FOr us
speak
they
A short collection
of poems by poets
of the Silver Age
1880 — 1921 years
Alexander Blok
In the church choir a girl was singing
About all the weary people in a strange land
About all the ships far out on oceans
About all who were forgetting the joys at hand.
High in the steeple her voice was singing,
A thin ray turning her shoulder white .
From the dark everyone watched and listened
To the white dress singing in the light.
And all could believe that joy was coming,
That all the ships were harbored, safe,
That in strange lands all weary people
Had found a milder, brighter life.
The voice was so sweet, the ray so slender
That only next to the Holy Door,
Privileged to mysteries, a baby was crying
That those away would return no more.
1905 Translated by George M. Young
About all the weary people in a strange land
About all the ships far out on oceans
About all who were forgetting the joys at hand.
High in the steeple her voice was singing,
A thin ray turning her shoulder white .
From the dark everyone watched and listened
To the white dress singing in the light.
And all could believe that joy was coming,
That all the ships were harbored, safe,
That in strange lands all weary people
Had found a milder, brighter life.
The voice was so sweet, the ray so slender
That only next to the Holy Door,
Privileged to mysteries, a baby was crying
That those away would return no more.
1905 Translated by George M. Young
In the Church Choir a Girl was Singing...
1893 — 1930 years
Vladimir Mayakovsky
YOU!
You, wallowing through orgy alter orgy,
owning a bathroom and warm, snug toilet!
How dare you read about awards of St. Georgi
from newspaper columns with your blinkers oily?!
Do you realise, multitudinous nonentities
thinking how better to fill your gob,
that perhaps just now Petrov the lieutenant
had both his legs ripped off by a bomb?
Imagine if he, brought along for slaughter,
suddenly saw, with his blood out-draining,
you, with your mouths still dribbling soda-water
and vodka, lasciviously crooning Severyanin!
To give up my life for the likes of you,
lovers of woman-flesh, dinners and cars?
I’d rather go and serve pineapple juice
to the whores in Moscow’s bars.
1915 Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
owning a bathroom and warm, snug toilet!
How dare you read about awards of St. Georgi
from newspaper columns with your blinkers oily?!
Do you realise, multitudinous nonentities
thinking how better to fill your gob,
that perhaps just now Petrov the lieutenant
had both his legs ripped off by a bomb?
Imagine if he, brought along for slaughter,
suddenly saw, with his blood out-draining,
you, with your mouths still dribbling soda-water
and vodka, lasciviously crooning Severyanin!
To give up my life for the likes of you,
lovers of woman-flesh, dinners and cars?
I’d rather go and serve pineapple juice
to the whores in Moscow’s bars.
1915 Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
1893 — 1930 years
Vladimir Mayakovsky
YOU!
You, wallowing through orgy alter orgy,
owning a bathroom and warm, snug toilet!
How dare you read about awards of St. Georgi
from newspaper columns with your blinkers oily?!
Do you realise, multitudinous nonentities
thinking how better to fill your gob,
that perhaps just now Petrov the lieutenant
had both his legs ripped off by a bomb?
Imagine if he, brought along for slaughter,
suddenly saw, with his blood out-draining,
you, with your mouths still dribbling soda-water
and vodka, lasciviously crooning Severyanin!
To give up my life for the likes of you,
lovers of woman-flesh, dinners and cars?
I’d rather go and serve pineapple juice
to the whores in Moscow’s bars.
1915 Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
owning a bathroom and warm, snug toilet!
How dare you read about awards of St. Georgi
from newspaper columns with your blinkers oily?!
Do you realise, multitudinous nonentities
thinking how better to fill your gob,
that perhaps just now Petrov the lieutenant
had both his legs ripped off by a bomb?
Imagine if he, brought along for slaughter,
suddenly saw, with his blood out-draining,
you, with your mouths still dribbling soda-water
and vodka, lasciviously crooning Severyanin!
To give up my life for the likes of you,
lovers of woman-flesh, dinners and cars?
I’d rather go and serve pineapple juice
to the whores in Moscow’s bars.
1915 Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
1889 — 1966 years
Anna Akhmatova
All has been taken!
All has been taken: strength as well as love.
Into the unloved town the corpse is thrown.
It does not love the sun. I fear, that blood
Inside of me already cold has grown.
I do not recognize sweet Muse's loving taste:
She looks ahead and does not let a word pass,
And bows a head in the dark garland dressed
Onto my chest, exhausted from the haste.
And only conscience, scarier with each day,
Wants a great ransom and for this abuses.
Closing the face, I answer her this way...
But there remain no tears and no excuses.
1916 Translated by Ilya Shambat
Into the unloved town the corpse is thrown.
It does not love the sun. I fear, that blood
Inside of me already cold has grown.
I do not recognize sweet Muse's loving taste:
She looks ahead and does not let a word pass,
And bows a head in the dark garland dressed
Onto my chest, exhausted from the haste.
And only conscience, scarier with each day,
Wants a great ransom and for this abuses.
Closing the face, I answer her this way...
But there remain no tears and no excuses.
1916 Translated by Ilya Shambat
1889 — 1966 years
Anna Akhmatova
All has been taken!
All has been taken: strength as well as love.
Into the unloved town the corpse is thrown.
It does not love the sun. I fear, that blood
Inside of me already cold has grown.
I do not recognize sweet Muse's loving taste:
She looks ahead and does not let a word pass,
And bows a head in the dark garland dressed
Onto my chest, exhausted from the haste.
And only conscience, scarier with each day,
Wants a great ransom and for this abuses.
Closing the face, I answer her this way...
But there remain no tears and no excuses.
1916 Translated by Ilya Shambat
Into the unloved town the corpse is thrown.
It does not love the sun. I fear, that blood
Inside of me already cold has grown.
I do not recognize sweet Muse's loving taste:
She looks ahead and does not let a word pass,
And bows a head in the dark garland dressed
Onto my chest, exhausted from the haste.
And only conscience, scarier with each day,
Wants a great ransom and for this abuses.
Closing the face, I answer her this way...
But there remain no tears and no excuses.
1916 Translated by Ilya Shambat
1886 — 1921 years
Nikolay Gumilev
All of us — righteous and sinners,
Born in prison, raised at the altar,
All of us are funny actors
In the theater of the Creator.
The Lord sits on His throne,
Merrily follows the show.
Brightly on His sumptuous gown
Sparkles and golden stars glow.
Oh, how easy and pleasant
Is the empyrean staging!
Mary the Virgin is content,
Finds the libretto engaging:
— Hamlet? He has to be pallid.
Cain? He should be audacious…
Audience takes in angelic
Shiny victorious trumpets.
God leaning forward is watching,
He is caught up in the drama…
Pity if Cain is crying,
Hamlet will have blissful moments!
That goes against His intentions!
To avoid deviations,
God will entrust the production
Into Pain's hands, a deaf titan.
Now the pain's shooting higher
Cunningly webbing and freely,
Those who choose to retire,
Are castigated severely.
Tortures grow out of proportion
Fear and dismay — even greater;
What if continues His celebration
In the theater of the Creator.
1910 Translated by Maya Jouravel
Born in prison, raised at the altar,
All of us are funny actors
In the theater of the Creator.
The Lord sits on His throne,
Merrily follows the show.
Brightly on His sumptuous gown
Sparkles and golden stars glow.
Oh, how easy and pleasant
Is the empyrean staging!
Mary the Virgin is content,
Finds the libretto engaging:
— Hamlet? He has to be pallid.
Cain? He should be audacious…
Audience takes in angelic
Shiny victorious trumpets.
God leaning forward is watching,
He is caught up in the drama…
Pity if Cain is crying,
Hamlet will have blissful moments!
That goes against His intentions!
To avoid deviations,
God will entrust the production
Into Pain's hands, a deaf titan.
Now the pain's shooting higher
Cunningly webbing and freely,
Those who choose to retire,
Are castigated severely.
Tortures grow out of proportion
Fear and dismay — even greater;
What if continues His celebration
In the theater of the Creator.
1910 Translated by Maya Jouravel
Theater
1890 — 1960 years
Boris Pasternak
February. Get ink, shed tears
February. Get ink, shed tears.
Write of it, sob your heart out, sing,
While torrential slush that roars
Burns in the blackness of the spring.
Go hire a buggy. For six grivnas,
Race through the noice of bells and wheels
To where the ink and all you grieving
Are muffled when the rainshower falls.
To where, like pears burnt black as charcoal,
A myriad rooks, plucked from the trees,
Fall down into the puddles, hurl
Dry sadness deep into the eyes.
Below, the wet black earth shows through,
With sudden cries the wind is pitted,
The more haphazard, the more true
The poetry that sobs its heart out.
1912 Translated by Alex Miller
Write of it, sob your heart out, sing,
While torrential slush that roars
Burns in the blackness of the spring.
Go hire a buggy. For six grivnas,
Race through the noice of bells and wheels
To where the ink and all you grieving
Are muffled when the rainshower falls.
To where, like pears burnt black as charcoal,
A myriad rooks, plucked from the trees,
Fall down into the puddles, hurl
Dry sadness deep into the eyes.
Below, the wet black earth shows through,
With sudden cries the wind is pitted,
The more haphazard, the more true
The poetry that sobs its heart out.
1912 Translated by Alex Miller
I`m tired of life in my own land...
I’m tired of life in my own land,
The boredom of the fields’ expanses,
I’m going to quit my cabin and
Like tramp or thief I’ll take my chances.
I’ll chase the cloudy trails of day
In search of mean accommodation —
With knife in bootleg as I stray
That pal has stropped for altercation.
The curl of dusty sun-scorched road
In spring will lure me to its pleasure,
I’ll then be chased from my abode
By her whose name I’ll always treasure.
And home again, another’s cheer
May briefly consolation proffer,
And in lush night ’neath window here
My death by hanging I will offer.
And then the willows by the fence
Will gently bow their heads in weeping.
Unwashed, they’ll take my body hence
With howling hounds their watch a-keeping.
But moon its shimmering light will give
As if it rows across the reaches...
And Russia still will ever live —
With tearful dancing, she beseeches.
1916 Translated by Rupert Moreton
The boredom of the fields’ expanses,
I’m going to quit my cabin and
Like tramp or thief I’ll take my chances.
I’ll chase the cloudy trails of day
In search of mean accommodation —
With knife in bootleg as I stray
That pal has stropped for altercation.
The curl of dusty sun-scorched road
In spring will lure me to its pleasure,
I’ll then be chased from my abode
By her whose name I’ll always treasure.
And home again, another’s cheer
May briefly consolation proffer,
And in lush night ’neath window here
My death by hanging I will offer.
And then the willows by the fence
Will gently bow their heads in weeping.
Unwashed, they’ll take my body hence
With howling hounds their watch a-keeping.
But moon its shimmering light will give
As if it rows across the reaches...
And Russia still will ever live —
With tearful dancing, she beseeches.
1916 Translated by Rupert Moreton
1895 — 1925 years
Sergey Esenin
1891 — 1938 years
Osip Mandelshtam
Let the names
of flowery cities...
of flowery cities...
Let the names of flowery cities
Caress the ear with fleeting glory —
It is not Rome the city that’s immortal,
But man’s presence in the universe.
Kings try to get man in their power,
Priests find excuses for their wars,
And yet without him hearths and altars
Like wretched rubble are beneath contempt.
1914 Translated by Peter Russell
Caress the ear with fleeting glory —
It is not Rome the city that’s immortal,
But man’s presence in the universe.
Kings try to get man in their power,
Priests find excuses for their wars,
And yet without him hearths and altars
Like wretched rubble are beneath contempt.
1914 Translated by Peter Russell
Nature is Rome, and is reflected there...
Nature is Rome, and is reflected there.
We see images of citizen's parades
Like in blue circus, in transparent air,
On forum of the fields and forest's collonades.
Nature is that same Rome, and once more
We do not need to worry Gods in guilt,
From animal entrails to divine of war,
To pray that slaves be quiet and stones be built.
1917 Translated by Ilya Shambat
We see images of citizen's parades
Like in blue circus, in transparent air,
On forum of the fields and forest's collonades.
Nature is that same Rome, and once more
We do not need to worry Gods in guilt,
From animal entrails to divine of war,
To pray that slaves be quiet and stones be built.
1917 Translated by Ilya Shambat
1869 — 1945 years
1877 — 1932 years
Maximilian Voloshin
Zinaida Gippius
My eyes run greedily across
the scalding letters of the news
to scorch my soul. The bloody rows
bristle with lethal little worms.
Fermenting vengeance, yeasty ire
seep in and rot within my heart.
Lies muddle and becloud each thought,
then blossom with the devil’s fire,
while half-truth’s vacillating shapes,
like molten wax, flow and congeal.
I languish silently and feel
my soul cut back, my conscience scraped.
Oh, to sense nothing whatsoever…
To turn to salt… To hide in snow…
Let me not cease to love my foe
and not begin to hate my brother!
1915 Translated by Boris Dralyuk
the scalding letters of the news
to scorch my soul. The bloody rows
bristle with lethal little worms.
Fermenting vengeance, yeasty ire
seep in and rot within my heart.
Lies muddle and becloud each thought,
then blossom with the devil’s fire,
while half-truth’s vacillating shapes,
like molten wax, flow and congeal.
I languish silently and feel
my soul cut back, my conscience scraped.
Oh, to sense nothing whatsoever…
To turn to salt… To hide in snow…
Let me not cease to love my foe
and not begin to hate my brother!
1915 Translated by Boris Dralyuk
newspapers
No, I will never make my peace.
There’s truth in all my curses.
I won’t forgive, won’t throw myself
into the iron embraces.
Like everyone, I’ll die, I’ll kill —
ruin myself, like everyone —
but I refuse to stain my soul
by justifying what goes on.
When death is near, in darkness, fire,
let my heart not forget:
One cannot justify the war!
One can’t, one simply can’t.
And if this is God’s Hand at work —
this awful, bloody road —
my spirit will not shrink or shirk,
but rise against the Lord.
1915 Translated by Boris Dralyuk
There’s truth in all my curses.
I won’t forgive, won’t throw myself
into the iron embraces.
Like everyone, I’ll die, I’ll kill —
ruin myself, like everyone —
but I refuse to stain my soul
by justifying what goes on.
When death is near, in darkness, fire,
let my heart not forget:
One cannot justify the war!
One can’t, one simply can’t.
And if this is God’s Hand at work —
this awful, bloody road —
my spirit will not shrink or shirk,
but rise against the Lord.
1915 Translated by Boris Dralyuk
Without Justification
Painted Ones
Theyre «red» today, and theyre «white» tomorrow —
Ah, no tapestry! No flowers, this!
Tiresome to me to the point of nausea,
Small people hideous and turned to beasts.
Lowly today and tomorrow lowly,
Today the thieves and tomorrow too.
Vile scoundrels now and vile scoundrels formerly,
Will provoke any revolt for you.
Ideas foolish, dreams, all in vanity,
That in their theory is way to god.
They all are colorless in their entity —
Today theyre «white» and tomorrow «red»!
1919 Translated by Ilya Shambat
Ah, no tapestry! No flowers, this!
Tiresome to me to the point of nausea,
Small people hideous and turned to beasts.
Lowly today and tomorrow lowly,
Today the thieves and tomorrow too.
Vile scoundrels now and vile scoundrels formerly,
Will provoke any revolt for you.
Ideas foolish, dreams, all in vanity,
That in their theory is way to god.
They all are colorless in their entity —
Today theyre «white» and tomorrow «red»!
1919 Translated by Ilya Shambat
Rachel`s Tears
A salute to our vile evening planet!
Puddles, banisters, windows glisten.
Through the downpour I wanly straggle,
Shoulders sodden, and hat brim dripping.
Now we all have been rendered homeless,
Made to wander through all the ages,
And the desolate rain sings hopeless
Songs of Rachel's tears so ancient.
Let our progeny, proudly loving,
Fashion legends about their forebears —
In our hearts each new day is governed
By our sins and blood, by our horror.
Woe to us, that our blessed Maker
Willed us live in this grievous era:
On an old woman's cheekbones rankle
Signs of Rachel's tears so searing.
I esteem neither honor nor glory,
If last week she was sent a package
That held shreds of a uniform, gory
Bits of fabric, congealing tatters.
Ah, in light of our ponderous burden
Though we pound out the very freshest
Tunes — one single refrain is worthy:
Strains of Rachel's tears so wretched!
1916 Translated by Alyssa Gillespie
Puddles, banisters, windows glisten.
Through the downpour I wanly straggle,
Shoulders sodden, and hat brim dripping.
Now we all have been rendered homeless,
Made to wander through all the ages,
And the desolate rain sings hopeless
Songs of Rachel's tears so ancient.
Let our progeny, proudly loving,
Fashion legends about their forebears —
In our hearts each new day is governed
By our sins and blood, by our horror.
Woe to us, that our blessed Maker
Willed us live in this grievous era:
On an old woman's cheekbones rankle
Signs of Rachel's tears so searing.
I esteem neither honor nor glory,
If last week she was sent a package
That held shreds of a uniform, gory
Bits of fabric, congealing tatters.
Ah, in light of our ponderous burden
Though we pound out the very freshest
Tunes — one single refrain is worthy:
Strains of Rachel's tears so wretched!
1916 Translated by Alyssa Gillespie
1886 — 1939 years
1887 — 1941 years
Igor Severyanin
Vladislav Khodasevich
1892 — 1941 eуars
Marina Tsvetaeva
How many people fell in this abyss...
How many people fell in this abyss,
I fathom from afar!
There will be time, and I will vanish too
From earth's exterior.
All will be still, that sang and that did struggle,
That glistened and rejoiced:
The greenness of my eyes, the gold of my hair,
And this my tender voice.
Life will continue with its soft hot bread,
With day's oblivion.
All will continue — under outstretched heavens
As if I'd never been!
Like children changeable in every mien
And angry not for long,
Who loved the times when in the fireplace
Into ash turned the log,
Violin and cavalcade within the forest
And in the village, bell...
Upon this dear earth — I will be no longer
That was alive and real!
To all — who are the friends and strangers
To me that never knew what is enough —
I turn to you with this my faith's demand
And a request for love.
Both day and night, in word and letter both:
For truth of yes and no,
For that though I am but twenty I am
So often in such sorrow,
For unavoidably my slights and trespasses
Will be forgiven me —
For all of my impetuous tenderness
And look too proud and free —
For quickness of events as they come rushing,
For truth, for play, say I —
Please hear me! But do also please love me
For this that I will die.
1913 Translated by Ilya Shambat
I fathom from afar!
There will be time, and I will vanish too
From earth's exterior.
All will be still, that sang and that did struggle,
That glistened and rejoiced:
The greenness of my eyes, the gold of my hair,
And this my tender voice.
Life will continue with its soft hot bread,
With day's oblivion.
All will continue — under outstretched heavens
As if I'd never been!
Like children changeable in every mien
And angry not for long,
Who loved the times when in the fireplace
Into ash turned the log,
Violin and cavalcade within the forest
And in the village, bell...
Upon this dear earth — I will be no longer
That was alive and real!
To all — who are the friends and strangers
To me that never knew what is enough —
I turn to you with this my faith's demand
And a request for love.
Both day and night, in word and letter both:
For truth of yes and no,
For that though I am but twenty I am
So often in such sorrow,
For unavoidably my slights and trespasses
Will be forgiven me —
For all of my impetuous tenderness
And look too proud and free —
For quickness of events as they come rushing,
For truth, for play, say I —
Please hear me! But do also please love me
For this that I will die.
1913 Translated by Ilya Shambat
from the author
of the Collection
of the Collection
post scriptum
100 years separate the era of the Silver Age of literature and our days. The country has changed, times have changed, progress has gone far ahead. Only human nature remains the same. Poets are gifted with the ability to figuratively express the state of the soul, to put into words ideas convey it’s very essence through all of time.
This short collection contains only a small part of the thoughts and feelings that are in tune with us today. Maybe after reading these deep lines you will get a sense of involvement…
This short collection contains only a small part of the thoughts and feelings that are in tune with us today. Maybe after reading these deep lines you will get a sense of involvement…