Translation of Poem by Robert Rozhdestvensky, Роберт Рождественский, "Aлене," TO ALYONA

 

Роберт Рождественский
(1932-1994)

                                                                         Aлене
Знаешь,
я хочу, чтоб каждое слово
этого утреннего стихотворенья
вдруг потянулось к рукам твоим,
словно
соскучившаяся ветка сирени.
 
Знаешь,
я хочу, чтоб каждая строчка,
неожиданно вырвавшись из размера
и всю строфу
разрывая в клочья,
отозваться в сердце твоем сумела.
 
Знаешь,
я хочу, чтоб каждая буква
глядела бы на тебя влюбленно.
И была бы заполнена солнцем,
будто
капля росы на ладони клена.
 
Знаешь,
я хочу, чтоб февральская вьюга
покорно у ног твоих распласталась.
И хочу,
чтобы мы любили друг друга
столько,
сколько нам жить осталось.
 
 
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                                         Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

                                                                     To Alyona
You know,
I want every word
of these morningtide verses
to go suddenly stretching out to thy arms
like
an anguishing, missing-thee
branchlet of lilac.
 
You know,
I want every line
abruptly torn out of its meter
and the aggregate
of the stanza
ripped into flinders and fluff,
so that the whole thing might
resonate in thy heart.
 
You know,
I want every letter
looking upon thee lovelorn
and suffused with sunlight,
just like
a dewdrop on the palm
of a maple leaf.
 
You know,
I want a snowstorm in February
to spread its flakes submissively at thy feet,
and I want us
to go on loving each other
for as long
as we have left
to live
on this earth.
 

                                           Rozhdestvensky with Wife, Alla Kireeva (Alyona)

Translation of Poem by Yunna Morits, Юнна Мориц, "Снегопад," SNOWFALL

 

Юнна Мориц
Born: 1937

                       Снегопад

Снега выпадают и денно и нощно,
Стремятся на землю, дома огибая.
По городу бродят и денно и нощно
Я, черная птица, и ты, голубая.
 
Над Ригой шумят, шелестят снегопады,
Утопли дороги, недвижны трамваи.
Сидят на перилах чугунной ограды
Я, черная птица, и ты, голубая.
 
Согласно прогнозу последних известий,
Неделю нам жить, во снегах утопая.
А в городе вести: скитаются вместе
Та, черная птица, и та, голубая,
 
Две птицы скитаются в зарослях белых,
Высокие горла в снегу выгибая.
Две птицы молчащих. Наверное, беглых!
Я - черная птица, и ты - голубая.
 
Качаются лампочки сторожевые,
Качаются дворники, снег выгребая.
Молчащие, беглые, полуживые,
Я - черная птица, и ты - голубая.
 
Снега выпадают и денно и нощно,
Стремятся на землю, дома огибая.
По городу бродят и денно и нощно
Я, черная птица, и ты, голубая.
 
Снега, снегопады, великие снеги!
По самые горла в снегу утопая,
Бежали и бродят - ах, в кои-то веки -
Та, черная птица, и та, голубая.

1963

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                                               Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

                    Snowfall (lyrics for song version)

The snow’s floating down both by day and by night,
Skirting buildings, the snowfall the grounds all bestrew.
They roam through the city by day and by night,
The blackbird (that’s me) and the bluebird (that’s you).
 
O’er Riga the snowfall swirls-rustlings dispensing,
Snow smothers the roads and the trams run askew.
They’re perched on the railings of cast-iron fencing,
The blackbird (that’s me) and the bluebird (that’s you).
 
So says the forecast on “Newsday’s” preview,
We’ve one week ahead of more snowfall to weather,
And in local news this: they wander together,
That blackbird I mentioned and that bluebird too,
 
Two birdies who wander through white thickets’ maze,
Arching their tall necks to stretch through snow-slough.
Two birds keeping silence; most likely they’re strays!
The blackbird (that’s me) and the bluebird (that’s you).
 
They wobble, the flashlights of sentinels five,
They wobble, the caretakers, shoveling slough.
Strays we are, silent, more dead than alive,
The blackbird (that’s me) and the bluebird (that’s you).
 
The snow’s floating down both by day and by night,
Skirting buildings, the snowfall the grounds all bestrew.
They roam through the city by day and by night,
The blackbird (that’s me) and the bluebird (that’s you).
 
Snowfalls and snowdrifts, sheer snowiness rages!
Up to their necks in the snow-drifting stew,
They run and they roam—for the first time in ages—
That blackbird I mentioned, and that bluebird too.
 
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In the song lyrics (but not in the original poem) the first stanza is repeated as the next-to-last stanza. Here’s the third stanza in the original poem, omitted in lyrics for the song:

В тумане, как в бане из вопля Феллини,
Плывут воспарения ада и рая,
Стирая реалии ликов и линий,
Я - черная птица, а ты - голубая.
 
In fog, as in bathhouse of Fellini’s yowling,
Float cloudlets in heaven and hell’s joint purview,
Veracity squeezing from faces and jowl lines,
The blackbird (that’s me) and the bluebird (that’s you).
 
 

Poem by Bobby Goosey: IN DEFENSE OF DOGGEREL

 

Bobby Lee Goosey

                                                             In Defense of Doggerel

One has a talent for doggerel verse,
Doggerel, doggerel, doggerel verse.
But what does one do with fresh doggerel mirth?
What’s it all worth, all that doggerel mirth?
 
You feed it to doggies, your dog’s eaten worse,
Doggerel, doggerel, doggerel verse.
They digest it well if it’s kept plain and terse,
Doggies love mirthful terse doggerel verse.
 
One writes profusions of doggerel verse,
Doggerel, doggerel, doggerel verse.
But what, I still ask, is its doggerel worth?
What’s it all worth, all one’s doggerel mirth?
 
It’s worth mucho much; there’s a doggerel dearth,
Doggerel, doggerel, doggerel dearth.
It’s worth a small fortune, your doggerel verse;
Keep writing! Make up for the doggerel dearth!
 
One tries to sell it, one’s doggerel verse,
Doggerel, doggerel, doggerel verse.
It’s funny, but nobody wants to buy mirth;
No one gives a thrum on this doggerel earth!
 
Okay. No one needs it, your doggerel verse,
Doggerel, doggerel, doggerel verse.
But it keeps your brains sharp and your feet on the earth,
Doggerel, doggerel, doggerel earth;
 
It plugs up the holes in your head up with terse
Mirthful (true, dearthful, but merciful) mirth.
That’s all it’s worth; that’s its doggerel worth,
Doggerel, doggerel, doggerel worth.

[from Bobby Goosey's Compendium of Perfectly Sensible Nonsense]

A Few Things About Trees

What Do Trees Say To Us?

 They say, “If your mind were only a slightly greener thing we would drown you in portentous truths, truths not ever spoken in words.”

Richard Powers, The Overstory

 Of course, no tree knows the big word “portentous,” or, for that matter, any other word. Trees have no speech, no words, so what do trees say to us? Nothing.

 

Quakers

Why do the leaves of a quaking aspen quake? Are they afraid? No. They have found a unique way of doubling their photosynthesis: they photosynthesize on both sides of the leaf since both are exposed to sunlight through quaking. Most trees use the underside of their leaves for breathing.

Peter Wohlleben, The Hidden Life of Trees

 So if the aspens use the breathing underside of their leaves for photosynthesis, how do they manage to breathe? I don’t know. Maybe through pneumatophores ("knees"), like a cypress. 

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

                                                      Cypress knees (pneumatophores)

Translation of Poem by Andrei Dementev, Андрей Дементьев, "Плохие стали зеркала," THEY'RE MAKING MIRRORS SKEWED THESE DAYS

 

Андрей Дементьев
(1928-2018)
 
Плохие стали зеркала,
Неверно как-то отражают,
Меня так грубо искажают —
Пародия их просто зла.
 
Я помню — много лет назад
Получше делать их умели,
И на меня из них смотрели
Мои весёлые глаза,
 
Фигуры стройный силуэт,
Лицо живое, молодое
И симпатичное такое -
Теперь таких зеркал уж нет.
 
Хотя с тех пор прошли года,
В себе не чувствую изъянов,
Всё так же полон мыслей, планов,
Душа как прежде молода.
 
Зеркал же новых злая гладь,
Куда порой смотрю я сдуру,
Какую-то карикатуру
Теперь вдруг стала рисовать.
 
В жестокой глубине стекла
Почти седой и лысоватый,
В морщинах весь, слегка пузатый...
Плохие стали зеркала!
 
 
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                                             Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

They’re making mirrors skewed these days,
Reflections based on gross contortion;
Their slant on me is pure distortion,
They spoof maliciously, dispraise.  
 
Years ago mirror-makers were wise;
They made them better, they had the know-how,
So that gazing at me from out of them, wow!
Were my joyous and goggle-eyed eyes,
 
My figure so slender, with panache galore,
A lively face, all youthful and vigorous,
So pleasant a body, and not yet odiferous;
They don’t make mirrors like that anymore.
 
Although since back then many years have rushed past,
In myself I detect not a flaw or defect,
My brain runs unfettered, with new plans bedecked,
My soul is the same: still young and steadfast.
 
Gormlessly peering, I note with dejection
That the shimmering surface of late-model mirrors
Has taken to drawing instead of reflection,
And sketching out travesties worthy of sneerers.
 
In the cruel inner depths of the glass nowadays
Stands a creature gray-headed and partially bald,
Wrinkled, pot-bellied and looking appalled . . .
They’re making mirrors skewed these days!
 

 

 

Translation of Poem by Aleksandr Pushkin, АЛЕКСАНДР ПУШКИН, "Стихи, сочинённые ночью во время бессонницы," VERSES COMPOSED IN THE NIGHT

 

АЛЕКСАНДР ПУШКИН
(1799-1837)
 
                              Стихи, сочинённые ночью во время бессонницы

Мне не спится, нет огня;
Всюду мрак и сон докучный.
Ход часов лишь однозвучный
Раздаётся близ меня,
Парки бабье лепетанье,
Спящей ночи трепетанье,
Жизни мышья беготня…
Что тревожишь ты меня?
Что ты значишь, скучный шёпот?
Укоризна, или ропот
Мной утраченного дня?
От меня чего ты хочешь?
Ты зовёшь или пророчишь?
Я понять тебя хочу,
Смысла я в тебе ищу…
 
1830

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Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

                                      Verses Composed in the Night, While Plagued by Insomnia

Can’t get to sleep; there is no light;
Murk and irksome slumber surround me,
Tedium regnant; monotony
Clock-ticks its way through the night.  
Fate with its confounding old bitties’ chatter,
The dark in its drowsy and tremulous patter,
And the scurrying scamper of mice that is life . . .
Why do you steep me in languor and strife?
What is the meaning of your vexing whispers?
Is the day that I’ve misspent
Chastising me, chiding?
What do you want of me,
Why this ferment?
Are you beckoning to me,
Portending, deriding?
 
I must try to comprehend you.
To your ultimate essence
I must break through.

 

The Day Stalin Died

 

I remember the day Stalin died. March 5, 1953. I was twelve years old, in junior high school. Our teacher came into the classroom and announced, "Children, today over in Russia the evil dictator, Joe Stalin died." We all jumped up, cheered and laughed, danced around.

Joseph Brodsky, Russian poet who later won the Nobel Prize for Literature, was, like me, born in 1940. I once read how he described a similar scene on that day in his Russian classroom. The teacher came into the room in tears, then tearfully announced the demise of the Great Comrade Stalin, Father of the Soviet Peoples. "Down on your knees!" she shouted. The pupils all got down on their knees, wailing and weeping.