The Bestest of the Best: THIRTY, Marina Tsvetaeva, МАРИНА ЦВЕТАЕВА, "Я знаю правду! I KNOW THE TRUTH

 

МАРИНА ЦВЕТАЕВА
(1892-1941)
 
Я знаю правду! Все прежние правды — прочь!
Не надо людям с людьми на земле бороться.
Смотрите: вечер, смотрите: уж скоро ночь.
О чём — поэты, любовники, полководцы?
 
Уж ветер стелется, уже земля в росе,
Уж скоро звёздная в небе застынет вьюга,
И под землёю скоро уснем мы все,
Кто на земле не давали уснуть друг другу.
 
Oct. 3, 1915
 
d
 
                                          Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
 
I know the truth! Away with all past truths!
People of the earth, don’t fight with fellow-shmoes!
Look: evening; look: night comes next forsooth!   
What use are poets, lovers, generalissimos?
 
Lo, the winds are swirling low, the earth’s bedewed in woe or weal,
And soon on heaven’s breast a star-flecked snowstorm will congeal,
While underground we all will soon find deepest sleep,
We who on this earth denied each other sleepings deep.
 
[date of translation: April, 2025]

Translation of Poem by Anna Akhmatova, Анна Ахматова, "Он длится без конца — янтарный, тяжкий день!" WITHOUT END ON IT EKES ALONG

            Romanesque Baptismal Font from Sweden, Carved by Sigraf, Legendary Stone Mason

Анна Ахматова
(1889-1966)

М. Лозинскому

Он длится без конца — янтарный, тяжкий день!
Как невозможна грусть, как тщетно ожиданье!
И снова голосом серебряным олень
В зверинце говорит о северном сиянье.

И я поверила, что есть прохладный снег
И синяя купель для тех, кто нищ и болен,
И санок маленьких такой неверный бег
Под звоны древние далёких колоколен.

1912

d

Literal Translation by Judith Hemschemeyer

For M. Lozinsky

It drags on forever — this heavy, amber day!
How unsufferable is grief, how futile the wait!
And once more comes the silver voice of the deer
From the menagerie, telling of the northern lights.

And I, too, believed that somewhere there was cold snow,
And a bright blue font for the poor and the ill,
And the unsteady dash of little sleighs
Under the ancient droning of distant bells.

d

                                         Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

For M. Lozinsky

Without end on it ekes along—this amber-hued bleak day!
Insufferable is sorrow and anticipation’s futile.
And once again the reindeer’s voice in silvern, argent sway
Speaks softly from menagerie of northern lights inutile.
 
And I’m consoled believing that there still is cool of snow,
Baptismal fonts there are dark-blue for those hard up and reeling, 
And zigzag paths for children’s sleds as riskily they go
Downhill in exultation to the ancient bells far pealing.

 

                                                      Painting by Natan Altman, 1914

Translation of Poem by Anna Akhmatova, Анна Ахматова, "Стал мне реже сниться, слава Богу," THANK GOD, MY DREAMWORLD'S LEANER, SPARSER

 

Анна Ахматова
(1889-1966)

Стал мне реже сниться, слава Богу,
Больше не мерещится везде.
Лег туман на белую дорогу,
Тени побежали по воде.

И весь день не замолкали звоны
Над простором вспаханной земли,
Здесь всего сильнее от Ионы
Колокольни лаврские вдали.

Подстригаю на кустах сирени
Ветки те, что нынче отцвели,
По валам старинных укреплений
Два монаха медленно прошли.

Мир родной, понятный и телесный
Для меня, незрячей, оживи.
Исцелил мне душу царь небесный
Ледяным покоем нелюбви.

1912. Kiev

d

Literal Translation by Judith Hemschmeyer
(with amendations in brackets by URB)

 

I dream of him less often now, thank God,
He doesn't appear everywhere anymore. [I don’t fancy that I see him everywhere anymore]
Fog lies on the white road,
Shadows start to run along the water.

And the ringing [pealing] goes on all day.
Over the endless expanse of ploughed fields,
Ever louder sound the bells
From Jonah’s Monastery far away.

[mistranslation of last two lines here:
On account of the massive Iona (Jonah) bell here
(as if resounding off of it?),
The belltowers from the Lavra Monastery far away ring out still louder.]
 

I am clipping today’s wilted branches
From the lilac bushes;
On the ramparts of the ancient fortress,
Two monks stroll. [have strolled past]

Revive for me, who cannot see,
The familiar [dear], comprehensible, corporeal world.
The heavenly king has already healed my soul
With the peace of unlove, icy cold.

 

 

d

                                       Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
 
Thank God my dreamworld’s leaner, sparser now,
Imaginings of him flow not so amply.
On road the fog and whiteness blend somehow,
While shadows run and play on waters damply.
 
And all day long the bells flaunt resonations
Above the plowed-up land, the vast greenway;
Attempting to outshine our massive Jonah,
The Lavra’s belltowers ring out far away.
 
In amidst the lilacs pruning upstarts,
I trim the branches where the blooms are shaded;
Along the walls past buttresses and ramparts
Slowly walk two monks in habits faded.
 
O precious world, a realm coherent, whole, 
For me, alone, unseeing, come alive!
The Lord Above has healed my ailing soul,
On doses of un-love ice-cold I thrive. 

 

d

Translator’s Note

Материал из Викитеки — свободной библиотеки

Second Stanza: Иона — Киевский Свято-Троицкий мужской монастырь на правом берегу Днепра, в нескольких километрах от Киево-Печерской лавры. Основан киевским подвижником, старцем Ионой (ум. в 1902 г.). В 1896 г. Иона купил для колокольни монастыря огромный колокол весом в 1150 пудов.

This poem is set in Kiev near the Holy Trinity Men’s Monastery on the right bank of the Dnieper River, several kilometers away from the renowned Kiev Cave Monastery—which is the “Lavra” mentioned in the poem (Kievo-Pecherskaja Lavra). The Holy Trinity Monastery was founded by the Kiev anchorite-zealot Father Jonah (who died in 1902). In 1896 Jonah bought for the belltower of his monastery an enormous bell that weighed some 1150 poods (20.7 tons). The word “Iona” (Jonah) in the second stanza alludes, apparently, to the massive so-called Iona Bell.

                                                       Bell at Jonah Monastery, Kiev                                      

Translation of Poem by Anna Akhmatova, Анна Ахматова, "Здесь все то же, то же, что и прежде," EVERYTHING'S THE SAME HERE

                                                                     Modigliani Sketch, 1911

Анна Ахматова
(1889-1966)

Здесь все то же, то же, что и прежде,
Здесь напрасным кажется мечтать.
В доме у дороги непроезжей
Надо рано ставни запирать.

Тихий дом мой пусть и неприветлив,
Он на лес глядит одним окном,
В нем кого-то вынули из петли
И бранили мертвого потом.

Был он грустен или тайно-весел,
Только смерть — большое торжество.
На истертом красном плюше кресел
Изредка мелькает тень его.

И часы с кукушкой ночи рады,
Все слышней их четкий разговор.
В щелочку смотрю я: конокрады
Зажигают под холмом костер.

И, пророча близкое ненастье,
Низко, низко стелется дымок.
Мне не страшно. Я ношу на счастье
Темно-синий шелковый шнурок.

 May, 1912

d

                                             Literal Translation by Judith Hemschemeyer
                                               (slight amendations in brackets by URB)
 

Here everything is the same as before, just the same,
Here it seems useless to dream.
In a house on a seldom-traveled [impassable] road,
One must close the shutters early.
 
My silent house is empty and unfriendly [inhospitable],
Through one window it peers at the woods.
In it someone was cut from a noose
And afterwards the body was cursed.
 
Whether he was melancholy or secretly happy,
There remains only death—the great victory [a triumphant occasion].
On the worn, red plush of the armchairs
His shadow flickers occasionally.
 
And the cuckoo clock is happy at night,
Its precise conversation more audible.
I watch through a chink: horse thieves
Are lighting a campfire at the foot of the hill.
 
And, foretelling foul weather,
The smoke creeps low along the ground.
I’m not afraid. I wear for luck
A dark blue cord of silk.
 

d
 
                                          Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

Everything’s the same here as before,
Daydreaming is, it seems, a futile chore.
In the house beside the road mud-cluttered,
Early must the windows be tight shuttered. 

My home is quiet, although rather glum,
One window faces out on forest foggy.
Inside here a hanged man was un-hung,
Later they reviled, abused the body.
 
Be he sad, or was he wry, amusing,
Nonetheless, death’s one big howdy-do.
On the threadbare plush of armchairs musing,
His shadow now and then will perch askew. 
 
The cuckoo clock exults in the midnight quagmire,
Its conversation, clacks and clicks, rings true.
Looking through a crack I see a campfire,
Where horse-thieves sit and plot their derring-do.
 
Prognosticating soon-to-come foul weather,
Lower, ever lower swirls a cloud of smoky mist.
Fear not. My lucky charm’s here, wheresoever:
A dark-blue silken cord around my wrist.
 

Translation of Poem by Anna Akhmatova, Анна Ахматова, "Бессонница," INSOMNIA

 

Анна Ахматова
(1889-1966)

Бессонница

 

Где-то кошки жалобно мяукают,
Звук шагов я издали ловлю...
Хорошо твои слова баюкают:
Третий месяц я от них не сплю.

Ты опять, опять со мной, бессонница!
Неподвижный лик твой узнаю.
Что, красавица, что, беззаконница,
Разве плохо я тебе пою?

Окна тканью белою завершены,
Полумрак струится голубой... 
Или дальней вестью мы утешены?
Отчего мне так легко с тобой?

Winter, 1912
Tsarskoe Selo

d

Literal Translation by Judith Hemschemeyer

Somewhere cats are mewing pitifully,
I catch the sound of distant steps...
Your words are a wonderful lullaby:
Because of them for three months I haven't slept.

Insomnia, you are with me again, again!
I recognize your fixed countenance.
What is it, my outlaw, what is it, my pretty one,
Do I sing so badly to you?

White cloth curtains the windows,
Dim light streams blue...
Or are we being consoled by news from afar?
Why do I feel so at ease with you?

d

                                           Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

                                                                            Insomnia

Somewhere the felines are plaintively mewling,
I catch tip-taps of footsteps from afar near daybreak. . .
The lullaby tones of your words are so soothing:
For three solid months now they keep me awake.
 
Once again you are with me, insomnia dear,
With your motionless visage so flawless.
You beautiful creature, so wanton and lawless,
Do my songs not ring soft in your ear?
 
The windows are trimmed in some off-white motif,
The blue light of gloaming streams through. . .
Or can we in news from afar find relief?
Why is it I feel so at ease when with you?

 

Translation of Poem by Anna Akhmatova, Анна Ахматова, "Слаб голос мой, но воля не слабеет," MY VOICE IS WEAK

 

Анна Ахматова
(1889-1966)

Слаб голос мой, но воля не слабеет,
Мне даже легче стало без любви.
Высоко небо, горный ветер веет,
И непорочны помыслы мои.

Ушла к другим бессонница-сиделка,
Я не томлюсь над серою золой,
И башенных часов кривая стрелка
Смертельной мне не кажется стрелой.

Как прошлое над сердцем власть теряет!
Освобожденье близко. Все прощу,
Следя, как луч взбегает и сбегает
По влажному весеннему плющу.

1912

d

Literal Translation by Judith Hemschemeyer
(with amendations in brackets by URB)
 
Weak is my voice, but my will isn’t weakening,
It’s even become easier for me without love.
The sky is sublime [high], a mountain wind is blowing,
And my thoughts are pure [chaste].
 
Insomnia, my nightnurse, is visiting elsewhere,
I’m not brooding by a cold hearth,
And the crooked hand of the tower clock
Doesn’t look like the arrow of death.
 
How the past loses power over the heart!
Liberation is at hand. I forgive everything.
I’m keeping track of a sunbeam running up and down
The first moist ivy of spring.
 

d

 

Literary Translation by Rupert Moreton

My voice is weak, but not my resolution,
A loveless life is easier for me.
The sky is high, from hill breathes absolution
And from all accusation I am free.

The night-nurse of insomnia has departed,
The ashen sulphur’s ceased to cause me pain,
Though towers’ crooked handed clocks have charted,
To death they seem to me to point in vain.

The heart from past has sealed its liberation!
All is forgiven. Freedom now is mine.
I’m watching now the playing ray’s gyration
Along the sodden springtime ivy’s twine.

d

                                             Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

My voice is weak, my will, though, does not weaken,
I’m even now at ease, without love’s pain.
Lofty’s the sky, the highland winds browbeaten,
Chaste are my thoughts and ever less profane. 
 
My night nurse called Insomnia has departed,
I’m languishing no longer over grayness of the ash,
And that crooked hand on tower clock contorted
Seems not so deathly lethal with its gnash. 
 
How quick the past its grip on heartstrings looses! 
All’s forgiven now, for liberation’s near,
Watching how a light ray runs, suffuses
Sodden vernal ivy twines austere. 
 

 

Translation of Poem by Anna Akhmatova, Анна Ахматова, "Умирая, томлюсь о бессмертье," WHILE DYING I LONG FOR IMMORTAL LIFE'S REVELS

 

Анна Ахматова
(1889-1966)

Умирая, томлюсь о бессмертье.
Низко облако пыльной мглы...
Пусть хоть голые красные черти,
Пусть хоть чан зловонной смолы.

Приползайте ко мне, лукавьте,
Угрозы из ветхих книг,
Только память вы мне оставьте,
Только память в последний миг.

Чтоб в томительной веренице
Не чужим показался ты,
Я готова платить сторицей
За улыбки и за мечты.

Смертный час, наклонясь, напоит
Прозрачной сулемой.
А люди придут, зароют
Мое тело и голос мой.

1912, Tsarskoe Selo

d

                                           Literal Translation by Judith Hemschemeyer
                                           (with slight amendments in brackets by URB)
 
Dying, I am tormented by immortality.
There’s a low-hanging cloud of dusty haze . . .
Let there be [at least] naked red devils,
Let there be [at least] vats of stinking pitch.
 
Crawl up to me, play your tricks,
Your [You] threats from antiquated books,
Only leave me my memory,
Only, at the last gasp, my memory.
 
So that you won’t be [seem] a stranger to me
In the agonizing line,
I am ready to pay a hundredfold
For a smile and for a dream [for some smiles and daydreams].
 
The hour of death, bowing, [bending down] slakes my thirst [will give me to drink]
With clear, corrosive lye. [transparent corrosive lye]
And people [will] come and bury
My body and my voice.
 
d

                                         Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

While dying I long for immortal life’s revels,
A cloud of dusty mist descends from afar . . .
So what if there’s nothing but naked red devils,
Or naught but a vat full of foul-smelling tar?
 
Crawl your way up to me, prestidigitate,
All you threats from an old-testament tome,
But leave me my memory intact and illimitate,
Just a last fleeting glimpse of memorial loam.  
 
In that wearisome queue at my bier, 
So that you look in place, and not frayed at the seams,
I’m prepared now to pay out quite dear
For a few scattered smiles and daydreams.
 
Pale Death, bending down, will proffer to me
A glass of translucent sheer corrosive lye;
They’ll bear me away, just one more absentee,
Then bury my body and voice; say goodbye.

 

Translation of Poem by Anna Akhmatova, Анна Ахматова, "Помолись о нищей, о потерянной," PRAY FOR THE MENDICANT SOUL

 

Анна Ахматова
(1889-1966)

Помолись о нищей, о потерянной,
О моей живой душе.
Ты, в своих путях всегда уверенный,
Свет узревший в шалаше.

И тебе печально-благодарная
Я за это расскажу потом,
Как меня томила ночь угарная,
Как дышало утро льдом.

В этой жизни я немного видела,
Только пела и ждала.
Знаю, брата я не ненавидела
И сестру не предала.

Отчего же Бог меня наказывал
Каждый день и каждый час?
Или это Ангел мне указывал
Свет, невидимый для нас?

May, 1912
Florence

d

Literal Translation by Judith Hemschemeyer
(amended in brackets by URB)
 
[I ask you to, omit] pray for my poor, my perplexed [lost],
For my living soul,
You, always certain of your path,
Having seen light shining from the hut.
 
And then, sadly grateful,
I will relate to you
How the night of ecstasy exhausted me, [nothing about ecstasy in the original]
How the morning breathed ice.
 
I saw little of this life,
I only sang and waited.
I know I didn’t hate my brother
And I didn’t betray my sister.
 
Why then did God punish me
Every day and every hour?
Or was this an angel showing me
A world [a light] that none of us can see?

d

                                              Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

Pray for the mendicant soul that is lost,
For my soul still alive in the bustle,
You, who walk paths that are never star-crossed,
Who discern specks of light in a hovel.
 
And feeling a smidgen of grim gratefulness,
I’ll tell you a tale not so nice,
How the fumes in my night breathed out balefulness,
How the morning air wafted sheer ice.
 
I’ve not seen a lot of this life,
I’ve sung, patience shown, weaved brocade,
But I’ve not hated brothers, sown strife,
And my sisters I’ve never betrayed.
 
Why does God punish me, chastise,
Every day, every hour of my days?
Or is that how his Angel shows slantwise
Those unseen specks of light in the haze?