I was conscious, in producing this little personal selection of Russian poetry, of the way in which all the poets come to take on the voice of the translator, and their special individuality is lost. It is a problem translation always has. I would encourage the reader to sample as many different translators’ versions of these poets as possible, to try and realise the individual flavour of each poet for her or himself. If there is any theme in this selection, it is I suppose the nature of the Russian spirit, its clarity, and uncompromising passion, and its triumphant survival, often against the odds.

Aleksándr Sumarókov (1718-1777)

In vain I hide my heart’s fierce pain,

In vain pretend to inner calm.

I can’t be calm a single hour,

I can’t no matter how I try.

My heart by sighs, my eyes by tears,

reveal the secret misery.

You make all my efforts vain,

you, who stole my liberty!

Bringing a savage fate to me,

you troubled my spirit’s peace,

you changed my freedom to a jail,

you turned my delight to sorrow.

And secretly, to my bitterest hurt,

perhaps you sigh for some other woman,

perhaps devoured by a useless passion,

as I for you, you suffer too for her.

I long to see you: when I do I’m mad,

anxious, lest my eyes give me away:

I’m troubled in your presence, in your absence

I’m sad that you can’t know how I love.

Shame tries to drive desire from my heart

while love in turn tries to drive out shame.

And in this fierce conflict thought is clouded,

the heart is torn, it suffers, and it burns.

So I fling myself from torment to torment.

I want to show my heart, ashamed to do it,

I don’t know what I want, oh, that’s true,

what I do know is I’m filled with sorrow.

I know my mind’s held prisoner by you,

wherever I am it conjures your dear image:

I know, consumed by the cruellest passion,

there’s no way to forget you on this earth.

Gavriíl Derzhávin (1743-1816)

Nightingale in Dream

I was sleeping on a high hill,

nightingale, I heard you calling,

my soul itself could hear it,

in the very depths of sleep:

now sounding, now re-sounding,

now sorrowing, now laughing,

floating, from the distance, to my ear:

while I lay there with Callisto,

songs, sighs, cries, and trilling,

thrilled me in the very depths of sleep.

If, after death, I lie there

in a sleep that’s dull, unending,

and, ah, these songs no longer

travel to my ear:

if I cannot hear the sound then

of that happiness or laughter,

of dancing, or of glory, or of joy –

then it’s life on earth I’ll cling to,

kiss my darling one, and kiss her,

as I listen to the distant nightingale.

Vasíly Zhukóvsky (1783-1852)

19^thMarch 1823

You stood there

in silence,

your sad gaze

full of feeling.

It brought to mind

the past I loved…

your last gaze

on earth for me.

You vanished,

silent angel:

your grave,

celestial peace!

All earth’s memories

are there,

all the thoughts

of heaven, sacred.

Heavenly stars,

silent night! …

Konstantín Bátyushkov (1787-1855)

My Spirit

O memory of the heart! You are stronger

than the sad memories of reason.

And often from a far-off country,

you bewitch me with your sweetness.

I remember the loved voice sounding.

I remember the eyes of azure.

I remember the careless

curling strands of golden hair.

My shepherdess, without a rival,

I remember her simplicity of dress,

the unforgotten, the dear image

that stays beside me everywhere.

My guardian spirit – granted me by love

to bring me solace in separation:

do I sleep? Bending over my pillow,

it will ease my saddened rest.

Aleksándr Púshkin (1799-1837)

Prologue to ‘Ruslan and Lyudmilla’

There’s a green oak by the bay,

on the oak a chain of gold:

a learned cat, night and day,

walks round on that chain of old:

to the right – it spins a song,

to the left – a tale of wrong.

Marvels there: the wood-sprite rides,

in the leaves a mermaid hides:

on deep paths of mystery

unknown creatures leave their spore:

huts on hen’s legs you can see,

with no window and no door.

Wood and valley vision-brimming:

there at dawn the waves come washing

over sands and silent shore,

and thirty noble knights appear

one by one, from waters clear,

attended there by their tutor:

a king’s son passing by

takes a fierce king prisoner:

a wizard carries through the sky

a knight, past all the people there,

over forests, seas they fly:

a princess in a prison pines,

whom a brown wolf serves with pride:

A mortar, Baba Yaga inside,

takes that old witch for a ride.

King Kaschey grows ill with gold.

It’s Russia! – Russian scents unfold!

And I was there and I drank mead,

I saw the green oak by the sea,

I sat there while the learned cat

told its stories – here’s one that

I remember, and I’ll unfurl,

a story now for all the world…

It’s Time

It’s time, my friend: it’s time! The heart wants rest –

the days slip by, the hours take away

fragments of our life: and you and I

plan how to live and, – just like that – we die.

No happiness on earth, yet there’s freedom, peace.

I’ve long dreamt of an enviable fate –

I’ve long thought, a weary slave, to fly

to some far place of labour and true joy.

Fëdor Tyútchev (1803-1873)

Silentium

Silence: hide yourself, conceal

your feelings and your dreams –

let them rise and set once more

in the abyss of your spirit,

silent, white stars in the night –

wonder at them – and be silent.

How can one’s own heart speak?

How can another know?

Will they see what you live by?

A thought once spoken is a lie:

troubling the streams, you cloud them –

drink from them – and be silent.

Know how to live deep inside –

there’s a universe in your mind

of mysterious thoughts, enchantments:

they’ll be drowned by World outside

they’ll be driven off by daylight –

hear them singing – and be silent! …

My Darling

My darling, I love your eyes

with their miraculous flash of fire,

when you lift them for an instant

and, like lightning from the sky,

cast a swift glance around you.

But there’s a greater magic still:

your eyes downcast

in a passionate kiss

and through your lowered lashes

the dark, smouldering flame of desire.

I Knew

I knew two eyes – those eyes, oh

how I loved them – God knows.

I couldn’t tear my soul

from their intense, bewitching darkness.

Such sorrow, such passion showed

in that deep gaze

that laid life bare,

such depth, such sorrow!

Sad and self-absorbed it trembled,

in the deep shadow of her lashes,

wearied like sensual pleasure,

and deadly like pain.

And in those magic moments

there was never a time

I met it without emotion,

or admired it without tears.

Eve of the Anniversary (4^th August 1864)

I walk on, down the road,

in the quiet evening light,

my heart is heavy, my legs are weary….

my dearest one, can you see me?

Darker and darker on earth –

the last glint of day is done…

this world where we were together,

my angel, can you see me?

Tomorrow, sadness and prayer,

tomorrow that day’s anniversary…

my angel wherever souls may be,

my angel, can you see me?

Mikhaíl Lérmontov (1814-1841)

The Dream

Noon heat, a gorge in Daghestan,

I lay still, a bullet in my chest:

The deep wound was still red-hot,

blood seeped, drop by drop.

I lay lonely on the gorge’s sand,

the cliff-ledges towered around,

the sun burned their yellow heights,

and I – I slept like the dead.

And I dreamed of a midnight ball,

in my homeland, gleaming light,

young girls wreathed in flowers

talking about me, with delight.

But one sat there, deep in thought,

not part of the joyful theme,

and her young soul, God knows,

was plunged in the saddest dream.

Her dream, a gorge in Daghestan…

in that gorge a friend lay dead,

a black wound in his chest:

of dark blood a cooling stream…

Alone

Alone, I come to the road.

The stony track gleams in the mist:

the calm night listens to God,

and star is speaking to star.

All’s marvellous, grave, in the sky!

Earth sleeps in the radiant blue…

Why such pain then, such weight on the heart?

Do I regret, wait for something new?

I expect no more from this life

and I’ve no regrets for the past.

I look for freedom and peace:

I want rest and oblivion at last…

But not the chill peace of the grave:

I’d like to sleep for all time

so life’s powers slept in my chest,

and it heaved with my gentle breath:

an enchanted voice in my ear

singing, day and night, of love:

and a dark oak to rustle over me,

and bend down from above.

Count Alekséy Tolstoy (1817-1875)

Spring

It was at the dawn of spring,

the grass was barely green,

streams ran, the heat was gentle,

light shone through the trees:

no sound of shepherd’s flute

yet, in the morning world,

and the slender forest fern

was still so tightly curled.

It was at the dawn of spring,

in the shadow of the birch-trees,

that you dropped your gaze

before me with a smile…

It was in reply to love, my love,

your glance was lowered –

O life! O leaves! O sunlight!

O youth! O hope!

And I wept before you,

as I gazed at your sweet face –

it was at the dawn of spring,

in the shadow of the birch-trees!

In the morning of our lives –

O happiness! O heartache!

O leaves! O life! O sunlight!

O the fragrance of the trees!

Innokénty Ánnensky (1856-1909)

The Bow and the Strings

‘How deep and dark the delirium!

How clouded the moonlit heights!

To have touched the violin so long

yet not know the strings in the light!

Who wants us now? Who lights

two faded melancholy faces?’…..

And the bow felt someone suddenly

seize them, and bring them together.

‘Oh how long! Tell me the one thing,

in the dark: are you the same, the same?’

And the strings pressed close, caressing

sounding, trembling in that caress.

‘Is it true, yes? Enough separation,

and we’ll not part again?’

And the violin said yes

though its heart was gripped with pain.

The bow knew, and was still,

but the note rang in the violin,

and what seemed music to others,

was torment and ruin to them.

And till dawn the player did not quench

the candles…the strings sang on instead…

and the sun, alone, found them,

drained, on the black velvet bed.

The Steel Cicada

I knew she would return

to be with me – Anguish.

With the tinkle and slam

of the watchmaker’s lid.

He who clicks the lid open

couples the steel heart’s tremor

to the wings’ whirring

and uncouples them again.

Impatiently cicadas

beat their eager wings:

are they glad, is happiness near

an end to their suffering?…

They have so much to say,

so far to go…

Ah, our ways, cicada,

separate so!

Our friendship here’s a miracle,

you and I, we

are only together a moment

till the lid opens on the sky.

It will tinkle and slam

and you’ll be far away…

in a moment she’ll silently return

to be with me – Anguish.

Konstantín Bál´mont (1867-1943)

‘Sin Miedo’

If you’re a poet, and want the power

to live for ever in human minds,

strike hearts with imagination’s music

temper your thoughts in passion’s fire.

Have you seen old Toledan daggers?

They’re the best wherever you go.

The motto on the blade’s: ‘Sin miedo’:

‘Be without fear’ – tempered by fire.

When they fashion the red-hot steel

they inlay the gold design, with niello,

and the twin mated metals, once separate,

gleam, living beauty, down the years.