By denying me the seas, the right to run and fly, By holding my foot firm on the constrained earth, What have you achieved? A splendid calculation, But you couldn’t seize my muttering lips thereby.
by Осип Эмильевич Мандельштам (Osip Emilyevich Mandelshtam) (His surname is commonly Latinised as Mandelstam) (May 1935) Voronezh translated by Bernard Meares
Лишив меня морей, разбега и разлета…
Лишив меня морей, разбега и разлета И дав стопе упор насильственной земли, Чего добились вы? Блестящего расчета: Губ шевелящихся отнять вы не могли.
When a man dies, His portraits change. His eyes gaze out differently, and his lips Smile with a different smile. I noticed that when I returned From the funeral of a certain poet. And since then I have tested it often And my suspicions have been confirmed.
by Анна Андреевна Ахматова (Anna Andreyevna Akhmatova) a.k.a. Анна Андреевна Горенко (Anna Andreyevna Gorenko) (1940) translated by Daniel Weissbort
Когда человек умирает…
Когда человек умирает, Изменяются его портреты. По-другому глаза глядят, и губы Улыбаются другой улыбкой. Я заметила это, вернувшись С похорон одного поэта. И с тех пор проверяла часто, И моя догадка подтвердилась.
The poem read by А. Демидова (A. Demidova).
Akhmatova, whose real surname was Gorenko, is on of the two greatest women poets in the history of Russian poetry. The daughter of a merchant marine engineer, she spent much of her childhood in Tsarkoye Selo, the village outside St Petersburg where the Tsar’s summer palace was located. The regal nature of her work is perhaps in part attributed to this royal environment. Her first books of poetry, Vecher (Evening) (1912) and Chotki (Rosary) (1913; reissued eleven times), brought her critical acclaim. From 1910 to 1918 she was married to Nikolai Gumilyov.
Akhmatova’s poetry, with a few exceptions, is distinguished from that of Russia’s other preeminent woman poet, Marina Tsvetayeva, by its polished form, classical transparency, and thematic intimacy. She wrote comparatively few poems of a “civic” character and, unlike almost any other poet, little or nothing that could be called mediocre. Her poetry, has stood well the test of time, as evidenced by such works as “Mne golos byl…” (I heard a voice…), which repudiates immigration; the patriotic “Muzhestvo” (Courage), which appeared during/World War II; the remarkable “Rekviem” (Requiem); and others.
It is revealing that, despite the personal tragedy of her son’s arrest and persecution during Stalin’s worst purges in 1937-1938, she did not grow bitter but bore her pain with dignity and endurance. In 1946 Akhmatova, along with Mikhail Zoshchenko, fell prey to harsh and unjust criticism in a party resolution “About the Journals Zvezda and Leningrad” in a repressive persecution of the arts led by Andrey Zhdanov. She was not rehabilitated fully until the 1960s. In 1964 she was awarded the Italian Taormina Prize and in 1965 she received an honorary doctorate from Oxford University. At the time of her death Akhmatova was highly acclaimed both at home and abroad. Her funeral was a farewell to an entire literary epoch (more than half a century) of which she herself was the queen with a very heavy crown.
Biographical information about Akhmatova, p.170, ‘Twentieth Century Russian Poetry’ (1993), compiled by Yevgeny Yevtushenko (ed. Albert C. Todd and Max Hayward) , published by Fourth Estate Limited by arrangement with Doubleday of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group Inc. (transcribed as found in the original text).
Snow is falling, snow is falling. Reaching for the storm’s white stars, Petals of geraniums stretch Beyond the window bars.
Snow is falling, all is chaos, Everything is in the air, The angle of the crossroads, The steps of the back stair.
Snow is falling, not like flakes But as if the firmament In a coat with many patches Were making its descent.
As if, from the upper landing, Looking like a lunatic, Creeping, playing hide-and-seek, The sky stole from the attic.
Because life does not wait, Turn, and you find Christmas here. And a moment after that It’s suddenly New Year.
Snow is falling, thickly, thickly, Keeping step, stride for stride, No less quickly, nonchalantly, Is that time, perhaps, Passing in the street outside?
And perhaps year follows year Like the snowflakes falling Or the words that follow here?
Snow is falling, snow is falling, Snow is falling, all is chaos: The whitened ones who pass, The angle of the crossroads, The dazed plants by the glass.
By Бори́с Леони́дович Пастерна́к (Boris Leonidovich Pasternak) (1957) from Когда разгуляется (When The Weather Clears) translated by Jon Stallworthy and Peter France
Pasternak’s poem read by the actor Александр Феклистов (Aleksandr Vasilyevich Feklistov).
Снег идет
Снег идет, снег идет. К белым звездочкам в буране Тянутся цветы герани За оконный переплет.
Снег идет, и всё в смятеньи, Всё пускается в полет, – Черной лестницы ступени, Перекрестка поворот.
Снег идет, снег идет, Словно падают не хлопья, А в заплатанном салопе Сходит наземь небосвод.
Словно с видом чудака, С верхней лестничной площадки, Крадучись, играя в прятки, Сходит небо с чердака.
Потому что жизнь не ждет. Не оглянешься — и святки. Только промежуток краткий, Смотришь, там и новый год.
Снег идет, густой-густой. В ногу с ним, стопами теми, В том же темпе, с ленью той Или с той же быстротой,
Может быть, проходит время? Может быть, за годом год Следуют, как снег идет, Или как слова в поэме?
Снег идет, снег идет, Снег идет, и всё в смятеньи: Убеленный пешеход, Удивленные растенья, Перекрестка поворот.
I have let my household disperse, My dear ones have long been apart, And a familiar loneliness Fills all of nature and all my heart.
Here I am with you in the lodge. No one walks through the woods these days. As in the old song, undergrowth Has almost hidden the forest ways.
Forlornly, the timber walls Look down on the two of us here. We did not promise to leap obstacles, We shall fall at last in the clear.
We shall sit down from one till three, You with embroidery, I deep In a book, and at dawn shall not see When we kiss each other to sleep.
More richly and more recklessly, Leaves, leaves, give tongue and whirl away, Fill yesterday’s cup of bitterness With the sadness of today.
Impulse, enchantment, beauty! Let’s dissolve in September wind And enter the rustle of autumn! Be still, or go out of your mind!
As the coppice lets slip its leaves, You let your dress slip rustling down And throw yourself into my arms In your silk-tasselled dressing gown.
You are my joy on the brink Of disaster, when life becomes A plague, and beauty is daring, And draws us into each other’s arms.
By Бори́с Леони́дович Пастерна́к (Boris Leonidovich Pasternak) (c.1947 or 1949) from Доктор Живаго (Doctor Zhivago – where it is presented as the work of the titular character) translated by Jon Stallworthy and Peter France
Осень
Я дал разъехаться домашним, Все близкие давно в разброде, И одиночеством всегдашним Полно всё в сердце и природе.
И вот я здесь с тобой в сторожке. В лесу безлюдно и пустынно. Как в песне, стежки и дорожки Позаросли наполовину.
Теперь на нас одних с печалью Глядят бревенчатые стены. Мы брать преград не обещали, Мы будем гибнуть откровенно.
Мы сядем в час и встанем в третьем, Я с книгою, ты с вышиваньем, И на рассвете не заметим, Как целоваться перестанем.
Еще пышней и бесшабашней Шумите, осыпайтесь, листья, И чашу горечи вчерашней Сегодняшней тоской превысьте.
Привязанность, влеченье, прелесть! Рассеемся в сентябрьском шуме! Заройся вся в осенний шелест! Замри или ополоумей!
Ты так же сбрасываешь платье, Как роща сбрасывает листья, Когда ты падаешь в объятье В халате с шелковою кистью.
Ты — благо гибельного шага, Когда житье тошней недуга, А корень красоты — отвага, И это тянет нас друг к другу.
Filled with the final weariness Seized with the exhaustion before dying His big hands limply spread A soldier lies. He could lie differently – Could lie beside his wife, in his own bed, Not tearing at the mosses drenched with blood. But could he? Could he? No, he could not. The Ministry sent him his call-up notice, Officers were with him, marched beside him. The court-martial’s typewriters clattered in the rear. But even without them, could he? Hardly. Without a call-up, he’d have gone himself. And not from fear: from conscience, and for honor. Weltering in his blood, the soldier lying Has no complaint, and no thought of complaining.
by Борис Абрамович Слуцкий (Boris Abramovich Slutsky) translated by J. R. Rowland
Последнею усталостью устав
Последнею усталостью устав, Предсмертным умиранием охвачен, Большие руки вяло распластав, Лежит солдат. Он мог лежать иначе, Он мог лежать с женой в своей постели, Он мог не рвать намокший кровью мох, Он мог… Да мог ли? Будто? Неужели? Нет, он не мог. Ему военкомат повестки слал. С ним рядом офицеры шли, шагали. В тылу стучал машинкой трибунал. А если б не стучал, он мог? Едва ли. Он без повесток, он бы сам пошел. И не за страх — за совесть и за почесть. Лежит солдат — в крови лежит, в большой, А жаловаться ни на что не хочет.
Slutsky’s father was a white-collar worker and his mother a teacher. He went to school in Kharkov and from 1937 he studied in Moscow, first in law school and then at the Gorky Literary Institute. During World War II he made friends with many of the poets who were to die in the war and was himself severely wounded. Though he published some poetry in 1941, he did not publish again until after Stalin’s death in 1953. Ilya Ehrenburg wrote an article in 1956 adovicating that a collection of Slutsky’s work be published. He created a sensation by quoting many unknown poems. Discussings Slutsky’s poetry, Mikhail Svetlov said, “Of one thing I am sure – here is a poet who writes better than we all do.”
Slutsky’s first collection, Pamiat’ (Memory) (1957), immediately established his reputation as a poet. His most celebrated poems are “Kelnskaia iama” (The Pit of Cologne) and “Loshadi v okeane” (Horses in the Sea). His poems “Bog” (God) and “Khozain” (The Boss) sharply criticized Stalin even before the Twentieth Party Congress in 1956.
Slutsky’s poetry is deliberately coarse, prosaic, and always distinctive. He evoked many imitators and much ridicule, but he also taught many of the postwar generation of poets. During the scandalous attacks on Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago in 1959, Slutsky unexpectedly came out against Pasternak. It was a crucial error. Many of his admirers turned their backs on him, but, more important, he never forgave himself. When he died, he left so much poetry unpublished that almost every month for several years new poems appeared in magazines and newspapers.
Biographical information about Slutsky, p.689, ‘Twentieth Century Russian Poetry’ (1993), compiled by Yevgeny Yevtushenko (ed. Albert C. Todd and Max Hayward) , published by Fourth Estate Limited by arrangement with Doubleday of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group Inc. (transcribed as found in the original text).
Rambling At The Bridge Head 
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