Translation of Poem by Osip Mandelstam, Осип Мандельштам, "Ласточка," BLIND SWALLOWS

                                                  Sophocles, "Antigone," Polish Theater Poster

Осип Мандельштам

(1891-1938)
                                          

Ласточка

Я слово позабыл, что я хотел сказать.
Слепая ласточка в чертог теней вернётся,
На крыльях срезанных, с прозрачными играть.
B беспамятстве ночная песнь поётся.

Не слышно птиц. Бессмертник не цветёт.
Прозрачны гривы табуна ночного.
B сухой реке пустой челнок плывёт.
Среди кузнечиков беспамятствует слово.

И медленно растёт, как бы шатёр иль храм,
То вдруг прикинется безумной Антигоной,
То мёртвой ласточкой бросается к ногам,
С стигийской нежностью и веткою зелёной.

О, если бы вернуть и зрячих пальцев стыд,
И выпуклую радость узнаванья.
Я так боюсь рыданья Аонид,
Тумана, звона и зиянья!

А смертным власть дана любить и узнавать,
Для них и звук в персты прольётся,
Но я забыл, что я хочу сказать,
И мысль бесплотная в чертог теней вернётся.

Bсё не о том прозрачная твердит,
Всё ласточка, подружка, Антигона...
И на губах, как чёрный лёд, горит
Стигийского воспоминанье звона.

1920

d

Literal Translation

The Swallow

 

I’ve forgotten the word that I was trying to say.

The blind swallow will return to the palace of shades,

On clipped wings, will play with transparencies.

The night song in oblivion is sung.

 

The birds cannot be heard. The immortelle does not bloom.

Transparent are the manes of the night herd.

In a dry river an empty bark floats.

Amidst the grasshoppers the word loses consciousness.

 

And slowly it grows, as if some tent or temple,

First suddenly pretending to be a mad Antigone,

Then a dead swallow that throws itself at your feet,

With Stygian tenderness and a green branch.

 

O, if only to return the shame even of sighted fingers,

And the bulging joy of recognition.

I so fear the sobs of the Aonides, [Muses]

And the fog, peals, gapings!

 

But to mortals is given the power to love and to recognize,

For them even sound will flow through fingers,

But I have forgotten what I’m trying to say,

And incorporeal thought will return to the palace of shades.

 

All the time the transparency repeats the wrong thing,

All the time it’s swallow, girlfriend, Antigone . . .

And on the lips, like black ice, there burns

The remembrance of the Stygian peal.

 

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie (un-rhymed, un-metered)

 

Blind Swallows

 

On tip of brain-tongue had the—damn—forgot the word I had.

So flits the blind swallow back into the old manse of shades,

On wings now clipped, her swoops maligned,

To play with things transparent.

While the song of night, mind dim, benumbed, goes on trilling its ditty.

 

Can’t hear the birds sing anymore; the immortelle won’t bloom.

Transparent are the manes on the steeds of galloping night. 

An empty bark afloat on a river gone dry.

While word amidst the grasshoppers

Falls helplessly in swoon.  

 

Then slowly something grows—feel it?—like a tent going up, or a temple;

Takes turns pretending: I’m Antigone crazed, or no—

I’m a dead swallow who throws herself at your feet,

With Stygian tenderness

And a green twig in her beak.

 

O, if only to bring back the shame of the sighted fingers that see,

To grasp once more the bulging, tumescent joy of cognition.

I do so fear the sobs of the Aonides, my Muses,

And the haze,

And the peals, and the gapes!

 

But unto mortals is given the power to love and to be cognizant,

For them pure sound will flow its way through fingers,

But yea, woe, damn; I’ve forgotten what I wanted to say!

And now fleshless thought must slink its way back,

Into the old manse of shades. 

 

Transparency, you see, goes on and on with not getting it right,

On and on with its bleating: swallow, girlfriend, Antigone . . .

While on my lips, on the tip of the tongue

Of my black-iced brain, burns

The remembrance of that primordial

Peal of the Stygian bells.

 

d

 

Translator’s Note

 

Сommentary on this poem by Irina Surat, from her article in Russian about various Russian poems featuring swallows (in the journal Novy Mir, “Tri veka russkoj poezii”), available online:

 

http://www.nm1925.ru/Archive/Journal6_2007_4/Content/Publication6_1981/Default.aspx

 

Among her most interesting points: this is a poem about trying to write poetry, about the thing of words on the tip of the tongue of your mind that keep slipping away. The poet never does recapture the exact words he wanted, but, paradoxically, he writes a lovely poem, with all the right words, about how blind swallows cannot get their swoops right in his mind.

 

 

 

 

Translation of Poem by Nikolai Zabolotsky, Николай Заболоцкий, "Ласточка," THE SWALLOW

 

Николай Заболоцкий

(1903-1958)

 

Ласточка

Славно ласточка щебечет,
Ловко крыльями стрижет,
Всем ветрам она перечит,
Но и силы бережет.
Реет верхом, реет низом,
Догоняет комара
И в избушке под карнизом
Отдыхает до утра.

Удивлен ее повадкой,
Устремляюсь я в зенит,
И душа моя касаткой
В отдаленный край летит.
Реет, плачет, словно птица,
В заколдованном краю,
Слабым клювиком стучится
В душу бедную твою.

Но душа твоя угасла,
На дверях висит замок.
Догорело в лампе масло,
И не светит фитилек.
Горько ласточка рыдает
И не знает, как помочь,
И с кладбища улетает
В заколдованную ночь.

1958

 

 

d

 

Literal Translation

 

The Swallow

 

Gloriously the swallow chirps,

Skillfully clips with her wings,

Opposes all the winds,

But preserves her strength.

Flits up, flits down,

Overtakes a mosquito,

And in her little hut beneath the cornice

Rests until the morning.

 

Struck by her behavior,

I rush out into the zenith,

And my soul, hirundine now,

Flies off to distant lands.

It flits, weeps, as a bird does,

In that enchanted realm,

With weak little beak it pecks

At your poor soul.

 

But your soul has expired,

A lock hangs on the doors.

The oil in the lamp has burned down,

And the little wick does not gleam.

Bitterly the swallow sobs

And does not know how to help,

And from the graveyard flies off

Into the enchanted night.

 

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

The Swallow

 

Through the world chirps the swallow un-chagrined,

Her wings slice the air with consummate perfection; 

Intrepid she fends off the fiercest of winds,

Preserving her strength, never prone to dejection.

Up she flits, down she flits, to the sky’s edge,

Snaps up a mosquito in mid-swoop, and diving,

Into her hovel she scoots neath the ledge;

She’ll rest there till sunrise, at ease with life, thriving.

 

In thrall to her stalwart and sprightly panache,

I set off in search of some far Land of Beulah;

My soul is hirundine, in yearning awash,

Can it be that I’ll find you in Ultima Thule?

My essence swoops up with an avian twitter,

Seeks sustenance, perches on wonderland knoll,

Finds what could be you in a dim spot aglitter,

With its weak little beak pecks at your forlorn soul.

 

But your soul, woe is me, has relinquished all glimmer,

On the door of your lifeforce there hangs a dire lock.

The oil in the lamp has burned down, lost its shimmer,

And the dark has the wick in a wretched headlock. 

The swallow sobs bitterly, tweets out despair,

For she has not a clue how to be of assistance;

With a gurgle-twit cry she goes swoop through the air,

From the graveyard and off into night’s grim persistence.