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