White Flock
Poetry of Anna Akhmatova
Translated by Andrey Kneller
Copyright Kneller, Boston, 2013
All rights reserved
For Len a and Sasha
“…The intensely personal lyricism of White Flock is tinged with the note that was destined to become her imprimatur: the note of controlled terror. The mechanism designed to keep in check emotions of a romantic nature proved to be as effective when applied to mortal fears. The latter was increasingly intertwined with the former until they resulted in emotional tautology, and White Flock mark the beginning of this process. With this collection, Russian poetry hit “the real, non-calendar twentieth century” but didn’t disintegrate on impact…”
-Joseph Brodsky
The Keening Muse
A Note About Translation
“Poetry is what is lost in translation” Robert Frost
“Poetry is what is gained in translation” Joseph Brodsky
A poet, by definition, is a translator. He takes the seemingly incomprehensible ramblings of the Muse and transforms them into a language that can be understood and enjoyed by his audience. One can argue that something is already lost in this process. No matter how good the poet, the audience won’t experience what he undergoes in his interaction with the Muse. Or, as another Russian poet, Fyodor Tyutchev, writes in Silentium!: “A thought once uttered is untrue.” (as translated by V. Nabokov)
This is a challenge for all translation in general. Translating poetry from one language to another often becomes a game of telephone, where one whispered message gets passed down the line, before it is finally revealed, usually with accumulated inaccuracies. The Muse’s message gets lost somewhere in-between and what is left is a mere frame, in which the original can hardly be discerned. This experience leads people to say that one should avoid translated poetry altogether. If you subscribe to the absurdity of this logic, all poetry is doomed to fall short as it will never capture the essence of feelings and experiences.
I would like to propose a different approach. Bad translations should be disregarded, no less than bad poetry. Readers should be wary of them as art collectors are wary of forged paintings. Translators of poetry need to be held to a much higher standard than simply relaying the general message. Their work must retain as much semblance to the original as possible; in particular, translating rhyming poetry into blank verse should not be acceptable. The same principle should apply to rhyming translations that greatly distort the content, meaning and images of the poem for the sake of sound. Beyond this, good translations should effectively relay idioms, references and allusions in a way that doesn’t make them appear strained.
With this collection, I hope to show that such translations are possible. Great Russian poets, like Anna Akhmatova, deserve this much. And should I fall short in my attempts to reach the set standard, I would only be happy if another translator takes up the task and does it better than I.
Humbly,
Andrey Kneller
Table of Contents
I
"We thought: we’re poor …"
“I’ll leave your white house and your quiet garden …”
"So many stones were cast …"
Song about a song
"My voice is weak …"
"He was jealous, and anxious, and tender …"
“Love’s memory - a heavy weight …”
"The sky’s azure lacquer is waning …"
“Instead of wisdom – experience …”
"Ah! Here you come again …"
“The muse went on her way …”
"I’ve ceased to smile long ago …"
"They soar, they are somewhere mid-flight …"
"The breezy evening had commenced …"
"It’s thus I prayed …"
"In closeness, there’s a sacred line …"
“All’s taken away …”
“Words’ ease and freshness …”
Response
"Next to the river, this dark town …"
II
"Upon the Neva, dare you gaze …"
December 9, 1913
"Beneath this bare home’s frozen roof …"
"All year long, you have always been near me …"
"The ancient city seems neglected …"
"The black road was winding slowly …"
"How I love, how I loved to gaze endlessly …"
"Here, human voice was never known …"
Separation
"The road of the seaside garden turns dark …"
"God has no mercy on gardeners and reapers …"
"We’re not in the forest, no need to bellow …"
“He was promised to me by it all …”
"Each and every day, I get …"
"An angel of God, who betrothed us …"
"Somewhere, without complications …"
“I don’t think of you often at all …”
“These squares are so spacious and wide …”
Escape
"When, with a firm but tired hand …"
Statue in Tsarskoye Selo
“The visions of Pavlovsk abound …”
"In drowsiness, once more astounded …"
"The immortelle is dry and rosy …"
"I concealed all my worry inside me …"
III
May snow
"Why is it that you still beguile me …"
"The empty skies with a transparent gloss …"
July 1914 – I
July 1914 – II
“That voice, with silence disputing …”
"We never quite learned to part …"
Comfort
"Is this why, for countless days …"
Prayer
“Where, tall lady, is your gypsy child? …”
“O, how often did I curse …”
“Neither boat nor cart can go …”
"I see, I see the crescent’s bow …"
"We paced the house, stricken …"
To my sister
“Thus others to the wounded crane …”
“In the churchyard, I’ll sleep soundly …”
“Your spirit, by your arrogance obscured …”
"I come and I’m relieved of restlessness …"
“I dream of him less often with each night …”
"We’ll be together, dear, together …"
In memory of July 19, 1914
IV
“There are such days before the spring …”
“The fifth of the year’s seasons …”
“I myself had all the say …”
Dream
White house
“Through villages and fields, he’d go …”
“The evening sky is gold and vast …”
“I don’t know if you’re dead or still living …”
“No, tsarevich, it’s not I …”
“Out of your memory, I will remove this day …”
“He didn’t glorify or scold me …”
“My shadow remained and it pines there …”
“The twenty first. Monday. Night …”
“The heavens sow a light rain …”
“I know that you are my reward …”
“These meeting didn’t leave …”
To the beloved
“Was my fate altered to such an extent …”
“Like a white stone at the bottom of the well …”
“First ray – Lord’s blessing, falling frail …”
“I was born neither early nor late …”
“Best for me to boisterously yell chastushki out …”
“No bliss or happiness
is needed …”
“The spring was still mysterious and gentle …”
“The city’s gone…”
“O, there are words that cannot be repeated …”
I
***
Думали: нищие мы, нету у нас ничего,
А как стали одно за другим терять,
Так, что сделался каждый день
Поминальным днем,-
Начали песни слагать
О великой щедрости Божьей
Да о нашем бывшем богатстве.
12 апреля 1915
***
We thought: we’re poor and don’t have anything,
But as we started to lose one thing after another,
So much that each day became
A remembrance day, -
We began to write songs
About God’s immense generosity
And the wealth we once had.
April 12, 1915
***
Твой белый дом и тихий сад оставлю.
Да будет жизнь пустынна и светла.
Тебя, тебя в моих стихах прославлю,
Как женщина прославить не могла.
И ты подругу помнишь дорогую
В тобою созданном для глаз ее раю,
А я товаром редкостным торгую -
Твою любовь и нежность продаю.
1913
***
I’ll leave your white house and your quiet garden.
May life become all bare and filled with light.
I’ll glorify you with a verse so ardent
More than a woman could’ve glorified.
As you recall your dear beloved’s eyes
In heaven you yourself have fashioned,
I’m trading with the rarest merchandise -
I’m selling off your tenderness and passion.
1913
***
Так много камней брошено в меня,
Что ни один из них уже не страшен,
И стройной башней стала западня,
Высокою среди высоких башен.
Строителей ее благодарю,
Пусть их забота и печаль минует.
Отсюда раньше вижу я зарю,
Здесь солнца луч последний торжествует.
И часто в окна комнаты моей
Влетают ветры северных морей,
И голубь ест из рук моих пшеницу...
А не дописанную мной страницу -
Божественно спокойна и легка,
Допишет Музы смуглая рука.
1914
Слепнево
***
So many stones were cast that I don’t cower
When facing them and seeing them fly by,
The pitfall turned into a slender tower
That towers over towers in the sky.
I’m thankful to the builders for its height,
May all their grief and worries disappear.
Up here, I’m first to marvel at first light,
And final rays are jubilant up here.
And often winds from northern seas presume
To burst in through the windows in my room
And pigeons in my hands peck grains of wheat…
Even the page that I did not complete -
The Muse’s tan, serene and steady hand
Will certainly write out to the end.
1914
Slepnyovo
Песня о песне
Она сначала обожжет,
Как ветерок студеный,
А после в сердце упадет
Одной слезой соленой.
И злому сердцу станет жаль
Чего-то. Грустно будет.
Но эту легкую печаль
Оно не позабудет.
Я только сею. Собирать
Придут другие. Что же!
И жниц ликующую рать
Благослови, о Боже!
А чтоб тебя благодарить
Я смела совершенней,
Позволь мне миру подарить
То, что любви нетленней.
1916
Song about a song
Like a cold wind at the start,
It will burn and sear,
Then it’ll fall into your heart
As one salty tear.
The angry heart will then turn sad,
Pitying some thing.
Nonetheless, it won’t forget
This melancholy’s sting.
I only sow. The others
Will come to reap. So what!
May God bless the harvest
Of the reaping horde!
And in attempts to not fall short
In thanking you enough,
This gift I give onto the world
More permanent than love.
1916
***
Слаб голос мой, но воля не слабеет,
Мне даже легче стало без любви.
Высоко небо, горный ветер веет,
И непорочны помыслы мои.
Ушла к другим бессонница-сиделка,
Я не томлюсь над серою золой,
И башенных часов кривая стрелка
Смертельной мне не кажется стрелой.
Как прошлое над сердцем власть теряет!
Освобожденье близко. Все прощу,
Следя, как луч взбегает и сбегает
По влажному весеннему плющу.
1912
***
My voice is weak, but will will never weaken.
Without love, I’m more at ease, I’m sure.
The sky is high, the mountain wind is sweeping,
And all my thoughts are innocent and pure.
My nurse-insomnia has moved on down the block,
Gray ashes do not cut me to the marrow,
The crooked arrow of the tower’s clock
No longer seems to me a lethal arrow.
The past’s authority over the heart is ending!
My freedom’s near. I’ll pardon all with time,
Watching a ray ascending and descending
Atop the moistened surface of a vine.
1912
***
Был он ревнивым, тревожным и нежным,
Как Божие солнце, меня любил,
А чтобы она не запела о прежнем,
Он белую птицу мою убил.
Промолвил, войдя на закате в светлицу:
"Люби меня, смейся, пиши стихи!"
И я закопала веселую птицу
За круглым колодцем у старой ольхи.
Ему обещала, что плакать не буду,
Но каменным сделалось сердце мое,
И кажется мне, что всегда и повсюду
&n
bsp; Услышу я сладостный голос ее.
1914
***
He was jealous, and anxious, and tender.
And I was like God’s sun to him.
To cut off her song of the days she remembered,
He killed my white bird on a whim.
He entered the front room at dusk and implored:
“Love me, laugh, and continue to write!”
And I buried the cheerful, jovial bird
Near the well by the alder that night.
I promised to him not to wallow in woe,
But my heart turned to stone, cold and bare,
And it seems to me, always, wherever I go,
I will hear her sweet voice in the air.
1914
***
Тяжела ты, любовная память!
Мне в дыму твоем петь и гореть,
А другим - это только пламя,
Чтоб остывшую душу греть.
Чтобы греть пресыщенное тело,
Им надобны слезы мои...
Для того ль я, Господи, пела,
Для того ль причастилась любви!
Дай мне выпить такой отравы,
Чтобы сделалась я немой,
И мою бесславную славу
Осиянным забвением смой.
1914
***
Love’s memory - a heavy weight!
And I must sing upon its coals.
For others men, its blaze creates
Some warmth for souls turned cold.
White Flock: Poetry of Anna Akhmatova Page 1