One man fell asleep a believer but woke up an atheist.
Luckily, this man kept medical scales in his room, because he was in the habit of weighing himself every morning and every evening. And so, going to sleep the night before, he had weighed himself and had found out he weighed four poods and 21 pounds. But the following morning, waking up an atheist, he weighed himself again and found out that now he weighed only four poods thirteen pounds. “Therefore,” he concluded, “my faith weighed approximately eight pounds.”
by Даниил Иванович Хармс (Daniil Ivanovich Kharms)
a.k.a. Даниил Иванович Ювачёв (Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachov)
(1936-37)
translated by Eugene Ostashevsky
Tag: writing
Сорок лет спустя (Forty Years Later) by Vladimir Kornilov
A foundling of the worthless muses
and other brutes,
I languish all the livelong day
at the LitInstitute.
Outside the window, a janitor sweeps
the pavement clean.
Slouching, gaunt, and hollow-cheeked,
he’s gloomy, ill.
But to hell with him and all his woes –
I’m full of myself.
… And all the while he was the one
whose words the Genius
of Humanity had banished from
the magazines.
Thus the writing of that time
grew strangely inept,
while at the LitInstitute the yard
was nicely swept.
… My whole life I looked into myself –
at others, rarely.
But all the same, his fate did touch
something in me.
Now I’ve become a poet – good,
bad, who knows? –
declining like the century,
sentenced to sweep snow.
Who envies either of our lives?
His life was destroyed
by M. tuberculosis, and mine –
by my wretched thyroid.
… I bear being outcast unbowed,
I kowtow to none,
but before you I’ll bow down,
Andrey Platonov.
And forty years later I pray:
in your distant heaven,
forgive the folly of my youth,
forgive everything –
my hubris, hard-heartedness, but mostly
forgive the boredom
with which I gazed through that window
on your torment.
by Владимир Николаевич Корнилов (Vladimir Nikolayevich Kornilov)
(January 1985)
translated by Katherine E. Young
Fun facts: Here is my rough effort to translate the Russian language Wikipedia article page on him as there is no English page available and most of the results for his name will lead you to information about the historical naval figure.
Vladimir Nikolaevich Kornilov ( June 29, 1928 , Dnepropetrovsk – January 8, 2002 , Moscow ) was a Soviet Russian poet, writer, and literary critic. He was heavily censored throughout the Soviet era for his, to the Soviet authorities, ideologically troubling works.
He was born into a family of civil engineers. When the Great Patriotic War began (i.e. World War II), he was evacuated to Novokuznetsk ( Siberia ), then moved to Moscow . In 1945 – 1950 he studied at the Gorky Literary Institute (i.e. the LitInstitute mentioned in this poem) , which he was he was expelled from three times for absenteeism and “ideologically vicious verses”.
Kornilov’s first poems were published in 1953 . However, his works were rarely published, and even then only after ‘corrections’ had been made by censors. In 1957, his collection of poems “Agenda from the military registration and enlistment office” was rejected. Only in 1964 his first book of poems, The Pier, was published by the Soviet Writer Publishing House, and in 1965, on the recommendation of Anna Akhmatova , Kornilov was successfully admitted to the Union of Writers of the USSR.
A hard time awaited the prose works of Kornilov. His first and second novels – “Without arms, without legs”, completed in 1965 , and “Girls and ladies”, written in October 1968 he tried to get published for a long time unsuccessfully in the Soviet Union . The former was not printed and although the latter was accepted for publication in December 1971 but immediately thereafter rejected or banned.
By his third and largest prose work – the novel “Demobilization” – Kornilov no longer even tried to be publish in his homeland and instead sent his works to the west, where, from 1974 onwards, they were in print.
[he has two books in English I could find after a very brief search: Girls to the Front (1984) and Building a Prison (1985) so it’s possible the others were in German and other languages or have different titles in other languages. By all means comment on this post if you find others available in English.]
Being published in samizdat and in foreign Russian-language publications, as well as Kornilov’s speeches in support of Julius Daniel and Andrei Sinyavsky ( 1966 ), displeased the Soviet authorities.
In 1975 he was made a member of the Soviet section of Amnesty International and on the recommendation of G. Böll, he was accepted also into the French Pen Club.
Kornilov signed a letter to “heads of state and government” with a request to protect academician Andrei Sakharov , and in March 1977 he was expelled from the Union of Writers of the USSR (he was initially accepted in 1965, and while expelled his membership was eventually restored in 1988 ). His books were removed from their libraries and sold in 1979. He began to publish his works again in the USSR from 1986 onwards.
Kornilov died from a bone tumor on January 8, 2002 .
… hopefully that is helpful to anyone wanting a little information about the poet.
Regarding his reference to Platonov in this poem: He briefly worked as a street cleaner as an homage to Platonov as there was some ‘Intelligentsia folklore’ that occassionally Platonov would choose to sweep the yard in from of the LitInstitute building where he lived. However he was dismissed after a month on the pretext ‘it is illegal to hire someone of higher education for such duties’. So he probably wasn’t very good at it and just ad a very romanticised view of it.
He considered Gumilyov to be the ‘Kipling of Tsarkoye Selo’ and praised the courae with shich he faced his execution. He also wrote admiringly of Akhmatova who sponsored his admission into the Union of Soviet Writers in 1965. Also he reflected on the paradox of Lermontov’s fate – that it was a peculiar blend of courage, pain and spite which led him to his last duel and that it’s outcome made him appear an embodiment of love remarking in one poem ‘and boys writing poems at night / hope for a similar fate’
Russian cyrillic original version of the poem:
Подкидыш никудышных муз
И прочей нуди,
Я скукой день-деньской томлюсь
В Литинституте.
И замыслов невпроворот,
И строчек вздорных…
А за окном асфальт метёт
Упорный дворник.
Сутулый, тощий, испитой,
Угрюм он, болен.
Но шут с ним и с его бедой –
Я дурью полон.
…Когда бы знать, что он лишён
Других доходов,
Что от журналов отлучён
Отцом народов,
С того и проза тех времён
Вдруг стала тусклой…
Зато просторный двор метён
Литинститутcкий.
…Всю жизнь гляделся я в себя,
А в ближних – мало.
И всё равно его судьба
Меня достала.
Такой или сякой поэт,
Я кроме смеха
На склоне века, склоне лет –
Уборщик снега.
Кого от нашего житья
Возьмут завидки?
Он от чахотки сник, а я –
От щитовидки.
…Тащу отверженность, не гнусь,
Не бью поклонов,
Но перед вами повинюсь,
Андрей Платонов!
И сорок лет спустя молю:
В своём зените
Простите молодость мою,
За всё простите –
За спесь, и чёрствость, и сполна
Ещё за скуку,
С какой глядел я из окна
На вашу муку.
Like, comment, follow or subscribe… please. I just don’t know if anyone actually finds these bilingual posts interesting or it’s just me. Seriously, if you read the two languages, you can really see how much of a difference the translator makes putting their mark on a piece. I’ve once or twice put multiple translations of the same poem on here if you want to look and compare then. Even if you just put it the cyrillic version into Google Translate for a rough translation you see how line orders and everything get affected…
Nightride by Gillian Clarke
The road unwinding under our wheels
New in the headlamps like a roll of foil.
The rain is a recorder writing tunes
In telegraph wires, kerbs and cats’ eyes,
Reflections and the lights of little towns.
He turns his head to look at me.
“Why are you quiet?” Shiny road rhythm,
Rain rhythm, beat of the windscreen wipers,
I push my knee against his in the warmth
And the car thrusts the dark and rain away.
The child sleeps, and I reflect, as I breathe
His brown hair, and watch the apple they gave him
Held in his hot hands, that a tree must ache
With the sweet weight of the round rosy fruit,
As I with Dylan’s head, nodding on its stalk.
by Gillian Clarke
from The Sundial, Gwasg Gomer, 1978)
Moithered by Mike Jenkins
She used it totally out of place
but natural as calling an infant ‘Babes!’
The poet’s moithered by all that pollution
like herself annoyed at my constant questions.
The word was her, chewing-gum twirler
giving so much lip and jip,
a desk-scribbler stirrer
using her tongue as a whip.
It was perfect for flustered:
I could imagine the artist
as all the complex phrases whirred
and churned, his hair in a twist.
No examiner could possibly weight it,
no educationalist glue and frame it:
it leapt out like her laughter
and my red mark was the real error.
by Mike Jenkins
from Red Landscapes
Some Things Succeed And Some Things Fail by Georgy Ivanov
Some things succeed, and some things fail;
everything’s nonsense that passes away…
But even so this reddish-brown grass
which grows by a gate in the fence will last.
… If Russian speech has the power to go
back to the land where the Neva flows –
from Paris I send these muddled words,
though even to me they sound absurd.
by Георгий Владимирович Иванов (Georgii Vladimirovich Ivanov)
(1950)
by Stephen Capus
Rambling At The Bridge Head 
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