I would like to introduce my lovely classmates to my native Russian poetry and ask to translate to Turkish if it is possible.I thank you all who is gonna participate in this.

The Sail

A lone white sail shows for an instant
Where gleams the sea, an azure streak.
What left it in its homeland distant?
In alien parts what does it seek?

The billow play, the mast bends creaking,
The wind, impatient, moans and sighs...
It is not joy that it is seeking,
Nor is it happiness it flies.

The blue wave dance, they dance and tremble,
The sun's bright ray caress the seas.
And yet for storm it begs, the rebel,
As if in storm lurked calm and peace!..

1832. By Michail Lermontov.
Translated by Irina Zhelez

Born in Moscow in a noble family, M.Lermontov spent his youth in Tarakhany, his grandmother's estate in the province of Penza. In 1828, Lermontov was sent to Moscow University's boarding school for young gentlemen and in 1830 he entered the university itself. Shortly afterwards, as a result of a clash with the reactionary teaching staff, Lermontov was obliged to leave the university and entered the St. Petersburg School of Ensigns of the Guards and the Cavalry Cadets. He completed his studies there in 1834 and was given a comission in the Hussar Regiment of the Imperial Guard. In 1837 the poet exiled to the Caucasus for having written his poem on Pushkin's death, which he blamed on the ruling circles of Russia under Nicolas I. The works he wrote after his return from exile together with his independent behaviour earned the dislike and enmity of the court and he was exiled to Caucasus a second time. As a result of intrigues by officers of the gendarmerrie, or secret police, he was provoked into a personal quarrel with an old schoolfellow, Major Martynov, and this led to the duel on 15 July 1841 in which the poet was killed. He was not quite twenty-seven.

Aleksandr Blok

The Stranger

The restaurants on hot spring evenings
Lie under a dense and savage air.
Foul drafts and hoots from dunken revelers
Contaminate the thoroughfare.
Above the dusty lanes of suburbia
Above the tedium of bungalows
A pretzel sign begilds a bakery
And children screech fortissimo.

And every evening beyond the barriers
Gentlemen of practiced wit and charm
Go strolling beside the drainage ditches --
A tilted derby and a lady at the arm.

The squeak of oarlocks comes over the lake water
A woman's shriek assaults the ear
While above, in the sky, inured to everything,
The moon looks on with a mindless leer.

And every evening my one companion
Sits here, reflected in my glass.
Like me, he has drunk of bitter mysteries.
Like me, he is broken, dulled, downcast.


The sleepy lackeys stand beside tables
Waiting for the night to pass
And tipplers with the eyes of rabbits
Cry out: "In vino veritas!"

And every evening (or am I imagining?)
Exactly at the appointed time
A girl's slim figure, silk raimented,
Glides past the window's mist and grime.

And slowly passing throught the revelers,
Unaccompanied, always alone,
Exuding mists and secret fragrances,
She sits at the table that is her own.

Something ancient, something legendary
Surrounds her presence in the room,
Her narrow hand, her silk, her bracelets,
Her hat, the rings, the ostrich plume.

Entranced by her presence, near and enigmatic,
I gaze through the dark of her lowered veil
And I behold an enchanted shoreline
And enchanted distances, far and pale.

I am made a guardian of the higher mysteries,
Someone's sun is entrusted to my control.
Tart wine has pierced the last convolution
of my labyrinthine soul.

And now the drooping plumes of ostriches
Asway in my brain droop slowly lower
And two eyes, limpid, blue, and fathomless
Are blooming on a distant shore.

Inside my soul a treasure is buried.
The key is mine and only mine.
How right you are, you drunken monster!
I know: the truth is in the wine.

1906

Translated by George M. Young, Jr.

Aleksandr Blok was born in St. Petersburg into an aristocratic family of Russian and German descent. His father, A.L. Blok, was a scholar and professor of law at Warsaw University, his mother, Aleksandra Beketova, was a translator and the daughter of the rector of the University of St. Petersburg. The parents divorced when Blok was a small child and he spent his childhood with his grandfather, Andrei Beketov, whose country estate of Shakhmatovo he inherited in 1902. At the University of St. Petersburg Blok studied law, without success, but then in 1906, he received his degree in philology.
Blok started to write poetry seriously at the age of seventeen.
Blok died in Petrograd on August 7, 1921, of heart failure brought on by malnutrition.

Thanks for this wanderful poems, dear Bliss, and thanks for wonderful idea to introduce our classmates to great russian poetry.

I'm going to join you, this time posting "The Dream", one of Lermontov's last poems, featured in his posthumous diary, prophetic of the poet's own death.


The Dream

In noon's heat, in a dale of Dagestan
With lead inside my breast, stirless I lay;
The deep wound still smoked on; my blood
Kept trickling drop by drop away.

On the dale's sand alone I lay. The cliffs
Crowded around in ledges steep,
And the sun scorched their tawny tops
And scorched me -- but I slept death's sleep.

And in a dream I saw an evening feast
That in my native land with bright lights shone;
Among young women crowned with flowers,
A merry talk concerning me went on.

But in the merry talk not joining,
One of them sat there lost in thought,
And in a melancholy dream
Her young soul was immersed -- God knows by what.

And of a dale in Dagestan she dreamt;
In that dale lay the corpse of one she knew;
Within his breast a smoking wound shewed black,
And blood coursed in a stream that colder grew.

1841.
Translated by V. Nabokov

O, Thank you , Dear Slavica for joining me,I am glad that sombody is interested in my idea.I wish everyone can join us and write about their own poetry.In fact I mentioned earlier, this is big international family and it would be great to learn about others too.
I look forward to see poems from many nationalities.
Best wishes to all.

here's my (Polish)contribution by our Nobel prize winner Czeslaw Milosz:

Song on the End of the World


On the day the world ends
A bee circles a clover,
A Fisherman mends a glimmering net.
Happy porpoises jump in the sea,
By the rainspout young sparrows are playing
And the snake is gold-skinned as it it should always be.

On the day the world ends
Women walk through fields under their umbrellas
A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,
Vegetable peddlers shout in the street
And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,
The voice of a violin lasts in the air
And leads into a starry night.

And those who expected lightning and thunder
Are disappointed.
And those who expected signs and archangels' trumps
Do not believe it is happening now.
As long as the sun and the moon are above,
As long as the bumblebee visits a rose
As long as rosy infants are born
No one believes it is happening now.

Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet,
Yet is not a prophet, for he's much too busy,
Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:
No other end of the world there will be,
No other end of the world there will be.

And this is my Serbian contribution:

WARNING

Listen, I'll tell you my secret:
Never leave me alone
when music plays.

It could seem to me
that some eyes gray
are so deep and soft--
the eyes that are actually plain.

It could seem to me
that I dive into the sound
and I could give my hands
to anyone around.

It could seem to me
se easy, so gay
to love someone
for only one day.

Or, I could tell someone
my dearest,
magically growing secret
how much I love you.

Oh, never leave me alone
when music plays.
It could seem to me that again,
somewhere in a forest,
my tears flow through a new well.

It could seem to me that a black butterfly
makes patterns on heavy water--
those that no one feels free to tell.

It could seem to me that, somewhere in the dark zone,
someone sings and touches my heart
with a bittter flower--right where the incurable wound stays.
Oh, never leave me alone,
never alone
when music plays.

Desanka Maksimović
Translated by: Dragana Konstantinović

Dear Slavica and Daydreamer,
Thank you for the poems.They are wonderful.
And this is for both of you.I know you like Visotskiy.

VLADIMIR VISOTSKIY
(1938-198


A song about a friend

If your friend just became a man,
Not a friend, not a foe,- just so,
If you really can't tell from the start,
If he's strong in his heart, -
To the peaks take this man - don't fret!
Do not leave him alone, on his own,
Let him share the same view with you-
Then you'll know if he's true.
If the guy on the peak got weak,
If he lost all his care - got scared,
Took a step on the frost - got lost,
Tripped and screamed in exhaust, -
Then the one you held close is false,
Do not bother to yell- expel, -
We can't take such aboard, and in short
We don't sing of his sort.
If the guy didn't whine nor pine,
He was dull and upset, but went,
When you slipped from the cliff,
He heaved, holding you in his grip;
If he walked right along, seemed strong,
On the top stood like he belonged, -
Then, whenever the chances are slim
You can count on him!

Translated by Andrey Kneller

Unknown Land by A.Pushkin

Thou distant land, land unknown to met
Not of my will have I come to thee,
Nor was it my steed that brought me here.
I've been led to thee by my recklessness,
By my courage and youth and my love for drink.

(An Old Song from "the captain's doughter",translated by Natalie Duddington)

Bilinmeyen Ãœlke

Ey güzel ülke
Ey uzak ülke
Ey bilmediğim ülke
Ne kendi isteğimle geldim sana
Ne de soylu bir atın sırtında
Beni, bu yiğit delikanlıyı
Gençliğin ateşi sürükledi sana
Bir de başımdaki şarap dumanları

(translated by ? )

Hello Cyrano,
Thank you for the poem, especially for turkish translation.
Pushkin is one of my favourites.
Here is my favourite poem, although I love them all. They all are very close to my soul.Sometimes feel like I used to live in that era.

To... (Kern)
Alexander Pushkin

I still recall the wondrous moment
When you appeared before my eyes,
Just like a fleeting apparition,
Just like pure beauty's distillation.

When'er I languished in the throes of hopeless grief
Amid the troubles of life's vanity,
Your sweet voice lingered on in me,
Your dear face came to me in dreams.

Years passed. The raging, gusty storms
Dispersed my former reveries,
And I forgot your tender voice,
Your features so divine.

In exile, in confinement's gloom,
My uneventful days wore on,
Bereft of awe and inspiration
Bereft of tears, of life, of love.

My soul awakened once again:
And once again you came to me,
Just like a fleeting apparition
Just like pure beauty's distillation.

My heart again resounds in rapture,
Within it once again arise
Feelings of awe and inspiration,
Of life itself, of tears, and love.


Aleksandr Pushkin(1799-1837) was born in Moscow. On his father's side he was descended from an ancient noble family and on his mother's side he was a great-great-grandson of a Abyssinian, Gannibal, who served under Peter the Great. In his childhood the future poet was entrusted to nursemaids, French tutors, and governesses. He learned Russian from household serfs and from his nanny, Arina Rodionovna. Pushkin started to write poems from an early age. His first published poem was written when he was only 14.

Hello Bliss,

The poems I am about to post here are for all poetry-lovers and for you.

Goodbye, My Friend, Goodby

Good-bye, my friend, good-bye.
My dear one, you are in my breast.
This predestined parting
Promises a meeting ahead.

Good-bye, my friend, without hand, without word
No sorrow and no sadness in the brow.
In this life, dying is nothing new,
But living, of course, isn't novel either.

(Sergey YESENIN,Translated by Geoffrey Hurley)


AYRILIK ŞİİRİ

HoşÃ§akal, dostum, hoşÃ§akal, mutluluklar.
Sevgili dostum, yüreğimde yaşayacak anın,
Sonunda ayrılık yazgısı olsa da insanın.
HoşÃ§akal dediğimiz gibi buluşmak da var.

HoşÃ§akal, dostum, el sıkışmadan, suskunlukla
Sakın üzülme, nedir bu gözlerindeki hüzün?
Şu yaşamda yeni bir şey değil ki ölüm,
Ama pek öyle yeni sayılmaz yaşamak da.

(Çeviren: Ataol Behramoğlu)

And below is Mayakovsky's poem written as a reply to Yesenin's poem. (I couldn't find its English translation.)

To Sergey Yesenin

(.....)
Alışılmış deyimiyle
Siz
Bir başka dünyaya göçüp gittimiz!
Hayır Yesenin
Bu
Şaka değil,
Boğazımda
Düğümlenen acıdır
Kahkaha değil...

Bu dünyada ölmek güç bir şey değil,
Bir hayat kurmaktır
Asıl güç olan...

Mayakovski

Hello Cyrano,
Thank you very much for the poems. You are great.
I'll try to find the translation of Mayakovsky.I have in russian though.Esenin is my favourite.Hehe. Sometimes I am lost who is my favourite.I love them all.
Thank you again
Best regards Bliss

Hello, Cyrano
Thanks a lot for Esenin's moving farewell poem, written by his own blood, and special thans for it's Turkish translation.
For you, for all poetry-lovers and for my dear Bliss, two poems by her another favourite poet - Fyodor Tyutchev.

Silentium
by Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev

Speak not, lie hidden, and conceal
the way you dream, the things you feel.
Deep in your spirit let them rise
akin to stars in crystal skies
that set before the night is blurred:
delight in them and speak no word.
How can a heart expression find?
How should another know your mind?
Will he discern what quickens you?
A thought once uttered is untrue.
Dimmed is the fountainhead when stirred:
drink at the source and speak no word.
Live in your inner self alone
within your soul a world has grown,
the magic of veiled thoughts that might
be blinded by the outer light,
drowned in the noise of day, unheard...
take in their song and speak no word.

It's There, Still There
by Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev


It's there, still there, a past love's madness,
Dull pain and longing my heart fill.
Your image, hid amid the shadows
Of memory, lives in me still.
I think of it with endless yearning,
'Tis e'er with me though from me far,
Unreachable, unchanged, bright-burning
As in the sky of night a star...
1848.

Hello my friends, poetry lovers!
I promised to find the translation of the part of Maykovsky's poem "To Sergey Esenin" but couldn't find and decided to do by myself.I want to put russian version of the poem "Goodby, my friend, goodbye" by Sergey Esenin (for our russian classmates), and my translations. Druzya, ne sudite strogo. .

Do svidanya, drug moy, dosvidanya.
Miliy moy, ti u menya v grudi.
Prednaznachennoe rasstavanye
Obeshaet vstrechu vperedi.

Do svidanya, drug moy, bez ruki, bez slova,
Ne grusti i ne pechal brovey,-
V etoy jizni umirat ne novo,
No i jit, konechno , ne novey.


Goodbye, my friend, good bye.
My darling you are in my heart.
This destined parting
Promises a meeting ahead.

Goodbye, my friend, without hand, without word,
Don't grieve and don't sadden your brows,-
In this life dying is not new,
But living, of course, is not newer too.

TO SERGEY ESENIN
By Vladimir Mayakovsky

Sobriety.
No Esenin,
this is
not mockery.
In the throat
sorrow as a lump-
it is not a laugh...

In this life
it is not difficult
to die
To make a life
is more difficult by far.


Trezvost.
Net, Esenin,
eto
ne nasmeshka.
V gorle
komom-
ne smeshok...

B etoy jizni
pomeret
ne trudno.
Sdelat jizn
znachitelno trudney.

GIFTS OF THE TEREK

Mid huge rocks, the Terek, leaping,
Onward courses, wild and fierce.
Like a storm he howls, and, weeping,
Sprays the cliffs with angry tears.
But he broadens out on reaching
The great steppe and waxes meek.
To the sea in half beseeching,
Friendly tones we hear him speak:

"Give my waters refuge, ancient,
Give them shelter, Caspian Sea.
Long enough have they, impatient,
Roamed the hills, it seems to me.
Sired by peaks Caucasian soaring,
By the clouds above them fed,
They dispute man's rule, and, roaring,
Rush impetuous ahead.
They have robbed Daryal of treasure,
Herds of boulders, free of fear,
For your sons' delight and pleasure
Driving off year after year."

But the Caspian Sea is drowsy
And he does not seem to hear,
And the Terek, his friend rousing,
Murmurs softly in his ear:

"Here's a gift, a rich one, for you -
A Kabardian who fell
On a battlefield. Before you
He is lying, cold and still.
Precious is his mail of iron;
On his elbow guards - behold!-
Lines from the Koran incised are,
All in lettering of gold.
Dead, he wears a look unbending,
Knit his brows are, while a trace
Of dark blood his lip stains, lending
Something solemn to his face.
On it enmity is graven,
And 'tis mirrored in his stare.
Round his neck there steals a raven
Lock of wet and matted hair."

But the Caspian Sea is pensive
And to answer does not deign,
And the Terek, apprehensive,
Pauses and then speaks again.

"Look, O sea, I have another
Gift to offer - take it, pray.
From the world, my friend and brother,
I have kept it hid away.
Tis a Cossack maid, a daughter
Of the steppes. Long has she been
Cradled by my friendly waters,
Long no man the maid has seen.
Fair is she, her hair a gleaming
Mass of gold, and seems at rest,
With the blood still thinly streaming
From the wound that mars her breast.
On the shore, come night, come morning,
Crowd her people, young and old.
All save one her death are mourning,
All save one young Cossack bold.
The Chechens he battles, smiting
Right and left, his sword held high.
In the hills he is and fighting,
And 'tis fighting he will die."

Low the Terek's voice is growing
As the sandy shore he laves,
While a maid's head, pale hair flowing,
Bobs and bounces on the waves.

And the sea, huge billows raising,
Fearful as a thunderstorm,
Starts awake, his blue eyes blazing,
Full of passion newly born.

Swept by sudden joy and rapture,
With love's tenderest whisper, he
Folds the waters and their capture
To his old heart eagerly.

1839

Mikhail Lermontov

I used to live in this place and many times was seating on the shore of Terek.Maybe because of that I love this poem.
Thank you, my dear Slavica for your poems.
And this poem is especially for you, Daydreamer and Catwoman( my slavic friends)

Hello bliss and slavica,

I just want to thank you very much. Bliss,drog moy,you are great! You have posted both english and original version of the poem. This is the first time I read a Russian poem in its own language. And this is the first time I heard the name Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev. slavica! you introduced Tyutchev me in a manner of speaking. Thanks again.

Greetings...

Hello Cyrano (Dobriy den),
You are very welcome. I am very happy you liked them.
Here are more poems of Fyodor Tyutchev.

LAST LOVE

Oh, how, in the ending years
Is love more tender and Superstitious --
O shine! O shine, my parting rays
Of the evening sun, of the last heart wishes!

The darkness cust half of the sky;
And only the West has the roving glow,
Oh, time of evening, do not fly!
Enchantment, be prolonged and slow!

Let blood in veins has a thinner staff,
But a heart preserves the gentle passion --
O you, my last and tender love,
You are my bliss and desperation.

Translated by Yevgeny Bonver

********

Exists in the autumnal growing
A brief, but an enchanting phase:
The day — as if in crystal glowing,
The dusk — in the resplendent glaze.

Where ears fell to zesty sickle's rending,
It's bare around; through a widespread range
Glows only, thinning and unbending,
A web string on an idle trench.

The air's depleting, quiet — birds have pealed,
Of nascent wintry storms there isn't a clue,
And pours the warm and the transparent blue
Onto a resting field...

********

"I Love Your Dear Eyes..."

I love your dear eyes, my friend,
With their play so bright and wondrous,
When you promptly rise them, and,
Like with a lightning in the wildness,
Embrace at once the whole land

But there's more fabulous attraction:
The eyes directed to the floor
During the crazy osculation,
And through the lashes, set before,
The dusk and gloomy flame of passion.

Enjoy!!!

And here is little bit of his biography
Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev (1803 - 1873)
Tyutchev was born on December 5, 1803 on an estate 200 miles southwest of Moscow. He was educated at home until he was 17.Tyutchev's public literary career began when he was just 15 years old
Tyutchev’s poems inspired “amazement and delight” in Pushkin. Nekrasov called Tyutchev’s lyric poetry one of “the few truly brilliant phenomena” in Russian poetry. Another famous writer Turgenev said about Tyutchev: ”Tyutchev can say about himself that he… has created poems that shall never die.” He was Tolstoy’s favorite poet. He had outstanding talent to describe Russian nature. His poetry breaths by fine grass, lightnings and magics of the nature. He wrote: “I love thunderstorm at the beginning of the May, as if gamboling and playing, rumbles in the blue sky.” In his poetry his nature is alive, his description colorful comparative to something magical. He lived abroad twenty two years and twenty of them he lived in Munich as a Russian diplomat.

He lived abroad twenty two years and twenty of them he lived in Munich in Germany as a Russian diplomat. Fyodor Tyutchev was very intelligent man. People remembered him as a quick minded with remarkable memory and erudition. He received a good education in Moscow University and became a “focus of public attention.” He had a lot of friends who were famous writers. Dostoyevskiy, Tolstoy and Nekrasov were his close friends and they help him to publish his work.

Tyutchev had a tragic life. He was married twice and his wives died from tuberculosis. His love was overwhelming and passionate to them. This loss was so unbearable, he was paralyzed after the death of his second wife and died a year later in June 27th, 1873.

Hello, Cyrano, drug nash
Welcome to the club of Russian-poetry-lovers
I'm glad you liked Tyutchev, he is one of the greatest Russian poets.
And one of Bliss's and my favourites.
Here's one more from me:

All Day She Quiet Lay

All day she quiet lay, lost in a trance,
The closing shadows all of her embracing...
The madcap rain of summer frisked and pranced,
At leaves it drummed, down garden paths went racing.

And slowly, slowly she revived and sought
To hear its voice, its warm and merry patter.
Withdrawn she lay, plunged deep in conscious thought,
And listened to the rushing, singing water.

Then suddenly she sighed and spoke; I heard...
(I was alive, alive through force of habit)
The softly whispered, simple, broken words:
"O how I loved it all, O how I loved it!"

You loved... To love so well none ever durst...
Then, even such love fades, to be it ceases...
To watch you die, and live! How did my heart not burst,
Not break, O God, into a thousand pieces!
1864.

If you want more his poems, here you have links:

http://oldpoetry.com/oprintall/Fyodor%20Ivanovich%20Tyutchev

http://www.poemhunter.com/fyodor-ivanovich-tyutchev/poet-34384/

And since you like original versions of poems, here's chance to read Tyutchev's Silentium! on its original language and alphabet:

SILENTIUM!
Молчи, скрывайся и таи
И чувства и мечты свои -
Пускай в душевной глубине
Встают и заходят оне
Безмолвно, как звезды в ночи,-
Любуйся ими - и молчи.

Как сердцу высказать себя?
Другому как понять тебя?
Поймёт ли он, чем ты живёшь?
Мысль изречённая есть ложь.
Взрывая, возмутишь ключи,-
Питайся ими - и молчи.

Лишь жить в себе самом умей -
Есть целый мир в душе твоей
Таинственно-волшебных дум;
Их оглушит наружный шум,
Дневные разгонят лучи,-
Внимай их пенью - и молчи!...

<1829>, начало 1830-х годов

Maybe you could give us some more Turkish translations of Russian poetry?
Best wishes,
S.

Merhaba-Hello-Dobriy den-Drug nash Slavica!

Thank you for the useful links. I visited both, and read some Tyutchev poems there. But, unfortunately, I couldn't find any of his poems in Turkish; I think there is no Tyutchev in Turkish, except for the lines below. That's why I heard for the first time his name here. What I found about him are only:

"umom rossiyu ne ponyat’
arshinom obshim ne izmerit’
u niyo osobaya stat’
v rossiyu mozhno tolko verit’"

"akılla rusya'yı anlayamazsın
ölçemezsin normal arşınla,
onun konumu çok özeldir,
sadece inanabilirsin ona"

and

23 Kasım 1803 tarihinde Rusya'nın Orlov eyaletinin Bryan ilinde dünyaya gelmiştir. Soylu bir aileye mensuptur. Moskova'da eğitim görmüştür. Genç yaşında diplomatlık görevine atanarak 1822-1854 yılları arasında "imparatorluk kalem dairesinde" çalıştı. Münih ve Torino kentlerinde görev aldı. 1849 yılında fransızca yazdığı " la russie et la r'evolution" (Rusya'da devrim) adlı kitabı onun panislavist* görüşlerini ve büyük yurt sevgisini tüm ayrıntılarıyla ortaya koyan , zamanı içinde önemli sayılabilecek bir yapıttır. Buna karşın F.I. Tyutçev'in adı sonradan yetişen kuşakların belleğine bir diplomat olarak değil de, usta bir şair olarak kazındı.

Şair önce Puşkin'in dikkatini çekti, sonra Turgenyev'de büyük bir hayranlık uyandırdı ve 1850'ye doğru Nikolay Aleksiyeviç Nekrasov tarafından edebiyat dünyasına tanıtıldı.1854 yılında yayımlanan " Poeziya F. I. Tyutçeva"(f.i.tyutçev'in şiirleri) adlı şiir kitabı yoğun bir ilgiyle karşılandı ve büyük yankılar yarattı.nitekim Lev Tolstoy bile onun için " tyutçev bir dehadır, ulu bir ihtiyar- çocuktur o." demekten kendini alamadı.

Rusya'da şiirleri bugün bile sevilerek okunan Tyutçev, özellikle "lirik-filozof" bir şair olarak tanınır.

Here are some lines, which I like so much, from Pushkin and Lermontov; I am writing them by heart.

siz
evet siz!
hiç kavrayabilir misiniz?
niçin
bunca alay ve küfür sağanağı altında
dingin bir tabağa koyup da ruhumu
gelecek yüzyılların şÃ¶lenine sunduğumu

Mayakovsky


Uyanıp aldanıştan kendime geldiğimde
ve gürültüsü kalabalığın ürkütüp öteye
kaçırdığında benim çağrısız konuk hayalimi
Ah' Nasıl da bozmak istiyorum onların şenliğini!
Ve küstahça fırlatmak yüzlerine
Acıya ve öfkeye bulanmış demirden bir şiiri!...

Lermontov

And this is Turkish translation of "Gifts of Terek" from my book:

TEREK'IN ARMAĞANLARI

Terek uluyor, kötücül, yabani,
Akarken kayalıklar arasından;
Ağlıyor, fırtına gibi,
Gözyaşlarıdır serpilip uçuşan.
Fakat ovada hızını alarak
Bürünüyor kurnaz bir görünüme,
Ve selam verip yaltaklanarak
Şırıldıyor Hazer Denizi'nde:

"Ey yaşlı deniz, açıl önümde,
Sığınak ol dalgalarıma!
Gezip dolaştım enginlerde,
Artık dinleneyim bir parça.
Kazbek Dağı'nda doğdum,
Beslendim bulut memeleriyle,
Hiçbir zaman boyun eğmedim
İnsanoğlunun egemenliğine.
Eğlensin diye senin oğulların,
Saldırdım Daryal Geçidi'ne,
Ve onun yalçın kayalarından
Bir sürü koparıp kattım önüme."

Fakat uzanıp yumuşak kıyıya
Hazer uyuyormuşÃ§asına susuyor;
Terek, yeniden, okşayan sesiyle
Yaşlı denizin kulağına şırıldıyor:

"Bir de armağanım var sana!
Sanma ki sıradan birşey getirdim:
Bir savaşÃ§ı bu, döğüş alanından
Yiğit bir Kabardin.
Ãœstünde değerli bir yelme var,
Ve çelşkten dirseklerinde
Kuran'dan kutsal bir şiir
Yazılı altın harflerle.
Kaşları sertçe çatık
Ucu bıyıklarının
Kızıl kana bulaşık.
Bakışı duru, yumuşak
Ama düşmanlık dolu hala;
Ensesinde bir saç perçemi
Pürçükleniyor, kapkara."

Fakat uzanıp yumuşak kıyıa
Hazer uyukluyor ve susuyor;
Azgın Terek soluk soluğa
İhtiyarla yeniden konuşuyor:

"Dinle amca! Eşssiz bir armağan
Sunacağım hepsinden değerli!
Onu kıskanıp tüm dünyadan
Şimdiye dek gizledimdi.
Cesedini bir Kazak dilberinin
Alacaksın birazdan koynuna
Koyu-solgun omuzları
Parlak-sarı saçlarıyla.
Yüzü dalgın, kederli
Bakışı dingin, uyuyor tatlı tatlı
Küçük bir yaradan, göğsündeki,
sızıyor hızla al bir akıntı.
Kazak köyünde, üstünde nehrin
Bu genç dilberin ölümüne
Yanmayıp da dövünmeyen
Bir tek kişi var sadece.
O, karayağız atını eğerledi
Ve dağdaki çayışmada, gece,
Uzatacak kellesini
Kötü Çeçen'in hançerine."

Nehir sustu birdenbire,
Ve dalgalarında, ine çıka
Çözülmüş saç örgüleriyle
Bir baş belirdi, kar aklığında.

İhtiyar, gücünün görkeminde
Doğrulup kalktı fırtına gibi;
Koyu mavi gözlerini
Bürüyüp tutkunun nemi...

Kabarıp yükseldi sevinç dolu,
Ve koşup gelen dalgalara
Açtı engin kucağını
Bir sevda mırıltısıyla...

Lermontov (1839), translated by Ataol Behramoğlu

Hello Cyrano,
Thank you for the "Terek".You made my day.

SILENTIUM!

Molchi, skrivaysya i tai
I chuvstva i mechti svoi-
Puskay v dushevnoy glubine
Vstayut i zakhodyat one
Bezmolvno, kak zvezdi v nochi,-
Lyubuysya imi i molchi.

Kak serdcu viskazat sebya?
Drugomu kak ponyat tebya?
Poymet li on, chem ti jivesh?
Misl izrechennaya est loj'.
Vzrivaya, vozmutish klyuchi,-
Pitaysya imi - i molchi.

Lish jit v sebe samoy umey-
Est' tseliy mir v dushe moey
Tainstvenno- volshebnikh dum;
Ikh oglushit narujniy shum,
Dnevnie razgonyat luchi,-
Vnimay ikh penyu - i molchi!..

Tyutchev

Fyodor Tytchev
"I Love your eyes..."

Люблю глаза твои, мой друг,
С игрой их пламенно-чудесной,
Когда их приподымешь вдруг
И, словно молнией небесной,
Окинешь бегло целый круг...

Но есть сильней очарованья:
Глаза, потупленные ниц
В минуты страстного лобзанья,
И сквозь опущенных ресниц
Угрюмый, тусклый огнь желанья.

Lyublyu glaza tvoi, moy drug
S igroy ikh plamenno-chudesnoy,
Kogda ikh pripodimesh' vdrug
I, slovno molniey nebesnoy,
Okinesh' beglo tseliy krug...

No est silney ocharovanya:
Glaza, potuplennie nits
V minuti starastnogo lobzanya,
I skvoz' opushennikh resnic
Ugryumiy, tuskliy ogn' jelanya.



Последняя любовь ( Last Love )

О, как на склоне наших лет
Нежней мы любим и суеверней...
Сияй, сияй, прощальный свeт

Любви последней, зари вечерней!

Полнеба обхватила тень,
Лишь там, на западе, бродит сиянье, -
Помедли, помедли, вечерний день,
Продлись, продлись, очарованье.

Пускай скудеет в жилах кровь,
Но в сердце не скудеет нежность...
О ты, последняя любовь!
Ты и блаженство и безнадежность.

Лето 1854 ( Summer 1854 )

O, kak na sklone nashikh let
Nejney mi lyubim i sueverney...
Siyay, siyay, proshalniy svet
Lyubvi posledney, zari vecherney!

Polneba obkhvatila ten',
Lish' tam na zapade, brodit siyanye,-
Pomedli, pomedli, vecherniy den',
Prodlis', prodlis', ocharovanye.

Puskay skudeet v jilakh krov',
No v serdtse ne skudeet nejnost'..
O ti, poslednyaya lyubov'!
Ti i blajenstvo i beznadejnost'.


* * *

Есть в осени первоначальной
Короткая, но дивная пора -
Весь день стоит как бы хрустальный,
И лучезарны вечера...

Где бодрый серп гулял и падал колос,
Теперь уж пусто все - простор везде, -
Лишь паутины тонкий волос
Блестит на праздной борозде.

Пустеет воздух, птиц не слышно боле,
Но далеко еще до первых зимних бурь -
И льется чистая и теплая лазурь
На отдыхающее поле...

Est v oseni pervonachalnoy
Korotkaya , no divnaya pora-
Ves den' stoit kak bi khrustalniy,
I luchezarni vechera...

Gde bodriy serp gulyal i padal kolos
Teper' uj pusto vse - prostor vezde,-
Lish' pautini tonkiy volos
Blestit na prazdnoy borozde.

Pusteet vozdukh, ptits ne slishno bole,
No daleko esho do pervikh zimnikh bur'-
I lyetsya chistaya i teplaya lazur'
Na otdikhayushee pole...

Cyrano, I promised to write in latin.
Enjoy...

And I lie wordless at the feet

And I lie wordless at the feet
Of her who is my heart's desire,
My secret love; a whitewinged fire
Swift storms across the threshold sweep...

What pain, what sweet delight, what bliss
To speak your tender name, to kiss
Your train by stealth, near you to linger
While blizzards sing, while loudly sing they!..

In its dark prison ceil benighted,
The heart in drunken rapture reels.
Cold, snowy blooms your lashes lightly,
Your peaceful, silk-soft lashes seal.

Like one by wild winds overpowered
That as he runs begin to blow,
I seem to see a lifeless flower
Before me rise from out the snow...

And oft, however sadly, gently,
The name of my Snow Maiden slips
Like soft snow from a frozen petal
In secret from my trembling lips.

Alexandr Blok

* * *
И я опять затих у ног - Блок A.A.

И я опять затих у ног -
У ног давно и тайно милой,
Заносит вьюга на порог
Пожар метели белокрылой...

Но имя тонкое твое
Твердить мне дивно, больно, сладко...
И целовать твой шлейф украдкой,
Когда метель поет, поет...

В хмельной и злой своей темнице
Заночевало, сердце, ты,
И тихие твои ресницы
Смежили снежные цветы.

Как будто, на средине бега,
Я под метелью изнемог,
И предо мной возник из снега
Холодный, неживой цветок...

И с тайной грустью, с грустью нежной,
Как снег спадает с лепестка,
Живое имя Девы Снежной
Еще слетает с языка

* * *
I ya opyat zatikh u nog-
U nog davno i tayno miloy,
Zanosit vyuga na porog
Pojar meteli belokriloy...

No imya tonkoe tvoe
Tverdit' mne divno, bolno,
sladko...
I tselovat' tvoy shleyf
ukradkoy,
Kogda metel' poet, poet...

V khmelnoy i zloy svoey temnitse
Zanochevalo, serdtse, ti
I tikhie tvoi resnitsi
Smejili snejnie tsveti.

Kak budto, na sredine bega,
Ya pod metelyu iznemog,
I predo mnoy voznik iz snega
Kholodniy, nejivoy tsvetok...

I s taynoy grustyu
nejnoy,
Kak sneg spadaet s lepestka,
Jivoe imya Devi Snejnoy
Esho sletaet s yazika...

Thank you bliss. Now I (or we) can see the rhyme in the poems, and thus, get a bit the melody of lines even if I(we) can't understand what is said.

Take these lines, for example:

Puskay skudeet v jilakh kROV',
No v serdtse ne skudeet nej-n-o-s-t'..
O ti, poslednyaya lyuBOV'!
Ti i blajenstvo i beznadej-n-o-s-t'.

or

Gde bodriy serp gulyal i padal kOLOS
Teper' uj pusto vse - prostor vez-d-e,-
Lish' pautini tonkiy vOLOS
Blestit na prazdnoy boroz-d-e.

I belive you saw what I meant.

Hello Syrano,
Yes, I understood what you say.
You are talking about rhymes(riphma-in russian).
Greetings

it was pleasure to read this topic i would like to add poems of wonderful and my favoirute poetess Ahmatova. i think her lyric poetry can touch any heart.unfortanately im not good at english.bliss may be you know where is i can find translation of her poems?

* * *
Дверь полуоткрыта,
Веют липы сладко...
На столе забыты
Хлыстик и перчатка.

Круг от лампы желтый...
Шорохам внимаю.
Отчего ушел ты?
Я не понимаю...

Радостно и ясно
Завтра будет утро.
Эта жизнь прекрасна,
Сердце, будь же мудро.

Ты совсем устало,
Бьешься тише, глуше...
Знаешь, я читала,
Что бессмертны души.

* * *
Широк и желт вечерний свет,
Нежна апрельская прохлада.
Ты опоздал на много лет,
Но все-таки тебе я рада.

Сюда ко мне поближе сядь,
Гляди веселыми глазами:
Вот эта синяя тетрадь -
С моими детскими стихами.

Прости, что я жила скорбя
И солнцу радовалась мало.
Прости, прости, что за тебя
Я слишком многих принимала.

* * *
Двадцать первое. Ночь. Понедельник.
Очертанья столицы во мгле.
Сочинил же какой-то бездельник,
Что бывает любовь на земле.

И от лености или со скуки
Все поверили, так и живут:
Ждут свиданий, боятся разлуки
И любовные песни поют.

Но иным открывается тайна,
И почиет на них тишина...
Я на это наткнулась случайно
И с тех пор все как будто больна.

Анна Ахматова

Hello, Terra

Welcome to the club of Russian poetry lovers
Thank you so much for posting amazing poems of Anna Akhmatova.
She's one of the greatest world poetesses, and my favourite too.

Here you have couple of links for translated poems of Akhmatova:

http://www.poetryconnection.net/poets/Anna_Akhmatova

http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/akhmatova/akhmatova_ind.html

http://www.allspirit.co.uk/anna.html

This is translation of one of the poems you posted. I'll try to find another too.

Anna Akhmatova
Twenty-First. Night. Monday

Twenty-first. Night. Monday.
Silhouette of the capitol in darkness.
Some good-for-nothing -- who knows why --
made up the tale that love exists on earth.

People believe it, maybe from laziness
or boredom, and live accordingly:
they wait eagerly for meetings, fear parting,
and when they sing, they sing about love.

But the secret reveals itself to some,
and on them silence settles down...
I found this out by accident
and now it seems I'm sick all the time.


And this is my contibution:

The Grey-Eyed King

Hail! Hail to thee, o, immovable pain!
The young grey-eyed king had been yesterday slain.

This autumnal evening was stuffy and red.
My husband, returning, had quietly said,

"He'd left for his hunting; they carried him home;
They'd found him under the old oak's dome.

I pity the queen. He, so young, past away!...
During one night her black hair turned to grey."

He found his pipe on a warm fire-place,
And quietly left for his usual race.

Now my daughter will wake up and rise --
Mother will look in her dear grey eyes...

And poplars by windows rustle as sing,
"Never again will you see your young king..."
1910

White Night

I haven't locked the door,
Nor lit the candles,
You don't know, don't care,
That tired I haven't the strength
To decide to go to bed.
Seeing the fields fade in
The sunset murk of pine-needles,
And to know all is lost,
That life is a cursed hell:
I've got drunk
On your voice in the doorway.
I was sure you'd come back.
1911.

slavica thanks a lot for your linksim really glad that you also love Akhmatova. i have found good translation of my favourite poem "Muse"but it seemed to me that her poems don't sound so heartfelt on english like something loses..don't you think so? i didn't find translation of this poem and i don't image how it can be translated perfectly

***
Углем наметил на левом боку
Место, куда стрелять,
Чтоб выпустить птицу - мою тоску
В пустынную ночь опять.

Милый! не дрогнет твоя рука,
И мне недолго терпеть.
Вылетит птица - моя тоска,
Сядет на ветку и станет петь.

Чтоб тот, кто спокоен в своем дому,
Раскрывши окно, сказал:
"Голос знакомый, а слов не пойму", -
И опустил глаза.

1914

Dear Terra

I absolutely agree with you about translated poetry - translation never can completely express spirit of original. I think that especially Russian poetry lose a lot translated to english (or any other language, except, maybe, some of slavonic languages), since its soul lays in harmony of words.
But what can we do? Not everyone has luck to know Russian an be able to read Russian poetry in original version. And I conceive our duty to introduce Russian non-speakers to great Russian poetry.

Unfortunately, I couldn't find translation of poem you posted, but I found links for two new, very good web sites with translated poetry of Akhmatova. I hope you'll enjoy them.

http://www.tonykline.co.uk/PITBR/Russian/Akhmatova.htm
http://www.poemhunter.com/anna-akhmatova/resources/poet-6765/page-1/

And this is my choice for today:

* * *
Н.В.Н

Есть в близости людей заветная черта,
Ее не перейти влюбленности и страсти,-
Пусть в жуткой тишине сливаются уста
И сердце рвется от любви на части.

И дружба здесь бессильна и года
Высокого и огненного счастья,
Когда душа свободна и чужда
Медлительной истоме сладострастья.

Стремящиеся к ней безумны, а ее
Достигшие - поражены тоскою...
Теперь ты понял, отчего мое
Не бьется сердце под твоей рукою.
2 мая 1915, Петербург


* * *

There's a secret border in human closeness,
that love’s being, love’s passion, cannot pass –
though lips are sealed together in sacred silence,
though hearts break in two with love’s distress.

And friendship too is powerless, and years
of sublime flame-filled ecstasy
when the soul itself is free, fights clear,
of the slow languor of sensuality.

Those who try to reach that boundary are mad,
and those who have – are filled with anguish.
Now you know, now you understand,
why my heart won’t beat at your caress.
1915

By the way, maybe someone could post here some of Akhmatova's poems translated to Turkish?
Cyrano, we count on you

Hello my friends,
Dobro pojalovat dorogaya Terra!
Slavica already told me about you and I am glad to welcome you here, in our lovely site.I know for sure you will enjoy.
I am sorry I did not answer your question but I am glad my dear sestrichka did it.Thank you , angel.
I read the posts and totally agree with you.

And this is for you.

THE LORD IS NOT MERCIFUL

The Lord is not merciful to repairs and gardeners.
A ringing rain slants down
And wide cloaks are going to color
The sky reflected in the water.

There's underwater kingdom of meadows and cornfields,
And undulating streams sing out, sing out,
On the swelling branches plums are bursting
And flattened grasses rot.

And through the dense scrim of water
I see your dear face,
The hushed park, the Chiniese Pavilion
And circular porch of the house.

******

I WILL LEAVE YOUR WHITE HOUSE

I will leave your white house and tranquil garden.
Let life be empty and bright.
You and you, I shall glorify in my poems,
As a woman has never been able to do.
And you remember the beloved
For whose eyes you created this paradise,
But I deal in rare commodities-
I sell your love and tenderness.

*******

AH, YOU THOUGHT

Ah -- you tought I'd be the tipe
You could forget,
And that praying and sobbing, I'd through myself
Under the hooves of a bay.

Or I would beg from the witches
Some kind of root in charmed water
And send you a terrible gift -
My intimate, scented handkerchief.

Dammed if I will. Neither by glance nor by groan
Will I touch your cursed soul,
But I vow to you by the garden of angels,
By the miraculous icon I vow
And by the fiery passion of our nights -
I will never return to you.

ANNA AKHMATOVA

Greetings folks!

Terra, this poem is for you:

MUSE

When, in the night, I wait for her, impatient
Life seems to me, as hanging by a thread
What just menas liberty, or youth, or approbation,
When compared with the gentle piper’s thread?

And she came in, threw out the mantle’s edges,
Declined to me with a sincere heed.
I say to her, "did you dictate the Pages
Of Hell to Dante?" She answers, "Yes, I did."

Translated by Yevgeny Bonver

And these are from me:

I DON'T KNOW IF YOU'RE ALIVE OR DEAD

I don't know if you're alive or dead.
Can you on earth be sought,
Or only when the sunsets fade
Be mourned serenely in my thought?

All is for you: the daily prayer,
The sleepless heat at night,
And of my verses, the white
Flock, and of my eyes, the blue fire.

No-one was more cherished, no-one tortured
Me more,not
Even the one who betrayed me to torture,
Not even the one who caressed me and forgot.

BİLMİYORUM, YAŞAMAKTA MISIN,ÖLDÃœN MÃœ?

Bilmiyorum,yaşamakta mısın,öldün mü?
Dünyada bir yerlerde bulabilir miyim seni
Yoksa,akşamın yaslı karanlığında
Bir ölüyü mü düşÃ¼nmeli...

Her şey senin için:Gün boyunca dualarım.
Uyuşturan ateşi uykusuz gecelerin;
Şiirlerimin beyaz sürüsü,
Ve mavi yangını gözlerimin...

Hiç kimse daha yakın olmadı bana,
Hiç kimse böylesine üzmedi beni,
Acıya salıp gidenler bile,
Okşayıp bırakanlar hatta.

(çeviren:Ataol Behramoğlu)

THE LAST TOAST

I drink to home, that is lost,
To evil life of mine,
To loneness in which we’re both,
And to your future, fine, --

To lips by which I was betrayed,
To eyes that deathly cold,
To that that the world is bad and that
We were not saved by God.

1934

Translated by Yevgeny Bonver

SON KADEH

Yıkılmış yuvama kaldırıyorum kadehimi
Kin , öfke dolu hayatıma
Yalnızlığına ikimizin
ve sana kaldırıyorum.

Yalanına bana ihanet eden dudaklarımın
Gözlerindeki ölü soğukluğuna
Hayatın bu kadar acımasız , kaba oluşuna
Ve kurtarmamasına bizi tanrının

1934

And this is my favourite, but I couldn't its English translaiton.

AYNI BARDAKTAN

Aynı bardaktan içmeyeceğiz,
Ne suyu,ne tatlı şarabı,
Şafakta öpüşmeyeceğiz
Ve akşam çöktüğünde pencereden bakmayacağız.

Sen güneşle soluklanıyorsun ben ay ile
Ama aynı aşkla yanıyoruz ikimiz de.

Benim yanımda sadık,sevgili yarim,
Senin yanında neşeli eşin,
Ama okuyorum gri gözlerindeki korkuyu
Çünkü sensin acım.
O arada bir buluşmalarımız bundan böyle
Daha bir aradabir olsun.
Gönlümüz rahat olsun,o zavallı gönlümüz.

Şiirlerimde yalnız senin sesin var
Senin şiirlerinde,biliyorum benim soluğum esiyor
Ah bir ateş ki cesareti yok
Ne unutuşa,ne korkuya dokunmaya...
Bir bilsen nasıl seviyorum şu an
O kuru dudaklarını,gül rengi!

(çev: Güneş Acar)

yes yes "a ty dumal chto ya takay chto mozhno menya zabyt'.." devchonki vy superthanks a lot
what about Marina Csvetaeva

Ты, меня любивший фальшью
Истины - и правдой лжи,
Ты, меня любивший - дальше
Некуда! - За рубежи!

Ты, меня любивший дольше
Времени. - Десницы взмах! -
Ты меня не любишь больше:
Истина в пяти словах.

Марина Цветаева

wow cyrano bravoi didn't know that there is translation into turkish.thanksand this is translation of "muse" that i like.i enjoy this site and your company

Thank you Terra. It is great. I do love to see all these poems here.I hope our friends can enjoy them as much as I do.Here is one of my favourites.


Mne nravitsya, chto vu bol'ni me mnoi...

I like that you are obsessed, but not by me.
I like that I am sick, but not by you.
That never ever the heavy round Earth
Would sail itself away under our feet.
I like, it is permitted to be funny
And loose - and is not to play with words,
Is not to blush with stifling wave slightly
Have touched sleeves each other's, you and me.

And I like still that you can calmly
Embrace the others in my dear presence,
You don't predict me burning in the hell
Because I kiss not you, but someone else.
Again and again my tender name, my tender,
You haven't mentioned day or night - in vain...
That never in the church silence for forever
Would sing above us: halli -halleluya!

Thank you for that, from very heart and hand,
You do love me - and never knowing it! - so much,
For peace and rest allowed me at nights,
For rarity of seeing you at sunsets,
For walking not together under the moon
And for the sun is not above us all along,
For you are sick - alas! -but not by me,
For I am sick - alas! - but not by you.


Marina Tsvetaeva


* * *

Мне нравится, что Вы больны не мной,
Мне нравится, что я больна не Вами,
Что никогда тяжелый шар земной
Не уплывет под нашими ногами.
Мне нравится, что можно быть смешной -
Распущенной - и не играть словами,
И не краснеть удушливой волной,
Слегка соприкоснувшись рукавами.

Мне нравится еще, что Вы при мне
Спокойно обнимаете другую,
Не прочите мне в адовом огне
Гореть за то, что я не Вас целую.
Что имя нежное мое, мой нежный, не
Упоминаете ни днем ни ночью - всуе...
Что никогда в церковной тишине
Не пропоют над нами: аллилуйя!

Спасибо Вам и сердцем и рукой
За то, что Вы меня - не зная сами! -
Так любите: за мой ночной покой,
За редкость встреч закатными часами,
За наши не-гулянья под луной,
За солнце не у нас на головами,
За то, что Вы больны - увы! - не мной,
За то, что я больна - увы! - не Вами.

3 мая 1915

A eto dlya tebya Terra

Oh, thanks for reminding me, Terra Yes, Marina... great Marina...

Here's my contribution:

Where does such tenderness come from?

Where does such tenderness come from?
Not the first -- these curls
I am stroking, and the lips
I knew -- darker than yours

The stars rose and diminished
(Where does such tenderness come from?)
The eyes rose and diminished
Right next to mine.

And yet no such songs
Did I listen to in the darkness of night
(Where does such tenderness come from?)
On this singer's chest

Where does such tenderness come from?
And what am I to do with it, sly
Youth, a transient singer,
With eyelashes -- longer than any other's?

18 February 1916

By Marina Tsvetayeva
Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina
(Poem addressed to Osip Mandelstam)

And there you have links for more translated poetry of Marina Tsvetayeva:

http://oldpoetry.com/oprintall/Marina%20Ivanova%20Tsvetaeva
http://faynights.users.btopenworld.com/Laura/Marina/poems.html
http://www.geocities.com/Paris/Parc/2331/russpoets/marina.html

Cyrano, it's your turn now: translations to Turkish, please!

I couldn't find too many Marina TSVETAYEVA's poems in Turkish. I however found nice one with English version. Here is:

WE SHALL NOT ESCAPE HELL

We shall not escape Hell, my passionate
Sisters, we shall drink black resins–
We who sang our praises to the Lord
With every one of our sinews, even the finest.

We did not lean over cradles or
Spinning wheels at night, and now we are
Carried off by an unsteady boat
Under the skirts of a sleeveless cloak,

We dressed every morning in
Fine Chinese silk, and we would
Sing our paradisel songs at
The fire of the robber’s camp

Slovenly needlewomen (all
Our sewing came apart), dancers,
Players upon pipes: we have been
The queens of the whole world!

First scarsely covered by rags,
Then with constellations in our hair, in
Goal and at feasts we have
Bartered away heaven,

In starry nights, in the apple
Orchards of Paradise
–Gentle girls, my beloved sisters,
we shall certainly find ourselves in Hell!

KAÇMAYALIM CEHENNEMDEN

Kaçmayalım cehennemden, benim tutkulu
kız kardeşlerim, içelim kara reçineleri–
bizler ki tanrıya şarkılar söyleyerek yakardık
bütün gücümüzle ve bütün rikkatimizle.

eğilmedik beşiklerin üstüne ya da
gecede dönen tekerleklerin, ve şimdi biz
kolsuz bir pelerinin eteklerinde
sallanan bir kayıktan savrulup düştük,

giyinirdik her sabah yumuşak
Çin ipeğini, ve söylerdik
cennet şarkılarını, eşkıya
kampının ateşlerinde,

pasaklı terzi kadın (bütün
dikişlerimiz söküldü), dansözler,
pipoların üstündeki oyuncular: bizler
bütün dünyanın kraliçeleri

ilkin güçbela örtündük paçavralarla,
sonra kodeslerde ve şÃ¶lenlerde
saçlarımızdaki takımyıldızlarla
değiş tokuş ettik cenneti,

yıldızlı gecelerde, cennetin
elma bahçelerinde.
–kibar kızlar, benim sevgili kız kardeşlerim
emin olun bulacağız kendimizi cehennemde!

thanks a lot friends i noticed that poems of Marina Tsvetaeva sound in english as good as in Russian. and another request may be you know this song and can translate it

виноградную косточку в теплую землю зарою
и лозу поцелую и спелые гроздья сорву
и друзей созову на любовь свое сердце настрою
а иначе зачем на земле этой грешной живу..

Hi to everyone!!! I am also fond of Russian Poetry. Thank you for these wonderful poems that you posted here. This is my contribution:

Сергей Есенин

Письмо от матери

Чего же мне
Еще теперь придумать,
О чем теперь
Еще мне написать?
Передо мной
На столике угрюмом
Лежит письмо,
Что мне прислала мать.

Она мне пишет:
"Если можешь ты,
То приезжай, голубчик,
К нам на святки.
Купи мне шаль,
Отцу купи порты,
У нас в дому
Большие недостатки.
Мне страх не нравится,
Что ты поэт,
Что ты сдружился
С славою плохою.
Гораздо лучше б
С малых лет
Ходил ты в поле за сохою.

Стара я стала
И совсем плоха,
Но если б дома
Был ты изначала,
То у меня
Была б теперь сноха
И на ноге
Внучонка я качала.

Но ты детей
По свету растерял,
Свою жену
Легко отдал другому,
И без семьи, без дружбы,
Без причал
Ты с головой
Ушел в кабацкий омут.

Любимый сын мой,
Что с тобой?
Ты был так кроток,
Был так смиренен.
И говорил все наперебой:
Какой счастливый
Александр Есенин!

В тебе надежды наши
Не сбылись,
И на душе
С того больней и горше,
Что у отца
Была напрасной мысль,
Чтоб за стихи
Ты денег брал побольше.

Хоть сколько б ты
Ни брал,
Ты не пошлешь их в дом,
И потому так горько
Речи льются,
Что знаю я
На опыте твоем:
Поэтам деньги не даются.

Мне страх не нравится,
Что ты поэт,
Что ты сдружился
С славою плохою.
Гораздо лучше б
С малых лет
Ходил ты в поле за сохою.

Теперь сплошная грусть,
Живем мы, как во тьме.
У нас нет лошади.
Но если б был ты в доме,
То было б все,
И при твоем уме -
Пост председателя
В волисполкоме.
Тогда б жилось смелей,
Никто б нас не тянул,
И ты б не знал
Ненужную усталость,
Я б заставляла
Прясть
Твою жену,
А ты, как сын,
Покоил нашу старость".
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Я комкаю письмо,
Я погружаюсь в жуть.
Ужель нет выхода
В моем пути заветном?
Но все, что думаю,
Я после расскажу.
Я расскажу
В письме ответном...

<1924>

OZAN

Düşmanlarını yıkandır, ozan,
Ozanın öz gerçeğidir ana,
Sever, kardeşidir insan
Ve yanar tüter insan uğruna.

Kimsenin harcı olmayanı
O becerir, özgürlüğe vurgun.
Ozandır o, halkın ozanı,
Ozanı anayurdunun!

Sergey Yesenin

*******

HOŞÃ‡AKAL

HoşÃ§akal, dostum benim, hoşÃ§akal artık,
Can dostum, seninle dolu göğsüm.
Çok önceden belirlenen bu ayrılık
buluşmayı vaadediyor ilerde bir gün

HoşÃ§akal, dostum, el sıkışmadan, konuşmadan.
Hüzünlenme ve eğme kaşlarını, mutsuz;
Yeni bir şey değil ölüp gitmek bu yaşamdan,
Ama yaşamak da daha yeni değil kuşkusuz.

Sergey Yesenin

*****

SÃœZGÃœN AY

Süzgün ay, karlı enginler,
Kefenlenmiş bizim eller.
Kayınlar da ak giyinmiş inler ormanlarda.
Ben miyim Ölmüş mü? Düşen kim burda?

Sergey Yesenin

*******

.....

Çiçekler "elveda" diyor bana,
Başlarını öne eğerek,
Ve göremeyeceğimi sonsuza dek
Ne sevdiğimin yüzünü, ne doğduğum yerleri.

Sevgilim, n'olmuş sanki?
Çok sevgili gördüm, dünyayı gördüm ben
Ve içimdeki bu mezar titremesini
Yeni bir aşk emaresi gibi benimsiyorum.

Ve hayatın sırrına erdim şimdi
Bir gülümsemeyle geçmeli hayatı
Şimdi her bir anımda dünyadaki -
Her şey tekrarlanabilir diyorum

Ne fark eder ki - başkası gelir işte
Gideni hüzün yiyip bitirmez
Terk edilen ve değerli olan sevgiliye
Yeni gelen daha güzel şarkı söyler.

Sessizlikte bu şarkıyı dinlerken
Sevgilim bir başkasıyla
Kim bilir belki beni de
Eşsiz bir çiçek diye hatırlar.

Sergey Esenin

Çeviren: Burhan Deniz


I found this and think you will love it.This is especially for my sestrichka Slavica.

http://www.triorelikt.ru/eng/repertory/albums/ --Vocal Trio Relikt.The songs on poetry Sergey Yesenin and other russian songs and romances.

ANNABEL LEE

It was many and many years ago,
in a kingdom by the sea.
that a maiden there lived whom you my know
by the name of annabel lee:
and this maiden she lived with no other thought
than to love and be loved by me.

she was a child and i was a child,
in this kingdom by the sea.
but we loved with a love that was more than love-
i and my annabel lee-
with a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
coveted her and me.

and this was the reason that, long ago,
in this kingdom by the sea,
a wind blew out of a cloud by night
chilling my annabel lee;
so that her highborn kinsmen came
and bore her away from me,
to shut her up in a sepulcher
in this kingdom by the sea.

the angels, not half so happy in heaven,
went envying her and me:-
yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
in this kingdom by the sea)
that the wind came out of a cloud, chilling
and killing my annabel lee.

but our love it was stronger by far than the love
of those who were older than we-
of many far wiser than we-
and neither the angels in heaven above
nor the demons down under the sea,
can dissever my soul from the soul
of the beautiful annabel lee:-

for the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
of the beautiful annabel lee;
and he stars never rise but i see the bright eyes
of the beautiful annabel lee;
and so, all the nighttide, i lie down ny the side
of my darling, my life and my bride,
in her sepulcher by the sea-
in her tomb by the side of the sea.



senelerce senelerce evveldi;
bir deniz ülkesinde
yaşayan bir kız vardı, bileceksiniz
ismi annabel lee;
hiç bir şey düşÃ¼nmezdi sevilmekten
sevmekten başka beni.

o çocuk ben çocuk memleketimiz
o deniz ülkesiydi,
sevdalı değil kara sevdalıydık
ben ve annabel lee;
göklerde uçan melekler bile
kıskanırlardı bizi.

bir gün işte bu yüzden göze geldi
o deniz ülkesinde,
üşÃ¼dü rüzgarından bir bulutun
güzelim annabel lee;
götürdüler el üstünde
koyup gittiler beni,
mezarı ordadır şimdi,
o deniz ülkesinde.

biz daha bahtiyardık meleklerden
onlar kıskandı bizi-
evet!-bu yüzden(şahidimdir herkes
ve o deniz ülkesi)
bir gece bulutunun rüzgarından
üşÃ¼dü gitti annabel lee.

sevdadan yana, kim olursa olsun,
yaşÃ§a başÃ§a ileri,
geçemezlerdi bizi;
ne yedi kat göklerdeki melekler,
ne deniz dibi cinleri,
hiçbiri ayıramaz beni senden
güzelim annabel lee:

ay gelir ışır, hayalin irişir
güzelim annabel lee;
bu yıldızlar gözlerin gibi parlar
güzelim annabel lee:
orda gecelerim, uzanır beklerim
sevgilim, sevgilim, hayatım, gelinim
o azgın sahildeki,
yattığın yerde seni.

Çeviri (Melih Cevdet Anday)
Edgar Allan Poe

Even it is not Russian but I know many of us love poems of Edgar Alan Poe. This is my favourite.

Hello Terra,
Here is translation for your poem.

Ты, меня любивший фальшью...

Ты, меня любивший фальшью
Истины - и правдой лжи,
Ты, меня любивший - дальше
Некуда! - За рубежи!
Ты, меня любивший дольше
Времени. - Десницы взмах!
Ты меня не любишь больше:
Истина в пяти словах.

12 декабря 1923
******

You Who Loved Me With The Falseness...

You who loved me with the falseness
Of truth - and the truth of lies.
You who loved me-beyond
Anything!-Over the edge!
You who loved me beyond
Time-Right hand, wave!
You love me no more:
The truth in five words.

12 December 1923
Marina Tsvetaeva

A CONFESSION - A.S. Pushkin ПРИЗНАНИЕ - А.С. Пушкин
To Alexandra Ivanovna Osipova

I love you - love you, e'en as I
Rage at myself for this obsession,
And as I make my shamed confession,
Despairing at your feet I lie.
I know, I know - it ill becomes me,
I am too old, time to be wise...
But how?.. This love - it overcomes me,
A sickness this in passion's guise.
When you are near I'm filled with sadness,
When far, I yawn, for life's a bore.
I must pour out this love, this madness,
There's nothing that I long for more!
When your skirts rustle, when, my angel,
Your girlish voice I hear, when your
Light step sounds in the parlour - strangely,
I turn confused, perturbed, unsure.
You frown - and I'm in pain, I languish;
You smile - and joy defeats distress;
My one reward for a day's anguish
Comes when your pale hand, love, I kiss.
When you sit bent over your sewing,
Your eyes cast down and fine curls blowing
About your face, with tenderness
I childlike watch, my heart o'erflowing
With love, in my gaze a caress.
Shall I my jealousy and yearning
Describe, my bitterness and woe
When by yourself on some bleak morning
Off on a distant walk you go,
Or with another spend the evening
And, with him near, the piano play,
Or for Opochka leave, or, grieving,
Weep and in silence pass the day?..
Alina! Pray relent, have mercy!
I dare not ask for love - with all
My many sins, both great and small,
I am perhaps of love unworthy!..
But if you feigned love, if you would
Pretend, you'd easily deceive me,
For happily would I, believe me,
Deceive myself if but I could!

K Александре Ивановне Осиповой

Я вас люблю, хоть я бешусь,
Хоть это труд и стыд напрасный,
И в этой глупости несчастной
У ваших ног я признаюсь!
Мне не к лицу и не по летам...
Пора, пора мне быть умней!
Но узнаю по всем приметам
Болезнь любви в душе моей:
Без вас мне скучно, - я зеваю;
При вас мне грустно, - я терплю;
И, мочи нет, сказать желаю,
Мой ангел, как я вас люблю!
Когда я слышу из гостиной
Ваш легкий шаг, иль платья шум,
Иль голос девственный, невинный,
Я вдруг теряю весь свой ум.
Вы улыбнетесь - мне отрада;
Вы отвернетесь - мне тоска;
За день мучения - награда
Мне ваша бледная рука.
Когда за пяльцами прилежно
Сидите вы, склонясь небрежно,
Глаза и кудри опустя, -
Я в умиленье, молча, нежно
Любуюсь вами, как дитя!..
Сказать ли вам мое несчастье,
Мою ревнивую печаль,
Когда гулять, порой, в ненастье,
Вы собираетеся вдаль?
И ваши слезы в одиночку,
И речи в уголку вдвоем,
И путешествие в Опочку,
И фортепьяно вечерком?..
Алина! сжальтесь надо мною.
Не смею требовать любви:
Быть может, за грехи мои,
Мой ангел, я любви не стою!
Но притворитесь! Этот взгляд
Все может выразить так чудно!
Ах, обмануть меня не трудно!..
Я сам обманываться рад!

thanks bliss.you made me discover poetry of Edgar Poe.i haden't known his poems before.i see Sergey Esenin is in the the lead herethis is poem of Sasha Cherniy or Black Sashai also like him and he is not so popular and famous and may be it will be interesting to read it

Больному
Есть горячее солнце, наивные дети,
Драгоценная радость мелодий и книг.
Если нет — то ведь были, ведь были на свете
И Бетховен, и Пушкин, и Гейне, и Григ…

Есть незримое творчество в каждом мгновенье —
В умном слове, в улыбке, в сиянии глаз.
Будь творцом! Созидай золотые мгновенья —
В каждом дне есть раздумье и пряный экстаз…

Бесконечно позорно в припадке печали
Добровольно исчезнуть, как тень на стекле.
Разве Новые Встречи уже отсияли?
Разве только собаки живут на земле?

Если сам я угрюм, как голландская сажа
(Улыбнись, улыбнись на сравненье мое!),
Этот черный румянец — налет от дренажа,
Это Муза меня подняла на копье.

Подожди! Я сживусь со своим новосельем —
Как весенний скворец запою на копье!
Оглушу твои уши цыганским весельем!
Дай лишь срок разобраться в проклятом тряпье.

Оставайся! Так мало здесь чутких и честных…
Оставайся! Лишь в них оправданье земли.
Адресов я не знаю — ищи неизвестных,
Как и ты, неподвижно лежащих в пыли.

Если лучшие будут бросаться в пролеты,
Скиснет мир от бескрылых гиен и тупиц!
Полюби безотчетную радость полета…
Разверни свою душу до полных границ.

Будь женой или мужем, сестрой или братом,
Акушеркой, художником, нянькой, врачом,
Отдавай — и, дрожа, не тянись за возвратом:
Все сердца открываются этим ключом.

Есть еще острова одиночества мысли —
Будь умен и не бойся на них отдыхать.
Там обрывы над темной водою нависли —
Можешь думать… и камешки в воду бросать…

А вопросы… Вопросы не знают ответа —
Налетят. Разожгут и умчатся, как корь.
Соломон нам оставил два мудрых совета:
Убегай от тоски и с глупцами не спорь.
1910

Hello bliss,

Thank you very much for Esenin's poems in Turkish. You gave us a real feast in poetry. So, the poems below are my contribution.I am sure you will like them even in Turkish.


İNSAN ORGANİZMASINDA

İnsan organizmasında
yüzde doksan su var,
Paganini'de belki
yüzde doksan aşk!

Ayrıca, bir istisna olarak
kalabalık eziyorsa sizi,
insan tutumunda
yüzde doksan iyilik...

Yüzde doksan müzik
külfet olsa bile,
içimdeki çer çöpe rağmen,
yüzde doksan sen.

Andrey VOZNESENSKİ
Çeviren: Ülkü Tamer


HANÇER

Seviyorum seni çelik hançerim,
Parlak ve soğuk arkadaşım.
Bir Gürcü, öç gününde dövdü seni örste,
Özgür Çerkez, kanlı bir savaşa biledi.

Zambak bir el taşıdı seni bana
Ayrılık anında, anmalık olarak;
Ve ilk kez kan değildi üstünden akan
Acının inciden gözyaşlarıydı, parlak.


O kara gözler, dikilen üstüme,
Gizemli bir tasayla doluydular;
Çeliğin gibi senin, titrek bir alevde,
Ansızın bulanıyor, parlıyordular.

Aşkın dilsiz güvencesi ve yol arkadaşımsın sen,
Seni hep örnek olarak göreceğim;
Değişmeyeceğim ben de, ve ruhum hep
Senin gibi sert kalacak, demirden dostum benim.


Mihail LERMONTOV
Çeviren : Ataol BEHRAMOĞLU


İMAN

İstediğiniz kadar uzatın bekleyişi
gördüğüm şey öylesine berrak
ve bu berraklık bir masal gibi
öylesine bırakmıyor ki beni
şu uyağı koyunca
çok daha güzel bir hayata tırmanacağım
ikinci dize uyunca.
En basit bir soruya bile ihtiyacı yok artık:
Tüm ayrıntılarıyla görüyorum işte
nağme nağme yükseliyor
taş taş üstünde yükselir gibi
ve ne bir pislik ne de bir toz zerresi
tüm hatlarıyla görüyorum yükseliyor
pırıl pırıl yüzyıllardan katlarıyla
insanları diriltme atölyesi...

İşte
geniş alınlı kimyager
deneylerin kırışıklığı
çehresinde.
Kitaptan
- 'Bütün Dünya'dır adı kitabın-
şÃ¶yle bir sayfa açıyor:
Yirminci Yüzyıl...
'Kimi diriltsek acaba?...
Mayakovski'yi?...
Yok canım! Yeni baştan yaşatmaya değmez o şair...
Daha güzel daha değerli daha iyi
birini arayalım...'
Ve nasıl haykırıyorum bilseniz
nasıl haykırıyorum avazım çıktığı kadar
buradan
Bitirmek üzere olduğum şu sayfadan:
'Boşuna karıştırma ilerki sayfaları!
Dirilmeyi hakkeden sadece ben varım!'


Vladimir MAYAKOVSKI
Çeviren : Attilâ TOKATLI

Thank you for all the poems! You are great! Unfortunately, all i can do is just reading everything, because you almost posted all my favourite poems. It is a great pleasure to follow this thread. Thank You!!

You are very welcome mella. It was my pleasure.

Thank you Terra for Esenin.I'll try to find the translation.
Cyrano, I was very happy to see the poems in Turkish.Thank you so much.Here is one in anglish and russian.I will do the others too.

The Dagger


I like you well, O trusty dagger mine,
My comrade wrought of cool Damascus steel!
Forged were you by the Georgian with revenge in the mind,
By the Circassian free - for war were you made keen.


A lily-white hand it was gave you to me -
You were affection's keepsake, its last gift...
Not blood, but pearl-like tears born of the agony
Of bitter parting down your blade ran swift.


Her dark eyes rested, full of secret pain,
Of sadness and of mystery, upon
My face, and like yourself when lit by flickering flame,
Now clouded and turned dull, now glowed and shone.


O dagger, love's mute pledge, you will my true
Friend stay, and an example set to me, a wanderer:
For faithful, yes, and firm of soul like you
I'll be like you that tempered was by fire.


Кинжал


Люблю тебя, булатный мой кинжал,
Товарищ светлый и холодный.
Задумчивый грузин на месть тебя ковал,
На грозный бой точил черкес свободный.


Лилейная рука тебя мне поднесла
В знак памяти, в минуту расстaванья,
И в первый раз не кровь вдоль по тебе текла,
Но светлая слеза - жемчужина страданья.


И черные глаза, остановясь на мне,
Исполнены таинственной печали,
Как сталь твоя при трепетном огне,
То вдруг тускнели, то сверкали.


Ты дан мне в спутники, любви залог немой,
И страннику в тебе пример не бесполезный;
Да, я не изменюсь и буду тверд душой,
Как ты, как ты, мой друг железный.

Here is in latin alphabet for you, Cyrano.

Kinjal

Lyublyu tebya, bulatniy moy kinjal,
Tovarish svetliy i kholodniy,
Zadumchiviy gruzin na mest' tebya koval,
Na grozniy boy tochil cherkes svobodniy.

Lileynaya ruka tebya mne podnesla
V znak pamyati, v minutu rasstavanya,
I v perviy raz ne krov vdol' po tebe tekla,
No svetlaya sleza - jemchujina stradanya.

I chernie glaza, ostanovyas' na mne,
Ispolneni tainstvennoy pechali,
Kak stal' tvoya pri trepetnom ogne,
To vdrug tuskneli, to sverkali.

Ti dan mne v sputniki, lyubvi zalog nemoy,
I stranniku v tebe primer ne bespolezniy;
Da, ya ne izmenyus i budu tverd dushoy,
Kak ti, kak ti, moy drug jelezniy.

You are welcome bliss. I too was glad since you were happy!

Since you love Andrey Voznesensky, I would like to share with you.This is one of my favourites.

DEAD STILL

Now, with your palms in the blades of my shoulders,
Let us embrace:
Let there be only your lips' breath on my face,
Only behind our backs, the plunge of rollers.

Our backs, which like two shells in moonlight shine,
Are shut behind us now;
We lie here huddled, listening brow to brow,
Like life's twin formula or double sign.

In folly's world-wide wind
Our shoulders shield from the weather
The calm we now beget together,
Like a flame held between hand and hand.

Does each cell have a soul within it?
If so, fling open all your little doors,
And all your souls shall flutter like the linnet
In the cages of my pores.

Nothing is hidden that shall not be known.
Yet by no storm of scorn shall we
Be pried from this embrace, and left alone
Like muted shells forgetful of the sea.

Meanwhile, O load of stress and bother,
Lie on the shells of our backs in a great heap:
It will but preess us closer, one to the other.

We are asleep.

Andrey Voznesensky
Trans. Richard Wilbur

With lots of love,
to my precious Bliss, to my dear Mella, to all my friends and all poetry lovers, one of Pushkin's masterpieces, part of his amazing novel "Evgeny Onegin":

Tatyana's letter to Onegin.

I write this to you - what more can be said?
What more can I add to that one fact?
For now I know it is in your power
To punish me contemptuously for this act.
But you, keeping for my unhappy lot
Even one drop of sympathy
Will not entirely abandon me.
At first I wished to remain silent;
Believe me, my shame, my agony,
You never ever would have heard.
As long as hope remained preserved


That rarely, even once a week,
I'd see you in our country house,
To hear your voice, to hear you speak,
To say a few words, and then, and then
To think, and think, and think again
All day, all night, until the next meeting.
But it is said you are unsociable,
And in this backwater all is tedious to you,
While we… well here we shine at nothing,
Although we're glad to welcome you.

Why did you come to visit us?
In this forgotten rural home
Your face I never would have known
Nor known this bitter suffering.
The fever of inexperience
In time (who can tell?) would have died down,
And I'd have found another lover,
Dear to my heart, to whom I'd be true,
And a loving wife, and virtuous mother.

Another!… No, no one on this earth
Is there to whom I'd give my heart!
That is ordained by highest fate…
That is heaven's will - that I am yours;
My life till now was but a pledge,
Of meeting with you, a forward image;
You were sent by heaven of that I'm sure,
To the grave itself you are my saviour…
In dreams you have appeared to me,
Though yet unseen, I held you dear,
Your glance and strangeness tortured me,
To my soul your voice was loud and clear
From long ago… It was not a dream!
You came, and I knew that very instant,
I was struck dumb, my heart flared up,
And in my thoughts said "He is the one!"
Is it not true? I heard you often:
In the silence did you not speak to me,
Both when I helped the poor, and when
With prayer I sought to ease and soften
The pain inside my anguished head?
And at this very moment, is it not you,
Oh sweetest, lovely vision who
In the night's transparency flits by
And quietly nestles by the bed's head?
And you, who with love and rapturously
Whispered a word of hope to me?

Who are you, my guardian angel?
Or a wily devil, a tempter fatal?
Disperse these doubts, this agony.
Perhaps all this is nothingness,
A foolish mind's self-aberration,
And something other is fate's decree…
So be it! Whatever my destiny,
To you I give it from this day,
Before you the tears roll down my cheek,
And your protection I beseech…
For consider: here I am alone,
No one understands what I say,
My reason tortures me every day,
And silently I am doomed to perish.
You I await: With a single glance
Revive the hope that's in my heart,
Cut short this heavy dream I cherish,
Deserving, I know, reproach and scorn.

I finish - I tremble to read it through,
With shame and terror my heart sinks low,
But your honour is my guarantee
And to that I entrust my destiny.


I'm sure that Russian original and Turkish translation will follow as well.

For those who are interested in reading whole "Evgeny Onegin", here's link:

http://www.pushkins-poems.com/index.htm

Thanks to you all for sharing such wonderful poetry - heavenly

TO ALL CLASSMATES WHO ARE CELEBRATING:
MARRY CHRISTMAS, LOTS OF LOVE, HEALTH, SUCCESS, JOY AND HAPPINES!
MAY ALL YOUR CHRISTMAS DREAMS COME TRUE!

As I promised, here's Russian original:

ПИСЬМО ТАТЬЯНЫ К ОНЕГИНУ

Я к вам пишу - чего же боле?
Что я могу еще сказать?
Теперь, я знаю, в вашей воле
Меня презреньем наказать.
Но вы, к моей несчастной доле
Хоть каплю жалости храня,
Вы не оставите меня.
Сначала я молчать хотела;
Поверьте: моего стыда
Вы не узнали б никогда,
Когда б надежду я имела
Хоть редко, хоть в неделю раз
В деревне нашей видеть вас,
Чтоб только слышать ваши речи,
Вам слово молвить, и потом
Все думать, думать об одном
И день и ночь до новой встречи.
Но, говорят, вы нелюдим;
В глуши, в деревне все вам скучно,
А мы... ничем мы не блестим,
Хоть вам и рады простодушно.

Зачем вы посетили нас?
В глуши забытого селенья
Я никогда не знала б вас,
Не знала б горького мученья.
Души неопытной волненья
Смирив со временем (как знать?),
По сердцу я нашла бы друга,
Была бы верная супруга
И добродетельная мать.

Другой!.. Нет, никому на свете
Не отдала бы сердца я!
То в вышнем суждено совете...
То воля неба: я твоя;
Вся жизнь моя была залогом
Свиданья верного с тобой;
Я знаю, ты мне послан богом,
До гроба ты хранитель мой...
Ты в сновиденьях мне являлся
Незримый, ты мне был уж мил,
Твой чудный взгляд меня томил,
В душе твой голос раздавался
Давно... нет, это был не сон!
Ты чуть вошел, я вмиг узнала,
Вся обомлела, запылала
И в мыслях молвила: вот он!
Не правда ль? я тебя слыхала:
Ты говорил со мной в тиши,
Когда я бедным помогала
Или молитвой услаждала
Тоску волнуемой души?
И в это самое мгновенье
Не ты ли, милое виденье,
В прозрачной темноте мелькнул,
Приникнул тихо к изголовью?
Не ты ль, с отрадой и любовью,
Слова надежды мне шепнул?
Кто ты, мой ангел ли хранитель,
Или коварный искуситель:
Мои сомненья разреши.
Быть может, это все пустое,
Обман неопытной души!
И суждено совсем иное...
Но так и быть! Судьбу мою
Отныне я тебе вручаю,
Перед тобою слезы лью,
Твоей защиты умоляю...
Вообрази: я здесь одна,
Никто меня не понимает,
Рассудок мой изнемогает,
И молча гибнуть я должна.
Я жду тебя: единым взором
Надежды сердца оживи
Иль сон тяжелый перерви,
Увы, заслуженным укором!

Кончаю! Страшно перечесть...
Стыдом и страхом замираю...
Но мне порукой ваша честь,
И смело ей себя вверяю...

This is the link for those who would like to read "Onegin" in Russian
http://www.friends-partners.org/friends/literature/19century/pushkin25.html(opt,mozilla,pc,russian,koi8,new)

Now we need Turkish translation. Cyrano, my friend?

Oh, thank you, thank you so much, Cyrano
What would we do without you and your precious help!

Hello guys,
I don't know how to thank you, believe me.It is very nice to see Pushkin in TC.I appreciate your job, Cyrano because I was thinking to find the turkish translation, even Slavica asked you.And you know why? Because I was late to post in russian, as she asked, and she did it.Thank you sestrichka.I have to think about my contribution here.Maybe it will take little time, just few days but I promise to do it for both of you and my russian friends too.Be little patient, please.
With my best wishes to you.

Hello,
Here is some information for you.It might be interesting for you.

Onegin is one of the classics of Russian literature; it served as the model for a number of Russian literary heroes.

The work was made into an 1879 opera, Eugene Onegin, by Tchaikovsky. A staged version was produced in the USSR in 1936 with staging by Alexander Tairov and incidental music by Sergei Prokofiev. In 1999 a film version was made by Martha Fiennes, starring Ralph Fiennes and Liv Tyler.

The full text translated into English can be found at: [translated by Johnston] http://lib.ru/LITRA/PUSHKIN/ENGLISH/onegin_j.txt [another translation] http://www.poetryloverspage.com/yevgeny/pushkin/evgeny_onegin.html

My dearest classmates!
HAPPY NEW YEAR

I want to wish each one of you
A prosperous, healthy New Year.
At midnight before the new day dawns,
Let's fill our hearts with cheer.

Then as the new year begins for us,
Let's pray to God above,
To rid our planet of wars and strife,
And fill ALL our hearts with love.


And this is for my russian classmates:


NOVOGODNIE POJELANIYA

Vot stishok moy novogodniy,
Pojelayu vam segodnya:

V Yanvare luchey Aprelya,
Chtobi vas poluchshe greli.

Chtobi vetri chashe duli -
Da ne v Marte, a v Iyule.

Chtobi den' vash bil bez nochi
Ili noch' bila koroche.

Chtobi v more dni i godi
Ne bivalo nepogodi.

Chtob ves' god ne znali draki
Vashi koshki i sobaki.

Chtobi skolko khleb ne rejem,
Bil on myagkim, bil on svejim.

Chtobi slivkami fontani
Napolnyali vam stakani.

Esli eto slishkom mnogo,
Ne sudite slishkom strogo.

A nagradi mne ne nado.
Vasha radost -- mne nagrada!

S Novim Godom!

Hello, my dear friends, poetry lovers

I want to remind you to an event, happened 80 years ago: in the night of December 27/28, 1925 great Russian poet Sergey Esenin hanged himself in the Hotel d'Angleterre in Leningrad. Day before his death, Esenin slashed his wrists and wrote with his own blood his farewell poem.

Goodbye, My Friend, Goodbye

Good-bye, my friend, good-bye.
My dear one, you are in my breast.
This predestined parting
Promises a meeting ahead.

Good-bye, my friend, without hand, without word
No sorrow and no sadness in the brow.
In this life, dying is nothing new,
But living, of course, isn't novel either.

(Sergey YESENIN,Translated by Geoffrey Hurley)


AYRILIK ŞİİRİ

HoşÃ§akal, dostum, hoşÃ§akal, mutluluklar.
Sevgili dostum, yüreğimde yaşayacak anın,
Sonunda ayrılık yazgısı olsa da insanın.
HoşÃ§akal dediğimiz gibi buluşmak da var.

HoşÃ§akal, dostum, el sıkışmadan, suskunlukla
Sakın üzülme, nedir bu gözlerindeki hüzün?
Şu yaşamda yeni bir şey değil ki ölüm,
Ama pek öyle yeni sayılmaz yaşamak da.

(Çeviren: Ataol Behramoğlu)


* * *

До свиданья, друг мой, до свиданья.
Милый мой, ты у меня в груди.
Предназначенное расставанье
Обещает встречу впереди.

До свиданья, друг мой, без руки, без слова,
Не грусти и не печаль бровей,-
В этой жизни умирать не ново,
Но и жить, конечно, не новей.
1925

This poem is, in the same time, my farewell from you, my dear friends. I decided not to post threads about World literature anymore, and to try to give my contribution at Turkish Class the other ways.
Thank you all for your cooperation and support.
Wishing you all the best in new 2006 year, I hope we'll meet again at some more suitable place.
With all my love,
Slavica

Oh! It looks as pretty suitable place, don't you think, my precious friends

Boop, welcome to the club of poetry lovers

Well...Seems everybody liked Tatyana and her letter to Onegin. So I decided to continue the story.
... Onegin refused Tatyana's love and left the village. But he met her again after couple of years. Shy, poor and simple village girl became beautiful princess, "unapproachable goddess". Onegin felt in love... It was his turn in writting letters...

Letter of Onegin to Tatyana


I foresee all: how the revelation
Of my sad secret will cause offence.
For what a bitter condemnation
Is revealed within your haughty glance!
What do I wish for? And with what aim
Do I open up my soul to you?
And to your spiteful mocking laughter
Perhaps giving cause I'll rue hereafter.

In the past having met you quite by chance,
Seeing in you that spark of tenderness
I did not dare to entrust myself
To it, and shrugged off the sweet romance;
Besides, my repellent liberty
I did not wish then to abandon.
And yet another thing came to part us...
A most stupid sacrifice, poor Lensky ...
From all things that to my heart were dear,
I then had wrenched my heart away;
A stranger to all, bound to no one,
I thought to myself: freedom and rest
Are better than all that happiness.
My God! My God! How was I mistaken!
And how has the heart within me been stricken!

No, no! Each minute to have a glimpse
Of you, to follow you everywhere,
To catch with my adoring eyes,
The smile of your mouth, your looks, your hair;
Only to listen to you, and to understand
In my very soul your complete perfection,
Before you to suffer my crucifixion,
To grow pale, and perish... Ah, that is bliss!

But that is denied me: only for you,
I drag myself hopefully everywhere;
The day is precious, and the hour too,
But I waste in boredom's cruel vanity
The days which by fate are allotted me.
They are such a weary misery!
I know that my days are numbered already,
But in order to give them some small scope
I must in the morning be assured
Of seeing you each day, and of having your word...

I fear that this my humble prayer
By your fierce eye may be construed
As but a cunning trick to lure
You, and I hear your angry sneer.
But if you knew, how terrible
Is the torture of love's rabidness,
To burn ― and yet with reason's curb
To staunch the blood-letting in the soul;
To wish to fall and embrace your knees,
And sobbing, head upon your feet,
To pour forth prayers, confessions, pleas,
All, all, that words can yet control,
Although meanwhile with pretended coldness
To fortify ones looks and speech,
To hold a reasonable conversation,
And look on you with suppressed elation!...

Yet so be it: no longer have I
The strength to fight against this foe;
The die is cast, I am at your mercy,
I submit to my fate, be it yes or no.

Does this story continue, glikia mou? And how? Please don't keep me waiting here

XXXIII.
There is no reply. He composes another.
To a second and yet to a third letter
Still no reply. He goes to a soirée,
She is there. As the room he enters freely
She walks towards him, and so fiercely!
She ignores his presence, no word is spoken,
Alas! How is she now fortified
With the deepest winter's cold and pride!
She scarce holds back the indignation
Behind her lips' enforced compression!
Onegin devours her with his looks:
Where, where is compassion, where confusion?
Where a trace of tears? .. No stain, no sign!
In her face only the remnants of anger shine.

XXXIV.
And perhaps there was a secret fear
That her husband or the world would guess
Her foolish folly or her past tenderness...
All that Onegin knew of her.
There was no hope. He leaves the gathering
Cursing his hopeless lunacy,
And plunging more deeply into madness
He renounces the world and its society.
Then locking himself in his silent study
He remembers the time, not so long since,
When cruel depression and bitterness
Had pursued him through the world's noisiness,
Had caught him and dragged him by the collar,
And shut him away in the darkest corner.

XXXV.
He started to read without much thought.
He got through Gibbon and Rousseau,
Manzoni, Herder and Chamfort,
De Staël and Bichat and Tissot,
The sceptic Bayle he read also,
And all the works of Fontenelle,
And of Russians many whom we know,
Not one rejecting - all were well.
He read the periodicals and journals
Which tell us how we ought to think,
But now they tell me my work stinks,
Although in the past some madrigals
Of criticism would come my way:
E sempre bene, as they say.

XXXVI.
What then? It was the usual tale.
His eyes were reading but his mind
Strayed far; dreams, wishes, melancholy,
Crowded into his wandering brain.
Between the rows of printed lines
He read with spiritual eyes
Alien meanings. And in them he
Was plunged in reverie completely.
Secret traditions, half-lost memories
Of passionate gloomy histories,
And totally disconnected dreams,
Threats, explanations, premonitions,
Or from a long tale some lively nonsense,
Or a young maiden's letter's innocence.

.......................................

Enjoy Sophie!

Oh Bliss! Thank you so much!

Before reading this, i was smiling maliciously here, happy that he got a good lesson. But now, hmm, i feel bad for him...
Oh well... life gives us what we deserve, right?

Oh, dear Sophie, but this not all yet!
Sure he will get what he deserved, just be patient!

Hello my dear poetry lovers,

I have been reading all your post over and over, and i wanted to post some lyrics of Alla Pugacheva's songs. Unfortunately, I don't have their translation in English.

Алла Пугачева
Два пути

Мы в этой жизни только гости:
Немного погостим
И станем уходить,
Кто раньше, кто поздней.

Всё поначалу было просто,
Чем дальше - тем трудней,
И жизнь летит быстрей,
И мы бежим по ней.

Как свеча горяча,
Стекает струйкой воска
Тихо жизнь моя,
И нет пути назад.

Никогда не клянись,
Не обещай что проживёшь
Как надо жизнь,
Взгляни судьбе в глаза.

Мы в жизнь приходим по закону
Всевластвущей судьбы
На смену тем, кто был,
И тем, кто не успел.

Всё будет как угодно Богу,
И, может, я спою
Всё то, что до меня
Ушедший не допел.

Два пути не пройти,
И от судьбы,
Как ни старайся, не уйти,
И жизнь возьмёт своё.

А назад не смотри,
Не вспоминай свои ошибки
На пути,
Иди - и всё пройдёт.
Иди... иди...
Иди...

Нам в жизни так бывает больно,
Израненной душой
Стремимся к небесам,
Ища спасенья там.

И можно быть судьбой довольным,
Но так и не понять,
Что есть ты на земле,
Отдавшись в небеса.

А душа улетит,
И всё забудет,
Ну а Бог ей всё простит,
Была б душа легка.

Просто так надо жить,
Чтоб неустанно радость
И любовь дарить
Всем тем, кто здесь в гостях.


I will come with the translation, if I find one. There is a lot of sense in this song. I can try to translate it in english by myself. I hope to succede in doing it.

See you later,
Mella

Hello my dear friends,
Thank you Mella for this beautiful song.It is one of my favourites.I will try to find the translation too.
Dear Sophie, you are very welcome.Yes, you are right. "What goes around comes around".
Here is the the continuation of the poem(novel)

XXXVII.
So gradually in a drowsy lack
Of thought and feeling he declines,
While fancy in his slumbering mind
Deals out the colourful tarot pack.
At first he sees, in the melting snow
As if resting there for the night,
A youth unmoving, a sorry sight,
And a voice he hears: "He's dead you know."
Then next some ancient enemies,
Slanderers and malicious cowards appear,
And a swarm of young and faithless beauties,
And a circle of comrades seems to leer;
Then, at the window of a rural home
She sits, always she, and she alone!

XXXVIII.
He was so accustomed to lose his way
In this that he almost went doolally,
Or else took up the poet's staff.
And truly, that would have been a laugh!
But indeed, by some hypnotic folly,
The structure of a Russian verse
He nearly at that time had grasped,
(This foolish, wooly headed scholar).
As a poet he even looked the part
When alone, and seated in a corner,
In front of him the chimney flamed,
While he crooned softly: Benedetta
Or Idol mio, and dropped his slipper
Or book in the fire, and ate his supper.

XXXIX.
The days sped past ― and with the warmth
Went winter, spring began to rally.
He did not become a poet or corpse,
And neither did he go doolally.
The spring revives him. At long last
His close pent rooms where he had passed
The long winter like a mouse or marmot,
With its cosy fire and double windows,
One bright clear morning he leaves, and goes
Along the Neva in a fast sledge.
The sun reflects on the criss-crossed ice
In sparkling blues; the dirty sludge
Is melting in the trampled street.
But where are hastening his horses' fleet

XL.
Horses? Reader, you have guessed it
Already, and it is as you conjecture.
He hastens to her, to his Tatyana,
This incorrigible freak and romancer.
He enters like one already dead,
There is not a soul in the entrance hall.
To the next room. Further. But ahead all
Is empty. He opens a door. What's this?
He stands on the edge of a precipice.
The princess is before him and alone,
Sitting, in simple clothes, and ashen,
Some letter she is reading, silently,
And the tears fall from her continually;
Her cheek is leaning upon her hand.



Enjoy for now.

I wish to have Turkish transaltion.

Hey come ooooon!!!
Please please please post more! I got excited here!

Thanks for your suport, dear Bliss.
Thank you, dear Mella, for your contribution.
We are all loking foreward to Eglish translation of this wanderful song. So we could give the chance Cyrano for translating it to Turkish

I'm glad you woke up, my friends!

My dear Sophie! You're so imapatient!
OK... What else I can do but fulfill your wish!

XLI.
Who would not see her silent suffering
In that brief instant and not understand?
Who would not know in the princess's glance
The former Tanya, her simplicity.
In a spasm of remorseful pity
Yevgeny fell down at her feet;
She shuddered, but she does not greet
Him; her gaze fixes on him silently,
Without surprise and without anger...
His frail and wasted countenance,
Beseeching look and dumb insistence
Is clear to her. That simple Tanya,
With the dreams and ideals of former years,
Arises within her and annuls her fears.

XLII.
She does not seek to make him stand,
And not withdrawing from him her eyes
From his greedy lips she does not prize
Her senseless and unconscious hand.
What at this moment are her dreams? ...
A long and silent interval
Then passes. Then quietly she speaks:
"Enough; stand up. To you I shall
Declare my thoughts quite openly.
Onegin, you remember, surely,
That hour, when in our garden alley,
Fate brought us close, and unprotestingly
I heard the sermon that you thought to preach.
But now it is my turn to teach.

XLIII.

Onegin, I was then much younger,
And better it seems, though not so sound,
And then I loved you; you well might ponder
Within your heart what reply I found.
What answer? Only fierce rejection.
Is it not so? For to you nothing new
Was there in a love that was simple and true.
And now? My God! My blood congeals
When I think of that cold look of yours,
That heartless lecturing... But at least
I do not fault you. In that hour so fateful
You acted with genuine nobility,
You were just in the crisis which conquered me,
And with all my soul I am ever grateful.

XLIV.
For then ― is it not true ― in that rural waste
Far from the world's ignoble fuss,
I did not appeal to you... why now do you thus
Pursue me with this unseemly haste?
Why now should I be your occupation?
Is it not that now, in society
I must appear, that I have a station,
That I am rich and amongst nobility,
That my husband in the wars was wounded,
And therefore the court still honours us?
And because you know that my fall from grace
Would be seen by all and notorious,
And to you it would bring a general renown,
And pleasant success would your efforts crown?

For epilogue - you have to wait a little more...

XLV.
I weep now.... But if your former Tanya
You have still not forgotten even now,
Then know this: the bitterness of your anger
The stern talk, the coldness of your brow,
If it should be but within my power
I would prefer it to this mean passion,
To these tears, these letters that you fashion.
For to my young dreams in that distant hour
You then at least showed some sympathy,
And some respect for my girlish years...
But now! Why here? What foolishness
Brought you here to my feet? What sordidness?
How, with the heart and the mind that you have
Do you display the soul of the meanest slave?

XLVI.
But for me, Onegin, this luxuriance,
This tinsel glare of a harsh existence,
My status in glittering society's whirl,
My modern home and evening parties,
What are they? I would renounce them all,
And all these rags of showy pretence,
This noisy sparkle, this rich incense,
For a shelf of books or a ragged garden,
For our old house, poor and humble too,
And all those places, where long ago,
Onegin, I first set my eyes on you,
And for that graveyard, quiet, retired,
Where a cross under the shade of trees and skies,
Marks where my poor old nurse now lies.

XLVII.
Yet happiness seemed so possible,
So near at hand!... But now the book
Of fate is shut. Inadmissible
Perhaps was the course I took:
My mother with her tears of entreaty
Prayed me to marry; for poor Tanya
All lots were equal and indifferent...
I married. Onegin, leave me,
You must, I ask you, and I know
Within you there are nobler feelings,
Your pride, and your honourable dealings.
I love you ( why should I deceive you?)
But I am given to another now,
And I will eternally keep my vow.

XLVIII.
She left. Yevgeny stood stock still
As if by lightning he had been struck.
And what a storm of feelings fill
His heart, his passions run amok!
But suddenly the sound of spurs:
Tatyana's husband then appears,
And my hero now, at last, dear reader,
In this sad plight (could it be worse?)
We now abandon to his fate,
For aye... till an everlasting date.
Enough we have wandered this lonely path,
Through the vasty world. We congratulate
Each other on arrival. Hooray, hooray!
'And about time too' I hear you say.

XLIX.
Whoever you are, my dearest reader,
Friend, enemy, n'importe qui,
Let me part with you equitably.
Farewell. Whatever you have sought from me
Here in this book of carefree verses:
The recollection of burly times,
Or rest from toil, or but to slake
Your thirst for life, or comedy,
Or some grammatical mistake,
God grant that within these open rhymes
For your amusement, or your dreams
Your heart, or journalistic schemes,
I hope you will find a grain or two.
With that we part. And farewell to you!

L.
Farewell you also, my stranger friend,
And you my true ideal, and pure,
And you, my lively, constant care,
My trivial work. From you I learnt
All that a poet's heart might want,
Retreat far-flung from the worlding's storms,
Sweet conversation of one's friends.
Now many, many days have flown,
Since the time when young Tatyana first,
In a misty dream with her Yevgeny
Both dimly appeared in front of me,
And the outspread distance of a story
Through the magic of a crystal ball
I scarcely could discern at all.

LI.
But those to whom in a friendly meeting
The first verses of the poem I read...
Some like the rose are fast retreating,
As Khayam long ago has said.
Without them Onegin is now pictured.
But she, the original from whom
Tatyana's features were first formed...
Ah, how our wretched fate constricts us!
Happy is he who from life's play
Steps back and drains not to the lees
The wine glass full of cheap rosé,
Who the end of the novel never sees
But puts it aside quite carelessly,
As I from Onegin part nonchalantly.

The End

For you, my friends.
Now it is better if you tell what you like to see here.I prefer to post your favourites here.
And thank you for your interest in russian poetry.
Do you remember in the begining I was asking to write your favourite native poems.I'll be happy to see them here.
And I want to ask Cyrano to help us with translation.We all appreciate his great job here.
Best regards to all.

Thanks dear Bliss
I hope our friends will respond your message and let us know what would they like to read at this topic.
And until we wait to hear your wishes, dear friends, I recommend you couple of classic pieces of Mikhail Lermontov, one of the greatest Russian poets and one of my favourites.
He was killed in his 27th. He left us real literal treasure. And can you imagine what he could do if he didn't die so young...


The Prayer

When my life is arduous,
If sadness freezes blood,
I say one prayer marvelous,
I learned it all by heart.

There's vigor unbelievable
In living words' accords,
And breathes unfamiliar
And holly charm in words.

A heart becomes not troublesome,
And doubts go awry,
And comes the truth and tears come,
And soul wants to fly.


Bored And Sad

It's boring and sad, and there's no one around
In times of my spirit's travail...
Desires!...What use is our vain and eternal desire?..
While years pass on by - all the best years!

To love...but love whom?.. a short love is vexing,
And permanent love's just a myth.
Perhaps look within? - The past's left no trace:
All trivial, joys and distress...

What good are the passions? For sooner or later
Their sweet sickness ends when reason speaks up;
And life, if surveyed with cold-blooded regard,-
Is stupid and empty - a joke...


I Go Out On The Road Alone

Alone I set out on the road;
The flinty path is sparkling in the mist;
The night is still. The desert harks to God,
And star with star converses.

The vault is overwhelmed with solemn wonder
The earth in cobalt aura sleeps. . .
Why do I feel so pained and troubled?
What do I harbor: hope, regrets?

I see no hope in years to come,
Have no regrets for things gone by.
All that I seek is peace and freedom!
To lose myself and sleep!

But not the frozen slumber of the grave...
I'd like eternal sleep to leave
My life force dozing in my breast
Gently with my breath to rise and fall;

By night and day, my hearing would be soothed
By voices sweet, singing to me of love.
And over me, forever green,
A dark oak tree would bend and rustle.


Since this is classic, I hope it won't be difficult for you, our precious friend Cyrano, to find Turkish translations.

This is for those who would like to read more poetry of Mikhail Lermontov, translated to English:
http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/lermontov/lermontov_ind.html
http://www.poemhunter.com/mikhail-yuryevich-lermontov/poet-34520/
and for those who can read it in Russian:
http://litera.ru/stixiya/authors/lermontov.html
Enjoy it!

Here are the Turkish versions.

DUA

Tanrım, suçlama beni yalvarırım
Yalvarırım ilençleme.
Bu mezar karanlığını dünyanın
Ve tutkularını seviyorum diye.
Senin dokunaklı sözlerin
Çok seyrek işliyor ruhuma;
Ve aklım, o başıboş gezgin
Dolaşmakta diye senden uzakta.
Bağrımda esin alevleri, lav gibi kaynıyor diye
Ve yabanıl tutkular gözlerimi
Karartıyor diye böylesine.
Bana dar geliyor diye dünya
Ve sana sokulamadığım için korkumdan,
Ve sık sık, günahkar şarkılarımla
Yakardığım sen olmadığından…

Ama söndür şu mucizevi alevi
Bu ateşi, her şeyi tutuşturan.
Taşa döndür yüreğimi
Ve dondur bakışlarımı, tutkudan yanan.
Bu korkunç şarkı söyleme susuzluğunun
Tanrım, kurtar beni pençesinden,
O zaman, dar yoluna kurtuluşun
Girip, döneceğim sana yeniden.

(1829)


HEM SIKINTI HEM HÃœZÃœN

Hem sıkıntı hem hüzün ve yok el uzatacak kimse
İçinin daraldığı bu dakikalar…
İstekler!... boşuna ve sonsuzca istemenin yararı ne?...
Ve yıllar geçmede, en güzel yıllar

Sevmek!... fakat kimi? Değmez emeğine bir an için,
Ve yok olanağı sonsuz bir aşkın.
Kendi ruhunda da kalmamış izi geçmişin:
Yitirmiş anlamını sevinçlerin, acıların…

Tutkular mı? Gönlün o tatlı ağrısı da
Mantığın sözü önünde silinip gidecektir;
Ve yaşam, çevrene soğuk bir dikkatle baktığında
Boş ve aptalca bir şakadan başka nedir…

(1840 )


YALNIZIM GECENIN ISSIZLIĞINDA

Yalnızım gecenin ıssızlığında,
Taşlı bir yol ışıldar durur siste;
Çevre suskun, kulak vermiş Tanrı’ya,
Yıldızlar konuşur birbirleriyle.

Gökyüzünde görkemli bir şÃ¶len var!
Toprak, mavi bir ışıkta dinlenir.
Kimi bekliyorum, aradığım ne?
Yüreğimi böyle daraltan nedir?

Beklediğim hiçbir şey yok yaşamdan
Geçmişten de pişmanlık duymuyorum;
Özgürlük ve huzurdur aradığım!
Unutmak ve uyumak istiyorum!

Ama benim uyumak istediğim
O soğuk uykusu değil ölümün…
Yaşam da uykuya dalsın içimde,
Usul usul inip kalkarken göğsüm;

Gündüz gece, tatlı ezgileriyle
Bir ses türküsünü söylesin aşkın…
Yeşil dallarıyla ulu bir meşe
Eğilsin üstüme ve hışırdasın…

(1841)

M.LERMONTOV

(Çeviren: Ataol Behramoğlu)

And this is my contribution:

Кинжал

Люблю тебя, булатный мой кинжал,
Товарищ светлый и холодный.
Задумчивый грузин на месть тебя ковал,
На грозный бой точил черкес свободный.

Лилейная рука тебя мне поднесла
В знак памяти, в минуту расставанья,
И в первый раз не кровь вдоль по тебе текла,
Но светлая слеза - жемчужина страданья.

И чёрные глаза, остановясь на мне,
Исполнены таинственной печали,
Как сталь твоя при трепетном огне,
То вдруг тускнели, то сверкали.

Ты дан мне в спутники, любви залог немой,
И страннику в тебе пример не бесполезный;
Да, я не изменюсь и буду твёрд душой,
Как ты, как ты, мой друг железный.

1838

THE DAGGER

I like you well, o trusty dagger mine,
My comrade wrought of cool Damascus steel!
Forged were you by the Georgian with revenge in mind,
By the Circassian free - for war were you made keen.

A lily-white hand it was gave you to me -
You were affection's keepsake, its last gift...
Not blood, but pearl-like tears born of the agony
Of bitter parting down your blade ran swift.

Her dark eyes rested, full of secret pain,
Of sadness and of mystery, upon
My face, and like yourself when lit by flickering flame,
Now clouded and turned dull, now glowed and shone.

O dagger, love's mute pledge, you will my true
Friend stay, and an example set to me, a wanderer:
For faithful, yes, and firm of soul like you
I'll be - like you that tempered was by fire.

M. LERMONTOV

(Translated by Irina Zheleznova)


HANÇER

Seviyorum seni çelik hançerim,
Parlak ve soğuk arkadaşım.
Bir Gürcü, öç gününde dövdü seni örste,
Özgür Çerkez, kanlı bir savaşa biledi.

Zambak bir el taşıdı seni bana
Ayrılık anında, anmalık olarak;
Ve ilk kez kan değildi üstünden akan
Acının inciden gözyaşlarıydı, parlak.

O kara gözler, dikilen üstüme,
Gizemli bir tasayla doluydular;
Çeliğin gibi senin, titrek bir alevde,
Ansızın bulanıyor, parlıyordular.

Aşkın dilsiz güvencesi ve yol arkadaşımsın sen,
Seni hep örnek olarak göreceğim;
Değişmeyeceğim ben de, ve ruhum hep
Senin gibi sert kalacak, demirden dostum benim.

(Çeviren: Ataol Behramoğlu)

Cyrano - what can I say?
You are such a treasure
(and no blush, please, this is the truth)

I agree with You Slavica at this point. What would we do without our dearest Cyrano here?! So, I will come next with my contribution:


НА ПРОЩАНЬЕ

Mein Herz tragt schwere Ketten
Die Du mir angelegt.
Ich mocht' mein Leben wetten,
Dass Keine schwerer tragt1
Франкфуртская песенка.

Мы оба любили, как дети,
Дразня, испытуя, играя,
Но кто-то недобрые сети
Расставил, улыбку тая, --
И вот мы у пристани оба,
Не ведав желанного рая,
Но знай, что без слов и до гроба
Я сердцем пребуду -- твоя.

Ты все мне поведал -- так рано!
Я все разгадала -- так поздно!
В сердцах наших вечная рана,
В глазах молчаливый вопрос,
Земная пустыня бескрайна,
Высокое небо беззвездно,
Подслушана нежная тайна,
И властен навеки мороз.

Я буду беседовать с тенью!
Мой милый, забыть нету мочи!
Твой образ недвижен под сенью
Моих опустившихся век...
Темнеет... Захлопнули ставни,
На всем приближение ночи...
Люблю тебя, призрачно-давний,
Тебя одного -- и навек!

4-9 января 1910

* 1. (нем.)
"Мое сердце в тяжелых оковах,
которыми ты его опутал.
Клянусь жизнью,
ни у кого нет цепей тяжелее."



On Parting


Mein Herz tragt schwere Ketten.
Die Du mir angelegt.
Ich mocht mein Leben wetten
Dass Keine schwerer tragt

Frankfurt song

Teasing and tempting and playing
We loved like children, us both
But somebody, hiding a smile,
Set up the ungentle nets -
And here we are at the harbor,
Not seeing the wished-for abodes,
But knowing that I will be yours
In the heart, without words, until death.

You told me of all things - so early!
I guessed them so late! In our hearts
A wound is eternal, a silent
Question exists in our eyes,
The desert on earth is so endless,
The heaven, so high, has no stars,
Revealed is the tender secret,
And frost rules for centuries.

I will talk to shades! O my dear,
To forget you I do not have might,
Your visage can't move under shadow
Of eyelids gone over my eyes...
It's darkening... Shutters have closed,
On all things descending is night...
I love you, one ghostly-eternal,
And only you - and always!

Marina Tsvetayeva

To my dear friends, poetry lovers
Especially to those who kindly send me Turkish poetry with translations
Two more masterpieces of great Mikhail Lermontov:

Gratitude

For all, for all! I thank you, o my dear:
For passions' deeply hidden pledge,
For poison of a kiss, and stinging of a tear,
Abuse by friends, and enemies' revenge;
For soul's light, extinguished in a prison,
For things by which I was deceived before.
But do not give me any real reason
To give you thanks from now any more.
1840


Loneliness

It's Hell for us to draw the fetters
Of life in alienation, stiff.
All people prefer to share gladness,
And nobody - to share grief.

As a king of air, I'm lone here,
The pain lives in my heart, so grim,
And I can see that, to the fear
Of fate, years pass me by like dreams;

And comes again with, touched by gold,
The same dream, gloomy one and old.
I see a coffin, black and sole,
It waits: why to detain the world?

There will be not a sad reflection,
There will be (I am betting on)
Much more gaily celebration
When I am dead, than - born.
1830

Cyrano, if you are still here, please try to help Turkish friends reading these poems at their native language
Thanks in advance

Hello my friends, poetry lovers

I want to remind you to one sad aniversary:

On February 8, 1837, last duel of Alexandr Pushkin took place. He died two days later, on February 10.

With a poem on the death of Pushkin, full of angry invective against the court circles, began literary fame of another great Russian poet, Mikhail Lermontov.

Death Of the Poet

The Bard is killed! The honor's striver
Fell, slandered by a gossip's dread,
With lead in breast and vengeful fire,
Drooped with his ever-proud head.
The Poet's soul did not bear
The shameful hurts of low breed,
He fought against the worldly "faire,"
Alone as always, ... and is killed!
He's killed! What for are late orations
Of useless praise; and weeps and moans,
And gibberish of explanations? --
The fate had brought her verdict on!
Had not you first so hard maltreated
His free and brave poetic gift,
And, for your pleasure, fanned and fitted
The fire that in ashes drifts?
You may be happy ... Those tortures
Had broken his strength, at last:
Like light, had failed the genius gorgeous;
The sumptuous wreath had weathered fast.

His murderer, without mercy,
Betook his aim and bloody chance,
His empty heart is calm and healthy,
The pistol did not tremble once.
And what is wonder? ... From a distance,
By road of manifold exiles,
He came to us, by fatal instance,
To catch his fortune, rank and price.
Detested he the alien lands
Traditions, language and discussions;
He couldn't spare The Fame of Russians
And fathom -- till last instant rushes --
What a disaster grips his hand! ...

And he is killed, and leaves from here,
As that young Bard, mysterious but dear,
The prey of vengeance, deaf and bland,
Who sang he of, so lyric and sincere,
Who too was put to death by similar a hand.

And why, from peaceful times and simple-hearted fellows,
He entered this high life, so stiff and so jealous
Of freedom-loving heart and passions full of flame?
Why did he give his hand to slanders, mean and worthless
Why trusted their words and their oaths, godless,
He, who from youth had caught the mankind's frame?

And then his wreath, a crown of sloe,
Woven with bays, they put on Poet's head;
The thorns, that secretly were grown,
Were stinging famous brow, yet.
His life's fast end was poisoned with a gurgle
And faithless whisper of the mocking fops,
And died he with burning thrust for struggle,
With hid vexation for his cheated hopes.
The charming lyre is now silent,
It will be never heard by us:
The bard's abode is grim and tightened,
And seal is placed on his mouth.

And you, oh, vainglory decedents
Of famous fathers, so mean and base,
Who've trod with ushers' feet the remnants
Of clans, offended by the fortune's plays!
In greedy crowd standing by the throne,
The foes of Freedom, Genius, and Repute --
You're hid in shadow of a law-stone,
For you, and truth and justice must be mute! ...

But there is Court of God, you, evil manifold! --
The terrible court: it waits;
It's not reached by a ring of gold,
It knows, in advance, all thoughts' and actions' weights.
Then you, in vain, will try to bring your evil voice on:
It will not help you to be right,
And you will not wash of with all your bloody poison,
The Poet's righteous blood!
1837

Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, June, 1998

ALEXANDR SERGEEVICH PUSHKIN
Greatest Russian poet, founder of classical Russian poetry.
Born May 26/June 6, 1799, in Moscow, died January 29/February 10, 1837, from wounds that he suffered in a duel which he had fought in St. Petersburg.

REST IN PEACE, GENIUS…

For photographs of Pushkin's last apartment, the place of Pushkin's last duel and The guns his rival used:
http://polyglot.lss.wisc.edu/lss/staff/stephy/Photos2.html#md

For detailed biography of Alexandr Pushkin:
http://www.kirjasto.sci.fi/puskin.htm

For a collection of Pushkin's poems translated into English
http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/pushkin/pushkin_ind.html

Thank You ,Slavica!!!!

You made my day, this is one of my favourites. Of course nothing compares to the original Russian version.


Thank you again,
Mella

I m afraid I don't know, neither can understand the original Russian version, but what I read here was great!
Slavica, once again, you gave as something wonderful to read. Longing for more

Thank you, my dear Mella
This is for you and everyone else able to enjoy original Russian version.

СМЕРТЬ ПОЭТА

Погиб поэт!- невольник чести -
Пал, оклеветанный молвой,
С свинцом в груди и жаждой мести,
Поникнув гордой головой!..
Не вынесла душа поэта
Позора мелочных обид,
Восстал он против мнений света
Один, как прежде... и убит!
Убит!.. К чему теперь рыданья,
Пустых похвал ненужный хор
И жалкий лепет оправданья?
Судьбы свершился приговор!
Не вы ль сперва так злобно гнали
Его свободный, смелый дар
И для потехи раздували
Чуть затаившийся пожар?
Что ж? веселитесь... Он мучений
Последних вынести не мог:
Угас, как светоч, дивный гений,
Увял торжественный венок.

Его убийца хладнокровно
Навел удар... спасенья нет:
Пустое сердце бьется ровно,
В руке не дрогнул пистолет.
И что за диво?... издалека,
Подобный сотням беглецов,
На ловлю счастья и чинов
Заброшен к нам по воле рока;
Смеясь, он дерзко презирал
Земли чужой язык и нравы;
Не мог щадить он нашей славы;
Не мог понять в сей миг кровавый,
На что он руку поднимал!..

И он убит - и взят могилой,
Как тот певец, неведомый, но милый,
Добыча ревности глухой,
Воспетый им с такою чудной силой,
Сраженный, как и он, безжалостной рукой.

Зачем от мирных нег и дружбы простодушной
Вступил он в этот свет завистливый и душный
Для сердца вольного и пламенных страстей?
Зачем он руку дал клеветникам ничтожным,
Зачем поверил он словам и ласкам ложным,
Он, с юных лет постигнувший людей?..

И прежний сняв венок - они венец терновый,
Увитый лаврами, надели на него:
Но иглы тайные сурово
Язвили славное чело;
Отравлены его последние мгновенья
Коварным шепотом насмешливых невежд,
И умер он - с напрасной жаждой мщенья,
С досадой тайною обманутых надежд.
Замолкли звуки чудных песен,
Не раздаваться им опять:
Приют певца угрюм и тесен,
И на устах его печать.
_____________________

А вы, надменные потомки
Известной подлостью прославленных отцов,
Пятою рабскою поправшие обломки
Игрою счастия обиженных родов!
Вы, жадною толпой стоящие у трона,
Свободы, Гения и Славы палачи!
Таитесь вы под сению закона,
Пред вами суд и правда - всё молчи!..
Но есть и божий суд, наперсники разврата!
Есть грозный суд: он ждет;
Он не доступен звону злата,
И мысли, и дела он знает наперед.
Тогда напрасно вы прибегнете к злословью:
Оно вам не поможет вновь,
И вы не смоете всей вашей черной кровью
Поэта праведную кровь!
1837



And this is for you, my dear Sophie

February 9th 2006.

On this day in 1837 Alexandr Pushkin was dying from a stomach wound suffered in yesterday's duel.
Thousands of people were standing in front of his house, waiting to hear informations about condition of their beloved poet…
And he has already erected a monument to himself…

Exegi Monumentum

I have erected a monument to myself
Not built by hands; the track of it, though trodden
By the people, shall not become overgrown,
And it stands higher than Alexander's column.

I shall not wholly die. In my sacred lyre
My soul shall outlive my dust and escape corruption--
And I shall be famed so long as underneath
The moon a single poet remains alive.

I shall be noised abroad through all great Russia,
Her innumerable tongues shall speak my name:
The tongue of the Slavs' proud grandson, the Finn, and now
The wild Tungus and Kalmyk, the steppes' friend.

In centuries to come I shall be loved by the people
For having awakened noble thoughts with my lyre,
For having glorified freedom in my harsh age
And called for mercy towards the fallen.

Be attentive, Muse, to the commandments of God;
Fearing no insult, asking for no crown,
Receive with indifference both flattery and slander,
And do not argue with a fool.

1836


* * *
Exegi monumentum.

Я памятник себе воздвиг нерукотворный,
К нему не зарастёт народная тропа,
Вознёсся выше он главою непокорной
Александрийского столпа.

Нет, весь я не умру - душа в заветной лире
Мой прах переживёт и тлeнья убежит -
И славен буду я, доколь в подлунном мире
Жив будет хоть один пиит.

Слух обо мне пройдёт по всей Руси великой,
И назовёт меня всяк сущий в ней язык,
И гордый внук славян, и финн, и ныне дикий
Тунгус, и друг степей калмык.

И долго буду тем любезен я народу,
Что чувства добрые я лирой пробуждал,
Что в мой жестокий век восславил я свободу
И милость к падшим призывал.

Веленью бoжию, о муза, будь послушна,
Обиды не страшась, не требуя венца;
Хвалу и клевету приeмли равнодушно
И не оспаривай глупца.

1836
Turkish translations would be appreciated ! ! !

Thank you , my dear Sibel!!!
I will try to find the translation but till that will be done this is for you:

Nobody has been able to say “I love you” in a more passionate, desperate, deep and yet elegant and tasteful way. That is what distinguishes Alexander Pushkin from any person in the world, alive or dead. He was a genius, and no renowned person in Russia is worshipped more. Pushkin pours out our Russian soul - gleeful, suffering, generous, confused, glorious and unsure…

A CONFESSION


To Alexandra Ivanovna Osipova


I love you - love you, even as I

Rage at myself for this obsession,

And as I make my shamed confession,

Despairing at your feet I lie.

I know, I know - it ill becomes me,

I am too old, time to be wise...

But how?.. This love - it overcomes me,

A sickness this in passion's guise.

When you are near I'm filled with sadness,

When far, I yawn, for life's a bore.

I must pour out this love, this madness,

There's nothing that I long for more!

When your skirts rustle, when, my angel,

Your girlish voice I hear, when your

Light step sounds in the parlor - strangely,

I turn confused, perturbed, unsure.

You frown - and I'm in pain, I languish;

You smile - and joy defeats distress;

My one reward for a day's anguish

Comes when your pale hand, love, I kiss.

When you sit bent over your sewing,

Your eyes cast down and fine curls blowing

About your face, with tenderness

I childlike watch, my heart o'erflowing

With love, in my gaze a caress.

Shall I my jealousy and yearning

Describe, my bitterness and woe

When by yourself on some bleak morning

Off on a distant walk you go,

Or with another spend the evening

And, with him near, the piano play,

Or for Opochka leave, or, grieving,

Weep and in silence pass the day?..

Alina! Pray relent, have mercy!

I dare not ask for love - with all

My many sins, both great and small,

I am perhaps of love unworthy!..

But if you feigned love, if you would

Pretend, you'd easily deceive me,

For happily would I, believe me,

Deceive myself if but I could!

1826


What means my name to you?.. 'Twill die

As does the melancholy murmur

Of distant waves or, of a summer,

The forest's hushed nocturnal sigh.

Found on a fading album page,

Dim will it seem and enigmatic,

Like words traced on a tomb, a relic

Of some long dead and vanished age.

What's in my name?.. Long since forgot,

Erased by new, tempestuous passion,

Of tenderness 'twill leave you not

The lingering and sweet impression.

But in an hour of agony

Pray speak it, and recall my image,

And say, "He still remembers me,

His heart alone still pays me homage."

1830

My dear Bliss, Slavica and Sophie!

Thank You for Your posts, I really enjoy them. As Pushkin is one of my favourite writer, I would like to remind You the following poem:

I loved you and this love by chance...

I loved you and this love by chance,
Inside my soul has never fully vanished;
No longer shall it ever make you tense;
I wouldn't want to sadden you with anguish.

I loved you speechlessly and wildly,
By modesty and jealousy was stressed;
I loved you so sincerely, so mildly,
As, God permit, you may be loved by someone else.

----------

Я вас любил: любовь еще, быть может...

Я вас любил: любовь еще, быть может,
В душе моей угасла не совсем;
Но пусть она вас больше не тревожит;
Я не хочу печалить вас ничем.


Я вас любил безмолвно, безнадежно,
То робостью, то ревностью томим;
Я вас любил так искренно, так нежно,
Как дай вам Бог любимой быть другим.


And Slavica, I know you will appreciate a lot the translation of "The Death of the Poet" by Lermontov in Turkish. Here it goes:

ŞAİRİN ÖLÃœMÃœ


İntikam, çar, intikam!
Kapanıyorum ayaklarına
Adil ol ve katili cezalandır
Ki onun idamı gelecek çağlara
Senin haklı yargını duyursun
Ve caniler örnek bulsun onda.

Şair öldü! -Kuluydu namusun-
Düştü, karalanmış, söylentilerle.
Düştü intikam özlemiyle, göğsünde bir kurşun
Eğerek gururlu başını yere!


Utancını değersiz tahkirlerin
Taşıyamazdı şairin kalbi
O başkaldırdı yargısına sosyetenin
Ve öldürüldü! Yapyalnız, önceki gibi...

Öldürüldü! Neye yarar şimdi gözyaşları...
Neye yarar boş övgülerin gereksiz korosu...
Neye yarar zavallı özür mırıltıları...
Kader oynado oyununu!

İlkin kinle kovan siz değil miydiniz
Onun özgür ve cesur yeteneğini;
Ve eğlenmek için körüklediniz
Bir yangını ki belli belirsizdi.

Daha ne? Eğlenin... Son ıstıraplara
Dayanmaya artık gücü yetmezdi!
Söndü bir meşale gibi eşsiz deha
Soldu alnındaki zafer çelengi.

Kurtuluş yok, soğukkanlılıkla
Katil indirdi vuruşu.
Titremedi elindeki tabanca
Yüreği sanki donmuştu.

Şaşacak ne var? Uzaktan onu
O benzeyeni yüzlerce kaçağa
Fırlatmıştı bize kaderin buyruğu
Talih ve rütbe avına.

Gülerek, küstahça aşağsıyordu
Yabancı bir toprağın göreneklerini
O bizim şanımızı esirgeyemezdi
Ve bu kan an düşÃ¼nemezdi
Elini neye kaldırdığını!

Şair öldü ve girdi toprağa
O ünsüz, tatlı türkücü gibi
Sağır bir kıskançlığın kurbanı.
Onu eşsiz bir güçle betimlemişti
Acımasız bir elin yere serdiği
O yazgı yoldaşı ozanı.

Bırakarak barışÃ§ıl erinçleri ve saf bir dostluğu
Özgür yüreğin ve ateşli tutkuların boğulduğu
bu kıskanç dünyaya niçin geldi?
Niçin verdi elini değersiz kara çalıcılara?
Niçin inandı yalan sözlere ve okşayışlara?
O ki genç yaşından beri insanları bilirdi...

Çıkarıp ilk çelengi alnından
Dikenli ve defneden bir çelenk taktılar ona,
Ve gizli iğneler dalların altından
Battılar şanlı alnına.
Ve ağulandı son anları da
Sinsi fısıltısıyla alaycı cahillerin.
Ve öldü o -boşuna bir intikam susuzluğuyla-
Ve gizli üzgüsüyle kırılmış ümitlerin.

Sesleri o eşsiz şarkıların dindi
Bir daha duyulmamacasına.
Dar ve sevimsiz sığınağında şimdi
Susuyor şair, bir mühür ağzında...

Ve sizler, kibirli çocukları
Bilinen alçaklıkla ün salmış ataların!
Köle topuklarıyla çiğneyen yıkıntılarını
Bahtın oyunuyla incinmiş soyların!
Özgürlük, Deha ve Şan cellatları!
Tahtın yanındaki açgözlü yığın!
Susturun gerçeği ve yargıyı
Gizlenin örtüsü altına yasanın!
Fakat ey ahlaksızlar, tanrısal bir yargı
Ve müthiş bir yargı bekliyor sizleri!
Onu kandıramaz altın şıkırtısı
O bilir önceden herşeyi.
O zaman boşa gidecek ama
Kötülemeler, başvuracağınız!
Ve tüm kara kanınızla, şairin
Haklı kanını yıkayamayacaksınız!

(1837)

Lermontov

(Çeviren: Ataol Behramoğlu)


Cyrano, thank You very much for Your effort to find this translation. I highly appreciate it. Thank You.


Dear poetry lovers, enjoy it,

Mella

Thank you, my friends, for your precious help in marking the anniversary of Pushkin's death.
Dear Bliss – nobody could describe work of our beloved poet better than you did it
Dear Sophie – thanks for your enthusiasm in discovering of Pushkins poetry – I'm sure you won't regret it
Dear Mella, thanks to you and Cyrano for your common contribution, especially for introducing Turkish speakers to beautiful poem which connected two great poets

And this is for today:

February 10th 2006.

On this day in 1837 Alexandr Pushkin died at the age of thirty-seven, from a gunshot wound received in a duel two days earlier.

Those poems were his farewell….

I Will Be Silent Soon

I will be silent soon! But if in days of mire
I ever answered was by thoughtful play of lyre;
But if the silent youths, who understood me right,
Were marveling to years of my poor love's infliction;
But, just, if you yourself, in sweetest disposition,
The stanza, doleful, was whispering at night
And liked the voice, with which my heart itself discovers,
But if, o Lord, I'm loved -- let me, my dear friend,
Oh let me animate my lyre at the end
By a sacred name of one who was the best of lovers!
When I'll forever fall into the deadly dream,
Above my dismal urn, say with a good intention:
I loved this poor man, and I had breathed in him
His song's and love's the latest inspiration.

Translated by Yevgeny Bonver


It's Time, My Friend

It's time, my friend, it's time! The peace is craved by hearts...
Days flow after days -- each hour departs
A bit of life -- and both, you and I,
Plan a long life, but could abruptly die.

The world hasn't happiness, but there is freedom, peace.
And long have I daydreamed the life of bliss --
And long have planned, a tired slave, the flight
To the removed abode of labor and delight.

Translated by Yevgeny Bonver

Hello my dear friends,
As you know I am little behind, for 12 hours, I think.And because of that I can give myself permission to continue about our beloved Alexandr Sergeevich Pushkin.I hope you'll love this and hope sombody can translate to turkish.There is no english either.I am very sorry for this but I think my russian-speaker classmates will appreciate this.

Дельвиг Антон Антонович

ПУШКИНУ

Кто, как лебедь цветущей Авзонии,
Осененный и миртом, и лаврами,
Майской ночью при хоре порхающих,
В сладких грезах отбился от матери, -

Тот в советах не мудрствует; на стены
Побежденных знамена не вешает;
Столб кормами судов неприятельских
Он не красит пред храмом Ареевым.

Флот, с несчетным богатством Америки,
С тяжким золотом, купленным кровию,
Не взмущает двукраты экватора
Для него кораблями бегущими.

Но с младенчества он обучается
Воспевать красоты поднебесные,
И ланиты его от приветствия,
Удивленной толпы горят пламенем.

И Паллада туманное облако
Рассевает от взоров - и в юности
Он уж видит священную истину
И порок, исподлобья взирающий!

Пушкин! Он и в лесах не укроется:
Лира выдаст его громким пением,
И от смертных восхитит бессмертного
Аполлон на Олимп торжествующий.

1815 (?)
******
Огарев Николай Платонович
НА СМЕРТЬ ПОЭТА

(По перечтении "Е<вгения> 0<негина>")

Зачем душа тоски полна,
Зачем опять грустить готова,
Какое облако волна
Печально отразила снова?
Мечтаний тяжких грустный рой
Поэта глас в душе поэта
Воззвал из дремоты немой.
Поэт погиб уже для света,
Но песнь его еще звучит,
Но лира громкими струнами
Звенит, еще с тех пор звенит,
Как вдохновенными перстами
Он всколебал их перед нами.
И трепет их в цепи времен
Дойдет до позднего потомства,
Ему напомнит скорбно он,
Как пал поэт от вероломства
И будет страшный приговор
Неумолим. Врагов поэта
В могилах праведный укор
Отыщет в будущие лета,
И кости этих мертвецов,
Уж подточенные червями,
Вздрогнут на дне своих гробов
И под согнившими крестами
Истлеют, прокляты веками.
Но что ж! но что ж! поэта нет!
Его ж убийца - он на воле,
Красив и горд, во цвете лет,
Гуляет весел в сладкой доле.
И весь, весь этот черный хор
Клеветников большого света,
В себе носивший заговор
Против спокойствия поэта,
Все живы, все - а мести нет.
И с разъяренными очами
Им не гналась она вослед,
Неся укор за их стопами,
Не вгрызлась в совесть их зубами...
А тот, чья дерзкая рука,
Полмир цепями обвивая,
И не согбенна и крепка,
Как бы железом облитая,
Свободой дышащую грудь
Не устыдилась своевольно
В мундир лакейский затянуть, -
Он зло, и низостно, и больно
Поэта душу уязвил,
Когда коварными устами
Ему он милость подарил
И замешал между рабами
Поэта с вольными мечтами.
Из лавр и терния венец
Поэту дан в удел судьбою,
И пал он жертвой наконец
Неумолимою толпою
Ему расставленных сетей;
Земля, земля, зачем ты губишь
Прекрасных из твоих людей!
Одну траву растишь и любишь,
И вянет злак среди полей;
Или, враждуя с небесами
Враждой старинною твоей,
Ты имя избранных меж нами
Гнетешь страдальчества цепями.
Пускай теперь слеза моя,
И негодуя и тоскуя,
Как дар единый от меня
Падет на урну гробовую;
И если в форме неземной,
Перерожденный дух поэта
Еще витает над страной
Уж им покинутого света -
Мою слезу увидит он
И незаметными перстами
Мне здешней жизни краткий сон
Благословит, с его скорбями
И благородными мечтами,

1837
******

Тютчев Федор Иванович


29-ое ЯНВАРЯ 1837


Из чьей руки свинец смертельный
Поэту сердце растерзал?
Кто сей божественный фнал
Разрушил, как сосуд скудельный?
Будь прав или виновен он
Пред нашей правдою земною,
Навек он высшею рукою
В ''цареубийцы'' заклеймен.


Но ты, в безвременную тьму
Вдруг поглощенная со света,
Мир, мир тебе, о тень поэта,
Мир светлый праху твоему!..
Назло людскому суесловью
Велик и свят был жребий твой!..
Ты был богов орган живой,
Но с кровью в жилах... знойной кровью.


И сею кровью благородной
Ты жажду чести утолил-
И осененный опочил
Хоругвью горести народной.
Вражду твою пусть Тот рассудит,
Кто слышит пролитую кровь...
Тебя ж, как первую любовь,
России сердце не забудет!..

Май - июль(?) 1837
*******

Есенин Сергей Александрович
ПУШКИНУ


Мечтая о могучем даре
Того, кто русской стал судьбой,
Стою я на Тверском бульваре,
Стою и говорю с собой.

Блондинистый, почти белесый,
В легендах ставший как туман,
О Александр! Ты был повеса,
Как я сегодня хулиган.

Но эти милые забавы
Не затемнили образ твой,
И в бронзе выкованной славы
Трясешь ты гордой головой.

А я стою, как пред причастьем,
И говорю в ответ тебе:
Я умер бы сейчас от счастья,
Сподобленный такой судьбе.

Но, обреченный на гоненье,
Еще я долго буду петь...
Чтоб и мое степное пенье
Сумело бронзой прозвенеть.

<1924>
******
Anna Akhmatova
Pushkin
1943
Who knows what’s to be the famous!
With what price had he bought adeptness,
Legality or highest good
About all – so sly and sagest –
To jest, to be secretly mute,
And call a foot ‘a little foot’?


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, July, 2002

Hello poetry lovers
Thank to my dear friends, I have opportunity to present you Turkish translation of Lermontov's "Gratitude".
Thanks Fatih and Celal, I'm verry grateful to you for giving me chance to introduce native Turkish speakers to the best of world poetry in their own language.

teşekkür
her şey her şey için teşekkür ederim ey sevgilim
derin derin sözler veren duygular için
zehirli öpücük için, içimi yakan gözyaşları için
arkadaşların küfürleri, düşmanların intikamı için
mahpusta sönen ruhun ateşi için
daha önce beni aldatan şeyler için
ama artık bana bir neden verme
bundan sonra sana teşekkür etmek için
1840
m. lermontov
çeviri: Celal Kabadayı

Thank you all!!
It was great gift for me on Valentine's Day.
And I wish you all the best in this wonderful world.

This doesn't belong to russian poetry of course but today I wanted to send this to you because I love all of you.

Dear Lord,

Every single evening
As I'm lying here in bed,
This tiny little Prayer
Keeps running through my head.

God bless all my family
Wherever they may be,
Keep them warm and safe from harm
For they're so close to me.

And God, there is one more thing
I wish that you could do,
Hope you don't mind me asking
Please bless my computer too.

Now I know that it's unusual
To Bless a motherboard,
But listen just a second
While I explain it to you, Lord.

You see that little metal box
Holds more than odds and ends,
Inside those small compartments
Rest so many of my friends.

I know so much about them
By the kindness that they give,
And this little scrap of metal
Takes me in to where they live.

By faith is how I know them
Much the same as you,
We share in what life brings us
And from that our friendships grew.

Please take an extra minute
From your duties up above,
To bless those in my address book
That's filled with so much love.

Wherever else this prayer may reach
To each and every friend,
Bless each e-mail inbox
And each person who hits send.

When you update your Heavenly list
On your own CD-ROM,
Bless everyone who says this prayer
Sent up to GOD.com.

AMEN

Cheers Bliss! You just made my day!

Hello Bliss!

Great poem!!!! And so true!!!

Thank you

Thank you, dearest Bliss, for this so beautiful and touching poem.
You put in it feelings of most of us, TC classmates, which we wasn't able to express by ourselves.
Thank you for this and for all your love and care.

You are welcome, my dear friends.Thank you for your warm words.
I love you all!!!

Hello, poetry lovers
It's been a long time...
Thank to my dear friends, Fatih and Celal, I heve opportunity to introduce Turkish speakers to wanderful poem Loneliness by Mikhail Lermontov, on their own language. English translation of this poem is already posted, but I'm posting it again, near to its translation.
Tekrar teşekkürler, arkadaşlar

yalnızlık
bizim için cehennemdir hayatın prangalarını
çekmek, yabancılaşma içinde kötüdür
bütün insanlar mutluluğu paylaşmak ister
hiç kimse kederini paylaşmak istemez

boşluğun kralı olarak yalnızım burada
çok kirli bir acı yaşar kalbimde
ve anlayabiliyorum kader korkusuyla
yıllar geçer bende düşler gibi

ve yine gelir altına bezenmiş olarak
utanılacak ruya,kasvetli olan ve eski
bir tabut görüyorum,siyah ve tek
bekler,neden bekletir dünyayı

orada kederli bir düşÃ¼nce olmayacak
iddia ediyorum orada
çok çok neşeli kutlama olacak ve
ben öldüğümde doğacağım
1830
M. Lermontov

Loneliness

It's Hell for us to draw the fetters
Of life in alienation, stiff.
All people prefer to share gladness,
And nobody - to share grief.

As a king of air, I'm lone here,
The pain lives in my heart, so grim,
And I can see that, to the fear
Of fate, years pass me by like dreams;

And comes again with, touched by gold,
The same dream, gloomy one and old.
I see a coffin, black and sole,
It waits: why to detain the world?

There will be not a sad reflection,
There will be (I am betting on)
Much more gaily celebration
When I am dead, than - born.
1830

Dear Slavica,
Thank you for your efforts and good job.Of course I appreciate Fatih's and Celal's beautiful translation too.
And this is for you. I think it will be interesting for you as it was for me, even I knew the story.

It’s pointless trying to fight against certain habits, but we can tell you how the statue of ‘the guy in the jacket’ came to be on Krasnyi Vorota Square.

PRESENT: The classics, alas, are not at the top of many people’s lists nowadays. Poetry has become an exotic subject for the elite in many cases. It’s not only the unenlightened few who confuse Pushkin with Lermontov, but also so-called ‘with it’ people. The present day cultural attitude could be summarised with a phrase from a popular comedy ‘Gentlemen of Luck’ when one of the characters honours the statue of Lermontov with the title ‘the guy in the jacket’. It’s pointless trying to fight against certain habits, but we can tell you how the statue of ‘the guy in the jacket’ came to be on Krasnyi Vorota Square.

HISTORY: Tsar Nikolai I did not like Lermontov. When word was sent in 1841 that Lermontov had been killed in a dual, the emperor uttered the famous phrase that jarred even upon other members of the royal family: ‘the dog deserved it’. A monument to Lermontov was not erected under a tsarist government, but do not think that this decision was at all biased. It did not happen simply.

In the eighties of the 19th century, which was around 75 years since Lermontov’s birth, plans were discussed to erect a monument to the poet. There were lots of arguments about where the site should be and three options were suggested: in Moscow, where the poet was born; in St. Petersburg, where he spent most of his life; or in Pyatigorsk, near to which the fatal dual took place.

As a result, four statues of Lermontov were made: two in St. Petersburg, one in Pyatigorsk and one more in Penza – the village Tarkhana is in the Penza region where Lermontov spent his childhood with his grandmother. Moscow at that time was overlooked although Lermontov said the following about Moscow in his poem ‘Sashka’:

Moscow! Moscow!
I love you as a son,
As a Russian,
Warmly, ardently,
And tenderly!

In 1942, the 100-year anniversary of his death, a decree was issued to erect a monument. The war, however, interrupted the plans. It was only in 1964 on the 150-year anniversary of his death that the capital was ready to go ahead with the plans once more. The site was decided upon without any problems - Krasnyi Vorota Square (it had one time been called Lermontov Square), not far from his birthplace. Now the actual project had to be decided upon.

The project had commenced in 1941. A series of sketches were done by the famous Soviet sculptor Ivan Dmitriyevich Shadrom – the creator of the world-famous sculpture ‘The Rock – the proletarian’s weapon’.
In 1952 a competition to design a monument to Lermontov was announced and then another competition in 1958. Out of the 48 projects, the jury choose 42, but none of them were considered to be appropriate for the genius poet. They decided to announce a new competition, in which artists would be invited to partake by the Ministry for Culture.

As a result two projects were organised by the sculptors Motovilov and Brodsky, and they were commissioned to continue with their separate projects. The competition continued up to 1961 when new projects also entered into the running. Not one of the projects, however, was deemed to be an acceptable embodiment of Lermontov. After all this, two projects were chosen to continue working – one belonged to Brodsky and the other to Stempkovsky. It seemed that someone who would be asked to finish the project. But – in 1964 it was declared that not one of the new projects was worthy and Brodsky’s was decided upon. The winner was commissioned to complete the statue within one month.

They planned for the opening to take place in the autumn of 1964 on the 150-year anniversary of the poet’s death. But the sculptors were not able to complete it in such a short time and the opening took place in June 1965.
The bronze figure of Lermontov was surrounded by a lattice engraved with images from his works: ‘Demons’ and ‘The Sail’, and engraved with quotes from his poetry. It was finally completed and Moscow had its own statue of Lermontov.

PRESENT: And so it is that the bronze Lermontov, standing with his hands behind his back, looking down at his feet, is called ‘the guy in the jacket’. It is a sad story and one of much suffering that lies behind this statue. It would in fact be worth immortalising the words: ‘I watch our generation with sadness’, on the lattice around the statue. This is indeed a universal and timeless phrase, irrespective of year, century or generation.

Petr Yashkin

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY TO ALL TURKISH CLASS MOTHERS !

LETTER TO MOTHER

Still around, old dear? How are you keeping?
I too am around. Hello to you!
May that magic twilight ever be streaming
Over your cottage as it used to do.

People write how sad you are, and anxious
For my sake, though you won't tell them so,
And that you in your old-fashioned jacket
Out onto the highroad often go.

That you often see in the blue shadows
Ever one dream, giving you no rest:
Someone in a drunken tavern scuffle
Sticks a bandit knife into my chest.

Don't go eating your heart out with worry,
It's just crazy nonsense and a lie.
I may drink hard, but I promise, mother,
I shall see you first before I die.

I love you as always and I'm yearning
In my thoughts for just one thing alone,
Soon to ease my heartache by returning
To our humble low-roofed country home.

I'll return when decked in white the branches
In our orchard are with spring aglow.
But no longer wake me up at sunrise,
As you used to do eight years ago.

Do not waken dreams no longer precious,
Hope never fulfilled do not excite.
It was my misfortune to experience
Loss and weariness too early in my life.

Don't teach me to pray. Please, mother!
There's no going back, try as you might.
You alone give me support and comfort,
You alone glow with a magic light.

So forget your cares, please. Don't be anxious
And for my sake, dear, don't worry so.
Out onto the road in your old-fashioned
Jacket, please do not so often go.

Sergey Esenin 1924



ПИСЬМО МАТЕРИ

Ты жива еще, моя старушка?
Жив и я. Привет тебе, привет!
Пусть струится над твоей избушкой
Тот вечерний несказанный свет.

Пишут мне, что ты, тая тревогу,
Загрустила шибко обо мне.
Что ты часто ходить на дорогу
В старомодном ветхом шушуне.

И тебе в вечернем синем мраке
Часто видится одно и то ж:
Будто кто-то мне в кабацкой драке
Саданул под сердце финский нож.

Ничего, родная! Успокойся.
Это только тягостная бредь.
Не такой уж горький я пропойца,
Чтоб, тебя не видя, умереть.

Я по-прежнему такой же нежный
И мечтаю только лишь о том,
Чтоб скорее от тоски мятежной
Воротиться в низенький наш дом.

Я вернусь, когда раскинет ветви
По-весеннему наш белый сад.
Только ты меня уж на рассвете
Не буди, как восемь лет назад.

Не буди того, что отмечталось,
Не волнуй того, что не сбылось, -
Слишком раннюю утрату и усталость
Испытать мне в жизни привелось.

И молиться не учи меня. Не надо!
К старому возврата больше нет.
Ты одна мне помощь и отрада,
Ты одна мне несказанный свет.

Так забудь же про свою тревогу,
Не грусти так шибко обо мне.
Не ходи так часто на дорогу
В старомодном ветхом шушуне.

1924

im lucky..my mum has no idea about mothers day...bcos she doesnt need...i just buy presents her whenever i visit and kiss her hands and eyes...heheh

so...im not paying lots of money for a bunch of plowers and making her always happy..

u too..try..it ll work

Back to track , friends.
This is all about Russian poetry.
I think we forgot about this and I want to remind to you.
I want to dedicate these poems to all my friends, especially to them who is in love with Russian poetry.
Did you miss our beloved Anna Akhmatova?

I Will Leave Your White House

I will leave your white house and tranquil garden.
Let life be empty and bright.
You, and only you, I shall glorify in my poems,
As a woman has never been able to do.
And you remember the beloved
For whose eyes you created this paradise,
But I deal in rare commodities --
I sell your love and tenderness.
****

The Lord Is Not Merciful

The Lord is not merciful to reapers and gardeners.
A ringing rain slants down
And wide cloaks are going to color
The sky reflected in the water.

There's an underwater kingdom of meadows and cornfields,
And undulating streams sing out, sing out,
On the swelling branches plums are bursting
And the flattened grasses rot.

And through the dense scrim of water
I see your dear face,
The hushed park, The Chinese Pavilion
And the circular porch of the house.
*****

He Whispers

He whispers: ' I'm not sorry
For loving you this way --
Either be mine alone
Or I will kill you.'
It buzzes around me like a gadfly,
Incessantly, day after day,
This same boring argument,
Your black jelousy.
Grief smothers -- but not fatally,
The wide wind dries my tears
And cheerfullness begins to soothe,
To smooth out this troubled heart.
*****

Ah You Thought

Ah -- you thought I'd be the type
You could forget,
And that praying and sobbing, I'd throw myself
Under the hooves of bay.

Or I would beg from the witches
Some kind of root in charmed water
And send you a terrible gift --
My intimate, scented handkerchief.

Damned if I will. Nither by glance nor by groan
Will I touch your cursed soul,
But I vow to you by the garden of angels,
By the miraculous icon I vow
And by the fiery passion of our nights --
I will never return to you.
*****

Instead Of Wisdom

Instead of wisdom -- experience, a flat,
Unsatisfying drink.
And there was youth -- like the Sunday prayer...
Could I ever forget it?

So many deserted roads walked
With him who was not dear to me,
So many bows I made in church
For him, who loved me...

I've become the most forgetful of all the forgetful,
Quietly the years sail by.
Those unkissed lips, unsmiling eyes
Will never return to me.
*****

Memory Of Love

Memory of love, you are painful!
I must sing and burn in your smoke,
But for others -- you're just a flame
To warm a cooling soul.

To warm a sated body,
They needed my tears...
For this, Lord, I sang,
For this I received love's communion!

Let me drink some kind of poison
That will make me mute,
And turn my infamous fame
Into radiant oblivion.
*****


ANNA AKHMATOVA

For Bliss, with love - and for all poetry lovers - two poems of Alexandr Blok, one of our favorite poets:

I Wait For You...

And a heavy dream of everyday reflection
You'll throw out -- the loving one and sad.
Vl. Soloviev

I wait for you. The years in silence pass
And as the image, one, I wait for you again.

The distance is in flame -- and clear one as glass,
I, silent, wait -- with sadness, love and pain.

The distance is in flame, and you are coming fast,
But I'm afraid that you will change your image yet,

And will initiate the challenging mistrust
By changing features, used, at long awaited end.

Oh, how I will fell -- so low and so pine,
Unable to overcome my dreams' continued set!

The distance is such bright! And azure is so fine!
But I'm afraid that you will change your image yet.

4 June 1901, Shakhmatovo



All Valor I Forgot and Noble Deeds

All valor I forgot and noble deeds
And glory on this grief-filled earth,
While in a simple frame your face
Glowed before me on the desk.

The hour arrived, you left the house.
I flung the cherished ring into the night.
You pledged yourself to someone else,
And I forgot your lovely face.

The days flew by, a cursed swirling swarm...
Liquor and passion tortured my existence...
I recollected you inside the church,
Called out to you as I would to my youth...

I called. You would not look around,
I wept, but you were pitiless.
Sadly you wrapped yourself in a sky blue cloak
Went out the door into the damp night.

I do not know, my sweet and tender one
Where you found shelter for your pride...
I sleep quite soundly, and I dream about the cloak
You wore, as you went out into the night...

I dream no more of tenderness or glory,
They all have passed, my youth is gone!
With my own hand I've taken off my desk
Your face, inside its simple frame.

30 December 1908

Thank you so much my dear Sibel!
I was reading this now and wanted to share with you

Darling, It's Frightening

Darling, it's frightening! When a poet loves
he might be an unshriven god enruptured.
And chaos creeps again up to the light,
as in the far off ages of the fossils.

His eyes weep tons of billows and he's swathed
in cloud, so that you'd take him for a mammoth.
He's out of date. He knows it's no more use.
His days are over now and he's illiterate.

He sees the way his neighbours hold their weddings,
how they get roaring drunk and sleep it off,
how they call common roe -- that pickled frogspawn, --
once she's been married off, the best pressed caviare.

And how they manage to squeeze in a snuff-box
life that is like a pearly dream by Watteau.
They take revenge on him; perhaps it's only
because, while they are twisting and contorting,

while sniggering bourgeois comfort lies and flatters
and they rub shoulders with the drones and crawl,
he's raised a girl like you from earth and used her,
like a Bacchante from her amphora.

And thawing of the Andes melts in kisses
and morning's on the steppe, beneath the dominion
of stars that fall in dust, as night goes stumbling
with bleat growing ever paler, through the village.

And round the straw bed's fevered pain breathe all
the exhalations of the ancient pit
and all the vestry's gloomy vegetation.
And chaos splashes up out of jungle.

Boris Pasternak

One more Russian classic for all poetry lovers

Wait for Me

Wait for me and I'll come back,
But wait with might and main,
Wait throughout the gloom and rack
Of autumn's yellow rain.
Wait when snowstorms fill the way,
Wait in summer's heat,
Wait when, false to yesterday,
Others do not wait.

Wait though from that far off place
No letters come to you.
Wait when all the others cease
To wait, who waited too.
Wait for me and I'll come back.
Do not lightly let
Those who know so well the knack
Teach you to forget.

Let my mother and my son
Believe that I have died;
Let my friends, their waiting done,
At the fireside,
Lift the wine of grief and clink
To my departed soul.
Wait, and make no haste to drink
Alone amongst them all.

Wait for me and I'll come back,
Defying death. When he
Who could not wait shall call it luck
Only, let it be.
They cannot know, who did not wait,
How in the midst of fire
Your waiting saved me from my fate.
Your waiting and desire.
Why I still am living, we
Shall know, just I and you:
You knew how to wait for me
As no other knew.

Konstantin Simonov

You are right , it was good morning with this beautiful poem.
Thank you so much, dear Sibel.
And this is for you.Good evening, sestrichka!

Last Love

Love at the closing of our days
is apprehensive and very tender.
Glow brighter, brighter, farewell rays
of one last love in its evening splendour.

Blue shade takes half the world away:
through western clouds alone some light is slanted.
O tarry, O tarry, declining day,
enchantment, let me stay enchanted.

The blood runs thinner, yet the heart
remains as ever deep and tender.
O last belated love, thou art
a blend of joy and of hopeless surrender.

Fyodor Tyutchev
Trans. Vladimir Nabokov

Good evening to you, dear Bliss, with one of my favorites

My Friends Light up the Candles for me Still


My friends light up the candles for me still,
And in the smoke, your image is outlined,
And I don't want to know that time will heal,
That everything will pass away with time.

No longer will I ever lose my verve,
For any burden on my soul and any pain,
Unknowingly, she took along with her –
At first, into the port, then on the plane.

Inside my soul there are deserted lands.
What are you seeking in this fruitless blur?!
There are just fragments of old songs and webs,
And all the rest she took along with her.

Inside my soul are goals without means.
Go dig inside, - you'll find there, by chance,
Two simple phrases and unfinished scenes,
And all the rest is now in Paris, France.

My friends light up the candles for me still,
And in the smoke, your image is outlined,
But I don't want to know that time will heal,
That everything will pass away with time.

1967

Vladimir Vysotsky

Translation by Andrej Kneller

Thank you my dear Sibel!
Dobroe utro sestrichka! Eto vot tebe, dumayu bolshe ponravitsya.

Мне каждый вечер зажигают свечи

Мне каждый вечер зажигают свечи,
И образ твой окуривает дым,-
И не хочу я знать, что время лечит,
Что все проходит вместе с ним.

Я больше не избавлюсь от покоя:
Ведь все, что было на душе на год вперед,
Не ведая, она взяла с собою -
Сначала в порт, а после - в самолет.

Мне каждый вечер зажигают свечи,
И образ твой окуривает дым,-
И не хочу я знать, что время лечит,
Что все проходит вместе с ним.

В душе моей - пустынная пустыня,-
Так что ж стоите над пустой моей душой!
Обрывки песен там и паутина,-
А остальное все она взяла с собой.

Теперь мне вечер зажигает свечи,
И образ твой окуривает дым,-
И не хочу я знать, что время лечит,
Что все проходит вместе с ним.

В душе моей - все цели без дороги,-
Поройтесь в ней - и вы найдете лишь
Две полуфразы, полудиалоги,-
А остальное - Франция, Париж...

И пусть мне вечер зажигает свечи,
И образ твой окуривает дым,-
Но не хочу я знать, что время лечит,
Что все проходит вместе с ним.

1967, ред. 1968

Владимир Высоцкий

To dear Duda!

I buried love and doomed myself to be
Its monument. Above the recent grave
Upon myself I carved a dozen lines,
Beyond my strength and posthumously brave.

Love, like a runner in the marathon,
Had reached the tape but yet had lost all breath.
My love had lost the spirit and the soul
And body, lacking spirit, fell to death.

Firm as a stone, I stand amidst the graves
And all I ask is this - Let me alone!
And untoward inscriptions upon me
Do not attempt! For I am not a stone....

Konstantin Simonov

S dnem rojdeniya, rodnaya!