What Have We Done To It? by Zinaida Gippius

Our grandad’s outlandish dream,

the prison years of our heroes,

our hope and our heartfelt lament,

our prayer we hardly dared utter –

our dis-membered

dis-constituted,

dis-banded

Constituent Assembly.

 

by Зинаида Николаевна Гиппиус (Zinaida Nikolayevna Gippius)

(12 November 1917)

translated by Robert Chandler

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Farewell, Dear Friend, Farewell by Sergey Yesenin

Farewell, dear friend, farewell –

you’re present in my heart.

We’ll meet again, the stars foretell,

though now we have to part.

 

Goodbye for now, goodbye, dear friend –

no handshake, words or grief.

To die is nothing new – but then,

what new is there in life?

 

by Сергей Александрович Есенин (Sergei Alexandrovich Yesenin)

a.k.a. Sergey Yesenin / Esenin

(1925)

translated by Robert Chandler and Anthony Rudolf

Not so fun facts about the poem’s composition: On 28 of December in 1925 Yesenin was found dead in the room in the Hotel Angleterre in St Petersburg. His last poem Goodbye my friend, goodbye (До свиданья, друг мой, до свиданья) according to Wolf Ehrlich was written by him the day before he died. Yesenin complained that there was no ink in the room, and he was forced to write with his blood. According to the consensus among academic researchers of Yesenin’s life, the poet was in a state of depression a week after he escaped from a mental clinic and committed suicide by hanging. A theory exists that Yesenin’s death was actually a murder by OGPU agents who staged it to look like suicide.


Original Russian version:

До свиданья, друг мой, до свиданья

До свиданья, друг мой, до свиданья.
Милый мой, ты у меня в груди.
Предназначенное расставанье
Обещает встречу впереди.
До свиданья, друг мой, без руки, без слова,
Не грусти и не печаль бровей,-
В этой жизни умирать не ново,
Но и жить, конечно, не новей.

Plainsong by Vladislav Khodasevich

Choke all week in the fumes and air stinking

of fear, for the bare means of life;

spend the Saturday dozing and drinking,

with your arm round an unlovely wife.

 

Then on Sunday by train for an outing,

with a rug to spread out on the grass,

just to doze off again, never doubting,

that for pleasure this stands unsurpassed.

 

And then wake up and put on your jacket,

drag the rug and wife back to the flat,

and not once curse the rug and attack it

with your fists. The world, too. Look, like that!

 

With the same kind of modest expression

do the bubbles in soda ascend,

in a meek and well-ordered procession,

up and up, one by one, to their end.

 

by Владислав Фелицианович Ходасевич (Vladislav Felitsianovich Khodasevich)

(1926)

translated by Michael Frayn

No More Europe, No More America by Georgy Ivanov

No more Europe, no more America.

The end of Tsarskoye, of Moscow, too.

A fit of nuclear hysteria –

life atomized into a radiant blue.

 

Transparent, all-forgiving haze will stretch

over the seas. And he who could have done

something yet chose not to, will be left

in the expanse of pre-eternity, alone.

 

by Георгий Владимирович Иванов (Georgii Vladimirovich Ivanov)

(1953)

by Robert Chandler

Памятник (The Monument) by Vladislav Khodasevich

I am an end and a beginning.

So little spun from all my spinning!

I’ve been a firm link nonetheless;

with that good fortune I’ve been blessed.

 

New Russia enters on her greatness;

they’ll carve my head two-faced, like Janus,

at crossroads, looking down both ways,

where wind and sand, and many days…

 

by Владислав Фелицианович Ходасевич (Vladislav Felitsianovich Khodasevich)

translated by Michael Frayn

Before A Map Of Russia by Teffi

In a strange house, in a far away land,

her portrait hangs on the wall;

she herself is dying like a beggar woman,

lying on straw, in pain that can’t be told.

 

But here she looks as she always did look –

she is young, rich and draped

in the luxurious green cloak

in which she was always portrayed.

 

I gaze at your counternance as if at an icon…

‘Blessed be your name slaughtered Rus!’

I quietly touch your cloak with one hand;

and with that same hand make the sign of the cross.

 

by Тэффи (Teffi) (1872 – 1952)

a.k.a. Надежда Александровна Лoхвицкая (Nadezhda Alexandrovna Lokhvitskaya)

translated by Robert Chandler

‘Behind The Lake…’ by Anna Akhmatova

Behind the lake the moon’s not stirred

And seems to be a window through

Into a silent, well-lit house,

Where something unpleasant has occurred.

 

Has the master been brought home dead,

The mistress run off with a lover,

Or has a little girl gone missing,

And her shoes found by the creek-bed…

 

We can’t see. But feel some awful thing,

And  we don’t want to talk.

Doleful, the cry of eagle-owls, and hot

In the garden the wind is blustering.

 

– by Анна Ахматова (Anna Akhmatova) (1922)

– from Anno Domini MCMXXI translation by D. M. Thomas