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.