These 8 years have seen

Elena Zaslavskaya. Translation by Max Shapiro.

***
These 8 years have seen
so many goodbyes,
that it sometimes appears —
I might’ve learned to
not wait,
not hope,
not believe,
not have fears,
and never ask…
Still, there are ties
always longing for a reunion.
After the war ceased.
At a random town scene.
In the next few years.
Behind a tombstone.
In the next life.
On Mars,
Among the apple trees!

And yet, with you only,
I always part forever.
—————————————— Читать полностью

At the edge

At the edge

Elena Zaslavskaya. Translation by Max Shapiro.

Which dreams? Which dreams do come to you, my town,
When slowly and surely you’re sliding down
Into wide open chasms of the war?
And we are doomed to crowd here at the door
Of worldly bounds, where the hell is holding ground.

Perhaps, we don’t have much to call a loss.
This makes us careless, leaves nothing to demand.
The mind of eternity we may not understand.
Yet, meet it daily… walking our porch across.

Are we the guardians of this murky place,
The sentries left here frozen to prevent
The further growth of the inferno’s vent?
Or nomads running an unceasing race?

The wanderers, the warriors, sons of plains,
Evangelists of vast expanse and windy hair.
Being always on the go is all that still remains
To stay on path towards our true selves.
And that is why we find rest nowhere.
——————————————
У КРАЯ
Какие сны? Какие снятся сны
Тебе, мой город, медленно и верно
Сползающий в распахнутую бездну войны?
Здесь на границе мира и инферно
Мы все обречены.

А может быть нам нечего терять
И потому мы искренне беспечны?
Здесь сразу за крылечком — вечность,
Но точки зрения ее нам не понять.

А может быть, мы стражи этих мест?
И чтобы не росла воронка ада
Как часовые мы застыли здесь?
А может быть, мы вечные номады?

Скитальцы, воины, мы сыновья степей,
Апологеты ветра и раздолья.
Всегда в пути. И этот путь к себе.
И потому нигде нам нет покоя.

PS свой вариант правок предложил Вячеслав Киреев:

What dreams? What dreams disquiet you, my town,
When slowly but verily you’re sliding down
Into wide open chasms of the war?
And we’re doomed to crowd at the door
Of worldly bounds, where hell is holding ground.

Perhaps, there isn’t much to call a loss.
This makes us careless, leaves nothing to demand.
The mind of eternity we may never understand.
Yet, we meet it daily… just stepping outdoors.

Are we the guardians of this murky place,
The sentries left here freezing to prevent
The further growth of the inferno’s vent?
Or nomads running an unceasing race?

The wanderers, warriors, sons of plains,
Evangelists of the vast expanse and windy hair.
Being always on the go is all that still remains
When we are plodding towards our true selves.
And that is why we find rest nowhere.

Smoke and Night

Elena Zaslavskaya. Translation by Max Shapiro.

Her callsign is Night.
His callsign is Smoke.
They may have a daughter,
They may have a son,
But now and here it can’t be done.
Maestro Death puts on her glove,
Raises a conductor’s baton.
The hurricane song she’ll now sing,
Letting others to love, live on
And welcome this blooming spring.

My dear, my dear, you are loved indeed!
The candle is quietly burning through
While I’m praying and praying for you,
At the time when the help I most surely need.
But apparently angels are fast asleep,
And praying I have to keep…
My words become smoke, its color is white.
It is leaving and sinking in the dead of night.

——————————————

ДЫМ И НОЧЬ

Её позывной Ночь.
Его позывной Дым.
Будет у них дочь?
Будет у них сын?
Будет, но только не здесь.
Будет, но не сейчас.
Заводит маэстро Смерть
Свой ураганный вальс.
А значит, любить другим,
И эту весну встречать.

Милый, ты тоже любим.
Тихо горит свеча,
И я о тебе молюсь,
В этот нелегкий час.
Но видно заснул серафим,
И некому мне помочь.
Молитва как белый дым,
Уходит в глухую ночь.

——————————————

Макс Шапиро: «Перевод несколько вольный. Мне не удалось сохранить лаконичность оригинала. Но надеюсь, что в целом, мне удалось передать художественный образ вложенный автором в это произведение. Хотя соглашусь, стихотворный размер перевода не соответствует оригиналу.»

You are still young. An excerpt from the poem «Novorossia of Thunderstorms. Novorossia of Dreams»

Elena Zaslavskaya. Translation by Max Shapiro.

An excerpt from the poem «Novorossia of Thunderstorms. Novorossia of Dreams»

You are still young,
Full of energy, have little regret.
Yet, circumstances break in;
You didn’t ask for it, neither expect!
Everything is now changing,
Your world is being wracked.
The very matrix of your living
Is shifting. It is under attack.
A day counts as a lucky one
If it had come.

————————————

Отрывок из поэмы «Новороссия гроз. Новороссия грёз»

Ты ещё молод,
Ты ещё полон сил,
Но наступает опыт,
О котором ты не просил!
Всё меняется.
Меняется мир.
Меняется матрица,
В которой ты жил.
И день считается удачным,
Если он наступил.

 

Dream and sword

Elena Zaslavskaya. Translation by Max Shapiro.

Love?! Do not repeat again this word.
Don’t get involved, or else you catch a kill.
Remaining only be the calm and will.
The rest… you can just ditch it overboard.
The manuscripts?! Set all of them on fire!
The last of bridges is burnt down to a wire.
Remaining only be the dream and sword.
Let rest to fade away and be interred.

МЕЧТА И МЕЧ

Не говори: «Любовь»
И не влезай — убьёт.
Есть лишь покой
И воля. Остальное — за борт.
Рукописи все сжечь!
Пылает последний мост.
Есть лишь мечта и меч.
Остальное пройдёт.

———————————

Макс Шапиро: «Произведение очень интересное, написанное в присущем Лене лаконичном стиле. Что вызывало некоторые трудности перевода – передать лаконичность текста оказалось, мягко говоря, непросто. Мои вынужденные дополнения сделали перевод более страстным чем оригинал (хотя и не изменили его смысла). Не уверен, преимущество это или недостаток, скорее второе. Однако, результат – не самое плохое английское стихотворение, довольно точно отражающее идею оригинала… возможно несколько экзальтированное :)»

 

The year of war. Poems with quotes

Автор переводов пожелал остаться  неизвестным. Перевод осуществлен при участии Irene Zugasti Hervás Читать полностью

How the Republic comes up

Автор перевода пожелал остаться  неизвестным. Перевод осуществлен при участии Irene Zugasti Hervás

How the Republic comes up

How the Republic comes up:
Blood is mixed with soil,
The fights are going on near the Mariupol*
And near Nijnaya Olkhovaya**.

Novorossia is arising,
Coming out from the thunder storm,
Hanging over us, like a space, full of stars,
Of our realities and our dreams.

If i die — I’ll spring up as spikes,
Of the warm, golden breads***,
Pray for me to the Lord****,
Because I’m fighting for love

To my Motherland, small, or big,*****
Try to clear it out now.
But our fathers were buried here,
As long as our kids here were born.

And to give my life and my youth
For the Motherland, I am ready.
Is it Rus’******, or Novorossia,
I don’t care — It’s my home.

How the Republic comes up:
Blood is mixed with soil,
The fights are going on near the Mariupol*
And near Nijnaya Olkhovaya**

* Mariupol — a city in the area of Donbas, which were under the war activity. Mariupol had around 460 000 citizens (2013 year).

** Nijnaya Olkhovaya — small village, which suffered a lot in case of military actions. Before had around 800 citizens.

*** Spikes of breads — it Russian language is a symbolic name of all spikes, like rye and wheat, which are mostly used to produce typical bred in Russia.

**** Lord — means God.

***** Small or big motherland — in Russian language «Small motherland» means the area of your roots, and the»Big motherland» — is an actual country where you was born. Sometimes it doesn’t depend on geography or politics. For example Israel is called «Small motherland» for jewish people, independent of where do they live. Some people of Donbas call Russia or Rus’ as a «Big Motherland», and Donbas — as a «small» one.
******Rus’ — name of an ancient Russia, which included areas of Donbas. Читать полностью

Among our wild fields

Автор перевода пожелал остаться  неизвестным. Перевод осуществлен при участии Irene Zugasti Hervás

Among our wild fields

Among our wild fields, there are blooming feather and poppy,
Full of snaking tank-cuts, like black ribbons,
And the soldier grows into the new exist,
Now he is a hero. Postmortem.

Among our wild fields, there are saltbush and wormwood,
Mad heads, mad winds.
We’ll put the crosses around the burial hills,
And compose new legends.

Among our wild fields, that are grey of the ashes,
The stems of the everlasting flowers became black,
Here we will die with our enemies,
But in our steppe*, on our Donbass’s ground.

Among our wild fields, there are blooming feather and poppy,
Full of snaking tank-cuts, like black ribbons,
And we will lay down our lives, all as one,
For the rising of our Victory flag!

*steppe — is a type of wide, wild fields, mostly covered with different types of herbs and small bushes. Читать полностью

On the main barricade

Автор перевода пожелал остаться  неизвестным. Перевод осуществлен при участии Irene Zugasti Hervás

On the main barricade

On the main barricade,
Wearing a white balaclava
He watches at the Death.
And she looks so bright,
Her mouth, stained with blood, like with red lipstick,
Tells him: «Come to me.
Oh, how will i love you,
Kiss you, take care of you,
I will take you out of here,
And you name will be forgotten.
My feather grass bed,
Covered with a fresh dew,
I will put you down into it,
And you will forget about everybody.

But he’s still standing, my soldier,
Although en enemy already has him in his crosshairs.
And he is with death, face to face,
But in his wide pupils is a bright light shining. Читать полностью

Were are all the heroes now?

Автор перевода пожелал остаться  неизвестным. Перевод осуществлен при участии Irene Zugasti Hervás

Were are all the heroes now?

Where are all the heroes now?
The heroes are sleeping tight!
In the field, behind the town,
Laying unburied,
Red grass is growing through their chests,
There’s no more shining light in their eyes,
And their lips are bloodless,
No name, no number,
Nobody knows them.
They’ll just go down into the history,
The history of the people,
And the soil will be more fertile,
That soil, that was fed with blood. Читать полностью