‘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

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‘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.

I’m Nothing To You, I Mean Zero by Maria Petrovykh

I’m nothing to you, I mean zero.

I know, there’s nothing more to say.

And yet I love you still more dearly,

ecstatically and without mercy,

and like a drunk, I stumble, reel,

and loiter in a lightless alley,

insisting that I love you still –

no mercy, and ecstatically.

 

by Мария Сергеевна Петровых (Maria Sergeyevna Petrovykh)

(1959)

translated by Boris Dralyuk

9 March 1823 by Vasily Zhukovsky

You stood before me

so still and quiet.

Your gaze was languid

and full of feeling.

It summoned memories

of days so lovely…

It was the last

such day you gave me.

Now you have vanished,

a quiet angel;

your grave is peaceful,

as calm as Eden!

There rest all earthly

recollections,

There rest all holy

Thoughts of heaven.

 

Heavenly stars,

quiet night!

 

by Василий Андреевич Жуковский (Vasily Andreyevich Zhukovsky)

(1823)

translated by Boris Dralyuk


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