blank verse

The Winter Tremble

blank verse by Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-1898),  my translation

 

Always slow, among flowers and deities, the clock striking thirteen. Who previously owned this Saxon clock? Picture them bringing it from Saxony by those old slow stagecoaches.

(Weird shadows looming over the old windowpanes.)

Who did ever look at oneself in the Venetian mirror, deep like a cold spring, enclosed in the snaky framing with the faded gilding? Surely, more than one woman used to sink the sin of her beauty in the stream of this spring and if I stayed peering for a long while I could see>The Winter Tremble

blank verse by Stéphane Mallarmé a naked phantom.

“Nasty, you can be so caustic…”

(The cobweb above the big windows.)

Our wardrobe trunk is very old too. Look how the glum woodwork shows purple in this lighting. Time has left traces on the faded curtains, on the embroidery of the chairs with the faded ruddy varnish, and the yellowish etchings on the walls, on all our old things. Don’t you think that even the Bengalee finches and blue bird are somewhat time-faded?

(Don’t think of the cobweb that trembles above the big windows.)

You love all this, that’s why I can live beside you. Didn’t you wish — oh my sister whose eye turned to the Past — the words “charm of all withering” to sound in one of my cantos? You detest new things. They frighten you with their meretricious harshness, making you feel like obliterating their counters and colours — which is so difficult to those who are tired by every motion.

Close the old German Almanach, which you read so attentively, though it is published more than a hundred years ago and the enumerated lords are no more. Lying on the ancient carpet with my head on the faded cloth that covers your lap, oh quiet child, I shall be talking long! No fields around; the streets have got empty; I shall talk about our furniture… What are you thinking about?

(The cobweb trembling above the big windows.)

Photo of painting by Julius Sergius von Klever (1850-1924)
Painting by Julius Sergius von Klever (1850-1924)

 

poem in my translation

The Butterfly

by Afanasy Fet (1820-1892)

 

You’re right. An outline of Air

I am so sweet.

My velvet with its living blinking–

only two wings.

Don’t ask me whence, what brought me,

where I speed.

I light the flower down, here,

and now I breathe.

How long, so aimless, so effortless,

I want to breathe?

That’s it now, flashing, raising wings

I fly away.

AG00130_

Natalia Nikiforova I’m enamoured of you (flouncing soul)

Translated from Russian by Victor Sklyarov
(Russian original and her other poems are at www.allthelyrics.com )

I don’t want you to be neither lover, nor friend, nor the kind.
Remain sole like the wind got entangled low in dust.
And my words will empoison return route you wont find,
Our ships having touched sculls at last separated in dusk.

Let the howler shout out the warnings of dangers in haze
Our feelings will not be rescued by this tedious growl
In a desperate rage waves will raise over us in blind maze
And will scatter in vain never cooling the fever of soul.

This is when all the windows of heaven will suddenly close
And the sun will embrace all the seas with a hope and light
And the ships will turn back over wimpled bright road
Further route side by side will be easy not burdened by fight!

BLACK EYES

Translated  from Russian by Victor P. Sklyarow

Dark abyss of eyes, oh, what bliss of eyes
Penetrating eyes, and frustrating eyes!
I’m adoring you, I’m afraid of you,
I met your power in an ill hour!

Be that hour cursed, I met you for worst
Dark abyss of eyes, those wistful eyes!
Having not met you I would not abuse
Honest life I loose by the way you choose.

I have one same dream, deep at night I see
And feel happiness is obsessing me
But awake I find only lonely night,
Blank bedside, and what would console my soul.

Dark abyss of eyes, oh, what bliss of eyes
Penetrating eyes, and frustrating eyes!
I’m adoring you, I’m afraid of you,
I met your power in an ill hour!

Victor P. Sklyarow is an experienced translator and poet from Novorossiysk, Russia.

HEY MUSICIAN PLAY

Translated from Russian by Victor Sklyarow

Years and milleniums pass
No change in our die-cast
And in usual routine
Flow following at last.

Some exhausted, and some lazy,
Some about bread are crazy,
Over all sounds simple tune.
All discepancies erazing

Hey, musiciian, play, I’ll be believing,
That the better a day will come soon
Hey, musiciian, play, doors all leaving
Wde ajar to the future blue moon

lt is not an audience freak,
No French shouts, no Greek.
Missing curtains; and no prompters,
And the scene is narrow street.

Songs and fates and cities scores
That’s musicians’ en route chores.
And his empty pocket trite
Is the least of mundain woes

Hey, musiciian, play, I’ll be believing,
That the better a day will come soon
Hey, musiciian, play, doors all leaving
Wde ajar to the future blue moon

Victor P. Sklyarow is an experienced translator and poet from Novorossiysk, Russia.

OH RUSSIA by Igor Talkov

Translated from Russian by Victor P. Sklyarow

I’m ruffling leaves of old notes,
The general was executed,
I failed to reckon what behold
How the country had been sold
And let them all to have you looted

And from Dark Ages you emerged
Like giant to his feet arising
Your Petersburg prevented wars
By the superb effective force
In Catherine-age self-realizing.
Oh Russia

The sacred music of church bells
Lingering over Moscow air
To some it sounded like knell
And even slightest sounds spelled
The radicals to their despair

And golden domes of the Church
Were blinding their failing eye-sight
And irritated Evil’s serfs
To the extent that they decided
To tear your eyes out and to blind you.

Oh, Russia

The skies burst open with a crush
The mob of Judases appeared
Cutting away the churches’ heads
Proclaiming newest leader’s rush
New crucifiers of believers
They tied you down with red flags
They knelt you down to meet death
The carnifex then raised his cleaver
And your death-warrant had been read
By bloodiest king and greatest leader.
Oh, Russia

I’m ruffling leaves of old notes,
The general was executed,
The old hand-written texts, they oath
And resurrect the shot-down truths
They are so hard to be revoked
By generation that was looted.
Oh, Russia
(my continuation)
Again skies opened with a crush,
Again same Judases appeared
They now disguised as democrats
To shreds they Russia’s body tear,
To global aims they onwards rush
Sparing churches that they fear
They think that their aim is near,
But very soon they’ll disappear
Just owing to their tear and wear.

Victor P. Sklyarow is an experienced translator and poet from Novorossiysk, Russia.

SO DARK THE NIGHT by Mark Bernes

Translated from Russian by Victor P. Sklyarow

So dark the night, only bullets do buzz over head,
Only wind whizzes weary wires, and the stars glimmer dimly
So dark the  night, but my darling won’t go to bed
Rocking cradle with baby tonight sudden tear you wipe grimly.

How I do love silent depth of your innocent eyes
Oh, how I wish to touch them with my lips this moment
So dark the night separates us beloved my wife,
And the barren dark no-man’s land makes me insolvent.

I trust in you, my unfailing magnificent light,
And this trust kept me safe in dark night bullets shot at me hampered
I’m full of joy and so calm in ignivomous fight
For I know you will meet me with love just whatever would happen.

No fear of death, we’ve met it many times in the field
Even just now it continues new victims trapping
You wait for me rocking cradle you are not asleep
And therefore I am really sure nothing bad ever happen!

V.Agatov

Victor P. Sklyarow is an experienced translator and poet from Novorossiysk, Russia.

SUMMER RAIN by Igor Talkov

Translated from Russian by Victor P. Sklyarow

Memory has seized stinging
Thoughts do not beat on the hands
You’re going and I’m seeing
You off to the alien lands
You are the constant migrant
Looking for good luck
You came just to say that you went
And you fly again.
So scud.

Summer rain, summer rain
It today has pored so early
Summer rain, summer rain
Will clear my heartache curlie-wurlie
We shall share our grieves with it
By the water-blind pane
Summer rain, summer rain
Whispers it to me his wisdom:
You will come, come again
Come again, to return freedom
Missing one’s time is most frequent of life plays
With two actors at stage.

Night dreams of you will soon vanish
Soon they will perish and, oh!
New dream will lighten and get warmth in my old cold home
When you have love, don’t seek more loving
You’ll realize with time
Now you don’t want to hear my cry and you’re lost for a while.

Summer rain, summer rain
It today has pored so early
Summer rain, summer rain
Will clear my heartache curlie-wurlie
We shall share our grieves with it
By the water-blind pane
Summer rain, summer rain
Whispers it to me his wisdom:
You will come, come again
Come again, to return freedom
Missing one’s time is most frequent of life plays
With two actors at stage.

Victor P. Sklyarow is an experienced translator and poet from Novorossiysk, Russia.

The Ponds Called Clear Springs

Translated from Russian by Victor P. Sklyarow

Yet each in Universe has hiding place to nurse
His heart-ache for a while, to stay in a seclusion
Where memories of past will cure all the worst,
Will calm down injured heart from previous intrusion.

The ponds called Clear Springs, and so shy bowing willows
Like the girls agape at the lake-side
Clear Springs, meadows green, my childish dream playground,
So far away in space-time,
Distanced rich accordion sound.

I hurry to return to their benignant light
And boats on the water light-beam flashes
We left this place one day to plunge into the life
And I am here again, and you are sure to dash in!

The ponds called Clear Springs, and so shy bowing willows
Like the girls agape at the lake-side
Clear Springs, meadows green, my childish dream playground,
So far away in space-time,
Distanced rich accordion sound.

And once you’ll cross the town to stop before a lake
And waters will reflect familiar other image
They will cure your heart and maybe will relate
Forgotten memories to ripen them in vintage.

The ponds called Clear Springs, and so shy bowing willows
Like the girls agape at the lake-side
Clear Springs, meadows green, my childish dream playground,
So far away in space-time,
Distanced rich accordion sound.

Yet each in Universe has hiding place to nurse
His heart-ache and with time we cherish them still stronger
There you can breathe with ease, there’s purity of earth
They make us happy, young and we’re gloomy no longer

The ponds called Clear Springs, and so shy bowing willows
Like the girls agape at the lake-side
Clear Springs, meadows green, my childish dream playground,
So far away in space-time,
Distanced rich accordion sound.

Victor P. Sklyarow is an experienced translator and poet from Novorossiysk, Russia.