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