KNOT Magazine
Fall Issue 2022
Arseny Tarkovsky, Translation from Russian
by Philip Metres & Dimitri Psurtsev
Мамка птичья и стрекозья,
Помутнела синева,
Душным воздухом предгрозья
Дышит жухлая трава.
По деревне ходит Каин,
Стекла бьет и на расчет,
Как работника хозяин,
Брата младшего зовет.
Духоту сшибает холод,
По пшенице пляшет град.
Видно, мир и вправду молод,
Авель вправду виноват.
Я гляжу из-под ладони
На тебя, судьба моя,
Не готовый к обороне,
Будто в Книге Бытия.
1967
ВЕТЕР
Душа моя затосковала ночью.
А я любил изорванную в клочья,
Исхлестанную ветром темноту
И звезды, брезжущие на лету.
Над мокрыми сентябрьскими садами,
Как бабочки с незрячими глазами,
И на цыганской масляной реке
Шатучий мост, и женщину в платке,
Спадавшем с плеч над медленной водою,
И эти руки как перед бедою.
И кажется, она была жива,
Жива, как прежде, но ее слова
Из влажных Л теперь не означали
Ни счастья, ни желаний, ни печали,
И больше мысль не связывала их,
Как повелось на свете у живых.
Слова горели, как под ветром свечи,
И гасли, словно ей легло на плечи
Все горе всех времен. Мы рядом шли,
Но этой горькой, как полынь, земли
Она уже стопами не касалась
И мне живою больше не казалась.
Когда-то имя было у нее.
Сентябрьский ветер и ко мне в жилье
Врывается -
то лязгает замками,
То волосы мне трогает руками.
1960
Russian poet Arseny Tarkovsky; selections from this book project (forthcoming from Cleveland State) have been published in Poetry, New England Review, Modern Poetry in Translation, Artful Dodge, The Journal, Guernica, North American Review, Two Lines and Two Lines Online. Tarkovsky’s work emerges from a visionary sensibility—like Akhmatova and Mandelstam—that became his way of forging a Russian art outside of Soviet realism. Of course, it’s the music of the poems that guaranteed his reputation, as much as the vision. Speaking of Soviet poetry during an interview toward the end of her life, Anna Akhmatova called Arseny Tarkovsky the one “real poet.” In her words, in 1965, “of all contemporary poets Tarkovsky alone is completely his own self, completely independent. He possesses the most important feature of a poet which I’d call the birthright....” In a time when Russian poetry was anything but independent, Tarkovsky’s verse maintained its resolute allegiance to his own poetic vision.
Tarkovsky lived from 1907 until 1989, and spent most of his life as a translator of Turkmen, Georgian, Armenian, Arabic, and other Asian poets, only publishing his own poems after Stalin’s death (beginning in 1962). Of a younger generation than Akhmatova, Mandelstam, and Tsvetaeva, he both absorbed the Silver Age tradition and hearkened back to the simple and primordial music of Pushkin. He was wounded in World War II, lost a leg to gangrene, and wrote some of the most powerful poems about the Second World War. Later, his son Andrei became an internationally celebrated filmmaker; in a number of his great films, Andrei features his father’s poems, demonstrating the aesthetic continuation of the Russian tradition from poetry to film.
Philip Metres is the author of a number of books, most recently A Concordance of Leaves (2013), abu ghraib arias (2011), this year’s winner of the Arab American Book Award in poetry; To See the Earth (2008), Come Together: Imagine Peace (2008), and Behind the Lines: War Resistance Poetry on the American Homefront, Since 1941(University of Iowa Press, 2007). His work has appeared in Best American Poetry, and has garnered two NEAs, the Beatrice Hawley Award, two Arab American Book Awards, the Cleveland Arts Prize, and four Ohio Arts Council Excellence grants. He teaches literature and creative writing at John Carroll University in Cleveland, Ohio.
Dimitri Psurtsev, is a Russian poet and translator living in Moscow.
Wind
All night my soul roiled and pined.
Still, I loved the darkness torn apart
and lashed by gusts of wind.
I loved the stars’ glimmering flight
like the blind eyes on butterflies
over wet September orchards,
the shaky bridge, the gypsy river,
and the woman above the slow water—
her kerchief flowing over her shoulder—
those hands, holding off disaster.
It was as if she were alive,
alive again, but her words’
liquid sounds now signified
neither joy nor sadness nor longing,.
linked no longer by thinking—
unlike the syntax of the living.
Like a lit wick in wind, her voice flared
and guttered as if all human grief
bent her shoulders. We walked side by side,
her feet gliding like windswept leaves
along this earth, bitter as wormwood.
She was fading with every word.
Once upon a time she had a name.
September wind—even in my home—
bursts in—
now clanging the hinges,
now caressing my hair with its fingers.
1960
Wet-nurse of dragonflies and birds
Wet-nurse of dragonflies and birds,
the blue sky is dim,
the withered grass inhales the swelter
as if before a storm.
In the village Cain shatters
window after window, calls his brother
to the final account
as a master would a servant.
The cold batters the air.
Hail dances on the wheat.
It’s true, really, the world
is young, and Abel is to blame.
With my open palm I shade
my face, my fate—
unready, defenseless
as in the book of Genesis.
1967
The noise of that sound still rings in the ears
The noise of that sound still rings in the ears.
How loud the conductor’s bell
where a streetcar passed, and here
an unhurried, shallow river,
its reeds and duckweed.
Valya and I
ride horseback on cannons at the gate
to the public orchard, near a historic oak,
ice cream vendors, a booth with lemonade,
and musicians in a blue shell.
June shines over the orchard.
Trumpets mutter, drums thrum, and a flute
whistles, muffled as if from under a pillow:
half the drums, half the trumpets, half the flute.
At a quarter dream, at an eighth a life,
neither of us
(in elastic-banded summer hats,
sailor’s jackets with anchors, and sandals)
knows yet of the days to come—
who will survive, and who will be killed.
Our fates remain opaque as fresh milk
awaiting us at home, nearby.
On our shoulders, butterflies rest,
and swallows fly high in the sky.
1976
Snow in March
In a snow this white
a white angel could alight
and with its wings, write
Alpha to Omega, make the death-cry
of a swan sound like grace.
But in this impasse
the black pines mutter
about their lack of peace—
a mad lacrimal disorder
seethes beneath their crust.
Will the highest bough ever reach
beyond itself, the poor bird eat
ever again? The heart is pierced,
always, with a needle thought—
how to fit the sky.
Across this snow, from the ravine
a droning worry fills my ears.
My life on earth, my path
estranged from itself, is raving
under its white hair.
1974
Еще в ушах стоит и гром и звон:
У, как трезвонил вагоновожатый!
Туда ходил трамвай, и там б
ылаНеспешная и мелкая река -
Вся в камыше и ряске.
Я и Валя
Сидим верхом на пушках у ворот
В Казенный сад, где двухсотлетний дуб,
Мороженщики, будка с лимонадом
И в синей раковине музыканты.
Июнь сияет над Казенным садом.
Труба бубнит, бьют в барабан, и флейта
Свистит, но слышно, как из-под подушки:
В полбарабана, в полтрубы, в полфлейты
И в четверть сна, в одну восьмую жизни.
Мы оба
(в летних шляпах на резинке,
В сандалиях, в матросках с якорями)
Еще не знаем, кто из нас в живых
Останется, кого из нас убьют,
О судьбах наших нет еще и речи,
Нас дома ждет парное молоко,
И бабочки садятся нам на плечи,
И ласточки летают высоко.
1976
МАРТОВСКИЙ СНЕГ
По такому белому снегу
Белый ангел альфу-омегу
Мог бы крыльями написать
И лебяжью смертную негу
Ниспослать мне как благодать.
Но и в этом снежном застое
Еле слышно о непокое
Сосны черные говорят:
Накипает под их корою
Сумасшедший слезный разлад.
Верхней ветви - семь верст до неба,
Нищей птице - ни крошки хлеба,
Сердцу - будто игла насквозь:
Велика ли его потреба, -
Лишь бы небо впору пришлось.
А по тем снегам из-за лога
Наплывает гулом тревога,
И чужда себе, предо мной
Жизнь земная, моя дорога
Бредит под своей сединой.
1974
Просыпается тело,
Напрягается слух.
Ночь дошла до предела,
Крикнул третий петух.
Сел старик на кровати,
Заскрипела кровать.
Было так при Пилате,
Что теперь вспоминать?
И какая досада
Сердце точит с утра?
И на что это надо -
Горевать за Петра?
Кто всего мне дороже,
Всех желаннее мне?
В эту ночь - от кого жеЯ
отрекся во сне?
Крик идет петушиный
В первой утренней мгле
Через горы-долины
По широкой земле.
1976
From its dark sleep the body wakes
From its dark sleep the body wakes
and the ear strains to hear.
The night has died into day.
The third cock has crowed.
An old man sits on the bed
and the bed groans beneath him
as it has since Pilate’s time.
Why should it be any different?
What is this shame that knives
inside the heart?
And why must one grieve,
even now, for Peter?
Whom do I cherish most in this life,
who’s most beloved to me?
And this night, who have I
denied knowing as I slept?
In the pre-dawn haze
the cock’s cry travels
across valleys and hills
and will not rest for the rest of our days.
1976