"Не жалею, не зову, не плачу…"
a translation
I don’t cry, nor call, nor do I pity
All will pass, white smoke of apple trees
Gripped and overcome by golden wilting,
No longer young I’ll ever be.
You won’t beat fast as you are beating,
Heart, you’re now touched with chill and cool
And the land of birch calico won’t lure me
Anymore to wonder there barefoot.
A vagabond spirit! Each day you are lesser,
Lesser stirring my lips’ wild flame
O my lost freshness, lost, a riot
Of my eyes, and feelings’ flood, now tamed.
I’ve became charier in desires,
Life, my life, can be- I dreamt of you?
As if a rose horse I was fast riding,
Galloping through morning of my youth.
All us in this world, we’re fleeting, frail,
Copper’s pouring off the maple leaves, so quiet…
May it be then so it’s blessed forever
That it came to blossom, and to die.
Sergei Yesenin, 1922 .
*************** big thank you to
for inspiration and challenge, and , for sharing his translation of the poem.It’s humbling, yet emboldening at the same time…
***is it a good translation? Probably not. But here it is, nevertheless.
**** I wanted to post something else. Several something elses. But it’s getting too long. And too late. Maybe next time.
*****About that…it might be I’ll be less able to read/write in the next…then, who knows with me. Just wanted to tell you, in case takes me longer to read you, guys.
Stay safe, you all! and thank you for reading, and writing, and..omg, that’s precisely how my voice messages sound too. Neverending. Shoo, I told myself.
Really though. Thank you.
Love,
Chen alias April
Thank you, thank you, thank you, Jenny. It is very good. You know there are no excellent translations; I even tried to explain why it's impossible with Russian. But You are such a talented poet; you can do it, and now I hope we will do Blok with your best translation of his poem Девушка пела в церковном хоре.
Leaves have fallen. Phone calls recorded erased. Inside the message remains a heart beat away from the snow falling encased in slumber that will translate to spring.
Good translation, but I know little of words that mean something else to another’s ears. I know the pen writes. There is the clock. Make the hands move. Midnight is near.