Mihail Yuryevich Lermontov

Hem Sıkıntı, Hem Hüzün

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

Çeviri: Ataol Behramoğlu

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...

Translated by Yevgeny Bonver

 

YALNIZIM GECENİN ISSIZLIĞINDA

Yalnızım gecenin ıssızlığında,

Taşlı bir yol ışıldar durur siste;

Çevre suskun,kulak vermiş Tanrı´ya,

Yıldızlar konuşur birbiriyle.

Gökyüzünde görkemli bir şölen 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..

Çeviren:Ataol Behramoğlu

I Come Out To the Path, Alone

I come out to the path, alone,

Night and wildness are referred to God,

Through the mist, the road gleams with stone,

Stars are speaking in the shinning lot.

There is grave and wonderful in heaven;

Earth is sleeping in a pale-blue light...

Why is then my heart such pined and heavy?

Is it waiting or regretting plight?

I expect that nothing more goes,

And for past I do not have regret,

I wish only freedom and repose,

I would fall asleep and all forget...

I would like to fall asleep forever,

But without cold sleep of death:

Let my breast be full of dozing fervor

For the life, and heave in gentle breath;

So that enchanting voice would ready

Day and night to sing to me of love,

And the oak, evergreen and shady,

Would decline to me and rustle above.

Translated by Yevgeny Bonver

Anna AKHMATOVA

BİLMİYORUM, YAŞAMAKTA MISIN, ÖLDÜN MÜ?

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

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 bile hatta.
   
1915

Çeviri: Ataol BEHRAMOĞLU


I don’t know if you’re alive or dead 

I don’t know if you’re alive or dead – 
Can you be found on earth, though, 
or only in twilit thoughts instead 
be mourned for, in that peaceful glow. 

All for you: the prayer daily, 
the hot sleeplessness at night, 
the white flock of poetry, 
and the blue fire of my eyes. 

No one was cherished more, 
or tormented me so, no not 
him, who betrayed me to torture, 
nor him, who caressed and forgot. 

Translated by A. S. Kline

SON KARŞILAŞMANIN ŞARKISI 

Buzdan bir el kalbimi sıkıştırıyordu sanki 
Ama bir düşte yürüyor gibiydim; 
Sağ elimin eldivenini 
Çıkarıp sol elime giydim 

Bitmez tükenmez gibi geldiler bana 
Oysa topu topu üç taneydi basamaklar 
“Benimle öl..” diye fısıldadı 
Akçaağaçların arasından sonbahar 

“Aldatıldım ben.. Üzgünüm.. 
Uçarı, kötü yazgım aldattı beni…” 
Dedim ki “Ben de, ben de öyleyim.. 
Ölürüm… Ölürüm seninle sevgili..” 

Son karşılaşmanın şarkısıydı bu 
Dönüp bir kez daha baktım karanlık eve; 
Yatak odasının penceresinde 
Mumlar, kayıtsız, sarı bir ışıkla parlıyordu… 

Çeviri: Ataol BEHRAMOĞLU 

Song of the Last Meeting 

My heart was chilled and numb, 
but my feet were light. 
I fumbled the glove for my left hand 
onto my right. 

It seemed there were many steps, 
I knew – there were only three. 
Autumn, whispering in the maples, 
kept urging: ‘Die with me! 

I’m cheated by joylessness, 
changed by a destiny untrue.’ 
I answered: ‘My dear, my dear! 
I too: I’ll die with you.’ 

The song of the last meeting. 
I see that dark house again. 
Only bedroom candles burning, 
the yellow, indifferent, flame. 

Translated by A. S. Kline

Ataol Behramoğlu is a prominent Turkish poet, translator, dramaturge and columnist.

He was born in 1942 in Çatalca near İstanbul and graduated in Russian Language and Literature at Ankara University. In 1970 he published Halkın Dostları review with Ismet Özel. Actually, during this period Ataol Behramoğlu purified his poetry by leaving out unsophisticated certainty and juvenile didacticism. He spent part of his life in exile in Paris and Moscow. He was arrested and sentenced to hard labour as a member of the Turkish Peace Association in 1982, and subsequently went into exile in France where he studied, worked and lived until 1989, when he was acquitted in Turkey. In 1982, also, he won the International Prize of Lotus magazine. His later poems evidence a simpler, more direct style.

His Epic of Moustapha Suphi (1987/88) was the first play in Turkish staged at the 1989 Avignon Theatre Festival. He was the president of the Turkish Writers Syndicate between 1995-1999, and has been the literary and political critic on staff of the Cumhuriyet daily since 1995. He is the Associate professor and Chairman of the Department of Slavic Languages and Literatures at the Istanbul University. In 2003 he was awarded The Great Prize of Poetry 2003 by Turkish International P.E.N.

From Wikipedia

Being a poet himself, Ataol Behramoğlu was creating his translations as independent literary works, making them a part of Turkish literature. Beside poetry of Russian authors  (Pushkin, Lermontov, Akhmatova, Blok, Nekrasov, Yesenin, Mayakovskiy, Mandelstam, Brodsky), he was also translating  works of Federico Garcia Lorca, Agostino Neto, Jose Marti, Muhammed Ikbal.

To...

I just recall this wondrous instant:
You have arrived before my face --
A vision, fleeting in a distance,
A spirit of the pure grace.

In pine of sorrow unfair,
In worldly harassment and noise
I dreamed of your beloved air
And heard your quiet, gentle voice.

Years passed. The tempests´ rebel senders
Have scattered this delightful dream,
And I forgot this sound tender
And how heavenly you seemed.

In gloomy dark of isolation,
My days were gradually moved,
Without faith and inspiration,
Without tears, life, and love.

My soul awoke with decision:
And you again came as a blest,
Like an enchanting fleeting vision,
A spirit of the pure grace.

My heart beats on in resurrection --
It has again for what to strive:
Divinity and inspiration,
Life, tears, and eternal love.

(Translated by Yevgeny Bonver)

O´NA

Anımsıyorum o büyülü ânı
Karşımda beliriverdiğin,
Uçup gidici bir hayal gibi,
Dehası gibi saf güzelliğin.

Bunluklarında ümitsiz hüznün,
Telâşın yorucu tasalarında,
Çınlardı o tatlı ses uzun uzun,
O güzelim çizgiler görünürdü bana.

Yıllar geçti. İsyancı dalgalarında fırtınaların
Dağılıp söndü eski hayaller,
Unuttum tatlı sesini senin
Ve silindi Tanrısal çizgiler.

Issızlıkta, karanlığında tutsaklığın
Sessizce uzayıp gidiyordu günlerim
Tanrısız, esinsiz, gözyaşsız,
Yaşamsız ve sevgisizdim.

Ve bir an geldi, uyandı ruhum:
Ve işte sen yeniden belirdin,
Bir hayal gibi, uçup giden,
Dehası gibi saf güzelliğin.

Ve yürek çarpıyor bir esrimeyle,
Ve yeniden canlanıyorlar onda
Tanrısallık da, esin de,
Yaşam da, gözyaşı da, aşk da.

(Çeviri: Ataol BEHRAMOĞLU)

Of course! I think some of his poems, like "Aşk İki Kişiliktir" or "Yaşadıklarımdan Öğrendiği", have already became classics of Turkish poetry.

I Loved You...

I loved you: and, it may be, from my soul
The former love has never gone away,
But let it not recall to you my dole;
I wish not sadden you in any way.

I loved you silently, without hope, fully,
In diffidence, in jealousy, in pain;
I loved you so tenderly and truly,
As let you else be loved by any man.

(Translated by Yevgeny Bonver)

SEVİYORDUM SİZİ

Seviyordum sizi ve bu aşk belki
İçimde sönmedi bütünüyle.
Fakat üzmesin sizi artık bu sevgi
İstemem üzülmenizi hiçbir şeyle.

Sessizce, umutsuzca seviyordum sizi.
Bazen çekingenlik, bazen kıskançlıkla üzgün.
Bu öyle içten, öyle candan bir sevgiydi ki
Dilerim bir başkasınca da böyle sevilin.

(Çeviri: Ataol BEHRAMOĞLU)

Thank you very much for opening this thread, vineyards  and for your effort to introduce Turkish speakers to to some classic of world poetry. Also, as you said once, this translation became "a part of the wealth possessed by Turkish language".

It would be nice if you reposted your translation of "Silvery Snow" and other Pushkin´s poems here.

And if I may join you, I would like to add some of my favorite poems by A.S. Pushkin:

The Hills of Georgia

The hills of Georgia are covered by the night;
Ahead Aragva runs through stone,
My feeling´s sad and light; my sorrow is bright;
My sorrow is full of you alone,
Of you, of only you... My everlasting gloom
Meets neither troubles nor resistance.
Again inflames and loves my poor heart, for whom
Without love, ´tis no existence.

(Translated by Yevgeny Bonver)

GECE SİSİ KAPLAMIŞ TEPELERİNİ GÜRCİSTAN´IN

Gece sisi kaplamış tepelerini Gürcistan´ın;
Karşımda akıyor Aragva uğultulu.
Hem hüzün hem bir hafiflik var içimde; kederliyim,
Seninle dopdolu, aydınlık bir keder bu.
Seninle, sadece seninle... Hiçbir şey
Bozmuyor, tedirgin etmiyor üzgünlüğümü,
Ve yürek yeniden tutuşuyor, seviyor yeniden,
Sevmemesi olanaksız çünkü.

(Çeviri: Ataol BEHRAMOĞLU)

ptaszek, I did it INTENTIONALLY! I´ve posted translation of the poem you´ve posted. But it is the truth, we both love the same poem 

ptaszek, this is a very good idea, but if I may suggest - not all members understand Turkish so well to enjoy posted poems - how about posting English translation too?

Let me start with Neruda´s poem (one of my favorites btw):

* * *

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don´t have her. To feel that I´ve lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn´t keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That´s all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else´s. She will be someone else´s. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

Translated by W S Merwin

OK girls, if you have finished with your compatriots  stuff, cen we get some poetry here?

Let me start with my favorite

Cat in an empty apartment

Die - you can´t do that to a cat.

Since what can a can do

in an empty apartment ?

Climb the walls ?

Rub up against the furniture ?

Nothing seems different here,

but nothing is the same.

Nothing has been moved,

but there´s more space.

And at nighttime no lamps are lit.

Footsteps on the staircase,

but they´re new ones.

The hand that puts fish on the saucer

has changed, too.

Somethig doesn´t start

at its usual time.

Something doesnt happen

as it should.

Someone was always, always here,

then suddenly disappered

and stubbornly stays disappered.

Every closet has been examined.

Every shelf has been explored.

Excavations under the carpet turned up nothing.

A commancdment was even broken:

papers scattered everywhere.

What remains to be done.

Just sleep and wait.

Just wait till he turns up,

just let him show his face.

Will he ever get a lesson

on what not to do to a cat.

Sidle toward him

as if unwilling

and ever so slow

on visibly offended paws,

and no leaps or squeals at least to start.

NOTES:

Instincts make an animal to look for its dead owner and believe that he will come back. We suffer as we know that it won´t happen.

This poem was written after Szymborska´s husband died. The feelings for the close person and the emptiness after his death is shown from the animal perspective. It helps to handle calmly the emotions associated with dying.