И. А. БУНИН (1870-1953) ПОСЛЕДНИЕ СЛЕЗЫ, Ivan Bunin, Translation of Poem, "Belated Tears."

 

И. А. БУНИН

(1870-1953)

ПОСЛЕДНИЕ СЛЕЗЫ

Изнемогла, в качалке задремала
Под дачный смех. Синели небеса.
Зажглась звезда. Потом свежее стало.
Взошла луна — и смолкли голоса.

Текла и млела в море полоса.
Стекло балконной двери заблистало.
И вот она проснулась и устало
Поправила сухие волоса.

Подумала. Полюбовалась далью.
Взяла ручное зеркальце с окна —
И зеркальце сверкнуло синей сталью.
Ну да, виски белеют: седина.

Бровь поднята, измучена печалью.
Светло глядит холодная луна.

<1906—1908>

d

 

Literal Translation

Last Tears

 

Enervated, she dozed off in a rocker

To the background laughter of the dacha. The skies went dark blue.

A star sparkled. Then [the air] grew fresher.

The moon came up—and the voices went silent.

 

Strips [of moonlight] flowed on, languishing in the sea.

The glass on the door of the balcony gleamed.

And that’s when she awoke and wearily

Began straightening her dry hair.

 

She mused. She admired the distant view.

Took a hand mirror from the windowsill—

And the mirror shone a blue steel.

Well, yes, a whitening on the temples: gray hair.

 

Her brow was furrowed, tormented by sorrow.

Brightly gazed down the cold moon.

 

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

Belated Tears

 

Exhausted, limp, she dozed in chair of wicker

While dacha guests laughed on; the sky shone blue.

The air grew crisp, a single star went flicker.

Arose the moon—the voices silent grew.  

 

In strips of languor on the sea flowed moonlight.

The glass on terrace gleamed with mute allure.

She woke up drained; her guests had bid good night. 

She touched and patted at her dry coiffure.

 

She pondered, mused. Admired the seascape splendor.

From windowsill she took a looking glass—

That mirror glistened steel-blue and tender.

Well, yes, gray on the temples, aging fast.

 

A furrowed brow, the torment life had sent her.

The cold moon gazed on tears welled up at last.

 

d

 

“Bunin’s sonnets are the best in Russian poetry. His unusual eyesight notices the edge of a black shadow on a moonlit street, the special density of blue sky through leaves, the spots of sun slipping like lace across the backs of horses.”

Vladimir Nabokov

 

[from a review in Russian (1929) of Ivan Bunin, Selected Poems. Translated into English in Vladimir Nabokov, Think, Write Speak: Uncollected Essays, Reviews, Interviews (edited by Brian Boyd and Anastasia Tolstoy), New York: Knopf, 2019, p. 84-87.]

 

Translation of Poem by IVAN BUNIN, "My Dear Lord God (Endless Rain, and Forest Fog)"

 

Иван Бунин

(1870-1953)

Льёт без конца. В лесу туман...

Льёт без конца. В лесу туман.
Качают ёлки головою:
«Ах, боже мой!» Лес точно пьян,
Пресыщен влагой дождевою.

В сторожке тёмной у окна
Сидит и ложкой бьёт ребёнок.
Мать на печи, - всё спит она,
В сырых сенях мычит теленок.

В сторожке грусть, мушиный гуд…
— Зачем в лесу звенит овсянка,
Грибы растут, цветы цветут
И травы ярки, как медянка?

— Зачем под мерный шум дождя,
Томясь всем миром и сторожкой,
Большеголовое дитя
Долбит о подоконник ложкой?

Мычит теленок, как немой,
И клонят горестные ёлки
Свои зеленые иголки:
«Ах, боже мой! Ах, боже мой!»

May 10, 1923

 

d

 

Literal Translation

 

It [rain] pours endlessly. In the forest there is fog.

The firs trees shake their heads:

“Oh, my God,” The forest seems drunk,

Saturated with rainwater.

 

In the dark watchman’s lodge by the window

Sits a child and bangs with a spoon.

His mother lies on the stove, goes on sleeping,

While in the damp vestibule a calf is bleating.

In the lodge there is gloom, the buzz of flies . . .

“Why is the yellow bunting [yellow-hammer (bird)] singing in the forest?

[Why do] mushrooms grow, and flowers bloom

And the grass is bright as verdigris?

 

And why, to the steady din of the rain,

Tormented by all of the world and by the lodge,

Does that large-headed child

Keep pounding with a spoon on the windowsill?”

 

The calf bleats like a mute person,

And the sorrowful firs bend down

Their green needles:

“Oh, my God! Oh, my God!”

 

May 10, 1923

 

d

 

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

My Dear Lord God

Endless rain, and forest fog,

With tossing heads perplexed fir trees;

The woods seem drunk; my dear Lord God,

This soaked-wet world is ill at ease.

 

By windowsill in watchman’s shack

A child sits and taps a spoon.

His mother sleeps on stove soot-black,

A calf nearby bleats out of tune.

 

In gloomy shack the buzz of flies . . .

Outside the bunting trills her notes,

And mushrooms grow, I don’t know why,

And flowers bloom, and green grass gloats.

 

Why does he pound to the din of the rain?

Because life’s a malaise, with uneasiness strewn;

That boy with the large head, rain on his brain,

Taps on the windowsill, beats with his spoon.

 

Like some deaf-mute the calf grunts on,

The writhing firs, grief-stricken, awed,

Their needles green, bent, woebegone, 

Oh dear, my God, my dear Lord God!

May 10, 1923

 

 

 

 

 

Translation of Poem by IVAN BUNIN, "Лес шумит невнятным, ровным шумом..."An even, hazy hum runs through the glade,"

       150 ЛЕТ СО ДНЯ РОЖДЕНИЯ ИВАНА АЛЕКСЕЕВИЧА БУНИНА: 1870-2020

Ivan Bunin

(1870-1953)

Лес шумит невнятным, ровным шумом...
Лепет листьев клонит в сон и лень...
Петухи в далекой караулке
Распевают про весенний день.
Лес шумит невнятным, тихим шумом...
Хорошо и беззаботно мне
На траве, среди берез зеленых,
В тихой и безвестной стороне!
1900

Literal Translation

The woods sound with an indistinct, even hum . . .

The rustle of leaves inclines one to drowse and be lazy . . .

Roosters in some far-distant sentry post

Sing out loudly about the spring day.

The woods sound with an indistinct, quiet hum . . .

I feel good and free of cares

On the grass amidst the green birches,

In this quiet and unknown land!

d

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

An even, hazy hum runs through the glade,

The rustling leaves to laze and drowse incline . . .

The roosters faraway in sun-specked shade,

Their vernal tidings sing, in crows benign.

A quiet, hazy hum runs through the glade . . .

To succor me and send my soul repose,

I lie midst birch grove green, my worries fade,

In this enchanted realm where stillness flows.

d

Variant of This Poem, Not Published in Bunin’s Collected Works in Nine Volumes, but Published in a Two-Volume Set of Collected Poetry in 2014 (First Two Stanzas Are Identical)

Лес шумит невнятным, ровным шумом…
Лепет листьев клонит в сон и лень…
Петухи в далёкой караулке
Распевают про весенний день.

Лес шумит невнятным, тихим шумом…
Хорошо и беззаботно мне
На траве, среди берёз зелёных,
В тихой и безвестной стороне!

Так привык я к горю и заботам,
Что мне странен этот ясный день,
Точно должен упрекнуть себя я
И за эту радость, и за лень.

Но укор в улыбке замирает…
Лес шумит, дрожит узор теней…
Убегает светлый лепет листьев,
Тихий лепет светлых детских дней!

1900

---

Literal Translation

The woods sound with an indistinct, even hum . . .

The rustle of leaves inclines one to drowse and be lazy . . .

Roosters in some far-distant sentry post

Sing out loudly about the spring day.

The woods sound with an indistinct, quiet hum . . .

I feel good and free of cares

On the grass amidst the green birches,

In this quiet and unknown land!

I have grown so used to grief and to troubles

That this clear day is strange to me,

As if I have to rebuke myself

For both this joy and for this laziness.

But the censure in my smile dies away . . .

The woods sound, the tracery of shade quavers . . .

The bright rustle of leaves runs away,

That quiet rustle of bright days of childhood!

d

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

An even, hazy hum runs through the glade,

The rustling leaves to laze and drowse incline . . .

The roosters faraway in sun-specked shade,

Their vernal tidings sing, in crows benign.

A quiet, hazy hum runs through the glade . . .

To succor me and send my soul repose,

I lie midst birch grove green, my worries fade,

In this enchanted realm where stillness flows.

So used I’ve come to live with grief and dole

That this clear lustrous day seems strange to me,

As if I needs must chide my self, my soul

For feeling joyful, light at heart and free.

But censure and rebuke on my smile fades . . .

The woods hum on, the lacy shadows laze,

The leaves’ bright hum dissolves, in flight abrades

The quiet rustle of bright childhood days.

                                                             Bunin Statue in Yefremov

Translation of Poem by IVAN BUNIN, "The Artist" (on CHEKHOV) Иван Бунин, «Художник» (А.П. Чехов)

Chekhov Home/Museum, Near Yalta

         150 ЛЕТ СО ДНЯ РОЖДЕНИЯ ИВАНА АЛЕКСЕЕВИЧА БУНИНА: 1870-2020

Иван Бунин

(1870-1953)

«Художник»

Хрустя по серой гальке, он прошел
Покатый сад, взглянул по водоемам,
Сел на скамью… За новым белым домом
Хребет Яйлы и близок и тяжел.

Томясь от зноя, грифельный журавль
Стоит в кусте. Опущена косица,
Нога – как трость… Он говорит: «Что, птица?
Недурно бы на Волгу, в Ярославль!»

Он, улыбаясь, думает о том,
Как будут выносить его – как сизы
На жарком солнце траурные ризы,
Как желт огонь, как бел на синем дом.

«С крыльца с кадилом сходит толстый поп,
Выводит хор… Журавль, пугаясь хора,
Защелкает, взовьется от забора –
И ну плясать и стукать клювом в гроб!»

В груди першит. С шоссе несется пыль,
Горячая, особенно сухая.
Он снял пенсне и думает, перхая:
«Да-с, водевиль… Все прочее есть гиль».

d

Literal Translation

The Artist

Crunching through the leaden shingle [pebbles], he went past

The sloping garden, glanced at the reservoirs,

Sat down on a bench . . . Beyond the new white house

The Yaila mountain range loomed near, oppressive.

Languishing in the heat, a slate-gray crane

Stands in a bush. Tailfeathers drooping,

On one leg like a cane . . . He says: “How now,

Birdie? Time to fly off to the Volga, to Yaroslavl?”

With a smile he thinks of how

They’ll bear him out [of the house],

How dove-blue against the hot sun the funereal chasubles

Will look, how yellow the [candle] flames, how white the house against the blue.

“A fat priest with a censer descends from the porch,

Followed by the choir . . . Frightened by the choir, that crane

Clacks with his bill, soars up from the fence,

And down on the coffin he comes, dances about, and pecks it with his beak.”

A rasping in his chest. From the highroad dust

Drifts down, a hot, particularly dry dust.

He takes off his pince-nez, clears his throat, thinks:

“Yeah, vaudeville’s all we need; all the rest is crap.”


                                    


                                    Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

The Artist

He passed the sloping garden, crunched through the grayish gravel,

Took note of reservoirs of water faraway marooned,

Sat on a bench and peered at Yaila mountain range that loomed 

Beyond the new white house in sunglare-dazzle.

Tail drooping, on one leg in bush nearby 

Stood languishing in heat a slate-gray crane.

He called out, “Birdie, what’s up? Take the train!

Up north you’ll find a cooler place to fly.”

He mused and smiled, thought how they’d bear him through

The house’s entryway, feet first, pace stately, slow,

How stoles of priests in rays of searing sun look indigo,

The candle flames, the house so white against sky-blue.

“Choir at his heels and censer in his hands, a stout priest next

Goes hobbling down the porch’s steps; the hymns

Affright the crane, who, clacks his bill, spreads wings,

Then soars and lands on coffin top and flutters, pecks.”

A rasping in his chest, the dust from highroad’s sizzle

Blows hot and dry, wafts up and swirls, then sinks;

He clears his throat, removes his pince-nez, thinks,

Vaudeville, there’s the ticket, folks; all the rest is drivel.

d

Translator’s Notes

This poem describes Anton Chekhov in his valetudinarian years, when his severe consumption kept him living most of each year in the warmer climate of the Crimean Peninsula. Bunin met Chekhov in Yalta in 1899, and they remained close friends until Chekhov’s death in 1904. Bunin often visited him at the Yalta house, called “the white house” by locals, which is now a museum. While living in this house (1899-1904), where his mother and sister Masha lived with him, Chekhov wrote, among other things, two of his best plays, Three Sisters and The Cherry Orchard, and his most well-known story, “The Lady with the Dog.”

At an event organized by the Moscow Art Theater in honor of what would have been Chekhov’s fiftieth birthday (January 17, 1910), Bunin read from his memoirs of Chekhov and caused a sensation when he played out several conversations, perfectly mimicking Chekhov’s voice and intonations. The great writer’s mother and sister, who were in the audience, were brought to tears.

The poem above, first published in 1913, imagines Chekhov in his final years in Yalta, anticipating his own death and funeral at the so-called “white house.” But, so it turned out, he died not in Yalta, but in Germany, where he had gone with his wife Olga Knipper to seek medical treatment. He is buried at the Novodevichy Convent Cemetery in Moscow.

The slate-gray crane described in the poem is probably a demoiselle crane. The final line is a catchphrase in Russian, originating in Griboedov’s famous play, “Woe from Wit” (1824). The expression is used as ironic commentary on someone’s passion for cheap spectacles, or as a derogatory evaluation of low-grade art. Chekhov himself, whose writing career began with little sketches written for the popular press, rather liked vaudeville. Once, in commenting on the artistic merit of Lermontov’s story, “Taman,” he remarked, “I can’t understand how he could write something like that when he was still little more than a boy! You write a work that good, plus just one fine vaudeville, and you can die happy.”

                                                    Bunin and Chekhov

Translation into English of poem by EDUARD BAGRITSKY, " Я сладко изнемог от тишины и снов," "So sweetly enervated I, by silence and by dreams"

                                                                        Max Ernst

Eduard Bagritsky

(1895-1934)

Я сладко изнемог от тишины и снов,

От скуки медленной и песен неумелых,

Мне любы петухи на полотенцах белых

И копоть древняя суровых образов.

Под жаркий шорох мух проходит день за днем,

Благочестивейшим исполненный смиреньем,

Бормочет перепел под низким потолком,

Да пахнет в праздники малиновым вареньем.

А по ночам томит гусиный нежный пух,

Лампада душная мучительно мигает,

И, шею вытянув, протяжно запевает

На полотенце вышитый петух.

Так мне, о господи, ты скромный дал приют,

Под кровом благостным, не знающим волненья,

Где дни тяжелые, как с ложечки варенье,

Густыми каплями текут, текут, текут.

 

                                                                                       1919

Literal Translation

Silence and dreams, and a languid boredom

Have left me sweetly enervated,

I’m fond of the roosters on white dishtowels

And of ancient soot on austere icons.

Day after day goes by to the hot rustle of flies,

Each day replete with the most pious humility,

A quail murmurs beneath the low ceiling,

And on festive days there’s the aroma of raspberry jam.

And at night you languish in soft goose-down feathers,

The stifling icon lamp blinks agonizingly,

And the embroidered rooster on the dishtowel

Stretches out his neck and crows at length.

And so, O Lord, you’ve given me a modest hideaway,

Beneath a soothing roof that knows not agitation,

Where the heavy [oppressive] days, as jam from a spoon,

In thick droplets go dripping, dripping, dripping.

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

So sweetly enervated I, by silence and by dreams,

By boredom creeping slowly past, and songs ineptly sung,

I love the crowing roosters on the dishtowel barnyard scenes,

The ancient soot on icons, in the parlor corner hung.

Day follows day, the flies toil on, exacerbating rustle,

My life abounds with piety, with actions cautionary,  

Beneath the placid eaves above the cooing pigeons bustle,

On festive days the air is rife with jam of lingonberry.

With night’s unease I turn and writhe in goose-down feathers soft,

The stifling icon lamp’s aglitter, blinking misery,

Then one embroidered rooster in the dishtowel barnyard loft

Extends his scrawny neck, exults, and crows his reveille.

O Lord, thou hast provided me a modest warm cocoon,

Beneath a tranquil roof that holds my life in trusteeship,  

Where day by viscous day seeps by, as jam from kitchen spoon,

In thick and gooey droplets falls,

With drip, and drip, and drip.

Translator’s Notes

Biographical Information on Bagritsky, from the Internet

(Translation of Highlights Here, Full Text in Russian Below)

Eduard Georgievich Bagritsky, whose real surname was Dzjubin or Dzjuban), was born on October 22 (Nov. 3, NS), 1895, in Odessa to a Jewish family that practiced its religion seriously. He studied to be a land surveyor but never worked at that profession.

Beginning in 1915, he published his verses under various pseudonyms, both male and female (Eduard Bagritsky, Nina Voskresenskaja), and soon he had become one of the most remarkable of the young Odessa writers who were later to be stars in the pantheon of Soviet Literature: Yury Olesha, Ilya Il’f, Valentin Kataev, Vera Inber, and others.

In 1918 he joined the Red Army during the Civil War, working in the political arm of the partisan movement, writing politically motivational verses. After the war he worked in Odessa as a poet and artist, publishing his works in newspapers and humor magazines under various pseudonyms: A Guy Named Vasya, Nina Voskresenskaja (again), and The People’s Correspondent Gortsev.

In 1925 he moved to Moscow and joined various literary circles then in mode, including the Constructivists. In 1928 his verse collection titled “Southwest” came out, and a second collection, “The Victors,” appeared in 1932.

Beginning with the year 1930 his asthma intensified—a disease from which he had suffered since childhood; he died on February 16, 1934, in Moscow. His widow, Lidia Suok, was arrested in 1937 and sent to a labor camp; she was released only in 1956. Their son Vsevolod fought in The Great Patriotic War (WW II), died at the front in 1942.

dddfffffffffddddddddd

Эдуард Георгиевич Багрицкий (настоящая фамилия Дзюбин (Дзюбан); 1895—1934) — русский поэт, переводчик и драматург, родился 22 октября (3 ноября) 1895 г. в Одессе в буржуазной еврейской семье с сильными религиозными традициями. Окончил землемерные курсы, но по профессии не работал.

С 1915 г. под псевдонимом «Эдуард Багрицкий» и женской маской «Нина Воскресенская» начал публиковать свои стихи в одесских литературных альманахах и вскоре стал одной из самых заметных фигур в группе молодых одесских литераторов, впоследствии ставших крупными советскими писателями (Юрий Олеша, Илья Ильф, Валентин Катаев, Лев Славин, Семён Кирсанов, Вера Инбер).

В 1918 г., во время Гражданской войны, добровольцем вступил в Красную Армию, работал в политотделе особого партизанского отряда имени ВЦИК, писал агитационные стихи.

После войны работал в Одессе, сотрудничая, как поэт и художник, в ЮгРОСТА (Южное бюро Украинского отделения Российского телеграфного агентства) вместе с Ю. Олешей, В. Нарбутом, С. Бондариным, В. Катаевым. Публиковался в одесских газетах и юмористических журналах под псевдонимами «Некто Вася», «Нина Воскресенская», «Рабкор Горцев».

В 1925г. Багрицкий приехал в Москву и стал членом литературной группы «Перевал», через год примкнул к конструктивистам. В 1928г. у него вышел сборник стихов «Юго-запад». Второй сборник, «Победители», появился в 1932г.

С начала 1930г.  у Багрицкого обострилась астма — болезнь, от которой он страдал с детства. Он умер 16 февраля 1934г. в Москве. Вдова поэта, Лидия Густавовна Суок, была репрессирована в 1937 (вернулась из заключения в 1956). Сын Всеволод погиб на фронте в 1942 г.