Clear Voices

꜆Clear Voices
A Personal Selection of Twenty-five Poems?translated from the Russian
A.S. Kline
? 2002 All Rights Reserved
Contents?Translator's Note.?Aleksándr Sumarókov (1718-1777)?Gavriíl Derzhávin (1743-1816)?Vasíly Zhukóvsky (1783-1852)?Konstantín Bátyushkov (1787-1855)?Aleksándr Púshkin (1799-1837)?F?dor Tyútchev (1803-1873)?Mikhaíl Lérmontov (1814-1841)?Count Alekséy Tolstoy (1817-1875)?Innokénty ánnensky (1856-1909)?Konstantín Bál′mont (1867-1943)?Aleksándr Blok (1880-1921)?Marína Tsvetáeva (1892-1941)?Anna Akhmátova (1889-1966)?Osip Mandel′shtám (1891-1938)
Translator's Note?I was conscious, in producing this little personal selection of Russian poetry, of the way in which all the poets come to take on the voice of the translator, and their special individuality is lost. It is a problem translation always has. I would encourage the reader to sample as many different translators' versions of these poets as possible, to try and realise the individual flavour of each poet for her or himself. If there is any theme in this selection, it is I suppose the nature of the Russian spirit, its clarity, and uncompromising passion, and its triumphant survival, often against the odds.
Aleksándr Sumarókov (1718-1777)
In vain I hide my heart's fierce pain,?In vain pretend to inner calm.?I can't be calm a single hour,?I can't no matter how I try.?My heart by sighs, my eyes by tears,?reveal the secret misery.?You make all my efforts vain,?you, who stole my liberty!?Bringing a savage fate to me,?you troubled my spirit's peace,?you changed my freedom to a jail,?you turned my delight to sorrow.?And secretly, to my bitterest hurt,?perhaps you sigh for some other woman,?perhaps devoured by a useless passion,?as I for you, you suffer too for her.?I long to see you: when I do I'm mad,?anxious, lest my eyes give me away:?I'm troubled in your presence, in your absence?I'm sad that you can't know how I love.?Shame tries to drive desire from my heart?while love in turn tries to drive out shame.?And in this fierce conflict thought is clouded,?the heart is torn, it suffers, and it burns.?So I fling myself from torment to torment.?I want to show my heart, ashamed to do it,?I don't know what I want, oh, that's true,?what I do know is I'm filled with sorrow.?I know my mind's held prisoner by you,?wherever I am it conjures your dear image:?I know, consumed by the cruellest passion,?there's no way to forget you on this earth.
Gavriíl Derzhávin (1743-1816)?Nightingale in Dream
I was sleeping on a high hill,?nightingale, I heard you calling,?my soul itself could hear it,?in the very depths of sleep:?now sounding, now re-sounding,?now sorrowing, now laughing,?floating, from the distance, to my ear:?while I lay there with Callisto,?songs, sighs, cries, and trilling,?thrilled me in the very depths of sleep.?If, after death, I lie there?in a sleep that's dull, unending,?and, ah, these songs no longer?travel to my ear:?if I cannot hear the sound then?of that happiness or laughter,?of dancing, or of glory, or of joy -?then it's life on earth I'll cling to,?kiss my darling one, and kiss her,?as I listen to the distant nightingale.
Vasíly Zhukóvsky (1783-1852)?19th March 1823
You stood there?in silence,?your sad gaze?full of feeling.?It brought to mind?the past I loved…?your last gaze?on earth for me.?You vanished,?silent angel:?your grave,?celestial peace!?All earth's memories?are there,?all the thoughts?of heaven, sacred.?Heavenly stars,?silent night! …
Konstantín Bátyushkov (1787-1855)
My Spirit
O memory of the heart! You are stronger?than the sad memories of reason.?And often from a far-off country,?you bewitch me with your sweetness.?I remember the loved voice sounding.?I remember the eyes of azure.?I remember the careless?curling strands of golden hair.?My shepherdess, without a rival,?I remember her simplicity of dress,?the unforgotten, the dear image?that stays beside me everywhere.?My guardian spirit - granted me by love?to bring me solace in separation:?do I sleep? Bending over my pillow,?it will ease my saddened rest.
Aleksándr Púshkin (1799-1837)
Prologue to 'Ruslan and Lyudmilla'
There's a green oak by the bay,?on the oak a chain of gold:?a learned cat, night and day,?walks round on that chain of old:?to the right - it spins a song,?to the left - a tale of wrong.?Marvels there: the wood-sprite rides,?in the leaves a mermaid hides:?on deep paths of mystery?unknown creatures leave their spore:?huts on hen's legs you can see,?with no window and no door.?Wood and valley vision-brimming:?there at dawn the waves come washing?over sands and silent shore,?and thirty noble knights appear?one by one, from waters clear,?attended there by their tutor:?a king's son passing by?takes a fierce king prisoner:?a wizard carries through the sky?a knight, past all the people there,?over forests, seas they fly:?a princess in a prison pines,?whom a brown wolf serves with pride:?A mortar, Baba Yaga inside,?takes that old witch for a ride.?King Kaschey grows ill with gold.?It's Russia! - Russian scents unfold!?And I was there and I drank mead,?I saw the green oak by the sea,?I sat there while the learned cat?told its stories - here's one that?I remember, and I'll unfurl,?a story now for all the world…
It's Time?It's time, my friend: it's time! The heart wants rest -?the days slip by, the hours take away?fragments of our life: and you and I?plan how to live and, -