In the cold season, in a locality accustomed to heat more than to cold, to horizontality more than to a mountain, a child was born in a cave in order to save the world; it blew as only in deserts in winter it blows, athwart.
To Him, all things seemed enormous: His mother’s breast, the steam out of the ox’s nostrils, Caspar, Balthazar, Melchior – the team of Magi, their presents heaped by the door, ajar. He was but a dot, and a dot was the star.
Keenly, without blinking, through pallid, stray clouds, upon the child in the manger, from far away – from the depth of the universe, from its opposite end – the star was looking into the cave. And that was the Father’s stare.
By Иосиф Александрович Бродский (Joseph Iosif Aleksandrovich Brodsky a.k.a. Iosif Aleksandrovich Brodsky) (December 1987) translated by the author, Brodsky, himself
Brodsky reciting his poem
Рождественская звезда
В холодную пору, в местности, привычной скорей к жаре, чем к холоду, к плоской поверхности более, чем к горе, младенец родился в пещере, чтоб мир спасти: мело, как только в пустыне может зимой мести.
Ему все казалось огромным: грудь матери, желтый пар из воловьих ноздрей, волхвы — Балтазар, Гаспар, Мельхиор; их подарки, втащенные сюда. Он был всего лишь точкой. И точкой была звезда.
Внимательно, не мигая, сквозь редкие облака, на лежащего в яслях ребенка издалека, из глубины Вселенной, с другого ее конца, звезда смотрела в пещеру. И это был взгляд Отца.
Snow is falling, snow is falling. Reaching for the storm’s white stars, Petals of geraniums stretch Beyond the window bars.
Snow is falling, all is chaos, Everything is in the air, The angle of the crossroads, The steps of the back stair.
Snow is falling, not like flakes But as if the firmament In a coat with many patches Were making its descent.
As if, from the upper landing, Looking like a lunatic, Creeping, playing hide-and-seek, The sky stole from the attic.
Because life does not wait, Turn, and you find Christmas here. And a moment after that It’s suddenly New Year.
Snow is falling, thickly, thickly, Keeping step, stride for stride, No less quickly, nonchalantly, Is that time, perhaps, Passing in the street outside?
And perhaps year follows year Like the snowflakes falling Or the words that follow here?
Snow is falling, snow is falling, Snow is falling, all is chaos: The whitened ones who pass, The angle of the crossroads, The dazed plants by the glass.
By Бори́с Леони́дович Пастерна́к (Boris Leonidovich Pasternak) (1957) from Когда разгуляется (When The Weather Clears) translated by Jon Stallworthy and Peter France
Pasternak’s poem read by the actor Александр Феклистов (Aleksandr Vasilyevich Feklistov).
Снег идет
Снег идет, снег идет. К белым звездочкам в буране Тянутся цветы герани За оконный переплет.
Снег идет, и всё в смятеньи, Всё пускается в полет, – Черной лестницы ступени, Перекрестка поворот.
Снег идет, снег идет, Словно падают не хлопья, А в заплатанном салопе Сходит наземь небосвод.
Словно с видом чудака, С верхней лестничной площадки, Крадучись, играя в прятки, Сходит небо с чердака.
Потому что жизнь не ждет. Не оглянешься — и святки. Только промежуток краткий, Смотришь, там и новый год.
Снег идет, густой-густой. В ногу с ним, стопами теми, В том же темпе, с ленью той Или с той же быстротой,
Может быть, проходит время? Может быть, за годом год Следуют, как снег идет, Или как слова в поэме?
Снег идет, снег идет, Снег идет, и всё в смятеньи: Убеленный пешеход, Удивленные растенья, Перекрестка поворот.
I have let my household disperse, My dear ones have long been apart, And a familiar loneliness Fills all of nature and all my heart.
Here I am with you in the lodge. No one walks through the woods these days. As in the old song, undergrowth Has almost hidden the forest ways.
Forlornly, the timber walls Look down on the two of us here. We did not promise to leap obstacles, We shall fall at last in the clear.
We shall sit down from one till three, You with embroidery, I deep In a book, and at dawn shall not see When we kiss each other to sleep.
More richly and more recklessly, Leaves, leaves, give tongue and whirl away, Fill yesterday’s cup of bitterness With the sadness of today.
Impulse, enchantment, beauty! Let’s dissolve in September wind And enter the rustle of autumn! Be still, or go out of your mind!
As the coppice lets slip its leaves, You let your dress slip rustling down And throw yourself into my arms In your silk-tasselled dressing gown.
You are my joy on the brink Of disaster, when life becomes A plague, and beauty is daring, And draws us into each other’s arms.
By Бори́с Леони́дович Пастерна́к (Boris Leonidovich Pasternak) (c.1947 or 1949) from Доктор Живаго (Doctor Zhivago – where it is presented as the work of the titular character) translated by Jon Stallworthy and Peter France
Осень
Я дал разъехаться домашним, Все близкие давно в разброде, И одиночеством всегдашним Полно всё в сердце и природе.
И вот я здесь с тобой в сторожке. В лесу безлюдно и пустынно. Как в песне, стежки и дорожки Позаросли наполовину.
Теперь на нас одних с печалью Глядят бревенчатые стены. Мы брать преград не обещали, Мы будем гибнуть откровенно.
Мы сядем в час и встанем в третьем, Я с книгою, ты с вышиваньем, И на рассвете не заметим, Как целоваться перестанем.
Еще пышней и бесшабашней Шумите, осыпайтесь, листья, И чашу горечи вчерашней Сегодняшней тоской превысьте.
Привязанность, влеченье, прелесть! Рассеемся в сентябрьском шуме! Заройся вся в осенний шелест! Замри или ополоумей!
Ты так же сбрасываешь платье, Как роща сбрасывает листья, Когда ты падаешь в объятье В халате с шелковою кистью.
Ты — благо гибельного шага, Когда житье тошней недуга, А корень красоты — отвага, И это тянет нас друг к другу.
We are huddled in a crowd before Kolpino. Under the fire of our own artillery.
It’s probably because our reconnaissance Gave the wrong bearings.
Falling short, overshooting, falling short again… Our own artillery is shooting us.
It wasn’t for nothing we took an oath, Blew up the bridges behind us.
No one will escape from these trenches. Our own artillery is shooting at us.
We’re lying in a heap before Kolpino. We’re trembling, saturated with smoke. They should be shooting at the enemy, But instead they’re shooting at their own.
The commanders want to console us. They say the motherland loves us. The artillery is thrashing its own They’re not making an omelette, but they’re breaking eggs.
by Александр Петрович Межиров (Alexandr Petrovich Mezhirov) translated by Deming Brown
Мы под Колпиным скопом стоим…
Мы под Колпином скопом стоим, Артиллерия бьет по своим. Это наша разведка, наверно, Ориентир указала неверно.
Недолет. Перелет. Недолет. По своим артиллерия бьет.
Мы недаром присягу давали. За собою мосты подрывали,- Из окопов никто не уйдет. Недолет. Перелет. Недолет.
Мы под Колпиным скопом лежим И дрожим, прокопченные дымом. Надо все-таки бить по чужим, А она — по своим, по родимым.
Нас комбаты утешить хотят, Нас, десантников, армия любит… По своим артиллерия лупит,- Лес не рубят, а щепки летят.
Recited by the Soviet and Russian actor Вениамин Борисович Смехов (Venyamin Borisovich Smekhov).
Born in Moscow, he was the son of an educated Jewish couple — his father a lawyer, his mother a German-language teacher, and one of his grandfathers was a rabbi. Drafted as a private in July 1941, he fought in World War II before a serious injury led to his demobilization in 1943 as a second lieutenant. That same year, he joined the Communist Party; after the war he attended the Maxim Gorky Literary Institute, graduating in 1948. He translated poetry from Georgian and Lithuanian poets.
Mezhirov was a prominent figure in the Soviet literary establishment, although his allegiances and associations were varied. At some points he was close to fellow Jewish-RussianBoris Yampolsky, Kazakh writer Olzhas Suleimenov, and Russian cultural ultranationalist and critic Vadim Kozhinov. Mezhirov associated with younger writers Yevgeny Yevtushenko, Tatyana Glushkova (known for her nationalist views in the mid-1980s, according to Shrayer) and Evgeny Reyn, who was censored in the Soviet Union until the mid-1980s.
Although Mezhirov had publicly stated that his patriotism for Russia was so intense that, unlike other Russian Jews, he could not emigrate, he suddenly left Russia for the United States in 1992, settling first in New York, then in Portland, Oregon. As of 2007, according to anthologist Maxim D. Shrayer, he had not revisited Russia. In March2009Mezhirov published a collection of new poems, two months before his death. According to the ITAR/TASS news service, his body was to be cremated in the United States, with the ashes to be buried in Peredelkino near Moscow.
Mezhirov was among what has been called a “middle generation” of Soviet poets that ignored themes of communist “world revolution” and instead focused on Soviet and Russian patriotism. Many of them specialized in patriotic lyrics, particularly its military aspects. According to G. S. Smith, Mezhirov and a number of other “middle generation” poets “were genuine poets whose testimony, however well-laundered, to the tribulations of their times will endure at least as long as their generation.” Some of Mezhirov‘s lyrical poems based on his wartime experience belong with the best Russian poetical works created in the Soviet 1950s-1960s.
Order of the Patriotic War, 2nd art. (Jubilee card index: No. 71 of 6.4.1985 TsAMO: No entry 1516619411).
Laureate of the USSR State Prize (1986) (For the book “Prose in Verse“)
Laureate of the State Prize of the Georgian SSR (1987)
Laureate of the Vazha-PshavelaPrize of the Independent Joint Venture of Georgia (1999).
In 1994, the President of the United States of America Bill Clinton, at the White House presented him with an award for being “Imbued with the spirit of partnership and mutual assistance, a grateful Nation will never forget your incomparable personal contribution and sacrifice shown in World War II”.
Regarding the reference to Kolpino: With the onset of the Great Patriotic War, Kolpino factory workers formed the Izhora Battalion, part of the militia around 24 August – 4 September, 1941. The front line was held in the immediate vicinity of the plant, which was subjected to heavy enemy shelling. By 1944, only 327 of Kolpino’s 2183 houses remained intact. 140,939 shells and 436 aerial bombs fell in Kolpino’s neighborhoods and boulevards. According to incomplete data for the war, shelling and starvation in the Kolpino district killed 4,600 people, not counting the dead on the front. By 1 January, 1944 Kolpino had only 2196 inhabitants. After the lifting of the siege, people gradually came back from the evacuation and army. On 1 January, 1945 the population was 7404 and by the beginning of the next year numbered 8914 people.
Mezhirov is one of the finest poets of the World War II generation. His father, who was both a lawyer and physician, took great pains to ensure his son’s broad education. As a soldier in World War II, Mezhirov took part in the defense of Leningrad, where he was seriously wounded and discharged. He wrote poetry as a schoolboy and began to publish in 1941; from 1943 to 1948 he studied at the Gorky Literary Institute. His first collection, Doroga dalioka (The Road Is Long) (1947), spoke with youthful passion of the war and of the suffering and triumphs it entailed; the poetry was criticized for being “too personal.” His romantic poem “Kommunisty vperyod” (Forward Communists) was for several years the most widely read work in the Soviet Union, both from the stage and over the radio. However, the finest things he has written have always been emphatically independent and nonpartisan. Mezhirov’s poetry was criticized throughout his career, but he never bowed to the pressure; as a result of his steadfastness, the quality of his verse never suffered.
Mezhirov spent considerable time in Georgia and has translated much Georgian poetry. A highly sophisticated connoisseur of Russian poetry, his more recent work speaks out against the negative influences and lack of spirituality in the modern world, especially the tendencies to destruction and isolation he perceives in the young. Not only a great poet, Mezhirov is also the teacher of many younger poets, including the compiler of this anthology.
Biographical information about Mezhirov, p.721, ‘Twentieth Century Russian Poetry’ (1993), compiled by Yevgeny Yevtushenko (ed. Albert C. Todd and Max Hayward) , published by Fourth Estate Limited by arrangement with Doubleday of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group Inc. (transcribed as found in the original text).
Rambling At The Bridge Head 
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