This can’t go on: is after all injustice of its kind. How in what year did this come into fashion? Deliberate indifference to the living, deliberate cultivation of the dead. Their shoulders slump and they get drunk sometimes and one by one they quit; orators at the crematorium speak words of gentleness to history. What was it took his life from Mayakovsky? What was it put the gun between his fingers? If with that voice of his, with that appearance, if ever they had offered him in life some crumbs of gentleness. Men live. Men are trouble-makers. Gentleness is a posthumous honour.
by Евгений Александрович Евтушенко (Yevgeny Aleksandrovich Yevtushenko) (1960) translation by Robin Milner-Gulland and Peter Levi
Нежность
Разве же можно, чтоб все это длилось? Это какая-то несправедливость… Где и когда это сделалось модным: «Живым — равнодушье, внимание — мертвым?» Люди сутулятся, выпивают. Люди один за другим выбывают, и произносятся для истории нежные речи о них — в крематории… Что Маяковского жизни лишило? Что револьвер ему в руки вложило? Ему бы — при всем его голосе, внешности — дать бы при жизни хоть чуточку нежности. Люди живые — они утруждают. Нежностью только за смерть награждают.
Additional information: This poem’s subject is the suicide of Vladimir Mayakovsky which, for a long time, was speculated to be a government sanctioned assassination though Mayakovsky was prone to suicidal ideation.
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…”)
Where is your cat, walking On its own, Lapping the milky mist Amid September?
Where its leopard tread, Its phosphorescence, Where is your cat and your truth Where on this earth?
Where is the cat, still not found, Where the roof and the leak in it? Where is the hoarse speech Broken by the speed of sound?
Where is your clairvoyant autumn and corn-bins of dreams? Where is your phosphorescent cat and you yourself?
by Инна Львовна Лиснянская (Inna Lvovna Lisnyanskaya) (1983) from В пригороде Содома (In the Suburb of Sodom) / Вдали от Содома (Far from Sodom) translated by Daniel Weissbort
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Кошка
Где кошка твоя, гуляющая Сама по себе, Молочный туман лакающая В густом сентябре?
Где поступь её леопардовая И фосфор во мгле, Где кошка твоя и где правда твоя На этой земле?
Где кошка, ещё не отловленная, Где крыша и течь? Где скоростью звука надломленная Охриплая речь?
Где осень твоя ясновидческая И снов закрома? Где кошка твоя фосфорическая И где ты сама?
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Additional information:Inna Lisnianskaya was the wife of Semyon Lipkin. There isn’t much about her in English so if you want to know more you may have to research her husband initially and work from there for biographical details. However one collection of her poetic works titled ‘Far from Sodom‘ is available in English should you wish to read more of her writing.
She was born in Baku and published her first collection in 1957 then moved to Moscow three years later. In 1979 she and her husband resigned from the Union of Soviet Writers in protest to the expulsion of Viktor Yerofeyev and Yevgeny Popov from it. The following seven years her works were only published abroad though from 1986 she was able to publish regularly and was awarded several important prizes.
As it promised without deception the sun burst through early in the morning with a slanting saffron strip from the curtain to the divan.
It covered with a hot ochre the neighbouring forest, the houses of the village, my bed, the damp pillow and the edge of the wall behind the book shelf.
I remembered why the pillow was damp. I dreamed that you came one after the other through the forest to see me off.
You walked in a crowd, separately and in pairs, suddenly somebody remembered that today is the sixth of August Old Style, the Transfiguration of the Lord.
Usually a light without a flame comes out on that day from Mount Tabor, and the autumn, clear as a sign, rivets gazes to itself.
And you went through the thin, beggarly, naked, trembling alder thicket into the ginger-red cemetery copse which glowed like a honey cake.
The imposing sky neighboured the treetops that had fallen silent, and the distance echoed and called with the long drawn out voices of the cocks.
In the forest like a public land surveyor death stood in the middle of the graveyard, looking at my dead pale face so as to dig a grave the right length.
Everyone physically sensed a quiet voice close by. It was my former prophetic voice that resounded untouched by decay.
‘Farewell, azure of the Transfiguration, and gold of the second Salvation. Soften with a woman’s final caress the bitterness of my fateful hour.
Farewell, years of hardship, we will say farewell to the woman throwing down a challenge to the abyss of humiliation! I am your battlefield.
Farewell, spread out sweep of the wing, free stubbornness of flight, and the image of the world, presented in the word, and creation, and miracle-working.’
By Бори́с Леони́дович Пастерна́к (Boris Leonidovich Pasternak) (1953) from До́ктор Жива́го (Doctor Zhivago) translated by Richard McKane
Additional information: The poem is featured in the novel До́ктор Жива́го (Doctor Zhivago) as if written by it’s protagonist Yuri Zhivago.
The poem read by Александр Феклистов (Aleksandr Fleklistov).
Август
Как обещало, не обманывая, Проникло солнце утром рано Косою полосой шафрановою От занавеси до дивана.
Оно покрыло жаркой охрою Соседний лес, дома поселка, Мою постель, подушку мокрую, И край стены за книжной полкой.
Я вспомнил, по какому поводу Слегка увлажнена подушка. Мне снилось, что ко мне на проводы Шли по лесу вы друг за дружкой.
Вы шли толпою, врозь и парами, Вдруг кто-то вспомнил, что сегодня Шестое августа по старому, Преображение Господне.
Обыкновенно свет без пламени Исходит в этот день с Фавора, И осень, ясная, как знаменье, К себе приковывает взоры.
И вы прошли сквозь мелкий, нищенский, Нагой, трепещущий ольшаник В имбирно-красный лес кладбищенский, Горевший, как печатный пряник.
С притихшими его вершинами Соседствовало небо важно, И голосами петушиными Перекликалась даль протяжно.
В лесу казенной землемершею Стояла смерть среди погоста, Смотря в лицо мое умершее, Чтоб вырыть яму мне по росту.
Был всеми ощутим физически Спокойный голос чей-то рядом. То прежний голос мой провидческий Звучал, не тронутый распадом:
«Прощай, лазурь преображенская И золото второго Спаса Смягчи последней лаской женскою Мне горечь рокового часа.
Прощайте, годы безвременщины, Простимся, бездне унижений Бросающая вызов женщина! Я – поле твоего сражения.
Прощай, размах крыла расправленный, Полета вольное упорство, И образ мира, в слове явленный, И творчество, и чудотворство».
1953 г.
A 1954 recording of Boris Pasternak himself reading the poem.
Myth has us Russians in thrall, Whether down on our luck or high. We are all hostages to our soul, That wondrous entity.
We stroke the snake of history, But however you bend our words, We love ourselves to the point of loathing And loathe ourselves to the point of love.
Raising our cups in a general toast, We curse our everlasting fate for now – What has been allotted hurts, Like a fresh brand mark on the brow.
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by Инна Львовна Лиснянская (Inna Lvovna Lisnyanskaya) (2000-2001) translated by Daniel Weissbort
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Мы, русские, на мифы падки…
Мы, русские, на мифы падки. Хоть землю ешь, хоть спирт глуши, Мы все — заложники загадки Своей же собственной души.
Змею истории голубим, Но как словами ни криви, Себя до ненависти любим И ненавидим до любви.
Заздравные вздымая чаши, Клянем извечную судьбу, — Болит избранничество наше, Как свежее клеймо во лбу.
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Additional information:Inna Lisnianskaya was the wife of Semyon Lipkin. The above poem was written shortly after his death. There isn’t much about her in English so if you want to know more you may have to research her husband initially and work from there for biographical details. However one collection of her poetic works titled ‘Far from Sodom‘ is available in English should you wish to read more of her writing. She was born in Baku and published her first collection in 1957 then moved to Moscow three years later. In 1979 she and her husband resigned from the Union of Soviet Writers in protest to the expulsion of Viktor Yerofeyev and Yevgeny Popov from it. The following seven years her works were only published abroad though from 1986 she was able to publish regularly and was awarded several important prizes.
Rambling At The Bridge Head 
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