The Swan by Euros Bowen

Today the art of our retreat
is to see portents and mystery –
To see colour and sinew, the flash of white
As the bare hills of the age are visited from heaven:
His solitude swims in the quiet of the water,
A pilgrim acquainted with sedges,
And he washes the weather of the lake with his form
That (as it were) spotlights the passion
Of a soul’s breath
As it goes its slow, bare way in the chill of March:
His neck became a vigil,
The immaculate arm of a hunter,
The poise there, the stance of his eye! –
And the flame of his beak plummeted down to the pool:
The mountains looked disquieted
As he resumed his glide, easing himself to the flood:
A shiver ran through his wings, then stopped,
And on a sharp beat he broke from the water:
Slowly he went, then up to the high air,
And the fire of his wings draws a soul from its cold.

by Euros Bowen (1904-1988)
(December 1987)
translated by Tony Conran

Additional information: The Welsh version is titled ‘Yr Alarch‘ but, unfortunately, I was unable to source a copy to confirm its wording and provide it as I have some other poems in translation previously. If you have access to a copy it would be greatly appreciated if you could, for the benefit of future readers to compare the translation and original, provide a link to a site listing it or copy/paste the Welsh version in the comments.

Благословляю ежедневный труд… (I bless the daily labour) by Marina Tsvetaeva

I bless the daily labour of my hands,
I bless the sleep that nightly is my own.
The mercy of the Lord, the Lord’s commands,
The law of blessings and the law of stone.

My dusty purple, with its ragged seams…
My dusty staff, where all light’s rays are shed.
And also, Lord, I bless the peace
In others’ houses – others’ ovens’ bread.

by Марина Ивановна Цветаева
(Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva)
(21 May 1918)
from Bon-Voyages (1921-22)
translated by David McDuff

The poem recited in Russian by Anna Smirnova

Благословляю ежедневный труд

Благословляю ежедневный труд,
Благословляю еженощный сон.
Господню милость и Господень суд,
Благой закон – и каменный закон.

И пыльный пурпур свой, где столько дыр,
И пыльный посох свой, где все лучи…
– Ещё, Господь, благословляю мир
В чужом дому – и хлеб в чужой печи.

Бог (God) by Boris Slutsky

We all walked in god’s shadow
we were there at his very side.
He lived in no far-off heaven
and appeared in the flesh sometimes.
On the top of the Mausoleum.
More clever and evil he was
than the god he’d deposed
named Jehovah, whom he had dashed
down, murdered, turned into ash;
though later he raised him up
and gave him some corner table.
We all walked in god’s shadow
we were there at his very side.
I was walking down Arbat once, when
god was out in his five cars, and
bent double with fear, his guards
in their miserable mousey coats
were trembling there at his side.
Too late or too early: it was
turning grey. Into morning light.
His gaze was cruel and wise.
All-seeing the glance of his eyes.
We all walked in god’s shadow.
We were almost there at his side.

.

by Борис Абрамович Слуцкий
(Boris Abramovich Slutsky)
(19??)
translated by Elaine Feinstein

The first stanza is recited from 1.11 onwards by Alla Demidova.

.

Additional information: The poem is about the image of Lenin and mentions his mausoleum which still entombed him to this day just outside the walls of the Kremlin in Moscow.

The Arbat is is a pedestrian street about one kilometer long in the historical centre of Moscow, Russia since at least the 15th century, which makes it one of the oldest surviving streets of the Russian capital. It forms the heart of the Arbat District of Moscow.

.

Beneath is the original Russian version of the poem in Cyrillic.

Бог

Мы все ходили под богом.
У бога под самым боком.
Он жил не в небесной дали,
Его иногда видали
Живого. На Мавзолее.
Он был умнее и злее
Того — иного, другого,
По имени Иегова…
Мы все ходили под богом.
У бога под самым боком.
Однажды я шел Арбатом,
Бог ехал в пяти машинах.
От страха почти горбата
В своих пальтишках мышиных
Рядом дрожала охрана.
Было поздно и рано.
Серело. Брезжило утро.
Он глянул жестоко, — мудро
Своим всевидящим оком,
Всепроницающим взглядом.

Мы все ходили под богом.
С богом почти что рядом.
И срам, и ужас
От ужаса, а не от страха,
от срама, а не от стыда
насквозь взмокала вдруг рубаха,
шло пятнами лицо тогда.
А страх и стыд привычны оба.
Они вошли и в кровь, и в плоть.
Их даже
дня
умеет
злоба
преодолеть и побороть.
И жизнь являет, поднатужась,
бесстрашным нам,
бесстыдным нам
не страх какой-нибудь, а ужас,
не стыд какой-нибудь, а срам.

Хозяин (The Master) by Boris Slutsky

My master – he disliked me from the start.
He never knew me, never saw or heard me,
but all the same he feared me like the plague
and hated me with all his dreary heart.
When I bowed my head before him,
it seemed to him I hid a smile.
When he made me cry, he thought
my tears were crocodile.
And all my life I worked my heart out for him,
each night I lay down late, and got up early.
I loved him and was wounded for his sake.
But nothing I could do would ever take.
I took his portrait everywhere I went,
I hung it up in every hut and tent,
I looked and looked, and kept on looking,
and slowly, as the years went past,
his hatred hurt me less and less.
And nowadays it hardly seems to matter:
the age-old truth is men like me
are always hated by their master.

.

by Борис Абрамович Слуцкий
(Boris Abramovich Slutsky)
(1954)
translated by Margo Shohl Rosen

Slutsky’s poem recited by the actor Veniamin Smekhov

Beneath is the original Russian language version of the poem in Cyrillic.

Хозяин

А мой хозяин не любил меня —
Не знал меня, не слышал и не видел,
А всё-таки боялся, как огня,
И сумрачно, угрюмо ненавидел.

Когда меня он плакать заставлял,
Ему казалось: я притворно плачу.
Когда пред ним я голову склонял,
Ему казалось: я усмешку прячу.

А я всю жизнь работал на него,
Ложился поздно, поднимался рано,
Любил его. И за него был ранен.
Но мне не помогало ничего.

А я возил с собой его портрет.
В землянке вешал и в палатке вешал —
Смотрел, смотрел, не уставал смотреть.
И с каждым годом мне всё реже, реже

Обидною казалась нелюбовь.
И ныне настроенья мне не губит
Тот явный факт, что испокон веков
Таких, как я, хозяева не любят.

Excerpt from Ученик (The Disciple) by Marina Tsvetaeva

2
There is a certain hour like a shed burden,
When in ourselves we tame our pride.
Hour of discipledom – in every lifetime
Triumphant, and not to be denied.

A lofty hour when, having laid our weapons
At feet shown to us by a pointing Hand,
We trade for camel hair our martial porphyry
Upon the sea’s expanse of sand.

O this hour, like the Voice that raises
Us to greater deeds from the self-will of days!
O hour, when our dense volume presses on us
We bow to earth like the ripe ears of maize.

The ears have grown, the festive hour is over,
The grain is longing for the grinding mill.
The Law! The Law! The yoke which in the earth’s womb
I lust after still.

Hour of discipledom. But visible’s
Another light – yet one more dawn has glowed.
Be blessed, and follow in its steps,
You, sovereign hour of solitude.

by Марина Ивановна Цветаева
(Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva)
(15 April 1921)
from Ремесло (The Craft) (1923)
translated by David McDuff

Information: The cycle is dedicated to Prince Serge Wolkonsky, also referred to as Sergei Mikhailovitch Volkonsky (Серге́й Миха́йлович Волко́нский), who was the grandson of the Decemberist Sergei Volkonsky. Serge was a theatre figure and writer whom Tsvetaeva met in Moscow in 1919, and in 1921 “rewrote him cleanly – out of pure delight and gratitude – his manuscript … and she didn’t write a line of hers, and I didn’t have time, and suddenly she broke through the Apprentice.” Tsvetaeva‘s friendly relationship with Volkonsky continued abroad for many years.

Beneath is the original form of the poem in Cyrillic. It is the second part of the poem series Ученик which can be translated as ‘apprentice’, ‘disciple’, ‘pupil’ or ‘learner’:

Ученик

2

Есть некий час…

Тютчев.

Есть некий час — как сброшенная клажа:
Когда в себе гордыню укротим.
Час ученичества, он в жизни каждой
Торжественно-неотвратим.

Высокий час, когда, сложив оружье
К ногам указанного нам — Перстом,
Мы пурпур Воина на мех верблюжий
Сменяем на песке морском.

О этот час, на подвиг нас — как Голос
Вздымающий из своеволья дней!
О этот час, когда как спелый колос
Мы клонимся от тяжести своей.

И колос взрос, и час весёлый пробил,
И жерновов возжаждало зерно.
Закон! Закон! Ещё в земной утробе
Мной вожделенное ярмо.

Час ученичества! Но зрим и ведом
Другой нам свет, — ещё заря зажглась.
Благословен ему грядущий следом
Ты — одиночества верховный час!

(15 апреля 1921)