I love a despairing peace:
chrysanthemum blossoms in fall,
lights adrift in a river of mist,
a sunset that has turned pale,
nameless graves, all the clichés
of a Symbolist ‘wordless romance’ –
what Annensky loved with such greed
and Gumilyov couldn’t stand.
by Георгий Владимирович Иванов (Georgii Vladimirovich Ivanov)
(1954)
translated by Robert Chandler
Say a few more words to me,
don’t sleep before the dawn.
I need you to feel close to me.
My journey’s almost done.
May the last poem I have made
take on new life through your sweet lisp,
your quiet wrestle with sounds
you cannot get your tongue round.
by Георгий Владимирович Иванов (Georgii Vladimirovich Ivanov)
(1958)
translated by Robert Chandler
Fun fact: Ivanov’s wife Odoevtseva, who this poem addresses, had a mild speech defect so couldn’t roll her ‘r’s. Ivanov died on 26 August 1958 hence the poems tone and themes.
Irina Vladimirovna Odoyevtseva (Ирина Владимировна Одоевцева) real name Iraida Heinike was a Russian poet, novelist and memoirist, and the wife of the poet Georgy Ivanov in her own right.
Led by what is shining,
the sleepwalker looks into a blank,
black is the death beneath him
and there’s no knowing
where the moon’s thin ledge
will slide him.
The innocent are executed
in a universal night –
look the other way.
Look into cold nothing
and let its moonshine take you
beyond all understanding.
by Георгий Владимирович Иванов (Georgii Vladimirovich Ivanov)
(1948)
translated by Robert Chandler
Where can I look, where can I go,
to find that almost Alpine snow,
all sacrificed so life can grow,
all turned by May to splash and flow,
to breath of dandelion and rose,
to mighty wave or shining billow –
into that foolish question posed
by François Villon long ago?
by Георгий Владимирович Иванов (Georgii Vladimirovich Ivanov)
(1951)
translated by Robert Chandler
Fun fact: François Villon was born in Paris in 1431, disappeared from view in 1463 and is the best known French poet of the late Middle Ages. A ne’er-do-well who was involved in criminal behavior, had multiple encounters with law enforcement authorities and so wrote about some of these experiences in his poems.
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
Rambling At The Bridge Head 
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