‘не надо говорит неправду детям…’ (Lies) by Yevgeny Yevtushenko

Telling lies to the young is wrong.

Proving to them that lies are true is wrong.

Telling them that God’s in his heaven

and all’s well with the world is wrong.

The young know what you mean. The young are people.

Tell them the difficulties can’t be counted,

and let them see not only what will be

but see with clarity these present times.

Say obstacles exist they must encounter

sorrow happens, hardship happens.

The hell with it. Who never knew

the price of happiness will not be happy.

Forgive no error you recognize,

it will repeat itself, increase,

and afterwards our pupils

will not forgive in us what we forgave.

.

.

by Евгений Александрович Евтушенко

(Yevgeny Aleksandrovich Yevtushenko)

(1952)

translation by Robin Milner-Gulland and Peter Levi

A recital of the poem in Russian by a lady named Yulia who reads ‘poems of love’ on her YouTube channel.

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

Не надо говорить неправду детям…

Не надо говорить неправду детям,
не надо их в неправде убеждать,
не надо уверять их, что на свете
лишь тишь да гладь да божья благодать.

Не надо по желанью своему
морочить их несбыточными снами.
Учить не надо верить их тому,
чему уже давно не верим сами.

Солгавший детям детство обезлюдит,
подсунет им бесчестье, словно честь.
Пусть видят же не только то, что будет,
пусть видят, ясно видят то, что есть.

Сладинка лжи — отрава в манной каше.
Писк лживый не прощайте у кутят,
и нас потом воспитанники наши
за то, что мы прощали, — не простят.

Loss by Yevgeny Yevtushenko (1932 – 2017)

Russia has lost Russia in Russia.

Russia searches for itself

like a cut finger in the snow,

a needle in a haystack,

like an old blind woman madly stretching her hand in fog,

searching with hopeless incantation for her lost milk cow.

 

We buried our icons.

We didn’t believe in our own great books.

We fight only with alien grievances.

 

Is it true we didn’t survive under our own yoke,

becoming for ourselves worse than foreign enemies?

Is it true that we are doomed to live only in the silk

nightgown of dreams, eaten by moths? –

Or in numbered prison robes?

 

Is it true that epilepsy is our national character?

Or convulsions of pride?

Or convulsions of self-humiliation?

Ancient rebellions against new copper kopeks,

againsy such foreign fruits as potatoes are

now only a harmless dream.

 

Today’s rebellion swamps the entire Kremlin

like a mortal tide –

Is it true that we Russians have only one unhappy choice?

The ghost of Tsar Ivan the Terrible?

Or the ghost of Tsar Chaos?

So many imposters. Such ‘imposterity’.

 

Everyone is a leader, but no one leads.

We are confused as to which banners and

slogans to carry.

And such a fog in our heads

that everyone is wrong

and everyone is guilty in everything.

 

We already have walked enough in such fog,

in blood up to our knees.

Lord, you’ve already punished us enough.

Forgive us, pity us.

 

Is it true we no longer exist?

Or are we not yet born?

We are birthing now,

but it’s so painful to be born again.

 

by Евгений Александрович Евтушенко

Yevgeny Aleksandrovich Yevtushenko (18 July 1932 – 1 April 2017)

Потеря / Loss – first published 13 March 1991

translation by James Ragan and Yevgeny Yevtushenko