Friday, November 24, 2023

Translation of Zhivago Poem by Boris Pasternak, "Август," AUGUST

                                      Transfiguration Icon by Feofan Grek, Fifteenth Century

Boris Pasternak

(1890-1960)

 

Август

Как обещало, не обманывая,
Проникло солнце утром рано
Косою полосой шафрановою
От занавеси до дивана.

Оно покрыло жаркой охрою
Соседний лес, дома поселка,
Мою постель, подушку мокрую
И край стены за книжной полкой.

Я вспомнил, по какому поводу
Слегка увлажнена подушка.
Мне снилось, что ко мне на проводы
Шли по лесу вы друг за дружкой.

Вы шли толпою, врозь и парами,
Вдруг кто-то вспомнил, что сегодня
Шестое августа по-старому,
Преображение господне.

 

Обыкновенно свет без пламени
Исходит в этот день с Фавора,
И осень, ясная как знаменье,
К себе приковывает взоры.

 

И вы прошли сквозь мелкий, нищенский,
Сквозной, трепещущий ольшаник
В имбирно-красный лес кладбищенский,
Горевший, как печатный пряник.

С притихшими его вершинами
Соседствовало небо важно,
И голосами петушиными
Перекликалась даль протяжно.

 

В лесу казенной землемершею
Стояла смерть среди погоста,
Смотря в лицо мое умершее,
Чтоб вырыть яму мне по росту.

 

Был всеми ощутим физически
Спокойный голос чей-то рядом.
То прежний голос мой провидческий
Звучал, не тронутый распадом:

 

"Прощай, лазурь Преображенская
И золото второго Спаса.
Смягчи последней лаской женскою
Мне горечь рокового часа.

Прощайте, годы безвременщины.
Простимся, бездне унижений
Бросающая вызов женщина!
Я - поле твоего сраженья.

 

Прощай, размах крыла расправленный,
Полета вольное упорство,
И образ мира, в слове явленный,
И творчество, и чудотворство".

 

1953

d

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

August

 

As promised (like always, not ever reneging),
With morn’s early glimmer the sun came spelunking;
Diagonal ribbon of saffron rays flitting
From curtain to sofa, all bad dreams debunking.  
 
The sunshine was swathing in ochre hot yellow
The huts in the village the woodlands abutting,
My bedding, the moistness on pillow soft-mellow,
The edge of the wall where the bookcase was jutting.
 
And then I remembered the why and wherefore
My pillow was dampened (slight moisture’s emission).
I’d seen in a dream: through the forest next door
You came for my funeral, my soul’s manumission. 
 
You came in a crowd, in pairs, single file,
Then one of you uttered a brief exclamation:
“Today is the sixth day of August (old style),
The day of the Holy Lord’s Transfiguration.”

On that day a light, pure and dazzling but flameless
From Tabor comes blazing in nacreous hues,
Then autumn, clear Sign from the Godmother stainless,
Rivets all gazes on reds, golds and blues.  

So on you all came through a scanty and niggardly
Transparent thicket of alders, leaves flickering,
To the ginger-red woods of the graveyard lit vividly,
Hot as a spice cake fresh-baked and still dithering.    

The skies in their heavenly puissance momentous
Loomed o’er the crowns of the alders now muted,
And sound of the cock crows, unnerving-portentous,
Far distant resounded in echoes diluted. 
 
In the hat of a licensed surveyor attired,
Stood Death in the churchyard, stifling a grin, 
Peering hard at my person, so newly expired,
For to measure my height, dig a hole I’d fit in.

The mourners there gathered could sense even physically
Someone’s voice of serenity then holding sway.     
It rang out in tones that were prescient (prophetically),
My past voice in flesh, still untouched by decay:
 
“Farewell, O the azure of Transfiguration,
Goodbye to the gold of the Second Christ bower.
With the final caress of a woman’s palpation, 
Assuage please the wormwood of my fateful hour.
 
“Farewell, O the years of the timeless stagnation,
Goodbye to the woman whose gauntlet is thrown 
In the face of abysses of mortification;
I am your battleground, your cornerstone.
 
“Farewell to the sweep of a wingspread untarnished,
To the dogged and freedom-steeped flight,
To the image of peace, in the word made incarnate,
And to creative art, and the conjuror’s sleight.”
 

d

 

Translator’s Notes

Transfiguration (Преображение)

On the Transfiguration of Christ, which is celebrated in the Russian Orthodox Church on August 6/19, see the New Testament, Mathew 17: 11-13; Mark 9: 2-9; Luke 9: 28-36. The feast day commemorates a Biblical tale of how Christ went up on Mt. Tabor and was transfigured in front of three of his disciples. The Russian verb from the same root, preobrazit’sja is also a high-style word for “to die.”

The three holidays of the Dormition Fast in the calendar of the Russian Orthodox Church:

Pervy Spas (First Saviour Day), falls on August 14 (new style) and marks the beginning of the Dormition Fast. Strict observers of the fast eat only honey on this day, and for this reason it is sometimes called Honey Saviour Day.

Vtoroj Spas (Second Saviour Day) falls on August 19 and is the Day of the Transfiguration. Traditionally on this day ripe apples are harvested and it is sometimes called Apple Saviour Day. In the tenth stanza of Pasternak’s poem (second line) he refers to Vtoroj Spas, which I have translated as “Second Christ.”

The third day in this cycle is the Day of the Dormition of the Mother of God, a major church holiday that falls on August 28 and marks the end of the Dormition Fast.

d

The poem “August” is one of twenty-five poems presented in the final chapter of the novel Dr. Zhivago, “The Poems of Yuri Zhivago,” so that, at least fictitiously, it was not written by Pasternak at all, but by his character Zhivago. Many of these poems have themes related to key Biblical events in the life of Christ.

Note how in his poem Pasternak makes mention of the colors featured most prominently in Russian icons of the Transfiguration: saffron, ochre, gold, azure, ginger-red.

According to a posting online—in the Russian-language website of the journal Foma (Thomas)—the Transfiguration holiday had special meaning for Pasternak. In the summer of 1903, on Transfiguration Day, the boy Pasternak fell from a horse and was seriously injured. Ten years later, in 1913, Pasternak recalled the fall.

He acknowledged that this experience—his feeling of helplessness and immobility—somehow inspired an awakening in his soul of “the creative impulse.” His miraculous recovery on precisely that day, the Day of Christ’s Transfiguration, he came to equate with his personal transfiguration, a new birth, and the impulse that awakened his creative talent.

In his dream (or Zhivago’s) in the poem “August” Pasternak visualized his own death, which was not to occur for another seven years. He died, however, not on Transfiguration Day, but on May 30, 1960, a not particularly important day in the church calendar. In the novel Dr. Zhivago we learn in Ch. 12 that Yury Zhivago died in 1929, at the end of August. Or was it on August 19?


                                               Transfiguration by Raphael, About 1520



Наталья Блаженная, Преобразилась 19-го Августа, 2020 года

Sunday, November 5, 2023

Translation of Zhivago Poem by Boris Pasternak, "Гамлет," HAMLET

                                                        Richard Burton as Hamlet, 1953


Boris Pasternak (Zhivago)
(1890-1960)

 


Гамлет

 

Гул затих. Я вышел на подмостки.
Прислонясь к дверному косяку,
Я ловлю в далеком отголоске,
Что случится на моем веку.

На меня наставлен сумрак ночи
Тысячью биноклей на оси.
Если только можно,
Aвва Oтче,
Чашу эту мимо пронеси.

Я люблю Твой замысел упрямый
И играть согласен эту роль.
Но сейчас идет другая драма,
И на этот раз меня уволь.

Но продуман распорядок действий,
И неотвратим конец пути.
Я один, все тонет в фарисействе.
Жизнь прожить — не поле перейти.

 

1946

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

Hamlet


The din has ebbed. I come out on the stage.
Leaning on doorjamb in self-abnegation, 
I sense in a far distant reverberation
All that will happen in my time and age.

On me are trained through a twilight macabre
Lorgnettes by the thousands—malign scrutiny.    
If only . . . I beg Thee, O Father Abba,
Please let this chalice pass from me.
 
I love Thy master plan persistent,
My role to play I acquiesce.
But different dramas loom, insistent,
Relieve me this time, let me rest.
 
But every act and its sequence is long since dictated,
And the end of the path ineluctably sealed.
I’m alone, while the Pharisees rage on unsated.
Living through a life is not like walking through a field.
 

 



Nonsense Verse by Bobby Goosey, "One Whamburgy to Go"

 


Bobby Lee Goosey
 
                                                             One Whamburgy to Go

Hamburgy, hamburgy, hamburgy, cheeseburgy,
Hamburgy, lamburgy, cheese;
Hamburgy, hamburgy, hamburgy, cheeseburgy
(A whamburgy, mamburgy, that’s to go, please).
 
Hamburgy, hamburgy, hamburgy, cheeseburgy,
Hamburgy, lemon-lime freeze;
Hamburgy, lamburgy, big fat ramburgy
(A whopper-huge whamburgy—mamburgy, please).
 
Hamburgy, hamburgy, hamburgy, cheeseburgy,
For a change yamburgy—but hold the cheese;
Hamburgy, hamburgy, greasy-fine hamburgy
 
(And don’t forget the whamburgy,
Whopper-huge whamburgy,
Don’t forget the whamburgy,
Mamburgy, please)!



Friday, November 3, 2023

DEFINITIONS: Two Poems by Boris Pasternak

                                                                         Kiev, Ukraine, 1992


                                                   Definitions: Two Poems by Boris Pasternak




Определение поэзии

 

Это — круто налившийся свист,
Это — щёлканье сдавленных льдинок.
Это — ночь, леденящая лист,
Это — двух соловьёв поединок.

 

Это — сладкий заглохший горох,
Это — слёзы вселенной в лопатках,
Это — с пультов и с флейт —
Figaro
Низвергается градом на грядку.

Всё, что ночи так важно сыскать
На глубоких купаленных доньях,
И звезду донести до садка
На трепещущих мокрых ладонях.

Площе досок в воде — духота.
Небосвод завалился ольхою,
Этим звёздам к лицу б хохотать,
Ан вселенная — место глухое.

 1917

d

Literal Translation by Anonymous

(on website ruverses.com)

Definition of Poetry

A perfectly ripened trill,
The cackling of crushed ice,
Night, frosting a leaf,
A duel between nightingales.

A sweet pea-vine grown wild,
God's tears upon a peapod,
Figaro from flutes and conductors' stands
Crashing down like hail on a flower bed.

The crucial discovery of night
In the depths of swimming holes,
And the star it must bring to the garden
On trembling wet palms.

The heat is flatter than planks on water.
Heaven is felled like an alder.
It would become these stars to laugh —
Too bad the world is a wilderness.

 

d

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

A Definition of Poetry

 

Poetry is:
A ripened steep climb of a shriek,
The crunch amidst crush of icefloes.
The night putting frosting on leaf,
A duel of two nightingale foes.

Poetry is:
Sweet peas hard of hearing and now in repose,
The tears of all ages heaped up on men’s shoulders,
Flutes, piccolos calling out fond “Figaros”
That splatter like hail on rose gardens and boulders.
 
All that’s so vital to find through delirium 
On the deepest all-bathed-out sea’s calms;
Bear a starfish back home to a private vivarium
In your tremulous-quaking moist palms.
 
Mugginess moist-planked in wet water splashing.
Alder sawed through, heaven’s firmament crashing. 
By rights all these stars should be busting guts laughing,
Fact is, though, the cosmos is deafs and dumbs clashing.

 

Определение души

Спелой грушею в бурю слететь
Об одном безраздельном листе.
Как он предан — расстался с суком —
Сумасброд —
 задохнется в сухом!

Спелой грушею, ветра косей.
Как он предан, —
 «Меня не затреплет!»
Оглянись: отгремела в красе,
Отплыла, осыпалась —
 в пепле.

Нашу родину буря сожгла.
Узнаешь ли гнездо свое, птенчик?
О мой лист, ты пугливей щегла!
Что ты бьешься, о шелк мой застенчивый?

О, не бойся, приросшая песнь!
И куда порываться еще нам?
Ах, наречье смертельное «здесь»
 
Невдомек содроганью сращенному.

1917

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

                                                         A Definition of Soul
                                                                        or
                               A Song about How A Leaf Was Stuck to a Ripe Pear 
                                               That Flew Off into a Storm
 
Just an overripe pear that flies into a squall, 
Bearing one dogged leaf stuck somehow-to-it.
How forthright the leaf; bade farewell to his bough,
Now the wacko is choking on boughlessness; I knew it!
 
Just an overripe pear, scythed aslant by the wind.
How forthright the leaf: “Can’t unglue me, jackasses!”
‘Fore you know it the pear’s looking ugly as sin,
Floats off into pithiness—ends up as ashes.
 
Our dear homeland, alas, burned down in the squall.
Can you find your nest now, little birdie?
O my leaf, you’re the scaredest of scaredy-cats all!
Silkily shyest one, how come you do so flurry?
 
Our adhering and sticking-on song, never fear!
Should we try our luck elsewhere with all this soul-searching?
Urghh, this so lethal and fateful adverbial “here”
Has not a faint clue where leaf-shudders adhere.
 

 


 

Wednesday, November 1, 2023

Translation of Poem by A.A. Fet, Афанасий Фет, "Непогода — осень — куришь," SPLEEN


Афанасий Фет

(1820 - 1892)

 

Непогода — осень — куришь,
Куришь — всё как будто мало.
Хоть читал бы, — только чтенье
Подвигается так вяло.

 

Серый день ползет лениво,
И болтают нестерпимо
На стене часы стенные
Языком неутомимо.

Сердце стынет понемногу,
И у жаркого камина
Лезет в голову больную
Всё такая чертовщина!

Над дымящимся стаканом
Остывающего чаю,
Слава богу, понемногу,
Будто вечер, засыпаю…

 

Но болезненно-тревожна
Принужденная дремота, --
Точно в комнате соседней
Учат азбуке кого-то.
 
Или--кто их знает?--где-то
В кабинете или в зале,
С писком, с визгом пляшут крысы
В худо запертом рояле.

1847 г.

 

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

Spleen

 

You’re smoking—autumn—nasty weather,
You smoke—and feel some gruesome dearth.
You read—the words won’t hang together,
A yawning dreariness, sans mirth.
 
The gray day crawls on lazily,
Relentless is the babble-tock
In time’s sole language—anomie:
Remorseless ticking of the clock.
 
You sit beside the hot fireplace
And entertain fey thoughts that sprawl; 
Through queasy mind run dreams apace,
The devil knows what folderol!
 
You watch a glass of tea, the steaming;
Tea cools while time moves at a creep;
Thank God this mood, no man beseeming,
Will pass with dusk; I’ll fall asleep.
 
But through forced drowsiness you sense
A morbid, sinister unease
That seeps from next-door chambre whence
Comes gibberish, like A-B-Cs.
 
Or what’s that sound? Some hammer/yammer
In drawing room or parlor murky.
Rats raise, could be, a squealing clamor
Inside a half-closed pianoforte.


 


 


Translation of Poem by A.A. Fet, Афанасий Фет, "Люди спят; мой друг, пойдем в тенистый сад," "They’re all asleep, my friend; let’s meet in the garden’s haze"

 


A.A. Fet

(1820-1892)

 

Люди спят; мой друг, пойдем в тенистый сад.
Люди спят; одни лишь звезды к
 нам глядят.
Да
 и те не видят нас среди ветвей
И
 не слышат — слышит только соловей…
Да
 и тот не слышит, — песнь его громка;
Разве слышат только сердце и
 рука:
Слышит сердце, сколько радостей земли,
Сколько счастия сюда мы
 принесли;
Да
 рука, услыша, сердцу говорит,
Что чужая в
 ней пылает и дрожит,
Что и
 ей от этой дрожи горячо,
Что к
 плечу невольно клонится плечо…

1853

 

 

d

Literal Translation

The people are sleeping; my friend, let’s go out into the shadowy garden.

The people are sleeping; only the stars are gazing at us.

And even they can’t see us amidst the branches

And can’t hear us—only the nightingale hears . . .

And even he cannot hear—for his song is loud;

In fact, only heart and hand can hear:

The heart hears how much joy [there is] on the earth,

How much happiness we have brought here;

And the hand, in listening, says to the heart

That some other hand is burning and trembling in it,

That because of that other [hand]’s tremble it feels hot,

And that one shoulder to another is unwittingly reclining . . .

 

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

They’re all asleep, my friend; let’s meet in the garden’s haze.

They’re all asleep, and only the stars upon us gaze.

And amidst all the foliage the stars cannot see,

Nor can they hear us, but high in his tree

The nightingale hears . . . no, his song is too loud . . .

Only the heart and the hand are endowed

With ears that can hear all the joys of this earth,

And the bliss you and I feel, the rapture and mirth.

The hand tells the heart that within her handclasp

Another hand smolders and quails in that grasp,

That tremble builds ardor that grows in her, burns,

As shoulder to shoulder inclines, softly yearns.

 



Translation of Poem by A.A. Fet, Афанасий Фет, "Растут, растут причудливые тени," "They grow larger and larger, the whimsical shades"

 


Афанасий Фет

(1820-1892)

 

Растут, растут причудливые тени,

В одну сливаясь тень…
Уж позлатил последние ступени
Перебежавший день.

Что звало жить, что силы горячило –
Далеко за горой.
Как призрак дня, ты, бледное светило,
Восходишь над землей.

И на тебя как на воспоминанье
Я обращаю взор…
Смолкает лес, бледней ручья сиянье,
Потухли выси гор;

Лишь ты одно скользишь стезей лазурной;
Недвижно всё окрест…
Да сыплет ночь своей бездонной урной
К нам мириады звезд.

1853

d


Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

They grow larger and larger, the whimsical shades

Till they blend into one formless shadow . . .

Last steps on the stairway play gilded charades

As day yields to gloaming, then evening’s deathblow.

 

What called me to live, my powers’ handmaiden

Has now evanesced, lost from sight. 

The ghost of the day with its pale fire laden

O’er the earth rises high, shines its light.

 

On Thee, orb of night, as if on a dream,

I gaze with an eye weary, jaded . . .

The woods silent lie, pallid glow on the stream,

The glimmer on hilltops has faded;

 

Thou alone waft along on your lazuline way,

While all else around lies quiescent . . .

And out of its bottomless urn doth purvey

The night endless starlight canescent.