These poems are selected from a short anthology titled Natura d’altri mondi – Poetica russa a cavallo tra XX e XXI secolo, Giraldi editore 2020 (“Nature from Other Worlds – Russian Poetics between XX and XXI Century”)) edited and translated into Italian by Vasily Biserov. The English translations by Pina Piccolo provided here are based on the Italian translations. The anthology contains poems by 14 poets who are regular contributors to the Moscow based, literary journal Parnassus. Aside from a few exceptions, they are not very famous, but nevertheless the anthology allows readers to get a taste of the concept of soul in Russian poetry today.
[English translator’s note: In the Italian translation by Vasily Biserov, he was able to reproduce the rhyming meter scheme and assonances of the original text. Unfortunately, I was not able to do so in the English translation, but focused more on conveying the atmosphere evoked in the poem. I hope that comes through to the readers.]
Olga Kovalenko (Bugrimova)
The ravine near the birches
We run towards the ravine where the birches are
we roll down the slope, as in the past.
And everyone is happy, beyond measure.
Reliving what has already been.
In front of us a pine forest
with the ground both fresh and rotting.
Its appearance formed by needles
and utterly imprinted in haze.
As if it were a temple, we enter
the darkness of the deep forest.
And we come to behold that silence,
inhaling its blessed spirit.
Spontaneous is the wooded stream,
on its surface the light is reflected.
Wild strawberries a lush carpet
with its barely noticeable edges.
And frost droplets blossom into rainbows
shining in the sun.
In childhood the paths take us back
to our usual ravine among the birches.
Ольга Коваленко (Бугримова)
Берёзовый овраг
Бежим в берёзовый овраг
По склону катимся, как в детстве.
И каждый рад, безмерно рад.
Что мы собрались снова вместе.
Напротив нас сосновый бор
С прохладой и землёю прелой.
Его игольчатый узор
Весь в дымке мутновато-белой.
Мы в темноту лесной глуши
Вступаем, словно в храм священный.
И пребываем в той тиши,
Вдыхая дух благословенный.
Лесной проныра-ручеёк
На глади отражает блики.
Чуть виден ягод огонёк
В густом ковре из земляники.
И радугою расцвели
На солнце ярко капли влаги.
Нас тропки в детство увели
В родном берёзовом овраге.
Nadezhda Ma Din ‘
Bitter bitterness
Bitterness has certain faces,
bitterness’ profile is such,
as to gift you only bitter dreams,
it wraps you in silence.
And feeds you like a baby,
and punishes each and everything,
like a mother’s tired steps
resounding in a village scene …
As the sun’s bitterness melts the clouds
in the sheepskins and turns them golden
it slightly sprays some blue
on the carved windows in the morning.
Thus the circling stalks of morning glories
disperse a lilac colored light ,
As bitterness has a bitter tinge,
and hides the tastier answer
on the table, under the warm bread ,
In the dream’s filthy jug …
Milk mixed with snow
and Is clear exactly at the bottom.
Надежда Ма Динь
Печаль печалей
У печали – такие лица,
У печали – профиль такой,
Что по горькому только снится,
Обволакивает тишиной.
И лелеет тебя младенцем,
И наказывает всё так,
Словно там, в деревенских сенцах,
Слышен мамин уставший шаг…
А в кадушках с печалью солнце
Плавит золотом облака,
По утрам резные оконца
Синькой сбрызнуты лишь слегка.
Так вьюнком высоким свиты
Лиловатый роняя свет,
Что печаль печалью укрыта,
Прячет самый сладкий ответ
На столе под горячим хлебом,
В запотевшем кувшине сна…
Молоко поразмешано снегом
И прозрачно у самого дна.
Sergey Golyshev
***
My wife scrubs the window with a cloth,
as if playing a glass harp,
ss if painting a half finished
transparent picture
It resembles the gesture of an orchestra director who, with his hand,
slowly rediscovers an arabesque pattern.
Though to us only today is given:
My wife just scrubs the window.
But how much grace in her action!
The movements glides with authentic beauty;
Clear like the windows and mysterious like the infinite,
and I would just gaze at her for eternity,
as long as God would allow, I would stay and gaze at her.
And stand still by this window that she scrubbed.
Сергей Голышев
***
Оконную раму жена протирает,
Как будто на арфе стеклянной играет,
Как будто прозрачную пишет картину
Уже сотворённую наполовину
Рука её ходит, как жест дирижёра,
И плавно выводит подобье узора.
Хотя и всего-то сегодня дано:
Жена моя попросту моет окно.
Но как она делает это изящно!
Движенья скользят красотой настоящей –
Прозрачной, как стекла, и тайной как вечность,
И я бы смотрел на неё бесконечно,
Смотрел и смотрел бы, коль Богом дано.
И в это протёртое ею окно.
Nina Popova
***
You know, I just could not fathom,
that happiness would arrive so simply …
By chance I threw open the doors
and ended up at the mercy of your power .
Believe me, I have no sure memory
of what we told each other and what not.
I whispered: “I was waiting for the mail ” …
and two wings grew behind the shoulders.
There was something that made your hands numb,
as if blood had spilled from your veins,
and sounds coming from the world afar
had set sail, passing through the walls.
And on the walls, whitish ‘till yesterday,
flowers bloomed singing.
Our unheard springs
thawed amateur souls …
Нина Попова
***
А ты знаешь, я и не верила,
что так просто приходит счастье…
Я случайно открыла двери
и в твоей оказалась власти.
Представляешь, не помню точно,
что сказали, о чём молчали.
Прошептала: «Ждала я почту»…
И росли два крыла за плечами.
Отчего-то немели руки,
словно кровь покидала вены,
и далёкого мира звуки
уплывали, пройдя сквозь стены.
А на стенах, вчера белёсых,
Расцветали цветы и пели.
Наши первые в мире вёсны
Пробуждали свои капели…
Viktor Shirokov
Reading Cioran
It was winter in the Luxembourg Gardens:
a girl was kissing an old man
in such an unlikely manner that it seemed misfortune
so madly, as if before a war.
And tired in the soul, exhausted from the wounds
this meeting was recorded in his diary
by the philosopher Cioran, the embittered spy,
long fending the blows of loneliness.
To the young, old age seems like a shadow on an expanse of water
to the old, youth like a brook in the heavens.
Everyone is silent about their own account and fantasizes about love,
letting the days melt into night’s intermission.
I know that man needs reciprocity more than bread.
What can innocent tears ever be compared to the morning?
I am, unfortunately, the usual observer judging
these times of icy winds.
Виктор Широкое
Читая Чораиа
Это было зимой, в Люксембургском саду:
целовались старик с молодой
так неистово, словно провидя беду,
так безумно, как перед войной.
И душою устав, обессилев от ран,
записал эту встречу в дневник
соглядатай печальный, философ Чоран,
он давно в одиночество вник.
Старость в юность глядится как тень в водоём,
юность – в старость, как в небо – ручей.
Каждый грезит в любви и молчит о своем,
бросив дни в переплавку ночей.
Знаю, людям взаимность нужнее, чем хлеб.
Что ж, случайные слёзы утру
Я такой же, увы, соглядатай судеб
на эпохи морозном ветру.
Vasily Biserov was born in Russia but grew up in Italy, in Bologna. He has a degree in Foreign Languages and Literatures from the University of Bologna and contributes to the literary journal Moscow Parnassus by translating his own poems and short stories as well as those of other Italian authors. For about ten years Vasily Biserov has been participating in poetry performances and events. He is a reiki practitioner.
Pina Piccolo is a bilingual poet and translator whose work can be found in many print and digital journals both in Italy and the United States. Her Italian language poetry collection I canti dell’Interregno was published in 2018 by Lebeg edizioni and her manuscript of English language poems “Avatars on the Borderlands” is looking for a publisher. She is editor-in-chief of The Dreaming Machine and one of the editors of La Macchina Sognante.
