони ладонь.
Сегодня в лед, а завтра в огонь.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Что верно, то верно! Нельзя же силком
Девчонку тащить на кровать!
Ей нужно сначала стихи почитать,
Потом угостить вином…
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Вода запищала в стене глубоко:
Должно быть, по трубам бежать нелегко,
Всегда в тесноте и всегда в темноте,
В такой темноте и такой тесноте!

1924
 
d
 
                                            Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
 

                                              View from Windows that Face the Courtyard
 
The unfortunate retard out there by the well
Has been wailing since morning nonstop,
And me, I don’t have a spare shoe or inkwell
To chunk at that guileless milksop.
 
Drunkenly clatter the pans, pots and plates,
Vociferous children their nannies are shushing.
At his window a smiling deaf guy suspirates, 
Beguiling him, silence inside him is gushing.
 
In front of a pier glass sits actor snub-nosed;
He writes a long missive and feels discomposed;
In his head seeking ways to play roles best and fast,
A hero for umpteenth time gasps out his last.
 
A father had put on his coat and his derby,
But came back all pale in high dudgeon:
“Give a whack to the head of recalcitrant Herbie,
Cause he won’t eat his soup with the onion!”
 
An unshaven geezer pulls bedstead aside,
With diligence hammers a nail,
But a guest makes his way up the stairs to his side,
Alas, interrupts his travail.
 
Wreathed in flowers a worker lies steeped in demise.
His specs on the table, copper coins on his eyes,
His jaw is tied shut and his clutched palms upraised,  
He’ll be on ice today and tomorrow ablaze.
 
What’s fair and what’s square, you cannot forcibly
Drag a girlie to bed down with you!
You first have to read her some nice poetry,
And treat her to wine or homebrew.
 
Deep in the wall you can hear water squeaking:
Could be the drain pipes are clogged up and beseeching.
Why always all cramped tight and always in murk?
Such cursed constriction, such darkness berserk!
 


Tuesday, January 13, 2026

Poem by Bobby Goosey: TRUTH

 


Bobby Lee Goosey

                        Truth

I’m telling you; it’s true, it’s true!
I’m telling you; it’s pure true blue!
 
Would I fib to you? Not I!
Cross my heart and hope to die.
Lay me down and gouge my eye.
Cut my throat if I tell a lie;
Certain true, absoloo,
Prop me up and cut me in two.
Would I ever fib to you?
That’s one thing I’d never do!
 
The world is flat and the grass is blue.
Your name is Boo; my name’s Boo too.
We’ve naught to worry, me and you,
We’ll fly on clouds and drink gnu brew,
We’ll swim on the moon in the lunatic dew,
We’ll live forever, me and you.
Sure as my name and your name is still Boo
That’s certain true, yes, absoloo.
 
Would I ever fib to you?
 
[from Bobby Goosey’s Compendium of Perfectly Sensible Nonsense]




Laughing and Leering

                                                              PavanPrasad on Pixabay


Good Leering Fun

Clapping (applause) comes in all different forms. Here’s one. The kind the audience at a concert indulges itself in before the orchestra has come on stage, when a workman comes out to adjust the setting on the podium microphone. He fiddles around for a while, finishes his job, and as he sets off, ambling back off the stage, limping on a bad leg, he is accompanied by the leering claps of the audience. He, of course, is embarrassed, but it’s all in good fun. Until some clown yells out, “Try hopping on the other leg for a change!”



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

Translation of Poem by Vladislav Khodasevich, "Звезды," THE STARS

 


Vladislav Khodasevich
(1886-1939)

 

                    Звезды

Вверху – грошовый дом свиданий.
Внизу – в грошовом «Казино»
Расселись зрители. Темно.
Пора щипков и ожиданий.
 
Тот захихикал, тот зевнул…
Но неудачник облыселый
Высоко палочкой взмахнул.
Открылись темные пределы,
 
И вот – сквозь дым табачных туч –
Прожектора зеленый луч.
На авансцене, в полумраке,
Раскрыв золотозубый рот,
 
Румяный хахаль в шапокляке
О звездах песенку поет.
И под двуспальные напевы
На полинялый небосвод
 
Ведут сомнительные девы
Свой непотребный хоровод.
Сквозь облака, по сферам райским
(Улыбочки туда-сюда)
 
С каким-то веером китайским
Плывет Полярная Звезда.
За ней вприпрыжку поспешая,
Та пожирней, та похудей,
 
Семь звезд – Медведица Большая –
Трясут четырнадцать грудей.
И до последнего раздета,
Горя брильянтовой косой,
 
Вдруг жидколягая комета
Выносится перед толпой.
Глядят солдаты и портные
На рассусаленный сумбур,
 
Играют сгустки жировые
На бедрах Etoile d`amour,
Несутся звезды в пляске, в тряске,
Звучит оркестр, поет дурак,
 
Летят алмазные подвязки
Из мрака в свет, из света в мрак.
И заходя в дыру всё ту же,
И восходя на небосклон, –
 
Так вот в какой постыдной луже
Твой День Четвертый отражен!..
 
Нелегкий труд, о Боже правый,
Всю жизнь воссоздавать мечтой
Твой мир, горящий звездной славой
И первозданною красой.
 
1925
 
d
 
                                              Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
 
 
Epigraph: [And on the Fourth Day] “God made two great lights; the greater light to rule the day, and the lesser light to rule the night; he made the stars also. And God set them in the firmament of the heaven to give light upon the earth. And to rule over the day and over the night, and to divide the light from the darkness; and God saw that it was good. And the evening and the morning were the fourth day” (Genesis 1: 16-19).
 
 
 
                               The Stars
 
Upstairs some shabby rooms for rendezvous.
A grungy “Casino” down below, bookmaking,
Where those attending took a seat or two.
A pinch and squeal in darkness . . . waiting.
 
A high-pitched giggle, one large yawn . . .
And then some loser, cue-ball bald,
Brandished wand and waved it: dawn.
A brightness rising, pallid, palled; 
 
Through clouds of smoke-tobacco gray
Projected was a greenish ray.
In semi-dark, at front stage catwalk,
His gob gleaming golden with molars,  
 
A ruddy-cheeked fancy man in chapeau claque 
Croons a soft ditty extolling the stars.
Beneath a heavenly firmament faded,
To the strains of a melody frankly lubricious,  
 
A bevy of girlies lascivious, jaded
Are into a roundelay quite meretricious.
Through smoke-clouds and heavenly Fields Elysian
(With a grin to left, then one to right),
 
Holding a fan that looks Asian-Chinese and
Floating in haze comes the Polar Star bright. 
Skipping behind her in haste, lively, chipper,
One slightly plumper, the next a bit lean,
 
Prance seven more stars—constellation Big Dipper—
With bouncing and shaking of titties fourteen.
Then, dressed in naught but the suit of her birthday,
Holding a glistening scythe in one hand,
 
A limpid-legged comet sashays down the gangway,
And ends up in front of the hoi polloi band.
The soldiers and tailors and whatnot are gaping,
Basking in tawdriness crass and impure, 
 
Cellulite fat spots are dimpling, reshaping
On the thighs and the hips of Etoile d’amour;
The stars are cavorting, all bottoms are shaking,
The orchestra blares and the nincompoop croons,
 
Diamond-specked garters are fluttering, quaking
From darkness to light and from blessèd to doomed. 
Everything’s mired in the same bloody muddle
And rises up high into heaven’s perfection—
Lord God, take a look at the shameful mudpuddle,
In which Thy Day Four finds its reflection!
 
No easy task, O Lord of Hosts,
To re-create through my dim schemes
Thy World of searing sidereal gleams, 
Of pristine loveliness in dreams.
 

                                                               ArtTower on Pixabay


 


Friday, January 9, 2026

Translation of Poem by Vladislav Khodasevich, Ходасевич, Владислав Фелицианович, "День," ONE DIURNAL DAY

 


Ходасевич, Владислав Фелицианович

 

Vladislav Khodasevich
(1886-1939)

 

                         День

Горячий ветер, злой и лживый.
Дыханье пыльной духоты.
К чему душа, твои порывы?
Куда еще стремишься ты?
 
Здесь хорошо. Вкушает лира
Свой усыпительный покой
Во влажном сладострастьи мира,
В ленивой прелести земной.
 
Здесь хорошо. Грозы раскаты
Над ясной улицей ворчат,
Идут под музыку солдаты,
И бесы юркие кишат:
 
Там разноцветные афиши
Спешат расклеить по стенам,
Там скатываются по крыше
И падают к людским ногам.
 
Тот ловит мух, другой танцует,
А этот, с мордочкой тупой,
Бесстыжим всадником гарцует
На бедрах ведьмы молодой…
 
И верно, долго не прервется
Блистательная кутерьма
И с грохотом не распадется
Темно-лазурная тюрьма.
 
И солнце не устанет парить,
И поп, деньку такому рад,
Не догадается ударить
Над этим городом в набат.
 
Весна 1920, Москва
14—28 мая 1921, Петроград
 
 
 
d
 
Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
 
                  One Diurnal Day
 
A searing wind, false-hearted, spiteful.
A breath of suffocating dust.
Wherefore, my soul, your passions frightful,
Toward what end are your strivings thrust?
 
All’s well here and my lyre’s basking
In soporific calm, at ease,
Voluptuousness moist, long-lasting,
A lazy charm that can’t but please.
 
All’s well here and the thunder fearful
Growls above the sunlit street;
Soldiers are marching to music most martial,
And demons light-footed cavort, teem and streak.
 
Over there the bright-colored flyers
Are hastily pasted by those imps on walls;
Over there they skim rooftops and spires,
Then fall at the feet of the short or the talls. 
 
One fiend catches flies and one dances a tango,
And that one, he of the mug stupidest,
Prances, cavorts in a shameless fandango
On the hips of a young fetching witch . . .
 
No time soon, I’m afraid, this won’t end with a bang,
All the sparkly, bodacious commotion;
It won’t fall apart with a whimper or clang, 
The lazuline prison, the sheer locomotion.
 
For the sun never tires of its ceaselessly beaming;
To the archpriest in charge it will never occur
To sound the alarm over city streets teeming;
Days like this smell for him sweet as myrrh.
 

 



Saturday, December 27, 2025

Translations: The Bestest of the Best, TWENTY-FIVE, Владислав Ходасевич, Vladislav Khodasevich, "Ласточки," SWALLOWS

 

Владислав Ходасевич
(1886-1939)

Ласточки

Имей глаза — сквозь день увидишь ночь,
Не озаренную тем воспаленным диском.
Две ласточки напрасно рвутся прочь,
Перед окном шныряя с тонким писком.

 

Вон ту прозрачную, но прочную плеву
Не прободать крылом остроугольным,
Не выпорхнуть туда, за синеву,
Ни птичьим крылышком, ни сердцем подневольным.

 

Пока вся кровь не выступит из пор,
Пока не выплачешь земные очи —
Не станешь духом. Жди, смотря в упор,
Как брызжет свет, не застилая ночи.

                                                                      June 18-24, 1921

 

 

d

 

                                                                    Literal Translation
 
                                    Swallows

Have the eyes—through day you’ll see the night,
Not illumined by that fiery disc.
Two swallows in vain go exploding away,
Darting in front of the window with a faint chirp.
 
That transparent but firm membrane up there
Cannot be punctured by an acute-angled wing,
You can’t flit off there, beyond the blue,
Neither by way of an avian wing, nor a subdued heart.
 
Until all the blood has overflowed your pores,
Until you’ve cried out your earthly eyes—
You won’t become a spirit. Wait, looking point blank
At how the light spurts forth, without obscuring the night.
 
d
 
                                                Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
 
                                   Swallows
 
Know how to look—and night you’ll spy through day,
Though night is lacking light from sun-disc’s fire.
Two swallows rupture air in their vain way,
Dart by my window, chirp, and then retire.  
 
No sharply angled wing can puncture through
That membrane tough, transparent but secure; 
By way of birdie’s wing, by way of heart demure,
No one can flit-swoop off beyond the blue.
 
Until you’ve bled with all your bloody might, 
Until you’ve cried all tears from earthly eyes,
You won’t become pure spirit; wait, surmise,
Stare at the light that spatters forth sidewise,
The kind of light that does not smother night.

 

 


 

Monday, December 15, 2025

Poetry and Translation: the Hum and the Un-Hum (and the Ho-Hum)

                                                  Osip Mandelstam Listens to the Hum


Poetry and Translation: the Hum and the Un-Hum (and the Ho-Hum)

In her memoir Hope Against Hope—chapter titled “Professional Sickness”—Nadezhda Mandelstam (NM) expresses her views about the origins of genuine poetry, and the different origins of a lesser, inferior mode of literature, translated poetry.

“I imagine that for a poet auditory hallucinations are something in the nature of an occupational disease. As many poets have said—Akhmatova (in ‘Poem Without a Hero’) and M [Osip Mandelstam] among them—a poem begins with a musical phrase ringing insistently in the ears; at first inchoate, it later takes on a precise form, though still without words. I sometimes saw M trying to get rid of this kind of ‘hum,’ to brush it off and escape from it. He would toss his head as though it could be shaken out like a drop of water that gets into your ear while bathing. But it was always louder than any noise, radio or conversation in the same room.

“Akhmatova told me that when ‘Poem Without a Hero’ came to her, she was ready to try anything just to get rid of it, even rushing to do her laundry. But nothing helped. At some point words formed behind the musical phrase and then the lips began to move. The work of a poet has probably something in common with that of a composer, and the appearance of words is the crucial factor that distinguishes it from musical composition. The ‘hum’ sometimes came to M in his sleep, but he could never remember it upon waking. I have a feeling that verse exists before it is composed (M never spoke of ‘writing’ verse, only of ‘composing’ it and then copying it out). The whole process of composition is one of straining to catch and record something compounded of harmony and sense as it is relayed from an unknown source and gradually forms itself into words. The last stage of the work consists in ridding the poem of all the words foreign to the harmonious whole that existed before the poem arose. Such words slip in by chance, being used to fill gaps during the emergence of the whole. They become lodged in the body of the poem, and removing them is hard work. The final stage is a painful process of listening in to oneself in a search for the objective and absolutely precise unity called a ‘poem.’ . . . . . .

“I noticed that in his work on a poem there were two points at which M would sigh with relief—when the first words in a line or stanza came to him, and when the last of the foreign bodies was driven out by the right word. Only then is there an end to the process of listening in to oneself—the same process that can prepare the way for a disturbance of the inner hearing and loss of sanity. The poem now seems to fall away from the author and no longer torments him with its resonance. He is released from the thing that obsesses him. . . . If the poem won’t ‘go away,’ M said, it means that there is something wrong with it, or something ‘still hidden in it’—a last fruitful bud from which a new shoot might sprout. In other words, the work is not finished.

. . . . .

“The process of doing a translation is the exact opposite of work on original verse. I am not speaking here, of course, of the miraculous meeting of poetic minds that one finds in Zhukovsky, whose translations brought a new element [the Western Romantic Movement] into Russian poetry, or of other translated verse that has become a valid part of Russian literature—such as A.K. Tolstoy’s rendering of Goethe’s ‘Bride of Corinth,’ which we liked so much. Only real poets can achieve this kind of thing—and then very rarely. But an ordinary translation is a cold and calculated act of versification in which certain aspects of the writing of poetry are imitated. Strange to say, in translation there is no pre-existing entity waiting to be expressed. The translator sets himself in motion like an engine and then grinds out the required melody by a laborious mechanical process. He is deficient in what Khodasevich so-aptly called ‘secret hearing.’ A real poet should beware of translation—it many only prevent the birth of original poetry.” [Hope Against Hope, 1999 paperback, translation by Max Hayward, p. 71-74]

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Questions and Semi-Rebuttals

I am far from convinced that the whole of a piece of verse “exists before it is composed,” and that the poet’s job is to coax it somehow out of the ether and onto paper. Then again, by far not all poets compose the way M did; example, Boris Pasternak, who, elsewhere in NM’s book is described as chained to his writing desk. For some perfectly fine poets the process involves writing down the thing at every stage of composition, not composing it all in your head while in perpetual motion, and not doing revisions in your head. And what about the process of rewriting drafts of a poem; do the ideas for making changes occur without the aid of the hum? We are not told if M went back to his written drafts and revised them from written copy, thereby bypassing, overriding the exquisite workings of the hum. I’m guessing that this is the way most writers work. Nikolai Gogol was a prose poet, and his magic number was eight. He usually needed about eight reworkings of successive written drafts, before arriving at a satisfactory final text.

This business of the hum recalls the old Romanic notion of the poet as amanuensis of the gods, who ostensibly guide his quill pen from on high. But since NM wrote her book modern neuroscience has made profound discoveries about how neurons work at the deepest level of the human brain. Certainly it is these neurons in the poet’s head that are producing the hum, or the competing hums, with one neuron fighting it out with another, to see whose hum (word) is the perfect choice.

The hum of the voices in the head also recalls what goes on inside the brain of a person with schizophrenia. Several years after coming to the U.S. my wife Natasha was afflicted with a mental illness. She heard inimical voices in her head, screaming obscenities in Russian. In the winter of 2007 she went on a pilgrimage back home, to the most venerable Russian Orthodox monastery, in Sergiev Posad. There she spent about a week, trying to cure herself through prayer and fasting, participating at one point in a mass exorcism ritual led by a certain renowned/notorious Father German.

Nothing helped; the voices went on raging. After that she took a train back to the south, where her parents and married sister lived, in Rostov-on-the Don. Her sister got her placed in a psychiatric ward, where she spent about four months. The treatment involved primarily shooting her full of Risperdal, an antipsychotic drug. When she was released from the hospital and returned to me in the U.S. she was walking stiffly, unable to swing her arms. The voices had gone quiet, but she was zombified.

The side effects to the antipsychotics were so severe that I encouraged her to stop taking the Risperdal. After she was off the drug for several weeks she began feeling stirrings in her brain. At first she described what she heard as a low hum. Then the humming got ever louder, until the point when the voices came back, and soon they were screaming obscenities again. This story has no happy ending.

d

What about literary translation of poetry? Is it to be disparaged to the extent that NM disparages it above? Since I myself have indulged in attempts to get Russian poetry over into English poetry, I feel somewhat humbled and chagrined by NM’s low opinion of literary translation. I have to admit, however, that a great deal of what she says makes sense. The process of translation does not normally involve inspiration from the deepest wellsprings of the brain, what she describes as the origins of her husband’s poetry. But sometimes—not often, but sometimes—the translator stumbles upon exactly the right way to come up with a fine poetic translation in English.

Lately I have been re-posting on my blog what I consider the most successful of my efforts to translate Russian poems (“the bestest of the best”). How did these poems become what I consider good poems in English, the target language? There was no hum in my head, churning out the words; I even rely to some extent, mea culpa, on rhyming dictionaries. But some combination of deep inspiration plus pure luck was surely at work when I turned out my best stuff in what I call literary translation/adaptation. Why do I add the word “adaptation” to what I do? Because I sometimes bend and twist the original in my efforts to make a real piece of poetry in English; I am not an adherent of the literal school of translation.


Sunday, December 14, 2025

Poem by Bobby Goosey, ME NEITHER

 


Bobby Lee Goosey

 

                                                                       Me Neither

It’s like this, see?:
Amos Otis hates Omis Atis, and
Omis Atis hates Amos Otis, see?
 
So: one day it’s like this here, see?:
Amos Otis meets Omis Atis and
Omis Atis meets Amos Otis, see?
Walking down the street I mean, see?
 
So: it goes like this, I mean, see?:
Ole Amos O. berates ole Omis A. and
Ole Omis A. berates ole Omis O., see?
 
Because it’s like this here, see?: Because
Amos Otis hates Omis Atis and
Omis Atis hates Amos Otis, see?
 
One thing that I just don’t get;
One thing that I’ll never see:
Why do the Otisis all hate the Atises,
And why do the Atises all hate the Otisis,
And why so much hatred in you and in me?
 
When there ought to be naught but love.
How come, huh?
Do you see?
No?
Me neither.
 
[from Bobby Goosey’s Compendium of Perfectly Sensible Nonsense]


Tuesday, December 9, 2025

Translations: The Bestest of the Best, TWENTY-FOUR, Osip Mandelstam, THE STALIN EPIGRAM

                                                                   Stalin Mugshot, 1911


Father of the Soviet People, 1936

Осип Мандельштам
(1891-1938)

 

Мы живем, под собою не чуя страны,
Наши речи за
 десять шагов не слышны,
А
 где хватит на полразговорца,
Там припомнят кремлёвского горца.

Его толстые пальцы, как черви, жирны,
А
 слова, как пудовые гири, верны,
Тараканьи смеются усища,
И
 сияют его голенища.

 

А вокруг него сброд тонкошеих вождей,
Он
 играет услугами полулюдей.
Кто свистит, кто мяучит, кто хнычет,
Он
 один лишь бабачит и тычет,

 

Как подкову, кует за указом указ —
Кому в
 пах, кому в лоб, кому в бровь, кому в глаз.
Что ни
 казнь у него — то малина
И
 широкая грудь осетина.

 1933 г.

 

d

                                             Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
 
                                                 Soso

Underfoot all’s a-tremble, for our country’s gone blurred, 
Ten steps from us none of our words can be heard;
When we find enough speech to converse, a half schmeer,
We mention the Kremlin’s renowned mountaineer.
 
His fingers are fat, and like worms, squirmy-greasy,
And his words are like true-blue barbells from Tbilisi;
His handlebar cockroach-style moustaches laughing,
And his boot tops are gleaming and ever so dashing.
 
Around him swirl bureaucrats, vermin thin-necked,
He plays with this half-human sycophant sect.
One whistles, one meows, one whimpers, one kids,
He alone clonks on noggins and jabs hard at ribs.
 
One decree, then another, he forges like horseshoes—
A groin-kick, eye-poke for you, yours and youse—
Lopping off heads is just part of the deal
For this broad-chested guy made of Ossetian steel.  

 

d

 

Translator’s Note

 The “Stalin Epigram,” one of the most famous/notorious poems of twentieth-century Russian literature, was written in November of 1933. The poem of course could not be published, but Mandelstam read it to some twelve persons—at least one of whom denounced him to the authorities. When he read it to Boris Pasternak, his fellow poet responded as follows: “То, что вы мне прочли, не имеет никакого отношения к литературе, поэзии. Это не литературный факт, но акт самоубийства, который я не одобряю и в котором не хочу принимать участия. Вы мне ничего не читали, я ничего не слышал, и прошу вас не читать их никому другому. Translation: What you’ve just read to me has nothing to do with literature or poetry. This is not a literary artifact, but an act of suicide, which I do not approve of and do not want to participate in. You read me nothing, I heard nothing, and I beg you not to read it to anyone else.”

The only surprising thing is that Mandelstam was not arrested and executed as soon as the poem came to light. But Stalin himself—who had a dark sense of humor—was rumored to have liked it. He allowed the poet to go on living, in various places of exile, until 1938, when he was arrested and died in a transit camp in Vladivostok, on his way to the Gulag.

 

Words Used and What They Allude To (most info here is from Wikipedia)

Soso: the poem is not titled in the original; I have given it this title in my translation. Soso was Stalin’s nickname in his Georgian childhood. He originally was Ioseb [Joseph] (“Soso”) Jughashvilli (sometimes spelled Dzhugashvilli)Stalin (“Man of Steel”) is a nom de guerre, like Lenin, a revolutionary name.

First stanza: The mountaineer (горец) alludes to Stalin’s origins in Georgia and the Caucasus Mountains.

Second stanza: “His fingers are fat . . .” In her reminiscences Nadezhda Mandelstam describes how the poet Demyan Bednyj “was careless enough to write in his diary that he did not like lending books to Stalin, because the latter left on the white pages smudges from his greasy fingers.”

Tbilisi: capital of Georgia, Stalin’s homeland, now the independent Georgian Republic. The word is not in the original, but presented itself as the perfect rhyme for greasy in my translation.

Third stanza: “clonks on noggins . . .” Reminiscences of Stalin emphasize how he liked to play around with his confederates, leaders of the Politburo. In meetings at his dacha he made them dance with one another. He enjoyed humiliating them, bonking them on the head, pulling them by an ear, or poking them in the ribs.

Fourth stanza: in this poem the word raspberries (малина) has nothing to do with raspberries. I’ve looked at the some dozen translations of this poem into English on the website ruverses.com, and it appears that not a single translator figured this out. Most of them just ignore the word, not knowing what the hell it’s doing there; a few make lame attempts to get some raspberries into the translation.

Малина in the jargon of the criminal underworld means a scheme or endeavor (“the job”—a caper, theft, robbery, or other criminal plan or act). E.g., “Он испортил всю малину” (literally, “He spoiled all the raspberries”) means “He put the quietus on the whole deal.” See Kratkij slovar’ sovremennogo russkogo zhargona (A Brief Lexicon of Modern Russian Jargon), compiled by M.M. and B.P. Krestinsky (Posev: 1965), p. 16. The next to last line in the poem means roughly that executions are part and parcel of Stalin’s criminal machinations. Using a slang word current among criminals could be an allusion to his revolutionary youth when he was known as Koba. Among other felonious activities, he participated in kidnappings for ransom, protection rackets, and robbing banks.

More on malina--note in a e-mail from Andrei Filippov, which I add below, with thanks to him: 

Только что прочитал ваш перевод стихотворения О. Мандельштама с примечаниями. Позвольте небольшое уточнение. На фене, русском блатном жаргоне, слово "малина", насколько мне известно, означает место проживания или сбора группы, место хранения добычи и место проведения свободного времени. Это может быть дом, квартира, ресторан и т. д. То есть это географическая точка, а не сама группа. Я могу ошибаться, но за свои 60 с лишним лет я не встречал другого определения.

The gist in English: "as far as I know the word "malina" signifies the place where a criminal gang, lives, hangs out or keeps its booty. That can be a house, apartment, restaurant, etc. In other words, it's a geographical place, and the word does not refer to the gang itself. I may be mistaken, but . . . I've never heard another definition of the word.

Ossetian: Stalin was a Georgian, not an Ossetian, but his hometown of Gori was located near Southern Ossetia.

d

In the original variant of the poem the first stanza went like this:

Мы живём, под собою не чуя страны,
Наши речи за десять шагов не слышны,
Только слышно кремлёвского горца —
Душегубца и мужикоборца.

Literal translation:

We live, not sensing the country beneath us,
What we say is not heard ten steps away from us,
Only audible [are the words of] the Kremlin mountaineer:
A murderer and oppressor of peasants.