Here is the soldier home from the War, sailing into Cardiff. He’s startled after Palestine by the colours on the ridge, dead bracken, glossy, like wet army cottons, purple coppice he can’t identify, the mossy green of fir trees that weren’t there when he volunteered.
The cold cuts through the suit bought from the tallest of the Lascars, the cuffs, inches short of his wrists, expose his skin, now as dark as theirs, but collier-white before he went. He looks like them, but Christ, he’d hardly kept up. Only pennies rub in his pocket – the captain had skint him, the Scotch bastard.
Posted missing back at Easter, he’d not written, couldn’t risk the censor checking on his letter. He’ll stay on board till it’s dark, jump the wall, thread the back streets north, then – the freedom of the frozen tracks – up and over the top, past the hill farms’ yowling sentries, down to the town where ghosts parade.
Beneath a shaggy fir tree, Above a noisy stream The devil’s swing is swinging Pushed by his hairy hand.
He swings the swing while laughing, Swing high, swing low, Swing high, swing low, The board is bent and creaking, Against a heavy branch.
The swaying board is rushing With long and drawn-out creaks; With hand on hip, the devil Is laughing with a wheeze.
I clutch, I swoon, I’m swinging, Swing high, swing low, Swing high, swing low, I’m clinging and I’m dangling, And from the devil trying To turn my languid gaze.
Above the dusky fir tree The azure sky guffaws: “You’re caught upon the swings, love, The devil take you, swing!”
Beneath the shaggy fir tree The screeching throng whirls around: “You’re caught upon the swings, love, The devil take you, swing!”
The devil will not slacken The swift board’s pace, I know, Until his hand unseats me With a ferocious blow.
Until the jute, while twisting, Is frayed through till it breaks, Until my ground beneath me Turns upward to my face.
I’ll fly above the fir tree And fall flat on the ground. So swing the swing, you devil, Go higher, higher… oh!
.
by Фёдор Сологуб (Fyodor Sologub) a.k.a. Фёдор Кузьмич Тетерников (Fyodor Kuzmich Teternikov) (14 July 1907) Translated by April FitzLyon
The poem recited by Ekatrina Sorokova
Beneath is the original Russian version of the poem in Cyrillic.
Чертовы качели
В тени косматой ели, Над шумною рекой Качает черт качели Мохнатою рукой.
Качает и смеется, Вперед, назад, Вперед, назад, Доска скрипит и гнется, О сук тяжелый трется Натянутый канат.
Снует с протяжным скрипом Шатучая доска, И черт хохочет с хрипом, Хватаясь за бока.
Держусь, томлюсь, качаюсь, Вперед, назад, Вперед, назад, Хватаюсь и мотаюсь, И отвести стараюсь От черта томный взгляд.
Над верхом темной ели Хохочет голубой: – Попался на качели, Качайся, черт с тобой!-
В тени косматой ели Визжат, кружась гурьбой: – Попался на качели, Качайся, черт с тобой!-
Я знаю, черт не бросит Стремительной доски, Пока меня не скосит Грозящий взмах руки,
Пока не перетрется, Крутяся, конопля, Пока не подвернется Ко мне моя земля.
Взлечу я выше ели, И лбом о землю трах! Качай же, черт, качели, Все выше, выше… ах!
Rambling At The Bridge Head 