Как дрожит на ветреном закате (How the sun trembles in the windy sunset) by Novella Matveyeva

How the sun trembles in the windy sunset.

Through the breaks in the trees

Its multitudinous rays

Toss like strands

In a bright flowing mane.

They fuse together, glittering

Like the flash of blades,

Each flash

Obscuring

Its predecessor…

The wood, misty under the slanting rays,

Sketches a royal crest,

Receives the sun’s teeth in its curly head,

Is distracted, dispersed, pale.

But already, like the final curtain,

The edge of the wood is moving towards darkness,

The sun prepares to set sail,

The distance slackens, the sky’s an orphan…

Clumps of trees

Shuffle wildly,

Silently their half-transparent,

Ambiguous, recumbent shadows

Drift away.

And already the trees,

On the threshold

Of the unknown night,

Shiver,

No longer

Believing in their shadows

Once they’ve fled.

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By Новелла Николаевна Матвеева (Novella Nikolayevna Matveyeva)

(1965)

translated by Daniel Weissbort

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Beneath is the original Russian Cyrillic version of the poem.

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Как дрожит на ветреном закате

Как дрожит на ветреном закате

Солнце сквозь древесные прорывы!

Тьмы лучей волнуются, как пряди

Золотой взвивающейся гривы.

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Перепутываются, сверкают

Фехтовальным блеском пререканья,

Новые сверкания свергают

С трона предыдущее сверканье.

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Дымный под наклонными лучами,

Образующими царский гребень,

Зубья солнца в кудри получая,

Лес растерян, распылен и бледен.

.

Но уже, как занавес к закрытью,

К темноте край леса тяготеет,

Солнце наклоняется к отплытью,

Даль слабеет, небо сиротеет.

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Пятна рощ сместились, как шальные,

Тихо от деревьев отлетели

Их полупрозрачные, двойные,

Ложные, двусмысленные тени.

.

И уже деревья у преддверья

Неизвестной ночи задрожали,

И уже своим теням не верят,

Потому что тени убежали.

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Additional information: Matveyeva was born on 7 October 1934 in Pushkin, Saint Petersburg (then Leningrad). She suffered the fate of so many war children and was brought up in children’s homes and, later, apparently spent much of her time in hospitals. She was a Russian bard, poet, writer, screenwriter, dramatist, and literary scientist.

Novella was also the cousin of poet Ivan Matveyev (Elagin). Her first poetry collection, Lyrics, was published in 1961 which was the same year she was admitted to the Union of Soviet Writers.

From the end of the 1950s on Matveyeva composed songs to her poetry and performed them, accompanying herself on a seven-string guitar. The element of fantasy and the dreamlike atmosphere of much of her poetry is unusual in the Soviet context.

In 1998 Matveyeva received the Russian State Pushkin Prize in poetry, and in 2002, she received the Russian Federation State Prize in Literature and Arts for her poetry collection Jasmine. Matveyeva died on 4 September 2016 at the age of 81 in Moscow Oblast.

‘After Midnight Clean Out Of Your Hands’ by Osip Mandelstam

After midnight, clean out of your hands,

the heart seizes a sliver of silence.

It lives on the quiet, it’s longing to play;

like it or not, there’s nothing quite like it.

 

Like it or not, it can never be grasped;

so why shiver, like a child off the street,

if after midnight the heart holds a feast,

silently savouring a silvery mouse?

 

by Осип Эмильевич Мандельштам (Osip Emilyevich Mandelshtam. His surname is commonly latinised as Mandelstam)

(1931)

translated by Robert Chandler

Шепот, робкое дыханье (Whispers) by Afanasy Fet

Whispers, timid breathing,

trills of a nightingale,

the silver and the shiver

of a sleepy rill.

 

Pale light and nighttime shadows,

shadows without end,

all the magic transformations

of eyes and lips and brows.

 

In smoky clouds, a rose’s purple,

the shine of amber beads,

and the kisses, and the tears,

and the dawn, the dawn!

 

by Афанасий Афанасьевич Фет (Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet)

a.k.a. Шеншин (Shenshin)

(1850)

translated by Boris Dralyuk

London Welsh by Idris Davies

We have scratched our names in the London dust,

Sung sometimes like the Jews of Babylon

Under the dusty trees of Hyde Park Corner,

Almost believing in a Jesus of Cardigan

Or a Moses on the mountains of Merioneth;

We have dreamed by the Thames of Towy and Dee,

And whistled in dairy shops in the morning,

Whistled of Harlech and Aberdovey.

We have grown sentimental in London

Over things that we smiled at in Wales.

Sometimes in Woolwich we have seen the mining valleys

More beautiful than we ever saw them with our eyes.

We have carried our accents into Westminster

As soldiers carry rifles into the wars;

We have carried our idioms into Piccadilly,

Food for the critics on Saturday night.

We have played dominoes in Lambeth with Alfred the Great,

And lifted a glass with Henry VIII

In the tavern under the railway bridge

On Friday nights in winter;

And we have argued with Chaucer down the Old Kent Road

On the englynion of the Eisteddfod.

We have also shivered by the Thames in the night

And know that the frost has no racial distinctions.

 

by Idris Davies