Beneath is the original version of the poem in Russian Cyrillic.
Ужасный! — Капнет и вслушается,
Все он ли один на свете
Мнет ветку в окне, как кружевце,
Или есть свидетель.
Но давится внятно от тягости
Отеков — земля ноздревая,
И слышно: далеко, как в августе,
Полуночь в полях назревает.
Ни звука. И нет соглядатаев.
В пустынности удостоверясь,
Берется за старое — скатывается
По кровле, за желоб и через.
К губам поднесу и прислушаюсь,
Все я ли один на свете, —
Готовый навзрыд при случае, —
Или есть свидетель.
Но тишь. И листок не шелохнется.
Ни признака зги, кроме жутких
Глотков и плескания в шлепанцах
И вздохов и слез в промежутке.
Additional information: As a teenager, Boris Pasternak fell in love with Ida Vysotskaya, the daughter of a wealthy Moscow tea merchant. Almost 5 years have passed since they met, before the aspiring poet ventured to propose to her and was refused. Memories of unsuccessful matchmaking long tormented Pasternak, who continued to have very tender feelings for Ide Vysotskaya. He tried not to mention this in his poems, but from time to time works appeared in which the pain, longing and disappointment of the poet were easily interpreted.
In 1917, resting in the country, Pasternak wrote an initial rough draft of the poem “The Weeping Garden”. The author himself, after many years, admitted that this work was written in one breath under the influence of a momentary impulse. Moreover, the poet at first did not think to draw a parallel between the usual summer rain and his own state of mind. This happened somewhat spontaneously, even unexpectedly, for the author himself. He felt anguish when looking out upon the night garden from his window. He felt that nature experiences exactly the same feeling of loneliness and longing as he did at times.
In his special manner, Pasternak conveys the sounds, rustles and even smells of a night garden, humanizing it and endowing it with the features of a lonely man. The hero of his work is constantly listening, “If it’s as much alone as ever“, and at the same time secretly dreams of attracting attention to himself. The garden weeps with warm summer rain, and the drops of moisture either freeze or slide “sliding / From gable to gutter and down“.
The poet himself is also “Ready to sob if I have to”, but looks around, looking for involuntary witnesses of his grief. Subconsciously, he wants to tell at least someone about what has become painful, to share his thoughts with feelings and feelings. However, the author is just as lonely as the night summer garden, and he has nowhere to wait for words of sympathy or comfort . “Nothing anywhere to be seen, / Except the gulps and splashing galoshes / And sighs and tears in between” the author notes, secretly regretting that at this moment there is no truly close person next to him. Pasternak still does not realize that life itself is preparing a cure for unrequited love for him, and very soon he will be able to find, albeit short-lived, but still happiness, next to another woman – artist Eugenia Vladimirovna Lurie.
I was feeding the flock of keys out of my hand To a beating of wings. I was standing on tiptoe, My hands reaching out to the splashing and screaming My sleeve was rolled up and night brushed my elbow.
And it was pitch dark. And there was a pond And waves. And the love-birds and suchlike, it seemed, Would surely be pecked to death long before those Whose black, strident, savage beaks screamed.
And there was a pond. And it was pitch dark Except where the lilies like torches were flickering. A wave was gnawing the planks of the dinghy. And birds at my elbow were snapping and bickering.
Night rattled like phlegm in the throats of the ponds. The fledgling had yet to be fed, it seemed, And the females would peck it to death long before The roulades would cease in the gullet that screamed.
by Бори́с Леони́дович Пастерна́к (Boris Leonidovich Pasternak) (1916) from Поверх барьеров (Over The Barriers) translated by Jon Stallworthy and Peter France
Beneath is the original, Russian Cyrillic, version of the poem.
Импровизация Я клавишей стаю кормил с руки
Под хлопанье крыльев, плеск и клекот.
Я вытянул руки, я встал на носки,
Рукав завернулся, ночь терлась о локоть.
И было темно. И это был пруд
И волны.- И птиц из породы люблю вас,
Казалось, скорей умертвят, чем умрут
Крикливые, черные, крепкие клювы.
И это был пруд. И было темно.
Пылали кубышки с полуночным дегтем.
И было волною обглодано дно
У лодки. И грызлися птицы у локтя.
И ночь полоскалась в гортанях запруд,
Казалось, покамест птенец не накормлен,
И самки скорей умертвят, чем умрут
Рулады в крикливом, искривленном горле.
What a sturdy square block of a thing you are!
Such a fine, white, self-satisfied creature!
Sometimes you stand dumb as a boulder
or drop off into a cold sleep, or
Sometimes your metal belly rumbles, but there's
no point in working out your meaning.
Of all machines the fridge must be the
most good-natured; hog-fat and
roomy as a snow-drift, it
must be said to hold the purest heart.
Firmly under human domination
even the cold that creeps out from it
is only a small cold blast, too small
to threaten any freeze-up of our future.
If ever robots rise in revolution,
if ever they attack the human race,
at least you refrigerators won't be
amongst the ones to break the peace.
For you are the house-dog of machinery
a faithful and contented animal;
so give your door a docile wag for Man,
your living friend, and show him how you smile.
by Борис Абрамович Слуцкий
(Boris Abramovich Slutsky)
translated by Elaine Feinstein
Solar batteries and the great poets can work directly off the sun; while other batteries and smaller poets need continual recharging: charging up with fame, or vodka, or perhaps they get recharging from other poets' usage.
by Борис Абрамович Слуцкий (Boris Abramovich Slutsky) (19??) translated by Elaine Feinstein
Beneath is the original Russian Cyrillic version of the poem (Honestly the translation above, though definitely based on the poem below, seem like it’s for a completely different poem with a similar theme but they share the name and I can find no alternatives that share the title!)
Физики поднаторели — выполнили программу, солнечные батареи от солнца работают прямо.
А Гезиод задолго до современной науки только от солнца работал, а также мы, его внуки.
Солнце, вёдро, счастье — вот источники тока, питающие все чаще поэтов нашего толка.
Но мы и от гнева — можем, и от печали — будем. И все-таки книги вложим в походные сумки людям.
Мы — от льгот и от тягот вдоль вселенной несемся, а батареи могут только от солнца.
Additional information: I came across the following, that I’ve roughly translated from Russian, which is quite interesting about one of his other poems and a repeated theme he used.
“Physicists and Lyrics” ( 1959 ) – one of the most famous poems by Boris Slutsky .
According to the memoirs of Boris Slutsky, the poem was written in Tarusa inspired by the discussion of cybernetics theory by Igor Poletaev and Alexei Lyapunov with the writer Ilya Erenburg , which unfolded on the pages of the newspaper Komsomolskaya Pravda. The poem, where Slutsky sided with the opponents of Ehrenburg, was published in Literaturnaya Gazeta in the issue of October 13, 1959.
“Physicists and Lyrics” is one of the most famous poems by Slutsky. Its name has become a ‘winged expression’ [i.e what Russian like to refer to their ‘idioms’ as] and is used to refer to the division of “people of science and people of art”.
As Slutsky recalled, Erenburg reacted to the poem “with restrained perplexity,” and the poet Mikhail Dudin , when he was told that the poem was humorous, replied: “We do not understand jokes”. The motive of “physicists” sounded in Slutsky’s poetry both earlier and later (“They gave us black bread on cards …”, “Physicists and people”, “Solar batteries”, “Lyrics and physicists”), and the author’s attitude was not so clear. In a later poem, “Lyrics and Physics,” Slutsky refuses to acknowledge the victory of “physicists”.
I still believe that I return to life, shall wake early one day, at dawn, in the light, early hours, in the transparent dew, where the branches are studded with drops, and a small lake stands in the sundew's bowl, reflecting the swift flight of the clouds. And, inclining my young face, I shall gaze at a drop of water as on a miracle, and tears of rapture will flow, and the world, the whole world will be seen, wide and far.
I still believe that early one day, in the sparkling cold, it will again return to me in my poverty, in my joyless wisdom, not daring to rejoice and to sob...
by Ольга Фёдоровна Берггольц (Olga Fyodorovna Berggolts) a.k.a. Olga Fyodorovna Bergholz (1949) translated by Daniel Weissbort
Additional information: A Soviet poet, writer, playwright and journalist. She is most famous for her work on the Leningrad radio during the city’s blockade, when she became the symbol of the city’s strength and determination.
Beneath is the original Russian Cyrillic version of the poem.
Я все еще верю, что к жизни вернусь,- однажды на раннем рассвете проснусь. На раннем, на легком, в прозрачной росе, где каплями ветки унизаны все, и в чаше росянки стоит озерко, и в нем отражается бег облаков, и я, наклоняясь лицом молодым, смотрю как на чудо на каплю воды, и слезы восторга бегут, и легко, и виден весь мир далеко-далеко... Я все еще верю, что раннее утро, знобя и сверкая, вернется опять ко мне - обнищавшей, безрадостно-мудрой, не смеющей радоваться и рыдать...