On the sunburnโplow and axe.
Enoughโtribute to dark ash!
For the handsโ handicraft
Early is the laborโs path.
Greetingsโin gloom of the Old Testament
Is the sway of eternal manhood!
A smoking fruit with honey and mossโ
Begone, creature of the last hour!
In the dreamsโ fur heaps
Sarahโcommandment and Hagarโ
Heartโleavingโฆ
Rejoice in mornings,
Eternal masculinityโs swing!
* * *
Leaves are falling from the tree,
Are they of the tea and pink?
No, from the conquered Russianโseeโ
Is your chasuble and your silkโฆ
Branches by the water bowed,
To the algae and the rust?
Noโwithout sense and without soul
Fallen are her arms.
Are resins spilled into the grassโ
Are not of the cuckoo these?
Noโon carpet on the cheeks
Are her tearsโboring it is!
Gentleman, you are not so
Easy, I looked into the glow!
Then in failed memories –
Dawn it is for her: his eyes!
TO BERLIN
Rain is cradling the pain.
I sleep under showers of shutters
That slide. Shivering asphalt against
Hoovesโlike the applause.
Congratulatingโand thus merged.
In the abandonment of gold
You, barracks, have mercy
On the most fabulous of orphans!
* * *
Lethe’s underwater light,
Reef of a red heart.
Lancet has stopped short,
Cutting a singing throat:
Not the red heat of veins,
Not the flame of difficulties –
An undissolved pearl in
Singing throats’ bitterness.
Sorrow sorrow! In it all
We carve and swim and die.
Not dissolved is the pearl
Within the voice’s ray…
Pearl! Let iron wheeze,
Thousands drills and sawsโ
An unextruded thorn in
Bitterness of singing throats.
* * *
And love? For shepherd boy
Into the beating below arms.
Three-second shake-up
On mountains of Paradise.
These hells and heavensโ
These ups and downsโ
Only mortal piles
In a light hitch of iron.
Dashed off! Moments
Gritting teethโover the years,
In the dream falling
Heart-deep into the esophagus.
Fablesโto young school kids!
Weโre for an ode, wherein
Heightโnot for laughter, but death:
Real mountains!
PRAISE TO THE RICH
And henceforth, that between me and you
There are milesโhaving forewarned!
That I count myself with the rabble,
That honest is my place in the world:
Under the wheels of all excess is
Table of uglies, cripples, backs hunched…
And from now, from the roof of belltower
I announce: I love the rich!
For their root, rotten and shaky,
Growing the wound from the crib,
For the absent-minded habit
From the pocket to pocket to grab.
For the quietest request of their lips,
Fulfilled like a scream. That in paradise
They will not be allowed,
That they do not look in the eyes.
For their secretsโalways with courier!
Always with messenger – their romance!
For the nights that to them are bound,
(And they violently drink and kiss!)
And for this, that in counts, in boredom,
In gilt, in yawns, in cotton, I screech
Me the impudent they won’t purchase –
I’m repeating: I love the rich!
And still, whether they’re shaved or aren’t,
Sated, drunken (I wink – and spend!)
For someโsuddenlyโbeing beaten,
For some sometime doglike glance,
Doubtful glance… not a rod
To the zeros? Do not the weights play?
And for this, that among the world’s outcasts
No such orphanage is on the way.
There is such foolish tale: through the eye
Of a needle camels to pass…
For their look, that at death does wonder,
Apologizing in disease,
Like in bankruptcy… “Judged… Be glad – Yes”…
For the quiet, from lips pressed tight, to which
“I counted karats, I was a brother”
I am adding: I love the rich!
FRAGMENTS FROM MARTHA
Simpler, simpler, simpler, simpler
To follow the teacher,
Simpler, simpler, simpler, simpler
To gaze in his eyesโ
Into those lakes of blueโฆ
Hard it is to be Martha, easy
To be Maryโฆ
And meanwhile……
Sister enjoysโ
Comes for him….
โRabbi! It is time to eat!
What are the fruits of the earth?
It is bitter to be Martha,
Sweet to be Maryโฆ
Eternalโfrom under white archway
Sigh, like a belt it burned:
Martha! Martha! Martha! Martha!
Do not worry about things of the earth!
*
It is shameful to be Martha,
Glorious to be Maryโฆ
*
It is mortal to be Martha,
Eternal to be Maryโฆ
*
I washed and boiled everythingโฆ
It is dirty to be Martha,
To be Mary, cleanโฆ
The Originals
ะะพ ะทะฐะณะฐัะฐะผ โ ัะพะฟะพั ะธ ะฟะปัะณ.
Xะฒะฐัะธั โ ัะผัะณะปะพะผั ะฟัะฐั ั ะดะฐะฝั!
ะะปั ัะตะผะตัะปะตะฝะฝะธัะตัะบะธั ััะบ
ะะพัะพะณะฐ ัััะดะพะฒะฐั ัะฐะฝั.
ะะดัะฐะฒััะฒัะน โ ะฒ ะฒะตัั ะพะทะฐะฒะตัะฝัั ััะผะฐั
ะะตัะฝะพะน ะผัะถะตััะฒะตะฝะฝะพััะธ ะฒะทะผะฐั
!
ะั ะพะผ ะธ ะผะตะดะพะผ ะดัะผััะธะน ะฟะปะพะด โ
ะัะพัั, ะฟะพัะปะตะดะฝะตะณะพ ัะฐัะฐ ัะฒะฐัั!
ะ ะผะตั ะพะฒัั ะฒะพัะพั ะฐั ะดัะตะผะพั
ะกะฐััั-ะทะฐะฟะพะฒะตะดั ะธ ะะณะฐัั โ
ะกะตัะดัะต โ ะฑัะพัะธะฒ…
โ ะปะธะบัะน ะฒ ัััะฐั ,
ะะตัะฝะพะน ะผัะถะตััะฒะตะฝะฝะพััะธ ะฒะทะผะฐั !
1922
* * *
ะะธัััั ะปะธ ั ะดัะตะฒะฐ ัััะฐััั,
ะ ะพะทะพะฒัะต ะดะฐ ัะฐะนะฝัะต?
ะะตั, ั ะฟะพะบะพัะตะฝะฝะพะน ัััะพััะธ
ะ ะธะทั ะตะต, ัะตะปะบะฐ ะตะต…
ะะตัะฒะธ ะปะธ ะฒ ะฒะพะดั ะบะปะพะฝัััั,
ะ ะฒะพะดะพัะพัะปัะผ ะดะฐ ะบ ัะถะฐะฒัะธะฝะฐะผ?
ะะตั, โ ะฑะตะท ะดััะธ, ะฑะตะท ะฟะพะผััะปะฐ
ะ ัะบะธ ะตะต ัะฟะฐะฒัะธะต.
ะกะผะพะปั ะปะธ ะฒ ััะฐะฒั ะฟัะพะปะธัั, —
ะ ัะต ะปะธ ะฒะพ ะปะฐะฝั ะบัะบััะตััะธ?
ะะตั, โ ะฟะพ ัะตะบะฐะผ ะฝะฐ ะบะพะฒัะธะบะธ
ะกะปะตะทั ะตะต, โ ะฒะตะดั ัะบััะฝะพ ะถะต!
ะะฐัะธะฝ, ะฝะต ัะตะผ ัั ะทะฐะฝัััะน,
ะ ะฟะพะณะปัะดะตะป ะฑั ะทะฐัะตะฒะพ!
ะขะพ ะฒ ะฟัะพะฒะฐะปะตะฝะฝะพะน ะฟะฐะผััะธ โ
ะะพัะธ ะตะต: ะณะปะฐะทะฐ ะตะณะพ!
1922
ะะตัะปะธะฝั
ะะพะถะดั ัะฑะฐัะบะธะฒะฐะตั ะฑะพะปั.
ะะพะด ะปะธะฒะฝะธ ะพะฟััะบะฐััะธั ัั ััะฐะฒะตะฝั
ะกะฟะปั. ะะทะดัะฐะณะธะฒะฐััะธั ะฐััะฐะปััะพะฒ ะฒะดะพะปั
ะะพะฟััะฐ โ ะบะฐะบ ััะบะพะฟะปะตัะบะฐะฝัั.
ะะพะทะดัะฐะฒััะฒะพะฒะฐะปะพัั โ ะธ ัะปะธะปะพัั.
ะ ะพััะฐะฒะปะตะฝะฝะพััะธ ะทะปะฐัะพะทะฐัะฝะพะน
ะะฐะด ัะบะฐะทะพัะฝะตะนัะธะผ ะธะท ัะธัะพัััะฒ
ะั ัะผะธะปะพััะธะฒะธะปะธัั, ะบะฐะทะฐัะผั!
1922
* * *
ะะตัั ะฟะพะดะฒะพะดะฝัะน ัะฒะตั,
ะัะฐัะฝะพะณะพ ัะตัะดัะฐ ัะธั.
ะะฐััะพะปะฑะตะฝะตะป ะปะฐะฝัะตั,
ะะตะฒัะตะต ะณะพัะปะพ ะฒัะบััะฒ:
ะะต ัะฐัะบะฐะปะตะฝะฝะพััั ะถะตัะป,
ะะต ัะฐัะฟะฐะปะตะฝะฝะพััั ัะบะฒะตัะฝ โ
ะะตัะฐััะฒะพัะตะฝะฝัะน ะฟะตัะป
ะ ะณะพัะตัะธ ะฟะตะฒัะธั ะณะพัะป.
ะะพัะต ะณะพัะต! ะัะฐะฝะธะผ,
ะะปะฐะฒะธะผ ะธ ะผัะตะผ — ะฒะพััะต.
ะะฑะพ ะฝะตัะฐััะฒะพัะธะผ
ะ ะณะพะปะพัะพะฒะพะผ ะปััะต
ะะตะผััะณ…
ะะตะปะตะทะพะผ ะฒ ั ัะธะฟ,
ะขััััะตะน ะฟะธะป ะธ ัะฒeัะป โ
ะะตะธะทะฒะปะตัะตะฝะฝัะน ัะธะฟ
ะ ะณะพัะตัะธ ะฟะตะฒัะธั ะณะพัะป.
1922
* * *
ะ ะปัะฑะพะฒั? ะะปั ะฟะพะดะฟะฐัะบะฐ
ะ ััะบะธ ะฑัััะตะณะพ ัะฝะธะทั.
ะขัะตั ัะตะบัะฝะดะฝะฐั ะฒัััััะบะฐ
ะะฐ ะณะพัะฐั
ะะฐัะฐะดะธะทะฐ.
ะญัะธ ะฐะดั ะธ ัะฐะน,
ะญัะธ ะฒะทะปะตัั ะธ ะฑะตะทะดะฝั-
ะขะพะปัะบะพ ะฑัะตะฝะฝัะต ัะฒะฐะธ
ะ ะปะตะณะบะพะน ััะตะฟะบะต ะถะตะปะตะทะฝะพะน.
โ ะะฐะบะฐัะฐะปะฐัั! โ ะะณะฝะพะฒะตะฝัั
ะัะฑั ััะธัะฝัะฒ โ ะทะฐ ะณะพะดั,
ะ ัะฝะพะฒะธะดะตะฝะฝะพะผ ะฟะฐะดะตะฝัะต
ะกะตัะดัะฐ โ ะฒะณะปัะฑั ะฟะธัะตะฒะพะดะฐ.
ะฎะฝัะผ ัะบะพะปัะฝะธะบะฐะผ โ ะฑะฐัะฝะธ!
ะั ะถ ะทะฐ ะพะดั, ะฒ ะบะพัะพัะพะน
ะััั โ ะฝะต ะฝะฐ ัะผะตั , ะฐ ะฝะฐ ัะผะตััั:
ะะฐััะพััะธะต ะณะพัั!
1922
ะฅะฒะฐะปะฐ ะฑะพะณะฐััะผ
ะ ะทะฐัะธะผ, ัะฟัะตะดะธะฒ ะทะฐัะฐะฝะต,
ะงัะพ ะผะตะถ ะผะฝะพะน ะธ ัะพะฑะพั โ ะผะธะปะธ!
ะงัะพ ัะตะฑั ะฟัะธัะธัะปัั ะบ ัะฒะฐะฝะธ,
ะงัะพ ัะตััะฝะพ ะผะพะต ะผะตััะพ ะฒ ะผะธัะต:
ะะพะด ะบะพะปะตัะฐะผะธ ะฒัะตั ะธะทะปะธัะตััะฒ:
ะกัะพะป ััะพะดะพะฒ, ะบะฐะปะตะบ, ะณะพัะฑะฐััั …
ะ ะทะฐัะธะผ, ั ะบะพะปะพะบะพะปัะฝะพะน ะบัััะธ
ะะฑััะฒะปัั: ะปัะฑะปั ะฑะพะณะฐััั
!
ะะฐ ะธั ะบะพัะตะฝั, ะณะฝะธะปะพะน ะธ ัะฐัะบะธะน,
ะก ะบะพะปัะฑะตะปะธ ัะฐััััะธะน ัะฐะฝั,
ะะฐ ัะฐััะตััะฝะฝัั ะฟะพะฒะฐะดะบั
ะะท ะบะฐัะผะฐะฝะฐ ะธ ะฒะฝะพะฒั ะบ ะบะฐัะผะฐะฝั.
ะะฐ ัะธัะฐะนััั ะฟัะพััะฑั ััั ะธั ,
ะัะฟะพะปะฝัะตะผัั ะบะฐะบ ะพะบัะธะบ.
ะ ะทะฐ ัะพ, ััะพ ะธั ะฒ ัะฐะน ะฝะต ะฒะฟััััั,
ะ ะทะฐ ัะพ, ััะพ ะฒ ะณะปะฐะทะฐ ะฝะต ัะผะพัััั.
ะะฐ ะธั ัะฐะนะฝั โ ะฒัะตะณะดะฐ ั ะฝะฐัะพัะฝัะผ!
ะะฐ ะธั ัััะฐััะธ โ ะฒัะตะณะดะฐ ั ัะฐัััะปัะฝัะผ!
ะะฐ ะฝะฐะฒัะทะฐะฝะฝัะต ะธะผ ะฝะพัะธ,
(ะ ัะตะปััั ะธ ะฟััั ะฝะฐัะธะปัะฝะพ!)
ะ ะทะฐ ัะพ, ััะพ ะฒ ััะตัะฐั , ะฒ ัะบัะบะฐั ,
ะ ะฟะพะทะพะปะพัะฐั , ะฒ ะทะตะฒะพัะฐั , ะฒ ะฒะฐัะฐั ,
ะะพั ะผะตะฝั, ะฝะฐะณะปะตัะฐ, ะฝะต ะบัะฟัั —
ะะพะดัะฒะตัะถะดะฐั: ะปัะฑะปั ะฑะพะณะฐััั
!
ะ ะตัะต, ะฝะตัะผะพััั ะฝะฐ ะฑัะธัะพััั,
ะกััะพััั, ะฟะธัะพััั (ะผะพัะณะฝั — ะธ ััะฐัั!)
ะะฐ ะบะฐะบัั-ัะพ โ ะฒะดััะณ โ ะฟะพะฑะธัะพััั,
ะะฐ ะบะฐะบะพะน-ัะพ ะธั
ะฒะทะณะปัะด ัะพะฑะฐัะธะน
ะกะพะผะฝะตะฒะฐััะธะนัั…
โ ะฝะต ััะตัะถะตะฝั
ะปะธ ะบ ะฝัะปัะผ? ะะต ัะฐะปัั ะปะธ ะณะธัะธ?
ะ ะทะฐ ัะพ, ััะพ ะผะตะถ ะฒัะตั ะพัะฒะตัะถะตะฝััะฒ
ะะตั โ ัะฐะบะพะณะพ ัะธัะพัััะฒะฐ ะฒ ะผะธัะต!
ะััั ัะฐะบะฐั ะดััะฝะฐั ะฑะฐัะฝั:
ะะฐะบ ะฒะตัะฑะปัะดั ะฒ ะธะณะปั ะฟัะพะปะตะทะปะธ.
…ะะฐ ะธั ะฒะทะณะปัะด, ะธะทัะผะปะตะฝะฝัะน ะฝะฐ-ัะผะตััั,
ะะทะฒะธะฝัััะธะนัั ะฒ ะฑะพะปะตะทะฝะธ,
ะะฐะบ ะฒ ะฑะฐะฝะบัะพัััะฒะต… “ะกััะดะธะป ะฑั… ะ ะฐะด ะฑั โ
ะะฐ”…
ะะฐ ัะธั ะพะต, ั ััั ะทะฐะถะฐััั :
“ะะพ ะบะฐัะฐัะฐะผ ััะธัะฐะป, ั โ ะฑัะฐั ะฑัะป?”
ะัะธััะณะฐั: ะปัะฑะปั ะฑะพะณะฐััั !
1922
ะัััะฒะบะธ ะธะท ะะฐััั
ะัะพัะต, ะฟัะพัะต, ะฟัะพัะต, ะฟัะพัะต
ะะฐ ะฃัะธัะตะปะตะผ ั ะพะดะธัั,
ะัะพัะต, ะฟัะพัะต, ะฟัะพัะต, ะฟัะพัะต
ะ ะพัะตัะฐ ะตะณะพ ะณะปัะดะตัั โ
ะ ัะต ะพะทััะฐ ะณะพะปัะฑัะตโฆ
ะขััะดะฝะพ ะะฐััะพะน ะฑััั, ะะฐัะธะตะน โ
ะัะพััะพโฆ
ะ ะฟะพะบะฐะผะตัั …….
ะฃัะปะฐะถะดะฐะตััั ัะตัััะฐ โ
ะะพะดั ะพะดะธั ………
โ ะ ะฐะฒะฒะธ! ะฟะพะปะดะฝะธัะฐัั ะฟะพัะฐ!
ะงัะพฬ ะฟะปะพะดั ะตะผั ะทะตะผะฝัะต?
ะะพััะบะพ ะะฐััะพะน ะฑััั, ะะฐัะธะตะน โ
ะกะปะฐะดะบะพโฆ
ะะตัะตะฝ โ ะธะท-ะฟะพะด ะฑะตะปะพะน ะฐัะบะธ
ะะทะดะพั , ะพะถะตะณัะธะน ะบะฐะบ ัะตะผะฝัะผ:
ะะฐััะฐ! ะะฐััะฐ! ะะฐััะฐ! ะะฐััะฐ!
ะะต ะฟะตะบะธัั ะพ ะทะตะผะฝะพะผ!
*
ะกััะดะฝะพ ะะฐััะพะน ะฑััั, ะะฐัะธะตะน โ
ะกะปะฐะฒะฝะพโฆ
*
ะัะตะฝะฝะพ ะะฐััะพะน ะฑััั, ะะฐัะธะตะน โ
ะะตัะฝะพโฆ
*
โฆะัะต-ัะพ ะผัะปะฐ ะธ ะฒะฐัะธะปะฐโฆ
ะััะทะฝะพ ะะฐััะพะน ะฑััั, ะะฐัะธะตะน โ
ะงะธััะพโฆ
1936
Marina Tsvetaeva (Tsvetayeva) was one of the greatest Russian poets of the 20th century.
Ilya Shambat was born in the former Soviet Union and started writing poetry at age 10. When he was 12, he moved to America; when he was 18, he finished the University of Virginia. Ilya has translated a vast body of Russian poetry into English, including the complete body of poetry by Marina Tsvetayeva and Igor Severyanin. He is currently residing in Australia, where he is raising a family. You can read Ilya’s translations on his site https://sites.google.com/site/ibshambat/translations-of-classical-russian-poets-by-ilya-shambat
This collection includes poems written in 2020-2023.ย (Russian edition)
“The Lingering Twilight” (“ะกัะผะตัะบะธ”) is Marina Eskin’s fifth book of poems. (Russian edition)
Launched in 2012, “Four Centuries” is an international electronic magazine of Russian poetry in translation.
A collection of moving, often funny vignettes about a childhood spent in the Soviet Union.
“Vivid picture of life behind the Iron Curtain.” โBooklist
“This unique book will serve to promote discussions of freedom.” โSchool Library Journal
A book of poems by Maria Galina, put together and completed exactly one day before the start of the Russian invasion of Ukraine. This is Galina’s seventh book of poems. With translations by Anna Halberstadt and Ainsley Morse.
A new collection of poems by Ian Probstein. (In Russian)