Marina Tsvetaeva

Marina Tsvetaeva

Country

Rummage with a lamp,
Thoroughly and wholly!
That country - on the map
Or in the cosmos - won’t be.

Sipped out of the saucer,
To the bottom’s glaze.
Can one be transposed to
A house that was razed?

Born-again – to wake up
To a land, brand new!
Go and climb atop
The stallion that threw

You off! You’re aching -
But intact, at least?
To such guests, a baker -
A stale crusty piece,

A carpenter - a casket
Would not think to sell!
… The one - of everlasting
Breadths and wondrous spells,

Where, on coins minted,
Is the youth I've spent,
That Russia’s nonexistent.

- As am I from then.

June 1931


***

Страна

С фонарем обшарьте
Весь подлунный свет!
Той страны - на карте
Нет, в пространстве - нет.

Выпита как с блюдца,-
Донышко блестит.
Можно ли вернуться
В дом, который - срыт?

Заново родися -
В новую страну!
Ну-ка, воротися
На спину коню

Сбросившему! Кости
Целы-то хотя?
Эдакому гостю
Булочник ломтя

Ломаного, плотник -
Гроба не продаст!
...Той ее - несчетных
Верст, небесных царств,

Той, где на монетах -
Молодость моя -
Той России - нету.

- Как и той меня.

Anna Akhmatova

On hearing thunder, you’ll recall my face,
You’ll think: She wished for storms and lightning…
The skyline of hard-crimson will be widening,
The heart will be, as it was then, - ablaze.
It’ll happen on some Moscow day like this,
I’ll leave this city far behind for good,
And rush up to the zeniths I’ve pursued,
Leaving my shadow swaying in your midst.

1961

Услышишь гром и вспомнишь обо мне,
Подумаешь: она грозы желала…
Полоска неба будет твердо-алой,
А сердце будет как тогда - в огне.
Случится это в тот московский день,
Когда я город навсегда покину
И устремлюсь к желанному притину,
Свою меж вас еще оставив тень.

1961

V. Vysotsky

All bridges burnt, these fords cannot be crossed,
It’s crowded – the skulls alone shine black.
All entrances and exists have been closed,
There’s just one way – together, with the pack.

And as two horses, harnessed in a chain,
Depicting how the world is tightly joined,
The pack is moving on the circle in its lane…
This circle’s large, without a reference point.

The palette runs, caught in the pouring rain,
And bursting gallops form a polonaise,
No rhythms, colors, scents or tones remain,
And from the air, all oxygen’s erased.

No thoughtlessness and no inspired devotion
Could ever break this circular closed set.
But is this, after all, - perpetual motion,
This obstinate and endless drive ahead?

***

http://www.bards.ru/archives/part.php?id=15630

Vladimir Vysotsky

Now, my bride will clearly weep for me sincerely,
And my friends will settle all my debts at last,
Others men will gather to sing my songs completely,
And, perhaps, my enemies may even raise a glass.

They no longer grant me here books that I desire,
One of my guitar strings has become undone.
Here, I can’t get lower and I can’t get higher,
I can’t have the moon, and I can’t have the sun.

I do not have freedom – stripped of rights outright,
To the door or to the wall - no matter how I rage,
Here, I can’t turn left and I can’t turn right,
I can only have my dreams, and the skyline's edge.

Dreams of how I’ll leave from this prison hastily,
With my old guitar in hand, I’ll walk out free.
Who will come to greet me, who will then embrace me,
And what wondrous songs will they sing to me?

1963

http://www.kulichki.com/vv/pesni/za-menya-nevesta-otrydaet.html