If this were a film… Long shot of approaching train. Martial music. Cut to faces.
But it is only another planet, and Poland’s Most successful tourist attraction.
Poplars screen the furnances But the view is mostly what our parents might have seen: Blank horizons, scrub struggling into leaf Pools of scum reflect a coffin-lid sky. Wind from the steppes moans round the crumbling brick.
If this were a novel It would be cathartic recollection In a hotel bedroom or smoky fifties café Pages of blocked monologue Somewhere towards the middle.
A youth stands guard over a small fire of litter. Curling headlines, chocolate wrappers, a child’s red glove. Flames here burn thin and cold. If this were a nightmare We could hope to understand ourselves through it. We flock here to look and shudder and walk away Stunned by embers.
But the rows of bunks are rough as cattle stalls, Limewash homely as the barns of childhood. (Even in the interests of authenticity You could not expect them to expect us to endure The smells of fear.) Wire at the windows. Clenching cold.
Cleaners’ brooms and buckets rattle. There’s an irritation in the eyes like ash. Sulphur from the smelters in Katowice: Dusk thickens early in this poisoned air.
If this were the history of a civilisation It might be a footnote, towards the end.
Warm the light, with colour, the tourist buses Are pulling out. This is only one stop On a crowded schedule.
Do Russian people stand for war? Go, ask the calm on plain and shore The wide expanse of field and lea, The birches and poplar tree.
The soldiers who once fought abreast, And near the birches lie at rest, Their sons will answer by the score, Ask them if Russians are, Ask them if Russians are, Ask them if Russians are for war.
Not only for their country’s life Did soldiers perish in their strife – But that all human creatures might Sleep always peacefully at night.
Ask those that fearful battles knew, Who on the Elbe joined with you, We keep these memories evermore – And ask if Russians are, And ask if Russians are, And ask if Russians are for war.
Yes, We know how to fight, But we don’t want again For soldiers to fall On their bitter land.
Ask the mothers, Ask my wife, And then you should understand If the Russians, If the Russians, If the Russians want war.
The working people of each land Will come, for sure, to understand Throughout the world on sea and shore – If Russian people are, If Russian people are, If Russian people are for war.
by Евгений Александрович Евтушенко (Yevgeny Aleksandrovich Yevtushenko) (1962) English lyrics translation by Ольга Моисеенко (Olga Moisseyenko)
Sung by Mark Naumovich Bernes who was a Soviet actor and singer of Jewish ancestry, who performed some of the most poignant songs to come out of World War II including “Dark Night” and “Cranes”.
Хотят ли русские войны?
Хотят ли русские войны? Спросите вы у тишины Над ширью пашен и полей, И у берез, и тополей.
Спросите вы у тех солдат, Что под березами лежат, И вам ответят их сыны: Хотят ли русские, Хотят ли русские, Хотят ли русские войны?
Не только за свою страну Солдаты гибли в ту войну, А чтобы люди всей земли Спокойно ночью спать могли.
Спросите тех, кто воевал, Кто нас на Эльбе обнимал. Мы этой памяти верны, Хотят ли русские, Хотят ли русские, Хотят ли русские войны?
Да, мы умеем воевать, Но не хотим, чтобы опять Солдаты падали в бою На землю горькую свою.
Спросите вы у матерей, Спросите у жены моей, И вы тогда понять должны, Хотят ли русские, Хотят ли русские, Хотят ли русские войны?
Performed by Ансамбль Александрова (the Alexandrov Ensemble) using the 1970s (?) translated lyrics of Ольга Моисеенко (Olga Moisseyenko). Although she titles it ‘Do the Russian people stand for war’ a translation along the lines of ‘Do the Russian want war?’ is more common.
Yevtushenko later said he wrote the song in response to conversations he had with foreigners while travelling in western Europe and the United States. The lyrics evoke the peaceful Russian countryside, the memory of the millions of lives lost in the Second World War, and the friendly meeting of U.S. and Soviet soldiers on Elbe Day.
On Thursday 24 February 2022 Russian citizens were heard singing the song at protests held in St Petersburg and Moscow. After these protests were broken up, by authorities in riot gear, it was apparently remarked by civilians “в России запрещено говорить, что русские не хотят войны…” (“In Russia it is forbidden to say Russians do not want war…”)
Wind in the poplars and a broken branch, a dead arm in the bright trees. Five poplars tremble gradually to gold. The stone face of the lion darkens in a sharp shower, his dreadlocks of lobelia grown long, tangled, more brown now than blue-eyed.
My friend dead and the graveyard at Orcop – her short ride to the hawthorn hedge, lighter than hare-bones on men’s shoulders, our faces stony, rain, weeping in the air. The grave deep as a well takes the earth’s thud, the slow fall of flowers.
Over the page the pen runs faster than wind’s white steps over the grass. For a while health feels like pain. Then panic running the fields, the grass, the racing leaves ahead of light, holding that robin’s eye in the laurel, hydrangeas’ faded green. I must write like the wind, year after year passing my death-day, winning ground.
By Gillian Clarke from Selected Poems (in the New Poems section of the 1996 edition)
Additional information:Orcop is a village and civil parish in the county of Herefordshire, England. It lies 14 kilometres (8.7 miles) south of Hereford.
St John the Baptist’s Church, in the parish of Orcop, is known as ‘the Poets Church‘ due to being the site where the English poet and broadcaster Frances Horovitz was laid to rest in October 1983 so, I assume, she is the deceased friend referred to in the poem.
The sleepy garden scatters beetles Like bronze cinders from braziers. Level with me and with my candle There hangs a flowering universe.
As if into a new religion I cross the threshold of this night, Where the grey decaying poplar Has veiled the moon's bright edge from sight,
Where the orchard surf whispers of apples, Where the pond is an opened secret, Where the garden hangs, as if on piles, And holds the sky in front of it.
by Бори́с Леони́дович Пастерна́к (Boris Leonidovich Pasternak) (1912 or 1913 depending on which source is cited) translated by Jon Stallworthy and Peter France
Below is a recital of the poem in it’s original Russian:
Recital of the poem in Russian
Below is the poem in it’s original Russian cyrillic form:
Как бронзовой золой жаровень, Жуками сыплет сонный сад. Со мной, с моей свечою вровень Миры расцветшие висят.
И, как в неслыханную веру, Я в эту ночь перехожу, Где тополь обветшало-серый Завесил лунную межу.
Где пруд - как явленная тайна, Где шепчет яблони прибой, Где сад висит постройкой свайной И держит небо пред собой.
Spring, I come in from the street, where the poplar is shaken, Where distance is frightened, the house afraid it will fall, Where the air is blue as the laundry bag Of a patient released from hospital.
Where evening is empty, an unfinished tale Left in the air by a star with no sequel, Bewildering thousands of noisy eyes, Expressionless, unfathomable.
by Бори́с Леони́дович Пастерна́к (Boris Leonidovich Pasternak) (1918) from Темы и вариации (Themes and Variations) translated by Jon Stallworthy and Peter France
Below is the original Russian Cyrillic version of the poem.
Весна, я с улицы, где тополь удивлен, Где даль пугается, где дом упасть боится, Где воздух синь, как узелок с бельем У выписавшегося из больницы.
Где вечер пуст, как прерванный рассказ, Оставленный звездой без продолженья К недоуменью тысяч шумных глаз, Бездонных и лишенных выраженья.
Additional information: This should not be confused with the other Весна (Spring) poem by Boris Pasternak from the collection Over the Barriers.
Rambling At The Bridge Head 
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