Шепот, робкое дыханье (Whispers) by Afanasy Fet

Whispers, timid breathing,

trills of a nightingale,

the silver and the shiver

of a sleepy rill.

 

Pale light and nighttime shadows,

shadows without end,

all the magic transformations

of eyes and lips and brows.

 

In smoky clouds, a rose’s purple,

the shine of amber beads,

and the kisses, and the tears,

and the dawn, the dawn!

 

by Афанасий Афанасьевич Фет (Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet)

a.k.a. Шеншин (Shenshin)

(1850)

translated by Boris Dralyuk

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Poor Poet, Was That Really You’ by Sergey Yesenin

Poor poet, was that really you,

addressing the moon in rhyme?

My eyes were dulled so long ago

by love, by cards and wine.

 

The moon climbs through the window frame.

White light, so white it blinds you…

I bet on the Queen of Spades,

but I played the Ace of Diamonds.

 

by Сергей Александрович Есенин (Sergei Alexandrovich Yesenin)

a.k.a. Sergey Yesenin / Esenin

(1925)

translated by Boris Dralyuk

‘I Still Find Charm In Little Accidental Trifles…’ by Georgy Ivanov

I still find charm in little accidental

trifles, empty little things –

say, in a novel without end or title,

or in this rose, now wilting in my hands.

 

I like its moiré petals, dappled

with trembling silver drops of rain –

and how I found it on the sidewalk,

and how I’ll toss it in a garbage can.

 

by Георгий Владимирович Иванов (Georgii Vladimirovich Ivanov)

(1956)

translated by Boris Dralyuk

‘The Smokey Blotches Of The Neighbours’ Windows…’ by Georgy Ivanov

The smokey blotches of the neighbours’ windows,

and windswept roses bending, drawing breath –

if I could think that life is but a dream,

that we cannot help waking after death.

 

To wait in heaven – heaven is so blue –

to wait in that cool bliss without a care.

And then, never to part with you.

With you for ever. Do you see? For ever…

 

by Георгий Владимирович Иванов (Georgii Vladimirovich Ivanov)

(1958)

translated by Boris Dralyuk

Death is a No [extract] by Marina Tsvetaeva

Death is:

an unfinished house,

an unbrought-up son,

an unbound-up sheaf,

an unbreathed-out sigh,

an uncried-out cry.

 

by Марина Ивановна Цветаева (Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva)

(1920)

translated by Boris Dralyuk

Blood and Bone by Anna Prismanova

i.

My nature has two corner stones,

and mother, singing hushabye,

rocked not a single child, but twins:

bone of sobriety and blood of fire.

 

This blood, this bone – of equal zeal

and locked in battle from the start –

have sealed my fate with a sad seal,

forever splitting me apart.

 

ii.

Music, is it you I hear

above me in the early hours?

You place a cross upon my roof

and build a temple from my house.

 

All-mighty music, you unite

this blood, this bone within yourself.

I can’t be sure you’ll help my life,

but you are sure to help my death.

 

by Анна Семёновна Присманова (Anna Semyonovna Prismanova)

a.k.a. Анна Симоновна Присман (Anna Simonovna Prisman)

(1946)

translated by Boris Dralyuk


 

Fun fact: She is considered comparable to her contemporary, the American poet, Louise Bogan.

Still He Lay Without Moving, As If, After Some Difficult… by Vasily Zhukovsky

Still he lay without moving, as if, after some difficult

task, he had folded his arms. Head quietly bowed, I stood

still for a long time, looking attentively into the dead man’s

eyes. These eyes were closed. Nevertheless, I could

see on that face I knew so well a look I had never

glimpsed there before. It was not inspiration’s flame,

nor did it seem like the blade of his wit. No, what I could

see there,

wrapped round his face, was thought, some deep, high

thought.

Vision, some vision, I thought must have come to home. And I

wanted to ask, ‘What is it? What do you see?’

 

by Василий Андреевич Жуковский (Vasily Andreyevich Zhukovsky)

(1837)

translated by Robert Chandler


 

Fun fact: Ivan Bunin, the Nobel Prize winning Russian emigre author, is related to him.