Translation of Poem by Marina Tsvetaeva, МАРИНА ЦВЕТАЕВА, "П. Э. : 6," FOR P.E.: 6

 

МАРИНА ЦВЕТАЕВА

(1892-1941)

 

П. Э. : 6

 

 

Осыпались листья над Вашей могилой,

И пахнет зимой.

Послушайте, мертвый, послушайте, милый:

Вы все-таки мой.

 

Смеетесь! — В блаженной крылатке дорожной!

Луна высока.

Мой — так несомненно и так непреложно,

Как эта рука.

 

Опять с узелком подойду утром рано

К больничным дверям.

Вы просто уехали в жаркие страны,

К великим морям.

 

Я Вас целовала! Я Вам колдовала!

Смеюсь над загробною тьмой!

Я смерти не верю! Я жду Вас с вокзала —

Домой!

 

Пусть листья осыпались, смыты и стерты

На траурных лентах слова.

И, если для целого мира Вы мертвы,

Я тоже мертва.

 

Я вижу, я чувствую,- чую Вас всюду,

— Что ленты от Ваших венков! —

Я Вас не забыла и Вас не забуду

Во веки веков.

 

Таких обещаний я знаю бесцельность,

Я знаю тщету.

— Письмо в бесконечность.

— Письмо в беспредельность. —

Письмо в пустоту.

 

4 октября 1914

 

 

d

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

For P.E.: 6

 

Your grave’s strewn with needles

From evergreen forest,

The smells are of winter and pine.

Listen, you dead one, listen you dearest:

You’re all the same evermore mine.

 

You laugh! You in your outré

Light-blue traveler’s coat!

The moon in the sky is sublime.

Mine: “immutably, irrefutably,” unquote.

Like this hand on my arm, all mine.

 

Once more with a package

At break-of-day times,

I’ll come to the hospital entrance.

You’ve simply departed

For far desert climes,

Where seas are all mistiness, semblance.

 

I kissed you! I conjured,

Bewitched you!

I laugh at sepulchral dim bleakness!

I won’t believe death!

I await, ever true,

The train bearing you back

From obliqueness.

 

Scattered pine needles,

And washed-away, worn-away

Words on the tombstone once wrought.

And if for the whole world you’re dead

And you’ve gone away,

Then I’m dead as well,

Simply naught.

 

 I see and I sense you,

Here, there, everywhere,

So what if the threnodies fade!

I’ll never forget you,

You’re still in my air

In time out of mind’s palisade.

 

I know that such promises

End up in aimlessness,

I know the futility, pain.

I send letters

To boundlessness,

Letters

To soundlessness,

Missives to castles in Spain.

 

â

 

https://www.chitalnya.ru/work/1317093/

Это стихотворение посвящено брату мужа Цветаевой Петру Эфрону
В 1913 году вернулся из эмиграции старший брат Сергея — Петр Яковлевич Эфрон. Потерявший маленькую дочь, переживший развод с женой, которая его оставила, больной туберкулезом. Цветаева впервые встретилась с ним летом 1913 года, когда ненадолго приехала по делам из Крыма в Москву. Братья были очень похожи. Встреча произвела на Цветаеву неизгладимое впечатление.

 

Translator’s Note (Gist of the Russian Above)

 

This poem is part of a series (this is No. 6) of poems devoted to Pyotr Ephron, the brother of Sergei, Marina Tsvetaeva’s husband. In 1913 Pyotr returned from emigration to Russia, having lost his small daughter, who died, and his wife, who had deserted him. He was ill with tuberculosis and had only a short time to live. Tsvetaeva grew very close to him in his final days and took his passing hard.

 

Moods in Language, The Conditional, The Indicative

 

Moods in Language, Conditional, Indicative

“If only we hadn’t invented the conditional mood, we wouldn’t have to be constantly pondering alternatives.”

Frank and Ernest comic strip, May 13, 2020

 

But the conditional mood allows us to temper or soften the reality of certain unpleasantries. Our choice of words in the subtle way we use language does the same thing. Consider these beginnings of sentences and how their meanings differ from one another:

                “Were I to pass away today, then . . .”

                “Should I expire today, then . . .”

                “If I die today, then . . .”

                “If I croak today, then . . .”

 

Notice how use of the conditional mood places the possibility of one’s death at a further remove from reality than use of the indicative mood. When you say, “Were I to pass away” (conditional, with euphemism, “pass away”), you are putting the actual event at a distance from you. When you say, “If I die” (indicative, with no more softening euphemism), the actual possibility of your death is placed much closer to reality. Of course, “If I die” is an absurdity. “When I die” is the only reality.

Thus do we apply subtle distinctions in language usage to create protective barriers for ourselves against the workings of dire fate. At first glance you might think that the final example, using the word “croak,” is the most direct and non-euphemistic, but getting humor into an utterance is another way of distancing oneself from unpleasantries.

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

 

Translation of Poem by Edward Asadov, Эдуард Асадов, "Пустые слова," EMPTY WORDS

 

Эдуард Асадов

(1923-2004)

 

 

Пустые слова

 

Ну как это можно, не понимаю!

Просто кругом идет голова:

Все время пустые, пустые слова

Тебя, точно облаком, окружают.

 

Цветистые, пестрые, равнодушные.

Они кувыркаются в тишине.

И ты их, словно шары воздушные,

Целыми гроздьями даришь мне.

 

Люди о ком-то порой говорят:

«Необязательный», «необязательная» —

Какие противные прилагательные!

Я б выбросил к черту их все подряд!

 

Выходит, что чуть ли не все — пустяк:

Слово дается, слово берется…

Прости, но неужто тебе вот так

И впрямь хорошо на земле живется?!

 

Возможно ли говорить уверенно:

— Приеду. Сделаю. Буду звонить.—

Без тени сомнения говорить

И знать, что ни грамма не будет сделано!

 

И, не смущаясь и в малой мере,

Плыть дальше, зная наверняка,

Что где-то ждут твоего звонка,

Что кто-то в твое обещанье верит.

 

Пустые слова, пустые слова!

Фальшивые копии слов счастливых,

Красивые, точно люпин-трава,

И зло-недобрые, как крапива.

 

Слова: «до последних минут моих!»,

«Верность», «любовь», «счастливая дата!»-

Ты так легко произносишь их,

Что даже становится жутковато.

 

А в шатких местах у тебя готово:

«Честное слово!» Ну не смешно ли?!

Зачем произносится: «Честное слово!»

А все остальные — лживые, что ли?!

 

Жизнь — как придуманная история,

Слова — точно мыльные пузыри.

Зачем тебе вся эта бутафория,

Ответь мне, шут тебя подери!

 

А впрочем, за все говорят дела,

Которых как раз-то и не бывает.

Душа, не рождающая тепла,

Только пустые слова рождает!

 

Но мира не будет меж мной и ими!

Пойми и на что-то одно решайся:

Или же ты расставайся с ними,

Или со мной расставайся!

 

d

 

Literal Translation

 

 

Empty Words

 

Well, how can that be, I don’t understand!

It simply has my head in a spin.

Empty, empty words all the time,

Like a cloud enveloping you.

 

Flowery, multicolored, indifferent.

In the silence they turn somersaults.

And, as if they were balloons,

You present whole clusters of them to me.

 

People sometimes say about someone,

“He’s redundant, she’s redundant;”

What despicable adjectives these are!

I’d like to throw them all to the devil!

 

It turns out that almost everything is trifling;

A word is given, a word is taken back . . .

Excuse me, but do you really think

One can live well in a world like that?

 

Is it possible to say with assurance,

“I’ll be there. I’ll do it. I’ll phone you.”

To say things without the shade of a doubt,

While knowing that not the least thing will be done!

 

And not the least embarrassed, giving it little thought,

You sail on your way, knowing for sure

That somewhere your phone call is expected,

That someone believes what you have promised.

 

Empty words, empty words!

Fake copies of happy words,

As beautiful as lupines in grass,

And mean and malignant, like stinging nettles.

 

The words: “to my final minutes!”

“Faithfulness,” “love,” “a happy date!”

You pronounce them so easily

That there’s something gruesome about the whole business.

 

When you’re in a ticklish position you have this in reserve:

“Word of honor!” Now isn’t that a ludicrous thing?

How can we say, “Word of honor,”

As if to imply that all other words are lies?

 

Life is like a made-up story,

Words are like soap bubbles.

Why do you need all these fake stage props?

Answer me, damn you!

 

Deeds, it is said, account for everything,

But then, deeds are just what doesn’t get done.

The soul that does not give birth to warmth

Gives birth only to empty words!

 

But there will be no peace between me and them!

Understand that and decide on one thing or the other:

Either you part ways with them,

Or you part ways with me!

 

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

Empty Words

 

The how and the why of it I’ll never get!

My head’s in a spin and my brain rife with drivel.

Empty words, empty words in a flutter and sizzle,

They swarm around you like hail-fellow-well met.

 

Some words are multihued, some apathetic,

They flip somersaults through the silence of air.

You buy them, balloons from balloon-man somewhere,

And give them to me in bright clusters splenetic.

 

People will sometimes say things about people:

“We can do without him, we’ll do fine without her;”

Such revilements we hear and we seldom demur.

Those words are akin to stains noisome and fecal!

 

So much, it turns out, is sheer paltry and cheesy,

One gives one one’s word, and then takes that word back . . .

Tell me now, do you think we should nurture cheapjack,

Can we stomach a world that’s so hopelessly sleazy?

 

Do you in all honesty declare the following:

“I’ll be there. I’ll do it. I’ll phone you for sure.”

With utter conviction, with soul purest pure,

While knowing you’ll do not a thing that you’re promising!

 

Insouciant, not the least vexed or ashamed,

You sail blithefully off, full aware of your perfidy,

Knowing that someone sits by the phone yearningly,

Believing your promise, the word you’ve profaned.

 

Empty words worlds infest with their shallowness vile,

All the counterfeit copies of happiness words,

Fake lovely as lupines, but frail as puffbirds,

Like nettles they sting and like sirens beguile.

 

Words: “to the end of my time on the Lord’s green earth!”

“Faithfulness,” “true love,” “a day we’ll remember!”

They trip off your tongue with such ease, sweet and tender,

And leave me aghast, as if viewing stillbirth.  

 

When in a tight spot you resort to this phrase:

“My word of honor!” Stop and think, what absurdity!

We say “word of honor,” implying most scurvily

That all other words lie and bend things crossways!

 

The plotline of life is hummed on a kazoo, 

Words light as soap bubbles, disguised in knickknackery.

Why do you need all this phony gimcrackery?

Answer me, confound your claptrap and you!

 

What deeds you get done will account for your all,

But then deeds go on ever awaiting their doing.

The soul should be constantly warm spots accruing,

But the soul to words empty lies mired in thrall.

 

Me, I’ll wage endless war with the emptiness-wordiness!

Get that through your head and decide on your choice:

Either the twaddle and bunkum devoice,

Or bid me farewell and remain with the paltriness.

 

Masha Matveychuk declaims the poem:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ODVEBnVqCXA

Translation of Poem by Aleksandr Blok, Александр Блок, "Всё это было, было, было," ALL THAT HAS BEEN IS GONE, EVANISHED

 

Александр Блок

(1880-1921)

 

Всё это было, было, было, 
Свершился дней круговорот. 
Какая ложь, какая сила 
Тебя, прошедшее, вернет? 

 

В час утра, чистый и хрустальный, 
У стен Московского Кремля, 
Восторг души первоначальный 
Вернет ли мне моя земля? 

 

Иль в ночь на Пасху, над Невою, 
Под ветром, в стужу, в ледоход — 
Старуха нищая клюкою 
Мой труп спокойный шевельнет? 

Иль на возлюбленной поляне 
Под шелест осени седой 
Мне тело в дождевом тумане 
Расклюет коршун молодой? 

 

Иль просто в час тоски беззвездной, 
В каких-то четырех стенах, 
С необходимостью железной 
Усну на белых простынях? 

И в новой жизни, непохожей, 
Забуду прежнюю мечту, 
И буду так же помнить дожей, 
Как нынче помню Калиту? 

 

Но верю — не пройдет бесследно 
Всё, что так страстно я любил, 
Весь трепет этой жизни бедной, 
Весь этот непонятный пыл!

❂❂❂❂

Август 1909

d

Literal Translation

All of that was, was, was [has been, has been],

The cycle of days has closed.

What lie, what power

Will return you, the past?

 

At one in the morning, by the walls of the Moscow Kremlin,

That primordial ecstasy of my soul,

Pure and crystalline,

Will my land return it to me?

 

Or on the eve of Easter, above the Neva,

In the wind and chill, as the ice floes move,

Will an old beggar woman with a crutch

Go poking about at my tranquil corpse?

 

Or on my beloved glade

To the rustling sounds of a gray autumn,

Will a young vulture peck at

My body in a rainy haze?

 

Or simply in an hour of starless grief,

Surrounded by some four walls,

With an ironclad inevitability,

Will I fall asleep on white sheets?

 

And in my new life, which does not resemble the past one,

I’ll forget my previous dream,

And will I remember the Doge’s palace,

The same way I remember Ivan Kalita now?

 

But I believe [that] it will not pass without a trace,

All that I so passionately loved,

All the quivering thrill of that poor life,

All of that incomprehensible fervor!

 

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

All that has been is gone, evanished,

The roundabout of days is through.

No lie, no force depleted, banished,  

Can realign the long-skewed queue.

At one a.m. by Kremlin towers

My soul felt pure and crystalline,

Embodied with pristine bright powers;

No more can that sheer joy be mine.

On Neva bridge some Easter eve,

In wind and chill as ice-floes rumble,

Could be some beggar-crone naive

Will poke about my corpse and mumble.

 

Or maybe on my favorite glade

As autumn grayness keens, laments,

A half-grown vulture will parade,

My body peck, leave gashes, rents.

It could be, though, midst star-blight grievous,

Surrounded by some four walls bleak, 

The way fate makes things firm but specious,

On clean white sheets I’ll fall asleep. 

And in my new life, void of malice,

My old dreams will the new dispel,

Ivan Kalita, the Doge’s Palace,

Will side by side in memory dwell.

The old, that said, its trace will leave,

All that is cherished, loved of men,

My poor life, blessèd and bereaved,

The fervor, zeal beyond our ken!  

 

d

 

Translator’s Note

 

The “beloved glade” in the fourth stanza is at Blok’s Shakhmatov estate.

Next to last stanza:

Ivan Kalita—Russian tsar, Ivan I (Danilovich), Grand Duke of Muscovy, ruled from 1325. Died in 1340 or 1341. He was known by the sobriquet “Kalita” (Moneybags).

The Doge’s Palace—once residence of the Doge of Venice, supreme authority of the former Republic of Venice, the palace is one of the main landmarks of the city in Italy. Built in 1340, it is now a museum.