Showing posts with label Russia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Russia. Show all posts

"Winter Night" by Boris Pasternak

Olga Ivinskaya and Boris Pasternak in 1958

It snowed and snowed throughout the land,
An endless snowing.
On the table, a candle burned;
A flame was glowing.

Like a swarm of gnats in summer

That flock to a light,
Snowflakes flew to the windowpane,
Afloat in the night.

The storm drew arrows on the glass
And circles, growing.
On the table, a candle burned;
A flame was glowing.

Up on the ceiling, shadows stirred,

Vivid and fleeting,
But where hands met and then legs met
Two fates were meeting.

And, knocked to the floor with a thud,

Two shoes came to rest;
And wax fell as lightly as tears
On folds of a dress.

All disappeared in snowy haze,

Blinding and blowing;
On the table, a candle burned;
A flame was glowing.

The candle shook in a draft, caught

In the chill one brings;
Temptation's heat, like an angel,
Raised its cross-shaped wings.

All February long it snowed,

And time and again
On the table, a candle burned;
A flame was glowing.

Зимняя ночь by Boris Pasternak

Translated by Frank Beck

When a poet writes about a snowstorm, we seldom know which storm he or she had in mind. In this case, we do. 
On the evening of February 6, 1947, Moscow pianist Maria Yudina invited a group of friends to hear her play and Boris Pasternak read. Rumor had it that the 56-year-old poet was working on a book of fiction, and there was great curiosity about it.

It snowed so heavily that day that Pasternak worried people wouldn't come; in fact, the car carrying him and his lover, Olga Ivinskaya, got lost repeatedly on the way to Yudina's apartment. Finally, as the car stood idling in the street, Pasternak looked up and saw a lamp flickering in a window. That must be the house, he said, and, strangely enough, he was right. 

The symbolism of a single candle guiding the way, through spiritual darkness as well as through a night in winter, resonated with Pasternak. The following morning, he wrote 'Winter Night', which weaves the imagery of that February evening into the love story that was at the core of his new work. For a time he considered calling it, 'A Candle Burned.' By the time the book was published, a decade later, he had named it Doctor Zhivago.

'Winter Night' eventually took its place as one of the 25 poems that form the final section of the novel, and it is now among the most frequently translated of all 20th-century poems. Anna Pasternak, the writer's grand-niece, describes its genesis in detail in her 2017 book, Lara: The Untold Love Story and The Inspiration for Doctor Zhivago; see the sixth link below.

"The Sail" by Mikhail Lermontov


One white and lonely sail out there,
amidst the fog and the ocean’s blue!
What does it seek in distant lands?
What was amiss in the one it knew?

Waves leap up into whistling wind;
the tall mast bends, and the rigging strains.
This is no flight from happiness,
but nor will happiness be its aim.

Before him spreads an azure path,
as though golden suns would never cease,
but he, rebellious, seeks the storm,
as if only in storms there were peace.

Mikhail Lermontov
Translation by Frank Beck

Mikhail Lermontov (1814-41) made his name at the age of 23 with a poem about the tragic death of Pushkin in a duel. Lermontov was part Russian and part Scot, the descendant of George Learmont, a Scottish officer who joined the Russian army in the 1600s.

Lermontov's poem was an outraged cry against the code of conduct that had led to Pushkin's death, yet Lermontov himself died the same way, challenged by a friend he had offended with his cutting remarks. The early deaths of these two poets made them legendary figures--much like Shelley and Keats in the English tradition.

Russian speakers still read Lermontov's prose--in particular A Hero of Our Time--as well as his poetry. Like much Russian verse, the poetry is difficult to translate, because its meaning is conveyed largely through the use of rhyme. English has far fewer rhyming possibilities than Russian does, so whether Russian rhymes can be reproduced in English is largely a matter of luck.

Lermontov in 1837

Boris Pasternak's "My Sister Life," written during Russia's 

tumultuous year of 1917, is dedicated to Lermontov. "What was he to me, in the summer of 1917?" Paternak later wrote. "The personification of creative adventure and discovery--the principle of everyday, free, poetical statement."


That dedication forms a link between Russian Romanticism and Russian Modernism, as if "The Waste Land" has been dedicated to Shelley or Keats. (The image at the top is a detail from "Seascape," a 1910 painting by Nikolai Dubovskoy.)


"Tiflis" (Tblisi), painted by Lermontov at the age of 23 in 1837

"A Letter to Mother" by Sergei Yesenin

Sergei Yesenin, 1922

Are you still alive, my starushka?
I am too, and I wanted to write.
I hope evening still bathes the cottage
in the same indescribable light.

They tell me that you try to hide it,
but I'm causing you pain and distress.
You walk out on the road after dinner
in your tattered and old-fashioned dress.

And, as you go walking through twilight,
what you brood on is always the same:
there’s a barroom fight, and there, at my
heart, someone plunges a Finnish blade.

It’s nothing, my dear! So calm yourself.
It's only a dream born of dread.
I may drink, but I’ll see you again
before anyone lays me down dead.

I’m as loving as ever I was,
and the one thing that I’m yearning for
is to leave behind my aimlessness
and return to our own front door.

I’ll come back when our garden is white
with the blossoms that I used to know;
but don’t wake me again at daybreak,
as you did once, eight years ago.

Don’t awaken the dreams that are gone;
don’t rehearse what can never come true.
The weary grief that living can bring
fell to my lot when life was still new.

And don’t ask me to pray. Don’t do it!
What is long past cannot be made right.
You alone are my comfort and help;
You are my indescribable light.

So please don't worry and pine for me;
don't let me cause you so much distress.
Don’t go out on the road so often
in your tattered and old-fashioned dress.

ПИСЬМО МАТЕРИ (Letter to Mother)
Sergei Yesenin (1895-1925)
Translation by Frank Beck

Sergie Yesenin's rapid fame--so disastrous for himself--came just as millions of Russians were moving from the countryside to the cities in the aftermath of the 1917 revolution. His poems of longing for the land and for the families left behind spoke for many.

But there was something else: Yesenin had an uncanny ear. His poems can charm you even if you can't understand a word. (Don't miss the performance by Natalya Savchenko that I've linked to below.) They have been irresistible for the generations of Russian songwriters who set them to music.

That combination of a theme with broad appeal and extraordinary poetic skills have won Yesenin a popularity in his native country second only to Pushkin's. Every day his readers--Russians from every part of society, including retirees who recall when his poems were banned, in Soviet days--bring flowers to his grave in Moscow.

The Yesenin family home in Konstantinovo, Ryazan

Yet Yesenin was one of the people in Russia least suited for the high-profile celebrity thrust on him. Emotionally unbalanced, he suffered from depression and hallucinations, and his main coping mechanism was alcohol. His reputation as a carouser eventually overshadowed his fame as a writer. Increasingly dissolute, he died a few months after this 30th birthday, under circumstances that are still unclear.

His chaotic life made headlines at the time, but Yesenin's lyric gift is what makes him beloved today. "The most precious thing he conveys," wrote Boris Pasternak, "is an image of nature, of his own Ryazan countryside in the depths of wooded Russia. He was able to describe it, as he saw it in childhood, with an overwhelming freshness."

Perhaps the best epitaph for Yesenin the man came from Nadezhda Volpin, a lover of his who was interviewed in the 1990s. "[He] was a true Russian," she said. "And not a 19th- or 20th-century Russian, but an eighth-century Russian, a primordial Russian." For those who read Cyrillic, here is Yesenin's poem in Russian:

Ты жива еще, моя старушка?
Жив и я. Привет тебе, привет!
Пусть струится над твоей избушкой
Тот вечерний несказанный свет.

Пишут мне, что ты, тая тревогу,
Загрустила шибко обо мне,
Что ты часто ходишь на дорогу
В старомодном ветхом шушуне.

И тебе в вечернем синем мраке
Часто видится одно и то ж:
Будто кто-то мне в кабацкой драке
Саданул под сердце финский нож.

Ничего, родная! Успокойся.
Это только тягостная бредь.
Не такой уж горький я пропойца,
Чтоб, тебя не видя, умереть.

Я по-прежнему такой же нежный
И мечтаю только лишь о том,
Чтоб скорее от тоски мятежной
Воротиться в низенький наш дом.

Я вернусь, когда раскинет ветви
По-весеннему наш белый сад.
Только ты меня уж на рассвете
Не буди, как восемь лет назад.

Не буди того, что отмечталось,
Не волнуй того, что не сбылось,—
Слишком раннюю утрату и усталость
Испытать мне в жизни привелось.

И молиться не учи меня. Не надо!
К старому возврата больше нет.
Ты одна мне помощь и отрада,
Ты одна мне несказанный свет.

Так забудь же про свою тревогу,
Не грусти так шибко обо мне.
Не ходи так часто на дорогу
В старомодном ветхом шушуне.


Yesenin's grave in Moscow