Freedom

"Why on earth would I need her?" I asked, inside.
She is not truly mine, neither friend nor bride,
And her crooked smile -just like Moon that bites
A chunk of every upcoming day.
Oh, what use are her canvases to my sight,
And her delicate fingers, like linen white,
As she weaves with a focused, deliberate might
All her spiderwebs around my way?

So, I said to her: "Darling - there’s the exit door."
Knowing well she would bend to the very floor
Halved with pain, but I said, "Freedom –is there more
Nobler aim, darling, ain’t I right? 
Are we not, Count, called to a grand design?"
She just lowered her eyes, and without a sign,
Gathered up all her knittings and threads so fine,
Softly left, closing doors behind.

Now I’m cheerful and proud, with no heavy chain,
So why is daytime sky linen- bleached with pain?
Why I dread my nights more than an awful reign
Of my foes, banners-shred in fight? 
I have cleared out the rooms. I searched high and low,
Lest she dropped a small token before she'd go,
Like a bird. Like I was her trap, and so
She took vengeance. Pierced the light.

I am searching—but she is nowhere to be found,
I have cast my bread on the waters around,
Let her come back to me, anywhere, unbound,
For my brow burns, my vision’s bleak.
Like a toad’s shed skin, freedom burns in the fire,
Fingers delicate, -spin for me, beg you, linen fine
Once again. Oh, I see her shadow in window, high.
And the Moon. And the stairs to it. 

*********

to listen: 

Hi, dear readers

Here’s a translation of my poem “Свобода” (probably draft 3, though I am not sure it’s final)

I’ll tag several people, with (or without) their kind permission- Larisa Rimerman, who strongly encouraged me to translate it, Portia, Paul Wittenberger, Смышленый Малыш Габриэль, vanechka, Konstantin Asimonov, Hyun Woo Kim, Eugene Terekhin, and, of course, all and everyone who might be interested in this tiny yet important slice of my trials and tribulations.

Thank you for your reading, feedback, suggestions, comments, and just being here.

I’ll copy-paste the original poem below, for ease of comparison (or you can click on my previous post): it’s called, as you’ve correctly guessed, “Свобода”

Да зачем бы, решил я, нужна она?
Не совсем моя, ни друг- ни жена,
Улыбается криво, точь-в-точь луна
Отгрызает кусок от дня.
Да на что мне- все ее полотна,
Ее тонкие пальцы, белее льна,
И с таким же усердьем плетет она
Паутину вокруг меня.

Я сказал ей: голубушка, дверь- вот там,
Знал: согнется от боли напополам,
Но что делать, сказал я, свобода нам
Не всего ли сейчас важней, 
Не великие ждут ли нас, граф, дела?
Опустила глаза, наспех собрала
Все вязанья, вышивки, что она там пряла,
Тихо вышла, прикрыла дверь. 

Вот я весел, горд, не обременен,
Отчего же днем небо бело, как лен, 
Отчего мои ночи грозней знамен
И штандартов чужих побед
Я все чисто убрал. Я обшарил дом,
Вдруг она обронила что-то, тайком,
Словно птица. Словно я был ее силком.
Отомстила, вонзилась в свет.

 Я ищу- но нет ее, нет нигде,
Я взял хлеб и пустил его по воде,
Пусть вернется ко мне, хоть когда хоть где,
Лоб горяч мой, в глазах темней, 
Жабьей шкуркой свобода горит в огне
Пальцы белые, -где вы? Спрядите мне
Полотно. Вот, я вижу ее- тень в окне,
И луна. И лестница к ней.





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* there are several references in the poem, as in all I write, I usually trust the reader and don't explain, or overexplain;  but then maybe English speakers would find this one interesting:  The image of the burning frog, or toad,  skin echoes Slavic fairy tales, where destroying the enchanted skin too soon- believing one is setting someone free- leads instead to separation and a long search. 

to listen: 

_{It feels pretty lame, translating myself, отметил я. “Гомер, Мильтон, и Паниковский”. Still- I hope it’s not the last time.}

Thank you. Thank you.