Translation of Poem by Nikolai Gumilyov, Николай Гумилев, "Шестое чувство," THE SIXTH SENSE

 

Николай Гумилев

(1886-1921)

Шестое чувство

Прекрасно в нас влюбленное вино
И добрый хлеб, что в печь для нас садится,
И женщина, которою дано,
Сперва измучившись, нам насладиться.

Но что нам делать с розовой зарей
Над холодеющими небесами,
Где тишина и неземной покой,
Что делать нам с бессмертными стихами?

Ни съесть, ни выпить, ни поцеловать.
Мгновение бежит неудержимо,
И мы ломаем руки, но опять
Осуждены идти всё мимо, мимо.

Как мальчик, игры позабыв свои,
Следит порой за девичьим купаньем
И, ничего не зная о любви,
Все ж мучится таинственным желаньем;

Как некогда в разросшихся хвощах
Ревела от сознания бессилья
Тварь скользкая, почуя на плечах
Еще не появившиеся крылья;

Так век за веком — скоро ли, Господь? —
Под скальпелем природы и искусства
Кричит наш дух, изнемогает плоть,
Рождая орган для шестого чувства.

1920 г.

 

d

 

 

Literal Translation

 

The Sixth Sense

 

Lovely is a wine in love with us

And the kindly bread, which sits down in the oven for us,

And woman, of whom it is given

To first torment and then give us pleasure.

 

But what are we to do with a pink dawn

Above the heavens growing ever cooler,

Where there’s silence and an unearthly calm,

What are we to do with immortal verses?

 

Not to be eaten, not to be drunk, not kissed.

An instant flies past out of one’s grasp,

And we wring our hands, but once more

Are fated to walk by and miss it.

 

Like a boy who, forgetting his games,

Sometimes watches the girls who are bathing,

And, knowing nothing of love,

All the same agonizes with some secret desire;

 

As once amidst the sprawling branches of horsetails [a plant]

A slippery creature bellowed, conscious of its impotence,

Sensing on its shoulders

The wings that had still not appeared;

 

And so the ages go by—will it soon be done, Lord?

Beneath the scalpel of nature and art,

Our spirit cries out, the flesh is exhausted,

Giving birth to an organ for a sixth sense.

 

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

The Sixth Sense

 

Lovely-tasting is the wine in love with us,

How kind the kindly bread for us that’s baking.

And woman, who it ever seems needs must

Torment us, then provide the pleasure-taking.

 

But what are we to do with early pink of dawn,

Above the skies that cooler grow and bluer,

Where silence reigns amidst unearthly calm,

What to do with verses, immortal, ever truer?

 

You cannot eat them, cannot drink, nor kiss.

An instant flashes past, beyond one’s grasping,

We wring our hands, we grab for it and miss,

Condemned to let it go, we stand there gasping.

 

Just like a boy, distracted from his play,

May gaze at girls who in a pond are bathing,

And, knowing not a thing of love’s bouquet,

He agonizes, rapt with secret craving.

 

Or as amidst the horsetails, by the bridge abutting,

Some slippery creature, vulnerable and frail,

Sensing on its shoulders the wings as yet just budding,

Bellows out its impotence, exasperated wail.

 

And so the ages pass—dear Lord, will it be soon?

Beneath the scalpel surgical of Nature/Art stalworth,

Our spirit writhes, our flesh howls at the moon,

As we strain in confinement the Sixth Sense to birth.