Modern Russian poetry

Anna Akhmatova THIS RUSSIAN EARTH In all the world no people are so tearless, So proud, so simple as are we. 1922 In lockets for a charm we do not wear it, In verse about its sorrows do not weep, With Eden�s blissful vales do not compare it, Untroubled does it leave our bitter sleep. To sell it is a flagrant thought that never, Not even in our hearts, unknown, takes root. Before our eyes its image does not hover, When we are beggared, sick, despairing, mute. It is mud on our shoes, it is rubble, It is sand on our teeth, it is slush, It is pure, taintless dust that we crumble, That we pound, that we mix, that we crush. But it�s ours, this earth, it�s our own, and Will receive and embrace us and turn us to clay. Translated by Irina Zheleznova Bulat Okudjava SONG OF THE OPEN DOOR When snowstorms howl like beasts at night, A raging growl unbroken, Never shut your door uptight, Let your door stand open. If you must journey far away Where hardship�s bound to find you You should make sure you leave that day An open door behind you. Departing in silent night, Not thinking of returning, Make sure your soul has left a light Among the pine logs burning. There should be warmth in every wall And comfort for the talking. A closed door does no good at all And padlocks aren�t worth making. Translated by Tom Botting AlexanderProkofiev YOU ARE SPLENDID, WOMENFOLK OF RUSSIA You are splendid, womenfolk of Russia- I have learned it not from books or art- You, who went through war and revolution, Never losing dignity or heart. Do not rummage through your memory�s pages; Let me say it, let me pay your due- I have seen you, gentle yet courageous, Russia�s womenfolk, I worship you! With your valour-soldierly, immortal, In the heat of conflagrations steeled, With the tears you shed in hidden corners Over bad news from the battlefield; With your grace, your far from easy fortune Oftentimes a widow�s bitter fate, With your fortune in battle, under torture, With your powers of passion, love and hate! All of this entitles you to glory, Meriting the people�s pride and praise, Part and parcel of our common story Which we shall remember all our days. Translated by Dorian Rottenberg Nikolai Gribachov HAPPINESS In nature chaos, battlers there, And some turn love itself to hell- The blame it seems is mine to bear, In part I am at fault as well: The strength I had was not exerted, The better path I failed to find; I strayed, by squabbles small diverted, The larger fight escaped my mind. But no excuses I am pleading, No tears I shed-of what avail? The iron winds of life are leading This traveler on the proper trail. And every child and wheat-eat growing, Each heart-beat�s sweet, melodious rhyme, All order me to keep on going, And seek unconquered heights to climb, To build, create, to fell no sorrow, Accept my losses and the door into tomorrow, To force the door into tomorrow, Confronting all that waits me there. In all our actions, honest sharing, Throughout the stormy years we span- It�s this, highest worth declaring, Brings final happiness to man Translated by Gladys Evans Nikolai Rubtsov BIRCHES I love the rustling of the birches When yellow leaves from birches fall, And as I listen tears come surging In eyes that seldom cry at all. All shall return to me in memory, Stir a response in heart and blood, Delight and pain me, as if somebody Were softly whispering of love. Except that prose prevails more often, Like the chill wind of sullen days. For does not such a birch-tree softly Rustle above my mother�s grave? A front-line bullrt killed my father, While I at home heard yellow leaves Fall by the fence in windy weather With rustling sound, like buzzing bees� My Russia, how I love your birches! They�ve been with me since I was born. And that is why the tears come surging In eyes that seldom cry at all� Translated by Peter Tempest Ludmila Tatyanicheva I speak of Russia, Not of bread� War broke into our land one day, And one alone Like the sun o�er head A loaf upon the platter lay, Baked out of sternly rationed flour, With powdery sawdust intermixed, But mother Slow, with hand severe, Divided it in several bits. With such a righteous measured law, There�s none with her who could compare: The weak one Needed slightly more- A thicker slice she made his share. However little bread there was Grieving and worrying for our health, She never missed out one of us. With the exception Of herself� Translated by Walter May Alexander Tvardovsky I have a firm, deep-rooted nation: The end of life�s span is not too near; Life is a stream in time�s vast ocean, And in this stream my course I steer All life is mine, its joys and sorrows, Its good and evil, warmth and cold, All its todays, all its tomorrows- When I am young and when I�m old. Time is life�s pledge; �tis sparely given, And I shall use its every day. Life may be short, its road uneven- I�ll make it straight: Life doesn�t stay: Life without action dries away. Translated by Marina Tarlinskaya Larissa Vasileyva To build is harder than to break. But still few skills do we rate higher Than truly to appreciate Just what a man does not require. How shameful, wretched and absurd is A fir tree felled in foolish haste, A twig torn off without a purpose, Or bread that�s cut and thrown to waste. Translated by Peter Tempest Andrei Voznesensky EARTH Barefoot, we love to tread the earth, Earth vaporous, soft, dear. Where? In Ethiopia? Or in Havana? In Ryazan�s shady grove? In a sun-baked savanna? In the place of one�s birth? We are men, We love to tread the earth. Its currents run thought us, liberated, But from the earth we are isolated, City-dwellers that we are, By cobblestones, asphalt, rails, cars� Yet with smiles we greet a sapling Up thought the granite like a geyser spurting! I dream of an earth free of fetters and trenches, Free of warfare�s acrid stenches, Decked in lindens, rich in dreams luminous, Blazing with showers aluminum, An earth of women, of steaming trains, Pregnant with fruit, heavy with grain, An earth of magic, of human magic, Rumbling, puffing, flaunting its music!� Somewhere on Mars a visitors from Earth Will take out a handful of warm, brown earth And lovingly gaze at the blue-green sphere, Never distant, Ever near! Translated by Irina Zheleznova Yevgeni Yevtushenko THE MOTHER A mother with a child in her embrace Is beautiful. But look! The lad is struggling Already to escape this gentle cuddling While tufts of flaxen down yet frame his face. While he sups milk and patent, pureed pap He�s dreaming hopefully of vodka and of pickles; Already firm and white, his first tooth prickles Up thought the gum, a sugar-mountain cap. The mother reverences her tiny tot, Half-choked with joy to see her lord and master Ensconced upon a throne of alabaster Which they are just pretending is a pot. But at the moment does the little boy, His every freckle redolent of cunning, Learn how to play on mother in his funning While still pretending that he is her toy? He knows just how to drive her round the bend By writhing on the ground in perfect simulations Of fits and spasms-sure dissimulation Will help him get his own way in the end. He knows just how to wheedle and persuade, The alternative of tears to sweetness weighing And all his calculations nicely made. The mother has no doubts that all is sooth For, though the sons of others may deceive them, Yet this is her son: must she not believe him? His every tear and temperament-the truth. Then comes the day when her child in his turn Lies too transparently-and her most sacred, Implicit trust is shattered. Like raw acid The boy�s his mother�s blind heart burns. A self-deceiver he who first deceives In childhood. Though his victims past and future May number many women-all his dupes now- His mother was the first he caused to grieve� Translated by Avril Pyman