Free Translator: a poetry podcast
Podkast haqida
Masterpieces of Russian poetry translated and discussed. 1 episode – 1 author – 1 poem. Commentary and reading by a Free Translator Danya Kosyakov.
A brief talk about Russian XIX century classic, icon of romantic poetry Mikhail Lérmontov, his short life and his visit card «On my own onto the road I enter…», written 1841.
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«On my own onto the road I enter…»
By Mikhail Lérmontov (1814-1841)
On my own onto the road I enter;
Stony pathway through the fog shines far;
Night is calm. The desert heeds the Maker,
And a star is talking to a star.
Solemnly and lovely in the heavens!
The Earth sleeps in the blue aureole...
Why is it so painful and so hard then?
Do I wait? or do I dream? for what?
From my life I wait already nothing,
And the past — I don't regret a bit;
Peace and freedom are what I am searching!
I would crave oblivion and sleep!
It’s not a cold grave sleep I seek and crave for...
Wish I could have slept for centuries,
That those vital powers dozed in chest, so
That, in breath, the chest would've quietly heaved;
That all night, all day to nurse my hearing,
The sweet voice would've sang to me 'bout love,
And above, endlessly evergreening,
The dark oak would've rustled and bowed down.
1841
Many researchers and connoisseurs consider Marina Tsvetáeva as the greatest woman in Russian poetry. The tragic end of her impetuous life is even more shocking then. We will discuss origins of her poetical approach and peculiarities of her style via the poem «Sneak Out» written 1924.
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Sneak out
by Marina Tsvetáeva (1892-1941)
But probably, the best conquest
Against the time and gravitation —
To pass, to left with no impress,
To pass, to left no shade, no mention
On walls...
And may be — by negation
Pick up and? Cross reflections out?
Just: Lermontov through the Caucasia
But sneak out, with no rocks alarmed.
And may be — best and perfect gag is
By finger of Sebastian Bach
To never touch the organ's echo.
Disintegrate, no ashes bulked
The urn...
And may be — by imposture
Pick up and? Leave the latitudes?
Just: by the time above the ocean
Sneak out, left waters undisturbed...
May 14, 1923
Noble Literature Prize winner Boris Pasternák was one of the most significant Russian poets of all time. We will briefly talk about his life and oeuvre and hear a translation of his poem «The Only Days» published 1957.
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The Only Days
by Boris Pasternák (1890-1960)
Throughout the many winters I do hold
The memory about the solstice days,
And each of them was unrepeatable
And it repeated countless times and ways.
And soon these days have formed the whole parade
While stacking with each other bit by bit —
The only days when, seems like, in a way,
To us the time itself has just stood still.
I do remember all of them by heart:
The winter is approaching to its midst,
The roads get wet, the roofs are dripping hard,
And sun is basking on the ice floe tip.
And loving ones, like in a waking dream,
Stretch to each other faster than before,
And nesting boxes up there in the trees
Are sweating from the overwhelming warmth.
And sleepy clocks are lazy once again
To somehow toss and turn along its face,
And longer than a century lasts the day,
And there is no end for the embrace.
1957