Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

"The Life Path" by Friedrich Hölderlin



You too sought greater things, but the weight of love pulls
All of us down, and grief drives us even lower.
Yet the arc of our lives back
Where they came from is not in vain.

High or low! Does a hand not rule silent Nature
In holy night where all the days to come are planned,
And even Hell’s fractured maze--
Ruled by degree, and judged by law?

This much I have learned: unlike mortal masters, you
Heavenly, all-sustaining powers have never
Led me, as far as I know,
Along any level pathway.

A person tries all that life brings, say the heavens,
So that, well nourished, we may give thanks for it all
And understand the freedom
To set forth wherever we wish.

“Lebenslauf,” Friedrich Hölderlin (1770-1843)
Summer 1800
Translated by Frank Beck 2018

Many poets revise their poems after their initial publication. Usually the purpose is to bring the poem closer to the writer's original intent. With "Lebenslauf," Friedrich Hölderlin did something unusual: he took a poem about sorrow written two years earlier and rewrote it as a longer poem that expresses a nearly opposite point-of-view. 

The original four-line poem was one of 17 short poems Hölderlin sent to his friend, Christian Ludwig Neuffer, in the summer of 1798 for use in an anthology called A Pocket Book for Educated Ladies. At the time, Hölderlin was a 28-year-old former seminary student working as a private tutor for the Gontard family in Frankfurt. He had fallen in love with his student's mother, Susette Gontard, and the relationship had grown tense. The poem, however, expresses not anguish but resignation:

            High was my spirit's aim, but love has already
            Drawn it lower, and grief weighs it down even more.
            So I am making my way
            Through life's arc, back to where I began.

The two years between that poem and the longer one were pivotal ones in Hölderlin's life. He left the Gontard household and moved to nearby Homburg, remaining in touch with Susette. In 1799 he published the second volume of his epistolary novel, Hyperion, set against the backdrop of Greece's fight for independence.

Paradoxically, the suffering caused by parting with Susette made Hölderlin less self-centered. His previous poetry had emphasized life's tragedies; now he wrote with greater freedom, often in a prophetic vein. Rather than lamenting the problems of his existence, he celebrated what he thought life could be, in its highest and most satisfying form. 

During those two years, as Michael Hamburger has shown, Hölderlin learned from the Greeks how to make his poetry more sensuous and concrete. In the case of "Lebenslauf", the quiet resignation of the earlier poem gave way to an heroic self-assertion that seeks to speak for his readers, as well as for himself.

During the following seven years, Hölderlin wrote "Bread and Wine" and the other extended poems for which he is best known. In 1807, however, he suffered a severe mental collapse. He spent the remaining 36 years living in seclusion, cared for by the family of Ernst Zimmer, a poetry-loving carpenter in Tübingen, a town near Stuttgart. 

For nearly a century, Hölderlin's work was not widely known, but in 1913 a young German scholar named Norbert von Hellingrath began publishing an edition of his poems that eventually filled six volumes. Rainer Maria Rilke saw some of the manuscripts while the edition was being prepared, and they became an important influence on the Duino Elegies, which Rilke published in 1923.

The first two stanzas of the 1800 poem in Hölderlin's hand
(Württembergische Landesbibliothek)


"Winter Night" by Boris Pasternak

Olga Ivinskaya and Boris Pasternak in 1958

It snowed and snowed throughout the land,
A ceaseless 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

Sappho: An evocative fragment

Fresco associated with Sappho (from Pompeii, first century CE)

Dropping out of sight go the moon  
and Pleiades. Midnight slides
by me, then hour on hour.
I lie here awake and alone.

Anne Carson says, "Sappho is a musician," and her own Sappho translations are some of the most musical English versions of Classical Greek poetry I've ever read (see the first link below). Many translators simply put the poet's thoughts into modern English, without trying to reproduce Sappho's music. 

In this translation of one of the best known fragments attributed to Sappho (no. 168b), I've maintained the syllabic count of the Greek lines and echoed the meter as closely as I could. I've also been mindful of the caesura (the mid-line pause in Classical verse): in lines 2, 3 and 4, it falls in the same place as in the Greek.


I have also matched the position of key vowels, although I had to juggle the four long vowels in the last line that give the poem's closing its plaintive feeling in Greek. (Note that I intend "Pleiades" to be spoken with the accent on the second syllable, as in Greek, not on the first syllable, as in English.) 

In order to replicate Sappho's meter, I've altered a few line-to-line meanings. For example, the phrase that runs over from line 2 to line 3 means, "It is the middle of the night". I've changed that to "Midnight slides by me" to meet the needs of the meter.

Anyone who reads Greek can judge how faithful I've been to Sappho's music and where I've strayed from her literal meaning:

Δέδυκε μὲν ἀ σελάννα
καὶ Πληίαδες· μέσαι δὲ
νύκτες, παρὰ δ᾽ ἔρχετ᾽ ὤρα·
ἔγω δὲ μόνα κατεύδω.

"Sappho and Alcaeus" by Lawrence Alma-Tadema, 1881 (click to enlarge)

"Aeolian song is suddenly revealed as a mature work of art in the spirited stanzas of Alcaeus. It is raised to a supreme excellence by his younger contemporary, Sappho, whose melody is unsurpassed, perhaps unequalled, among all the relics of Greek verse." 

                                    British classicist Richard Claverhouse Jebb (1841-1905)


"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

Christine to her son

Poissy: where Pizan may have lived during her last years

I have no great fortune, my son,

To make you rich. In place of one,
here are the lessons I have learned--
the finest things I've ever earned.

Before the world has borne you far,

try to know people as they are.
Knowing that will help you take
the path that keeps you from mistakes.

Pity anyone who is poor

and stands in rags outside your door.
Help them when you hear them cry!
Remember that you too will die.

Love those who have love for you,

and keep your enemy in view:
of allies none can have too many;
small enemies there are not any.

Never lose what the Good Lord gave

to this, our world, too much enslaved.
The foolish rush to end their lives;
only the steadfast soul survives.

Christine de Pizan; translation by Frank Beck

Many years ago, I was asked to find some poems in Middle French and translate them for use by American middle school students studying the Renaissance. I expected to find courtly language and an abstract piety. As I began to read this poem, I was astonished at its simplicity and emotional directness.

I discovered that Christine de Pizan (1364-1430) was Europe's first female writer to have her work widely read. It's often said that Pizan became a writer because her husband died, leaving her as the sole support for their two children, her mother and her niece. But many Renaissance women lost their partners without becoming writers.


Pisan in her study (1411-12)
Pizan was very fortunate in having a father--Tommaso di Benevenuto da Pizzano (near Bologna)--who gave her an education as good as any boy's in her day. When Christine was four, Tommaso became court astrologer to King Charles V of France, and the family moved to Paris, already a center for learning. Tommaso arranged for his daughter to study classical languages, history, literature and religion, and she did so with dedication until she was wed at the age of 15.


When her husband died 11 years later, Christine began writing ballads about lost love to ease her grief. But eventually she used her verbal skills to present a broad feminist critique of Renaissance society in works such as The Book of the City of Ladies. She argued that women should be more respected and better educated and should have a role outside the home. C.C. Willard has chronicled Pizan's life and work in her 1984 biography, published by Persea Books.

If Pisan could see the role women have in today's society, I think she would be deeply gratified at what they have achieved, but also saddened that it has taken so long.

Sparrow Hills

View of Moscow from Sparrow Hills (A. Kuindzhi, 1882)

A breast kissed wet, as though under a shower!
But summer streams do not flow forever,
And we cannot stay on here night after night,
Raising dust to the accordion’s low drone.

I’ve heard about old age—a frightening prediction!
No crashing wave will lift its hands to the stars.
And imagine: they say there's no face in the fields,
no heart in the pond and, in the forest, no God.

Let your soul break free! The day bubbles like surf.
It's the noontime of the world. Where are your eyes?
Look: high in the treetops, thought is a simmering mix
Of woodpeckers, pine cones, heat, needles and clouds.

Here the track of the city trolley ends.
Machines are barred; pine trees will have to do.
From here on, it’s Sunday—a parting of branches,
A dash through the meadow and a slide on the grass.

Weaving our steps with sunlight and Whitsunday,
The woods insist the world is always like this.
The trees believe it; the meadow understands;
It pours down from the sky across our laps.

Воробьёвы горы from My Sister, Life, 1922
Boris Pasternak; translation by Frank Beck

Imagine trying to translate Dylan Thomas into Russian. Bringing a Pasternak poem into English isn't much easier, but I tackled this one because I think the existing versions don't do justice to the poet's unique voice. Many English-language translators seem put off by Pasternak's exuberance--those three exclamation marks in the first nine lines of "Sparrow Hills" are his, not some addition of mine.

The biggest problem for a translator of this particular poem is the crucial role its rhymes play: they cannot be replicated in another language. There's also the challenge of recreating Pasternak's mix of the lyrical and the mundane. For example, the poem's first line refers to a rukomoinik--the kind of wall-mounted water tank many Russians once used for bathing. This word has often been translated as "spigot" or "pitcher", but the connotations of the Russian word are at once more domestic and more erotic. "Shower" is a closer counterpart, I think.


Pasternak in 1916

























While I could not reproduce Pasternak’s rhymes, I have preserved many of his cadences and mirrored the way he builds meaning, line-by-line. In place of his end-rhyme, I used assonance and alliteration to create a closely patterned sound structure similar to his. Throughout my translation, I tried to convey the force of Pasternak’s charged language and the sheer delight of his imaginative leaps.

Pasternak's poems have been recorded by any number of Russian actors, and some have been set to music. I've included a link to readings of "Sparrow Hills" and the title poem from My Sister, Life, so you can hear two of them in Pasternak's own language. I've also provided a translation of the book's title poem by Phillip C. Flayderman.

"You know I'd like to slip"


You know I'd like to slip
from the loudly buzzing room
when the first pale stars,
high above the darkened oaks,
catch fire.

I want to make my way
through paths that few can find
in the hushed evening meadows,
with no dream but this:
you’re there, too.

"Weisst du, ich will mich schleichen"
Rainer Maria Rilke/translated by Frank Beck

This is from Rilke's second collection, Advent, published in December 1897. The poems were written in Prague and Munich during 1896 and 1897.

Many of the poems in this collection, like this one, show a more direct and sensual side of Rilke that gives little indication of the mystical, sometimes oracular, voice he would develop later. (The photo shows Rilke at the artist colony in Worpswede, near Bremen, in 1901 or 1902.)

Here's the German poem:

Weisst du, ich will mich schleichen
Leise aus lautem Kreis,
Wenn ich erst die bleichen
Sterne über den Eichen
Blühen weiss.

Wege will ich erkiesen,
Die selten wer betritt
In blassen Abendwiesen –
Und keinen Traum, als diesen: