Friday, June 7, 2024

Translation of Poem by Osip Mandelstam, Осип Мандельштам, 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 The poem of course could not be published, but Mandelstam read it to some twelve persons—at least one of whom denounced him to the authorities.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.

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.

 

 




Wednesday, June 5, 2024

Bobby Goosey Poem, "Blue"

 

Bobby Lee Goosey

 

                                                                                 Blue
Wally Ballou went to the zoo.
A man stood there selling balloons.
Wally Ballou bought a blue blue balloon,
A sky-blue cerulean blue blue balloon,
A lazuline azure balloon.
 
As Wally Ballou made the rounds of the zoo,
The wind blew the blue blue balloon,
And whipped it away from poor Wally Ballou,
That sky-blue cerulean blue blue balloon,
That lazuline-lovely balloon.
 
High up in the sky blew the blew blue balloon,
The wind blew the blue blue balloon,
Till it caught on a cloud hanging over the zoo,
That sky-blue cerulean blue blue balloon,
That lazuline-azure balloon.
 
So what could he do? He was blue, was Ballou;
He stood looking up, shedding tears.
For it hung on the cloud hanging over the zoo,
That sky-blue cerulean blue blue balloon,
That lazuline-blue blue balloon.
 
Then the wind, who felt sorry for Wally Ballou,
Grabbed sorry Ballou, blew away blue Ballou;
High up in the sky wafted blue blew Ballou
Till he caught on that cloud hanging over the zoo,
Right next to his blue blew balloon.
 
He liked it so much he decided to stay,
Right there on that cloud with his blue blue balloon.
They live on quite happily there to this day,
That sky-blue cerulean Wally Ballou
And his lovely azure blue balloon.

 [from the book by Bobby L. Goosey,  A Compendium of Perfectly Sensible Nonsense]


Tuesday, June 4, 2024

Translation of Poem by Sergei Esenin, Сергей Есенин, "До свиданья, друг мой, до свиданья" THE FINAL POEM

 


 

Есенин, Сергей Александрович

 

 

Сергей Есенин

(1895-1925)

 

До свиданья, друг мой, до свиданья.
Милый мой, ты у меня в груди.
Предназначенное расставанье
Обещает встречу впереди.

До свиданья, друг мой, без руки, без слова,
Не грусти и не печаль бровей, —
В этой жизни умирать не ново,
Но и жить, конечно, не новей.

 1925

d

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

Fare thee well, my friend, goodbye to you;

Dear one, here in my heart I hold you fast.

Our separation foreordained don’t misconstrue,

For partings pledge reunions at long last. 


Fare thee well, my friend, no handshakes, no last word,

Knit not your brows in sorrow, be not blue—

In this life dying’s sad routine is trite, absurd,

But living disappoints as well—is nothing new.

 

d

 Translator’s Note

 Often interpreted as Esenin’s suicide note, this is the last poem he wrote, in his own blood. He explained to friends at the Angleterre Hotel, where he was staying in Leningrad, that this “crappy” (parshivyj) hotel didn’t have any ink available, so he had to use his own blood. On the evening of December 27, 1925, he committed suicide, by hanging, in his hotel room.

 

 



Saturday, June 1, 2024

Translation of Poem by Aleksandr Blok, АЛЕКСАНДР БЛОК, "ОДИНОЧЕСТВО," "Loneliness"

 


                                                              ОДИНОЧЕСТВО

АЛЕКСАНДР БЛОК
(1880-1921)
 
Река несла по ветру льдины,
Была весна, и ветер выл.
Из отпылавшего камина
Неясный мрак вечерний плыл.
 
И он сидел перед камином,
Он отгорел и отстрадал
И взглядом, некогда орлиным,
Остывший пепел наблюдал.
 
В вечернем сумраке всплывали
Пред ним виденья прошлых дней,
Будя старинные печали
Игрой бесплотною теней.
 
Один, один, забытый миром,
Безвластный, но еще живой,
Из сумрака былым кумирам
Кивал усталой головой…
 
Друзей бывалых вереница,
Врагов жестокие черты,
Любивших и любимых лица
Плывут из серой темноты…
 
Все бросили, забыли всюду,
Не надо мучиться и ждать,
Осталось только пепла груду
Потухшим взглядом наблюдать…
 
Куда неслись его мечтанья?
Пред чем склонялся бедный ум?
Он вспоминал свои метанья,
Будил тревоги прежних дум…
 
И было сладко быть усталым,
Отрадно так, как никогда,
Что сердце больше не желало
Ни потрясений, ни труда,
 
Ни лести, ни любви, ни славы,
Ни просветлений, ни утрат…
Воспоминанья величаво,
Как тучи, обняли закат,
 
Нагромоздили груду башен,
Воздвигли стены, города,
Где небосклон был желт и страшен,
И грозен в юные года…
 
Из отпылавшего камина
Неясный сумрак плыл и плыл,
Река несла по ветру льдины,
Была весна, и ветер выл.
 
1899 г
 
          d

                                    Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

                                                                    Loneliness
 
River-borne were wind-blown icefloes,
Spring had come, the winds were moaning.
From fireplace flamed out, in nightclothes,
Vaguely drifted shades of gloaming.
 
By hearth he sat there saturnine,
Burned out now, sorely agonized;
And with a gaze once aquiline,
The cooling ashes scrutinized.
 
In evening’s twilight wafted quietly
Visions of his days long past,
While shadows rife with stark dubiety
Awakened sorrows sleeping fast.
 
Alone, alone, by all neglected,
Immobilized, but still alive,
He nodded his tired head dejected,
To icons past from duskingtide.
 
His former friends, stark images,
His enemies, their faces cruel,
Beloved and loving visages
Float up as if from murky pool. 
 
Forgotten, written off by all,
No need to wait in self-torment;
His dim eyes look on evenfall,
See heaps of ash and dreams undreamt.
 
Where had aspirations gone?
What held in thrall his poor brainpower?
Mad dashings he recalled bygone,
The anguish of past thoughts turned sour.

How sweet it felt to be so tired,
To feel a joy like ne’er before,
No more in toil, disruptions mired,
Your heart no more belabored, sore,
 
No flattery, nor love or fame,
No lucid dreams, nor losses dire.
Majestic memories made their claim,
Like storm clouds swathed the sunset’s fire,
 
They piled high in heaps the towers,
Erected towns and walls upraised,  
Where firmament of yellow lours, 
In menace steeped as in past days . . .
 
From fireplace flamed out, in nightclothes,
Floated, drifted blurs of gloaming.
River-borne were wind-blown icefloes,
Spring had come, the winds were moaning.