Kazan, July 1957 / Казань‚ июль 1957

Kazan, July 1957

Public canteen. Bloated flies.

‘After 6 pm no food served’.

Bushes, with something yellowy-violet

that isn’t going to survive.

A palsied veteran, still in army gear,

pokes a finger in my ribs.

‘Scare’? No, it could be ‘spare’.

‘Spare some bread’, he raps.

I let this Deadeye have the bread

left over, and some yellow beer.

He watches with the white bead

he has for a left eye; it can’t see.

Not quite all there, apparently,

he reaches for his borshch using a fork.

It’s nigh on half a century,

and to this day I still backpack

this memory that won’t entirely fade;

it proffers endlessly inside my head

the left cheek of a face—

yellowy-violet, and dead.

(Transaltion © G.S. Smith)

Казань‚ июль 1957

Толстые мухи. Столовая.

«Выдача блюд до шести».

Мелкое, желто-лиловое

тщится на клумбе расти.

Парализованный, в кителе,

тычется в бок инвалид.

«Вытери»? — Нет, вроде, «выдели».

«Выдели хлеба», — велит.

Хлеб отдаю, недоеденный,

желтое пиво, азу.

Смотрит он белой отметиной

в левом незрячем глазу.

Видимо, слабо кумекая,

тянется вилкой к борщу.

Вот уже чуть не полвека я

все за собою тащу

тусклую память, готовую

мне подставлять без конца

мертвую, желто-лиловую

левую щеку лица.

ARC BLOG: GS Smith on Translating

ARC BLOG

GS Smith on Translating

Posted by Sarah, 4th June 2012

To tie with the launch of As I Said, I spoke with Gerry Smith on his approach to translating Lev Loseff's poetry.

SH: In the Translator's preface to As I Said, you write "I hope this translation will encourage others to tackle it". What do you think can be gained by multiple translations of one work?

GS: My approach to translation from Russian has been influenced in particular by my professional academic interest in the history and theory of verse form; in 1996 I translated the best guide to this subject, M.L.Gasparov’s A History of European Versification. Because of this background I realise that there are many alternatives to the strict-form approach that I favour, even though it lengthens the odds against precise semantic equivalence. My commitment to strict form is not primarily academic: my literary/aesthetic awareness was formed in childhood by years of exposure to Anglican metrical hymns and psalms, and I then moved on to classic American song lyrics; ever since I have felt that to be authentic, verbal art needs to be fashioned in the way they are. To me, free verse is elitist and alien, and always has a feel of arbitrariness and self-indulgence.

CONTINUE READING HERE

ARC BLOG: GS Smith on Translating

ARC BLOG

GS Smith on Translating

Posted by Sarah, 4th June 2012

To tie with the launch of As I Said, I spoke with Gerry Smith on his approach to translating Lev Loseff's poetry.

SH: In the Translator's preface to As I Said, you write "I hope this translation will encourage others to tackle it". What do you think can be gained by multiple translations of one work?

GS: My approach to translation from Russian has been influenced in particular by my professional academic interest in the history and theory of verse form; in 1996 I translated the best guide to this subject, M.L.Gasparov’s A History of European Versification. Because of this background I realise that there are many alternatives to the strict-form approach that I favour, even though it lengthens the odds against precise semantic equivalence. My commitment to strict form is not primarily academic: my literary/aesthetic awareness was formed in childhood by years of exposure to Anglican metrical hymns and psalms, and I then moved on to classic American song lyrics; ever since I have felt that to be authentic, verbal art needs to be fashioned in the way they are. To me, free verse is elitist and alien, and always has a feel of arbitrariness and self-indulgence.

CONTINUE READING HERE

Pushkin Places / Пушкинские места

Pushkin Places

Morning and evening, dressing and undressing,

never not viewed.

Where did they find to do their secret trysting—

Garden? Or wood?

Beneath a bush, in full view of a mousehole,

like gypsies do?

Or maybe in a carriage with the blinds down?

Just how, if so?

It’s full of people, is this so-called wasteland!

Think you’re alone—

in the garden there’s a yokel idly swatting,

down by the stream there’s women doing washing,

in the parlour darling nanny’s always watching—

curse the old crone!

Oh, where to find those far-sequestered purlieus,

by night or day?

So you can get the hairpins, pantaloons, and

the skirt away?

Where ever won’t your measured bliss be spooked by

a sudden knock,

and then those vulgar sniggers of collusion

the servants make?

Rural retreat—I think that was your comment?

Friend, I retort:

Is this the reason why that wondrous moment

was oh so short?

(Translation © G.S. Smith 2012)

Пушкинские места

День, вечер, одеванье, раздеванье —

всë на виду.

Где назначались тайные свиданья —

в лесу? в саду?

Под кустиком в виду мышиной норки?

à la gitane?

В коляске, натянув на окна шторки?

но как же там?

Как многолюден этот край пустынный!

Укрылся — глядь,

в саду мужик гуляет с хворостиной,

на речке бабы заняты холстиной,

голубка дряхлая с утра торчит в гостиной,

не дремлет, блядь.

О где найти пределы потaенны

на день? на ночь?

Где шпильки вынуть? скинуть панталоны?

где юбку прочь?

Где не спугнет размеренного счастья

внезапный стук

и хамская ухмылька соучастья

на рожах слуг?

Деревня, говоришь, уедеиненье?

Нет, брат, шалишь.

Не оттого ли чудное мгновенье

мгновенье лишь?

Pushkin Places / Пушкинские места

Pushkin Places

Morning and evening, dressing and undressing,

never not viewed.

Where did they find to do their secret trysting—

Garden? Or wood?

Beneath a bush, in full view of a mousehole,

like gypsies do?

Or maybe in a carriage with the blinds down?

Just how, if so?

It’s full of people, is this so-called wasteland!

Think you’re alone—

in the garden there’s a yokel idly swatting,

down by the stream there’s women doing washing,

in the parlour darling nanny’s always watching—

curse the old crone!

Oh, where to find those far-sequestered purlieus,

by night or day?

So you can get the hairpins, pantaloons, and

the skirt away?

Where ever won’t your measured bliss be spooked by

a sudden knock,

and then those vulgar sniggers of collusion

the servants make?

Rural retreat—I think that was your comment?

Friend, I retort:

Is this the reason why that wondrous moment

was oh so short?

(Translation © G.S. Smith 2012)

Пушкинские места

День, вечер, одеванье, раздеванье —

всë на виду.

Где назначались тайные свиданья —

в лесу? в саду?

Под кустиком в виду мышиной норки?

à la gitane?

В коляске, натянув на окна шторки?

но как же там?

Как многолюден этот край пустынный!

Укрылся — глядь,

в саду мужик гуляет с хворостиной,

на речке бабы заняты холстиной,

голубка дряхлая с утра торчит в гостиной,

не дремлет, блядь.

О где найти пределы потaенны

на день? на ночь?

Где шпильки вынуть? скинуть панталоны?

где юбку прочь?

Где не спугнет размеренного счастья

внезапный стук

и хамская ухмылька соучастья

на рожах слуг?

Деревня, говоришь, уедеиненье?

Нет, брат, шалишь.

Не оттого ли чудное мгновенье

мгновенье лишь?

Joseph Brodsky and the courageous couple who brought him to America – Carl and Ellendea Proffer | The Book Haven

"I met Michael Scammell years and years ago in London.  He was the vigorous, larger-than-life (or so he seemed to me) founding editor of the fledgling journal Index on Censorship, documenting censorship and freedom of expression around the world.

I was an acolyte performing insignificant editorial work in the cramped offices somewhere near Covent Garden – at least that’s where I recall the headquarters, though it must have moved several times since then.  Scammell, a critic and translator, was said to be working on something about Alexander Solzhenitsyn – the biography was published in 1985.

In 2002,  I republished his 1972 interview with the poet in Joseph Brodsky: Conversations – I remember his pleasant note  giving permission after I reintroduced myself.

So I read with interest his “Pride and Poetry”, in the current issue of The New Republic, which considers Lev Loseff‘s Joseph Brodsky: A Literary Life."

Continue to read here: http://bit.ly/JPOVMd

Joseph Brodsky and the courageous couple who brought him to America – Carl and Ellendea Proffer | The Book Haven

"I met Michael Scammell years and years ago in London.  He was the vigorous, larger-than-life (or so he seemed to me) founding editor of the fledgling journal Index on Censorship, documenting censorship and freedom of expression around the world.

I was an acolyte performing insignificant editorial work in the cramped offices somewhere near Covent Garden – at least that’s where I recall the headquarters, though it must have moved several times since then.  Scammell, a critic and translator, was said to be working on something about Alexander Solzhenitsyn – the biography was published in 1985.

In 2002,  I republished his 1972 interview with the poet in Joseph Brodsky: Conversations – I remember his pleasant note  giving permission after I reintroduced myself.

So I read with interest his “Pride and Poetry”, in the current issue of The New Republic, which considers Lev Loseff‘s Joseph Brodsky: A Literary Life."

Continue to read here: http://bit.ly/JPOVMd

A Second Birth / Второе рождение - Lev Loseff 15 June 1937 – 6 May 2009 / Лев Лосев 15 июня 1937 г. - 6 мая 2009 г.

A Second Birth

One day I came across a book, in a room

as clammy as a doctor’s ear,

where a monstrous purple cloud loomed—

growing, gasping, and grouchy—

and where they did anything but let the patient know

he had no pulse, no music.

Then along came the tuner, rummaged inside the piano,

extracted something dark,

and in a trice everyone was drenched in lilac,

cupola crosses were all aglow;

a new authority proclaimed to the populace

a golden manifesto:

that filaments of growing plants extend into the far,

while like a bird, the near hop-hops around.

And all the windows in the mirror caught fire

on the pages of that book I’d found.

(Translation © G.S. Smith)

«Второе рождение»

Я книгу нашел! Там в какой-то столовой,

прохладной, как ухо врача,

возилось чудовище тучи лиловой,

вспухая, вздыхая, ворча,

там сколько могли от больного скрывали,

что пульса и музыки нет.

Настройщик порылся, порылся в рояле

и вытащил черный предмет -

и вдруг окатило всех мокрой сиренью,

и вспыхнул на маковках крест,

и новые власти прочли населенью

такой золотой манифест,

что в даль протянулись растений волокна

и птицей запрыгала близь,

и все отраженные зеркалом окна

на книжной странице зажглись.

A Second Birth / Второе рождение - Lev Loseff 15 June 1937 – 6 May 2009 / Лев Лосев 15 июня 1937 г. - 6 мая 2009 г.

A Second Birth

One day I came across a book, in a room

as clammy as a doctor’s ear,

where a monstrous purple cloud loomed—

growing, gasping, and grouchy—

and where they did anything but let the patient know

he had no pulse, no music.

Then along came the tuner, rummaged inside the piano,

extracted something dark,

and in a trice everyone was drenched in lilac,

cupola crosses were all aglow;

a new authority proclaimed to the populace

a golden manifesto:

that filaments of growing plants extend into the far,

while like a bird, the near hop-hops around.

And all the windows in the mirror caught fire

on the pages of that book I’d found.

(Translation © G.S. Smith)

«Второе рождение»

Я книгу нашел! Там в какой-то столовой,

прохладной, как ухо врача,

возилось чудовище тучи лиловой,

вспухая, вздыхая, ворча,

там сколько могли от больного скрывали,

что пульса и музыки нет.

Настройщик порылся, порылся в рояле

и вытащил черный предмет -

и вдруг окатило всех мокрой сиренью,

и вспыхнул на маковках крест,

и новые власти прочли населенью

такой золотой манифест,

что в даль протянулись растений волокна

и птицей запрыгала близь,

и все отраженные зеркалом окна

на книжной странице зажглись.

‘Saturday’s passed; I didn’t even get plastered’ / «Прошла суббота, даже не напился»

‘Saturday’s passed; I didn’t even get plastered’

Saturday’s passed; I didn’t even get plastered.

So now it’s Sunday—damp, not much to show.

Outside, a blackbird stuck fast to its branch, and

sun follows rain. But I’m not your Bashō.

This show’s a flop. The rainplay’s not convincing,

the blackbird’s shrill, the sunshine overacts—

you could be back in Russia, some provincial

playhouse, with even beer not to be had.

One friend drifts over, others come to visit.

You mutter to yourself: good Lord above,

these lessons in nostalgia, so persistent

I’ve even lost all longing to go home—

to where the rain sandpapers dacha shrubbery,

that distant place where, till all time is through,

a mucky, frigid train tours round the suburbs,

transporting sleeping mushroomers—where to?

(Translation © G.S. Smith)

«Прошла суббота, даже не напился»

Прошла суббота, даже не напился;

вот воскресенье, сыро, то да се;

в окошке дрозд к отростку прилепился;

то дождь, то свет; но я вам не Басё.

Провал, провал. Играют вяло капли,

фальшивит дрозд, пережимает свет,

как будто бы в России на спектакле

в провинции, где даже пива нет.

Приплелся друг, потом пришли другие.

И про себя бормочешь: Боже мой,

так тянутся уроки ностальгии,

что даже и не хочется домой,

туда, где дождь надсадный и наждачный,

в ту даль, где до скончания веков

запачканный, продрогший поезд дачный

куда-то тащит спящих грибников.

(1985)