Theodore Roethke. Four Poems. With Russian Translations by Isabella Mizrahi

Also in Translations:

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Theodore Roethke. Four Poems. With Russian Translations by Isabella Mizrahi

Cuttings

This urge, wrestle, resurrection of dry sticks,

Cut stems struggling to put down feet,

What saint strained so much,

Rose on such lopped limbs to a new life?

I can hear, underground, that sucking and sobbing,

In my veins, in my bones I feel it –

The small waters seeping upward,

The tight grains parting at last.

When sprouts break out,

Slippery as fish,

I quail, lean to beginnings, sheath-wet.
 

Root Cellar
 
Nothing would sleep in that cellar, dank as a ditch,

Bulbs broke out of boxes hunting for chinks in the dark,

Shoots dangled and drooped,

Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates,

Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakes.

And what a congress of stinks!—

Roots ripe as old bait,

Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich,

Leaf-mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks.

Nothing would give up life:

Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.
 

Weed Puller
 
Under the concrete benches,

Hacking at black hairy roots,-

Those lewd monkey-tails hanging from drainholes,-

Digging into the soft rubble underneath,

Webs and weeds,

Grubs and snails and sharp sticks,

Or yanking tough fern-shapes,

Coiled green and thick, like dripping smilax,

Tugging all day at perverse life:

The indignity of it!-

With everything blooming above me,

Lilies, pale-pink cyclamen, roses,

Whole fields lovely and inviolate,-

Me down in that fetor of weeds,

Crawling on all fours,

Alive, in a slippery grave.
 

Long Live the Weeds
 
Long live the weeds that overwhelm

My narrow vegetable realm! –

The bitter rock, the barren soil

That force the son of man to toil;

All things unholy, marked by curse,

The ugly of the universe.

The rough, the wicked, and the wild

That keep the spirit undefiled.

With these I match my little wit

And earn the right to stand or sit,

Hope, love, create, or drink and die:

These shape the creature that is I.

 
~ ~ ~
 
Pocтки

Этот порыв, борьба и воскрешенье усохших прутьев,

Стремленье прорасти у срезанных стеблей!

Какой святой так силился восстать

И на культях приподымался к новой жизни!

Я слышу чавканье и всхлипы под землёй,

В своих костях и венах ощущаю,

Как струйки медленно ползут наверх.

Как зерна туго трескаются, раскрываясь.

Когда ростки раздвинут землю,

С трепетом склонюсь

Над их чуть влажной кожей.
 

Погреб
 
В этой сырой яме погреба все в движении:

Луковицы набухли в ящиках, прорастая в щели,

Побеги вытянулись и провисли,

Бесстыдно свешивая с заплесневелых корзин

Длинные желтые шеи,

Похожие на тропических змей.

Что за собрание запахов!

Протухшие, перезревшие корни,

Разросшиеся, узловатые стебли,

Кучи гниющих листьев, навоза, извести.

Повсюду жизнь:

Даже грязь колышется в слабом дыхании.
 

Битва с сорняками
 
Под скамейками из бетона

Я кромсаю чёрные ворсистые корни,

Извивающиеся, как обезьяньи хвосты.

Копошусь в мягком грунте,

Среди паутин и личинок,

Слизней и колючек,

Или воюю с папоротником,

Жестким веером раскинувшим листья.

Весь день выкорчёвываю

Эту непристойную жизнь.

Надо мной все буйно цветёт:

Лилии, бледные цикламены,

Послушные и прелестные розы.

А я – внизу, в зловонии сорняков,

Ползаю на своих четырёх.

Живой в этой скользкой могиле.
 

Слава сорнякам
 
Вас славлю, сорняки, – ведь вы

Взошли на пастбище судьбы!

И пот впитавшая скала

Травою жесткой проросла.

Хвала проклятию и тлену,

Несовершенству во Вселенной.

Злодейство, грубость и порок

Хранят от грязи дух порой.

По ним сверяю я свой разум

И зарабатываю право

Давать своим твореньям имя:

Такой, как есть – я создан ими.
 

~ ~ ~
 
Root Cellar
 
Nothing would sleep in that cellar, dank as a ditch,

Bulbs broke out of boxes hunting for chinks in the dark,

Shoots dangled and drooped,

Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates,

Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakes.

And what a congress of stinks!—

Roots ripe as old bait,

Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich,

Leaf-mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks.

Nothing would give up life:

Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.
 

Weed Puller
 
Under the concrete benches,

Hacking at black hairy roots,-

Those lewd monkey-tails hanging from drainholes,-

Digging into the soft rubble underneath,

Webs and weeds,

Grubs and snails and sharp sticks,

Or yanking tough fern-shapes,

Coiled green and thick, like dripping smilax,

Tugging all day at perverse life:

The indignity of it!-

With everything blooming above me,

Lilies, pale-pink cyclamen, roses,

Whole fields lovely and inviolate,-

Me down in that fetor of weeds,

Crawling on all fours,

Alive, in a slippery grave.
 

Long Live the Weeds
 
Long live the weeds that overwhelm

My narrow vegetable realm! –

The bitter rock, the barren soil

That force the son of man to toil;

All things unholy, marked by curse,

The ugly of the universe.

The rough, the wicked, and the wild

That keep the spirit undefiled.

With these I match my little wit

And earn the right to stand or sit,

Hope, love, create, or drink and die:

These shape the creature that is I.

About the Author:

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Theodore Roethke
Saginaw, MI, USA - Bainbridge Island, WA, USA

“I learn by going where I have to go,” wrote Theodore Roethke (May 25, 1908 – August 1, 1963), a quintessentially American poet, whose grandfather had been Bismarck’s chief forester before he emigrated to America in 1870 and built a greenhouse in Saginaw, Michigan, with his sons. “…the greenhouse is my symbol for the whole of life, a womb, a heaven-on-earth,” wrote the poet in his book “On the Poet and His Craft”. After graduating from the University of Michigan and studying at Harvard, Roethke became a professor of English literature and taught at various colleges in the United States.

About the Translator:

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Isabella Mizrahi
New York, USA

Isabella Mizrahi translates of English-language poetry into Russian. She is the author of five books: “Balloons” (1992), “This is My Letter to the World” (1998), “Lines for Winter” (1996), “Six Poets” (2000), and “By Way of Writing” (2001). Her translations have been published in many Russian literary journals, such as Innostrannaya literatura, Arion, Znamya, Druzba Narodov, Sem’ Iskusstv, etc. She lives in the suburbs of New York.

Theodore Roethke Теодор Ретке
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Videos
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EastWest Literary Forum Bilingual Poetry & Prose Reading. July 13, 2025.
Length: 2 hrs. 08 min