Out of the smoky air now are plucked down Stars for the past week frozen in flight. Head over heels reels the skaters' club, Clinking its rink with the glass of the night.
Slower, slower, skater, step slow-er, Cutting the curve as you swerve by. Every turn a constellation Scraped by the skate into Norway's sky.
Fetters of frozen iron shackle the air. Hey, skaters! There it's all the same That night is on earth with its ivory eyes Snake-patterned like a domino game;
That the moon, like a numb retriever's tongue, Is freezing to bars as tight as a vice; That mouths, like forgers' mouths, are filled Brim-full with lava of breathtaking ice.
By Бори́с Леони́дович Пастерна́к (Boris Leonidovich Pasternak) (1914-1916 ) translated by Jon Stallworthy and Peter France
Below is the original Russin version in Cyrillic
Зимнее небо
Цeльнoю льдинoй из дымнoсти вынутa Стaвший с нeдeлю звeздный пoтoк. Клуб кoнькoбeжцeв ввepxу oпpoкинут: Чoкaeтся сo звoнкoю нoчью кaтoк.
Peжe-peжe-pe-жe ступaй, кoнькoбeжeц, В бeгe ссeкaя шaг свысoкa. Нa пoвopoтe сoзвeздьeм вpeжeтся В нeбo нopвeгии скpeжeт кoнькa.
Over the meadows, beyond the mountains, there once lived a painter called Klee, and he sat on his own on a path with various bright-coloured crayons.
He drew rectangles and he drew hooks, an imp in a light-blue shirt, Africa, stars, a child on a platform, wild beasts where Sky meets Earth.
He never intended his sketches to be like passport photos, with people, horses, cities and lakes standing up straight like robots.
He wanted these lines and these spots to converse with one another as clearly as cicadas in summer, but then one morning a feather
materialized as he sketched. A wing, the crown of ahead - the Angel of Death. It was time for Klee to part from his friends
and his Muse. He did.He died. Can anything be more cruel? Though had Paul Klee been any less wise, his angel might have touched us all
and we too, along with the artist, might have left the world behind while that angel shook up our bones, but – what help would that have been?
Me, I'd much rather walk through a gallery than lie in some sad cemetery. I like to loiter with friends by paintings - yellow-blue wildlings, follies most serious.
by Арсений Александрович Тарковский (Arseny Alexandrovich Tarkovsky) (1957) translated by Robert Chandler
Arseny was the father of the famous and highly influential film director Andrei Tarkovsky. His poetry was often quoted in his son’s films.
Paul Klee (18 December 1879 – 29 June 1940) was a Swiss German artist. His highly individual style was influenced by movements in art that included Expressionism, Cubism, and Surrealism. Klee was a natural draftsman who experimented with and eventually deeply explored color theory, writing about it extensively; his lectures Writings on Form and Design Theory (Schriften zur Form und Gestaltungslehre), published in English as the Paul Klee Notebooks, are held to be as important for modern art as Leonardo da Vinci’s A Treatise on Painting for the Renaissance. He and his colleague, Russian painter Wassily Kandinsky, both taught at the Bauhaus school of art, design and architecture. His works reflect his dry humor and his sometimes childlike perspective, his personal moods and beliefs, and his musicality.
Here is a reading of the poem in Russian set to music featuring one of Klee’s artworks.
Beneath is the original Russian version of the poem.
Пауль Клее
Жил да был художник Пауль Клее Где-то за горами, над лугами. Он сидел себе один в аллее С разноцветными карандашами,
Рисовал квадраты и крючочки, Африку, ребенка на перроне, Дьяволенка в голубой сорочке, Звезды и зверей на небосклоне.
Не хотел он, чтоб его рисунки Были честным паспортом природы, Где послушно строятся по струнке Люди, кони, города и воды.
Он хотел, чтоб линии и пятна, Как кузнечики в июльском звоне, Говорили слитно и понятно. И однажды утром на картоне
Проступили крылышко и темя: Ангел смерти стал обозначаться. Понял Клее, что настало время С Музой и знакомыми прощаться.
Попрощался и скончался Клее. Ничего не может быть печальней. Если б Клее был немного злее, Ангел смерти был бы натуральней.
И тогда с художником все вместе Мы бы тоже сгинули со света, Порастряс бы ангел наши кости. Но скажите мне: на что нам это?
На погосте хуже, чем в музее, Где порой слоняются живые, И висят рядком картины Клее - Голубые, желтые, блажные…
by Фёдор Иванович Тютчев (Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev)
(1829 – early 1830s)
translated by Robert Chandler
Fun fact: Counted amongst the admirers of Tyutchev’s works were Dostoevsky and Tolstoy along with Nekrasov and Fet. Then later Osip Mandelstam who, in a passage approved of by Shalamov, believed that a Russian poet should not have copy of Tyutchev in his personal library – he should know all of Tyutchev off by heart.
A recital of the poem in the original Russian:
The original Russian Cyrillic text:
Молчи, скрывайся и таи
И чувства и мечты свои –
Пускай в душевной глубине
И всходят и зайдут оне
Как звезды ясные в ночи-
Любуйся ими – и молчи.
Как сердцу высказать себя?
Другому как понять тебя?
Поймёт ли он, чем ты живёшь?
Мысль изречённая есть ложь.
Взрывая, возмутишь ключи,-
Питайся ими – и молчи.
Лишь жить в себе самом умей –
Есть целый мир в душе твоей
Таинственно-волшебных дум;
Их заглушит наружный шум,
Дневные ослепят лучи,-
Внимай их пенью – и молчи!..
An English recital of the poem in an alternate translation:
Rambling At The Bridge Head 
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