Translation of Poem by Aleksandr Blok, Александр Блок, "Художник," THE ARTIST

 

Александр Блок

(1880-1921)

Художник

В жаркое лето и в зиму метельную,
В дни ваших свадеб, торжеств, похорон,
Жду, чтоб спугнул мою скуку смертельную
Легкий, доселе не слышанный звон.

 

Вот он — возник. И с холодным вниманием
Жду, чтоб понять, закрепить и убить.
И перед зорким моим ожиданием
Тянет он еле приметную нить.

С моря ли вихрь? Или сирины райские
В листьях поют? Или время стоит?
Или осыпали яблони майские
Снежный свой цвет? Или ангел летит?

 

Длятся часы, мировое несущие.
Ширятся звуки, движенье и свет.
Прошлое страстно глядится в грядущее.
Нет настоящего. Жалкого — нет.

 

И, наконец, у предела зачатия
Новой души, неизведанных сил,-
Душу сражает, как громом, проклятие:
Творческий разум осилил — убил.

 

И замыкаю я в клетку холодную
Легкую, добрую птицу свободную,
Птицу, хотевшую смерть унести,
Птицу, летевшую душу спасти.

 

Вот моя клетка — стальная, тяжелая,
Как золотая, в вечернем огне.
Вот моя птица, когда-то веселая,
Обруч качает, поет на окне.

 

Крылья подрезаны, песни заучены.
Любите вы под окном постоять?
Песни вам нравятся. Я же, измученный,
Нового жду — и скучаю опять.

 

December, 1913

 

 

d

 

Literal Translation

 

The Artist

 

In the heat of summer and in blustery winter,

On the days of your weddings, festivities, funerals,

I wait for my deadly boredom to be scared off

By a faint, hitherto unheard ring of a bell.

There it is, it sounded. And, coldly attentive,

I wait, seeking to understand it, fix it securely, and kill it.

And, in the face of my intense anticipation,

It stretches out a barely perceptible thread.

 

Is it a whirlwind blowing from the sea? Or paradisal birds

Who sing amidst the foliage? Or does time stand still?

Or have the apple trees of May scattered

Their snowy blossoms? Or does an angel fly past?

 

Hours lengthen, bearing the weight of the world.

Sounds, motion and light expand.

Past time gazes passionately into its future.

There is no present time. Nothing is to be pitied.

 

And finally, at the threshold of the conception

Of a new soul, of mysterious forces,

A curse, like thunder, smites the soul:

Creative reason has mastered it—killed it.

 

And in a cold cage I confine

The kind, buoyant, once free bird,

The bird that wanted to bear death away,

The bird that flew here to save the soul.

 

Here’s my cage—it’s heavy, made of steel,

Gleaming golden in the fire of the evening sun.

Here’s my bird, which was once full of joy,

Swinging on a hoop, singing in the window.

 

It has wings that are pinioned, songs learned by rote.

Do you like standing beneath the window?

You enjoy the songs. But me, I’m enervated,

Anticipating something new—and once again bored.

 

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

The Artist

 

In searing-hot summer or blustery winter,

While you ride life’s weddings-and-deaths carousel,

Gripped in world-weariness, tedium bitter,

I wait for the peal of a yet-unheard bell.  

 

There it is, hear it? And coldly attentive,

I seek to enfold it, to capture and kill,

While shirking my fixed stare, defensive, retentive,

It plies its fine spinneret, grinds its gristmill.

 

Is it a waterspout blown from the ocean?

Are sweet birds of paradise trilling their tunes?

Do apple trees timelessly strew mass commotion

Of white blossoms vernal, angelic festoons?

 

The hours march on, bearing all the world’s weightiness,

Sounds expand, motion moves, light spreads its glow.

Past time stares ardently toward what’s awaiting us,

There is no present; compassion’s no go.

 

And then at last, on the verge of conceiving

A brand-new fresh soul, an original view,

You feel a thunderclap that new soul cleaving,

Cursed, killed by reason’s creative purview.

 

Then I imprison in chill cage confinement

That gentle and airy and once free songbird,

Who flew here to render the soul’s full refinement,

Whose aim was to make the word death a ghost word. 

 

Look, here’s my cage—made of steel, it’s sturdy,

Golden its gleam in the sun’s evening fire.

Here’s my once heavenly, blissful sweet birdie,

On a hoop swinging, this erstwhile high-flier.

 

Birdie wings clipped, she sings words by rote captured,

Do you enjoy listening to her repertoire?

Me, I’m devitalized, you, you’re enraptured,

I thirst for something new, once again bored.

 

 

 

d

 

Translation by Cecil Maurice Bowra

Artist

In summer-heat or in wintertime glistening,
Days when you marry, or triumph, or die,
I would dispel deathly boredom by listening
For a soft peal yet unheard in the sky.

There it approaches, and coldly I wait for it,
Wait to get hold of it, leave it for dead.
While my attention is strained ahead straight for it,
It pulls a nearly invisible thread.

Wind from the sea? or are singing-birds calling there
From Paradise? Does Time stop and stay fast?
Or is the May’s apple-blossom a-falling there
In snowy rain? Does an angel fly past?

Time is prolonged. Every wonder it cherishes;
Light, tumult, motion around me appear.
Wildly the future reflects all that perishes,
Nothing is present or pitiful here.

Finally, force inconceivable filling it,
Strains a new soul from its birth to the day, —
Curses, as thunder, attack the soul, killing it
Reason, creative, subdues it, — to slay.

Then in a shivering cage I shut wearily
That happy bird who once flew about merrily.
This was the bird that would take death from me,
This was the bird that would set the soul free.

There is the cage. Heavy, iron I fashioned it.
Golden it gleams in the sun’s setting fire.
There is the bird for you. Once so impassioned it
Swings on the hoop as it sings to the wire.

Clipped are its wings; all by heart now it sings to me —
Say, would you listen and stand by the door?
Singing may please you, — but weariness clings to me.
Once more I wait, and know boredom once more.

[from website ruverses.com]