Friday, September 20, 2019

Kibirov's Poplar

Image courtesy of Poetry Northwest

I've clearly been doing a terrible job of keeping up this blog, but here's a belated link to my translation of a poem by Timur Kibirov, which I was very happy to place with the venerable journal Poetry Northwest. If the gods are kind to me, there will be plenty more of his poems showing up in English in the coming years. They're piling up in my notebooks, desk drawers, and on hard drives...

The poem also appeared in Russia in the 2016 anthology 100 Poems about Moscow / 100 стихотворений о Москве, edited by Maxim Amelin with much help wrangling translators from Anne O. Fisher—or Annie, as we in the translation crowd know her.

Here are the opening two stanzas, with the Russian below the fold:


from the cycle “Romances of the Cheryomushki District”

On valor, on heroism, on the glory
of the Communist Party on the bitter earth,
on Ligachev and Okudzhava,
on the poplar that rustles in the mist.

On the poplar by my window, on you and
your warm body, on the poplar right here,
on how we’ve barely left the cradle,
the grave awaits, and nothing is clear.

Tuesday, December 25, 2018

A Nativity Poem by Konstantin Vaginov

Konstantin Vaginov (unknown photographer, circa 1920) / Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons


My Finger Gleams Like the Star of Bethlehem
   by Konstantin Vaginov

My finger gleams like the star of Bethlehem:
the garden looms within it, a stream sighs.
Now Jesus comes, drifts off beneath a fig tree,
and plays dreary old songs on a Greek lyre.

I had walked with care around a house doomed
to fall, and then took twelve soft, shaky steps
and set off through the Haymarket to hear the star
smoldering above black snow and icy streets.

From “Petersburg Nights,” 1919-1923

Translated from the Russian by Jamie Olson

Monday, December 25, 2017

Lenin’s Christmas: A Nativity Poem

Unattributed illustration from Bonch-Bruyevich’s Lenin and the Children (1975) / Image courtesy of e-Reading

From “Christmas” (1985)
by Timur Kibirov

7
                             … Yet the Son slept
a sweet sleep, and over His brow
streamed the light from last night’s

8
Star, blending with the radiance
of the scarlet dawn.
Free from anger or sadness,
bubbles formed on
those Lips that yet again would
give the Good News, that would
grimace and spit blood
and praise the merciful Lord…

9
But the news spread, and rumor
filled the world.
At last it reached the Kremlin,
our Russian stronghold.
 And the tall blue firs rustled!
The cannon fired for the first time!
A watchman recoiled in terror!
And then from the mausoleum

10
he came. He climbed into the car.
Iron Felix sat beside him.
Behind the wheel was the “Sailor,”*
staring down anyone they passed.
They flew faster than the wind.
They drove up. They knocked.
A smile beamed
from the face of Ilyich.
He had come with New Year’s gifts:
the Peace Decree, saccharin,
a copy of the Great Initiative,
the log he’d hauled at the work party,

11
first-rate provisions, and a bouquet
of white paper roses,
just as alluring and bright
as our poet Blok evoked them.
A bust of Marx, a pioneer scarf,
a packet of blank arrest forms,
the 3rd Congress of the Komsomol,
and a bayonet from the Red Guard.

12
They left the Sailor standing
at the door. They went in.
No sooner had they seen Him
than they became bewildered
and backed away in terror.
Their faces grew pale. They trembled
and dissolved in the air… The Sailor
instantly toppled off the porch
and sprawled out like a worm.
But listen! Already, the horns

13
of battle have begun to sound
from far off in the distance.
Our armor is strong! Our hand
is firm! Our fury is righteous!
The sky quakes with thunder —
propeller, sing your furious song!
And now an NKVD squad
has got the place surrounded

Translated from the Russian by Jamie Olson


______________

* Anatoly Grigoryevich Zheleznyakov (1895-1919), also known as “Sailor Zheleznyak,” was an anarchist, seaman in the Baltic fleet, and one of the leaders of the Bolshevik revolution in 1917. During the Russian Civil War, he commanded a brigade of armored trains and died from a chest wound sustained in a battle against White army troops in Ukraine.

Friday, December 1, 2017

What's That Smell?

Kebabs, a.k.a. shashlyk / Image courtesy of Давай сходим!


For a few years now, the Russian contingent of the American Literary Translators Association has organized a workshop for translators working in either direction with our two languages: Russian and English. The discussions at these workshops are completely fascinating and have become – for me – one of the highlights of the ALTA conference. In a sense, those discussions amount to a kind of crowdsourcing, with seasoned and novice translators alike all pitching in their ideas to solve problems. Anyone can bring a handout with translation conundrums, and all who attend are welcome to take part in the conversation.

This year, the theme of the workshop – organized by Shelley Fairweather-Vega and Annie Fisher – was “Only in Russia,” in which our aim was to “discuss translating concepts, objects, or practices that are specific to Russophone culture (or that have no easily identifiable equivalent in Anglophone culture).” My own approach was to highlight a handful of completely mundane but ubiquitous words and phrases that I took from poems by Boris Slutsky, Irina Yevsa, and Linor Goralik. Each of my examples involved objects or concepts, especially from the Soviet period, that any native speaker of Russian would instantly understand but that translators might find tricky to capture in English.

For instance, nearly every Soviet kid strove to become an «октябрёнок», but how does one import into English the whole context of Young Pioneers and their age gradations? (My solution: the kid became a “Pioneer Cub,” on the model of the Boy Scouts and their younger comrades, the Cub Scouts.)

And what to do with a poem that has its characters playing «в города»? Should the word game even be mentioned? Won’t it distract from the action of the poem? (My solution: they played “I Spy” instead.)

But my prime example – which, in the event, we didn’t have time to discuss – was something I brought in to demonstrate what I deemed untranslatable: the opening lines of a book by Timur Kibirov in which he catalogs the characteristic odors of his Soviet life. How can you translate scent, that most immediately specific, memory-bound, and place-based of the senses? I thought it couldn't be done. I didn’t even want to bother trying.

Saturday, December 24, 2016

A Nativity Poem by Valentin Berestov

Valentin Berestov (undated photograph) / Image courtesy of Pskov's Centralized Library System

[NOTE: As I have done in previous years, I'm posting a nativity poem for the Christmas season. Enjoy!]


*     *     *

Yuletide
by Valentin Berestov

Every year, when Christ is born,
beauty comes into the world.        

January icicles
flood with light.      
January ice-crust  
holds your weight.

January snow grants you speed.
It glitters and blushes at noon,  
it gleams in the half-light of the moon.
And every January day
outstretches its own yesterday.
And each night feels just the time  
for feasting, revelry, and wine.

1985

Translated from the Russian by Jamie Olson

______________________

Translator’s note: Russian Orthodox Christians, who follow the Julian calendar for all church holidays, celebrate Christmas on January 7, not December 25.


*     *     *

Thursday, January 28, 2016

Slutsky's Gaze

Boris Slutsky (1963) / Image courtesy of Radio Svoboda

Holding a Gaze
   by Boris Slutsky

An honest man
should look others straight in the eye.
We don’t know why.
What if the honest man
has watery, bloodshot eyes?
What if the dishonest one
has terrific eyesight? 
Somehow, those who served as safe-keepers
in every time and place
learned to judge truthfulness
by firmness of gaze.
Did the spies who protected,
say, Sulla really have the right
to sort dishonest from honest?
And was Tamerlane’s secret service,
for instance, really
made up of moralists?
Everyone who sees has the right
to run their eyes madly up and down
and be judged not by their gaze,
not by scent or sound,
but by word and deed.    

Translated by Jamie Olson

Friday, January 1, 2016

Pineapples in champagne!

First edition of Severyanin's Pineapples (1915) / Image courtesy of allpix.com

Overture
Igor Severyanin

Pineapples in champagne! Pineapples in champagne!
Spectacularly sparkling—tasty and zesty!
I dive into Norway, I’m swimming in Spain!
With a mind-bolt of vision, I jump for my pencil!

The whirr of airplanes! The buzz of racecars!
Wing-beats from iceboats! Wind-claps from train cars!
Hey, someone got beat up! Whoa, someone got kissed!
Pineapples in champagne—the nighttime’s own pulse!

With nervous girls, in a crowd of tough dames,
I’ll change life’s tragedy to dreamlike farce…
Pineapples in champagne! Pineapples in champagne!
From Moscow to Nagasaki! From New York to Mars!

January 1915
Petrograd

Translated from the Russian by Jamie Olson

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