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.

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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.

A Leave-Taking by William Phylip

Goodbye, the secret of the song, the brilliant right-order,
Goodbye Hendre Fechan,
And the song-books, bright pure song,
To you, goodbye now also.

I’d a house to sleep, to live I’d shelter,
Food and drink suffice me;
I’d a home till I were dead,
And a fire (thank God!) kept burning.

In place of my old homestead, and the woe
Here, of an early life,
In heaven God will give me now
A home where’s no returning.

Green woods, farewell, where the small birds sang
A choice, correct, sweet song;
Farewell, all the song-chained groves,
Each path where song would wander.

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By William Phylip
d. 1670

translated by Tony Conran

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Information: The title is technically ‘A Leave-Taking of Hendre Fechan, his home‘. There is a holiday cottage, in Tal-y-bont, dating back to 1616 with the name Hendre Fechan. I can’t confirm if it is the same location alluded to in the poem but it is very coincidental if not.

Yr Wylan (The Seagull) by Dafydd ap Gwilym

A fine gull on the tideflow,
All white with moon or snow,
Your beauty’s immaculate,
Shard like the sun, brine’s gauntlet.
Buoyant you’re on the deep flood,
A proud swift bird of fishfood.
You’d ride at anchor with me,
Hand in hand there, sea lily.
Like a letter, a bright earnest,
A nun you’re on the tide’s crest.

Right fame and far my dear has –
Oh, fly around tower and fortress,
Look if you can’t see, seagull,
One bright as Eigr on that wall.
Say all my words together.
Let her choose me. Go to her.
If she’s alone – though profit
With so rare a girl needs wit –
Greet her then: her servant, say,
Must, without her, die straightway.

She guards my life so wholly –
Ah friends, none prettier than she
Taliesin or the flattering lip
Or Merlin loved in courtship:
Cypris courted ‘neath copper,
Loveliness too perfect-fair.

Seagull, if that cheek you see,
Christendom’s purest beauty,
Bring to me back fair welcome
Or that girl must be my doom.

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By Dafydd ap Gwilym
(fl. 1340-70)
translated by Tony Conran

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Additional information: This love poem by the 14th century poet Dafydd ap Gwilym was probably written in or around the 1340s. Dafydd is widely seen as the greatest of the Welsh poets and this is one of his best-known and best loved works. The poem references Eigr (the Welsh name for King Arthur’s mother Igraine), Myrddin (the figure who eventually becomes Merlin the wizard in Arthurian stories) and Taliesin (a renowned, and somewhat mythologised, bard who is believed to have sung at the courts of at least three kings and in some accounts is associated with King Arthur and Bran the Blessed).

An alchemical pun is also present in the poem. ‘Siprys’ translates from Welsh into ‘Cypris’, the Cyprian, one of the names for Venus the Roman goddess of love. The poet compares his lover to the goddess due to her copper hair. Copper is a metal often associated with the goddess due to her copper coloured hair, which most will recognise from Botticelli‘s The Birth of Venus, indicating the alchemical relationship between the planet Venus and copper.

The Welsh version of the pome set to music. Sung by Jeremy Huw Williams accompanied on piano by Nigel Foster

Beneath is the original Welsh language version of the poem.

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Yr Wylan

Yr wylan deg ar lanw, dioer,
Unlliw ag eiry neu wenlloer,
Dilwch yw dy degwch di,
Darn fal haul, dyrnfol heli.
Ysgafn ar don eigion wyd,
Esgudfalch edn bysgodfwyd.
Yngo’r aud wrth yr angor
Lawlaw â mi, lili môr.
Llythr unwaith lle’th ariannwyd,
Lleian ym mrig llanw môr wyd.

Cyweirglod bun, cai’r glod bell,
Cyrch ystum caer a chastell.
Edrych a welych, wylan,
Eigr o liw ar y gaer lân.
Dywaid fy ngeiriau dyun,
Dewised fi, dos hyd fun.
Byddai’i hun, beiddia’i hannerch,
Bydd fedrus wrth fwythus ferch
Er budd; dywaid na byddaf,
Fwynwas coeth, fyw onis caf.
Ei charu’r wyf, gwbl nwyf nawdd,
Och wŷr, erioed ni charawdd
Na Merddin wenithfin iach,
Na Thaliesin ei thlysach.
Siprys dyn giprys dan gopr,
Rhagorbryd rhy gyweirbropr.

Och wylan, o chai weled
Grudd y ddyn lanaf o Gred,
Oni chaf fwynaf annerch,
Fy nihenydd fydd y ferch.

Весна (Spring) by Boris Pasternak

What hundreds of buds – gluey, blurry –
stuck on twigs like cigarette-butts!
April is kindled. The park sends out
a mood of maturity, woods shout back.

And the forest’s neck is tightly noosed
by feathered throats – a buffalo netted,
groaning the way a cathedral organ,
steel gladiator, groans in sonatas.

Poetry! Be a Greek sponge with suckers –
I’ll pull you down on the damp green
plank of a garden bench beneath
all this sticky foliage – grow

lush frills and enormous fringes,
drink clouds in, absorb ravines.
And, poetry, at night I’ll squeeze you out
to the health of thirsting paper.

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by Бори́с Леони́дович Пастерна́к
(Boris Leonidovich Pasternak)
(1916)
from Over the Barriers
translated by Angela Livingstone

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Additional information: Not to be confused with the other Spring poem by Pasternak from the collection Themes and Variations. This is an alternative translation to that of Jon Stallworthy and Peter France of the same poem. This translation only covers the first part of the poem but below is the full original version in Cyrillic.

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Весна

1

Что почек, что клейких заплывших огарков
Налеплено к веткам! Затеплен
Апрель. Возмужалостью тянет из парка,
И реплики леса окрепли.

Лес стянут по горлу петлею пернатых
Гортаней, как буйвол арканом,
И стонет в сетях, как стенает в сонатах
Стальной гладиатор органа.

Поэзия! Греческой губкой в присосках
Будь ты, и меж зелени клейкой
Тебя б положил я на мокрую доску
Зеленой садовой скамейки.

Расти себе пышные брыжжи и фижмы,
Вбирай облака и овраги,
А ночью, поэзия, я тебя выжму
Во здравие жадной бумаги.

2

Весна! Не отлучайтесь
Сегодня в город. Стаями
По городу, как чайки,
Льды раскричались, таючи.

Земля, земля волнуется,
И катятся, как волны,
Чернеющие улицы,-
Им, ветреницам, холодно.

По ним плывут, как спички,
Сгорая и захлебываясь,
Сады и электрички,-
Им, ветреницам, холодно.

От кружки плывут, как спички,
Сгорая и захлебываясь,
Сады и электрички,-
Им, ветреницам, холодно.

От кружки синевы со льдом,
От пены буревестников
Вам дурно станет. Впрочем, дом
Кругом затоплен песнью.

И бросьте размышлять о тех,
Кто выехал рыбачить.
По городу гуляет грех
И ходят слезы падших.

3

Разве только грязь видна вам,
А не скачет таль в глазах?
Не играет по канавам –
Словно в яблоках рысак?

Разве только птицы цедят,
В синем небе щебеча,
Ледяной лимон обеден
Сквозь соломину луча?

Оглянись, и ты увидишь
До зари, весь день, везде,
С головой Москва, как Китеж,-
В светло-голубой воде.

Отчего прозрачны крыши
И хрустальны колера?
Как камыш, кирпич колыша,
Дни несутся в вечера.

Город, как болото, топок,
Струпья снега на счету,
И февраль горит, как хлопок,
Захлебнувшийся в спирту.

Белым пламенем измучив
Зоркость чердаков, в косом
Переплете птиц и сучьев –
Воздух гол и невесом.

В эти дни теряешь имя,
Толпы лиц сшибают с ног.
Знай, твоя подруга с ними,
Но и ты не одинок.

Корделия (“Cordelia, you are a fool! Would it have been…”) by Marina Boroditskaya

Cordelia, you are a fool! Would it have been
that hard to yield to the old man?
To say to him, ‘I, too, O darling Daddy,
love you more than my life.’ Piece of cake!
You wanted him to work it out on his own –
who was the best of his daughters. Proud fool!
And now he’s dead, you too, everyone’s dead.
And Gloucester! Oh the bloody horror –
his eye-sockets – the scene of the blinding –
fingers leafing quickly through the pages
as if through plates of red-hot iron… Here,
read it now. I’ll turn away. You weren’t there
in that Act, were you? Go on, read it,
look what you’ve done, you stupid little fool!
OK, OK, don’t cry. Of course, the author
is quite a character, but next time
make sure to be more stubborn, and resist:
Viola, Rosalinda, Catherine,
they managed – why wouldn’t you? Like a puppy,
pull him by the leg of his pants with your teeth
into the game, into comedy! The laws
of the genre will lead us out into light… Here,
wipe your nose and give me back the hanky.
I still have to wash and iron and return it
to a certain careless blonde Venetian
in the next volume. Sorry I told you off.
Best regards to your father. Remember: like a puppy!

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by Мари́на Я́ковлевна Бороди́цкая
(Marina Yakovlevna Boroditskaya)
(c. 2003)
translated by Ruth Fainlight
Published in the Journal of Foreign Literature, Number 8, 2014

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

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Корделия

Корделия, ты дура! Неужели
Так трудно было старику поддаться?
Сказать ему: “Я тоже, милый папа,
Люблю вас больше жизни”. Всех-то дел!
Хотела, чтобы сам он догадался,
Кто лучшая из дочерей? Гордячка!
Теперь он мертв, ты тоже, все мертвы.
А Глостер? О, кровавый ужас детства —
Его глазницы — сцена ослепленья —
Как будто раскаленное железо
Пролистывали пальцы, торопясь:
На вот, прочти. Я отвернусь. Тебя же
В том акте не было? Читай, читай,
Смотри, что ты наделала, дуреха!
Ну ладно, не реви. Конечно, автор —
Тот фрукт еще, но в следующий раз
Ты своевольничай, сопротивляйся:
Виола, Розалинда, Катарина
Смогли, а ты чем хуже? Как щенок,
Тяни его зубами за штанину —
В игру, в комедию! Законы жанра
Нас выведут на свет. На, вытри нос.
Давай сюда платок. Его должна я
Перестирать, прогладить и вернуть
Одной венецианской растеряхе
В соседний том. Прости, что накричала.
Отцу привет. И помни: как щенок!

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Extra information: Marina Boroditskaya was born on June 28, 1954 in Moscow. In 1976 she graduated from the Moscow Institute of Foreign Languages ​​named after Maurice Torez. She worked as a guide-translator and taught in a school. In 1978 she made her debut as a translator in Russia’s Иностранная литература (Foreign Literature) magazine.

Since 1990 she has been a member of the Writers’ Union, and since 2005 she has become a member of the Мастера литературного перевода (Masters of Literary Translation) guild.

Marina Boroditskaya works as a presenter on the radio show Литературная аптека (translated as Literary Pharmacy’, ‘Literary First Aid Box’or ‘Literary Drugstore’ depending on your source) on Радио России (Radio Russia). She is convinced that the book is the best medicine.