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About the electronic versionTristia
Mandelstam, Osip Emilievich
Creation of machine-readable version: Bruce A. McClelland
Creation of digital images: Bruce A. McClelland, Electronic Text Center, University of Virginia
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University of Virginia Library
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Text © Bruce McClelland, all rights reserved. Electronic version © Rector and Visitors of the University of Virginia, 1996.
1995
Note: Illustrations have been included from the print version.
About the print version
Tristia
Osip Emilievich Mandelstam Editor Bruce McClelland Translator Bruce McClelland
Third Edition; First Electronic Edition
1922Station Hill
Barrytown, NY
1987
Note: The Cyrillic text comes from the 1922 Petrograd edition; the English translations are copyright 1971, 1975, 1987 by Bruce McClelland and were published in a dual-language edition by Station Hill Press, 1987.
The images exist as archived TIFF images, one or more JPEG versions for general use, and thumbnail GIFs.
Transliteration scheme based on that developed by George Fowler, Indiana University
Keywords in the header are a local Electronic Text Center scheme to aid in establishing analytical groupings
May 1996corrector Bruce A. McClelland, Electronic Text Center, University of Virginia
Final checking: David Seaman
PREFACE
Osip Emilievich Mandelstam was born near the beginning of the new age in Russia, an era whose most momentous achievement was the Great October Revolution of 1917. In 1891, the assassination of Tsar Alexander II was ten years past, and as the century's end drew nearer, there arose the expectation of some enormous change, one which would at last rectify the social and political injustices of Russia's long dynasties of tsars.
This dawn of anticipation was marked in poetry by a foreboding sense of the coming upheaval as something of a mystical event. Ambivalence concerning the effects of such a wrenching change appears in the art of the day, where the beginnings of socialist realism struggle against the otherworldliness of the Russian Symbolist poets and philosophers Blok, Bely, Merezhkovsky, Soloviev.
The Symbolists in particular were initially optimistic, even amid their great uncertainty about the fate of valued cultural structures. A sort of ill-defined gnosticism, or at least a Russified theosophy, in which the embodiment of the positive force behind the forthcoming transformation is the figure of the divine and Eternal Feminine Sophia, became the aesthetic base for a poetry filled with allusiveness and marked by a reliance upon a limited stock of "symbols."
These symbols were to be understood no so much as metaphoric substitutes as actual correspondences. By understanding the relationships and forces between the symbols within the poetry, the reader gets an intimation of the relationships that obtain at higher levels of experience.
While such a sensibility is a perfect consequence of both the political and spiritual conditions of late nineteenth century Russia -- and it should be understood that some facets of this attitude were very nearly apocalyptic in tone -- by the time Mandelstam was old enough to be aware of the poetics of the immediately preceding generation, the Symbolists' insistence upon the import of their correspondences had grown tiresome. Even Blok's well-known vision of the heavenly 'Unknown Lady' (Neznakomka), originally pure and luminous, eventually becomes sullied to such an extent that She takes on the aspect of a prostitute. [*]
Regardless of the distortions within Blok's private life that led to that degraded projection (and it may be that the archetype entails its shadow), the deterioration of the Image, the inability to maintain it against compromise, becomes symptomatic of the whole state of Symbolism by the beginning of the twentieth century' second decade. The collapse of the system, due as much as anything to a growing rigidity of its language and a too heavy reliance upon technique, was signaled by a preponderance of an all-too-familiar set of images and concerns. Even the earlier prosodic experiments of Bely, in which the sounds of the words clanging together were to be appreciated for their approximation to music (deemed the highest spiritual art), gave way to a hunger for a poetry that could deal more effectively with the realities of Russian culture at the beginning of the new century.
Mandelstam, then, came into his poetic maturity at just that point when the archetypal images of the Symbolists needed to be revisioned. The Symbolists themselves were aware of it. An editorial in the final number of the Symbolist journal Vesy (Scales) in 1909 stated,
We do not wish to say by this that the Symbolist movement has died, that Symbolism has ceased to play the role of the watchword of our age...But tomorrow the same word will become another watch-word, will burn with a different flame, and it already burns in a different way above us.
Ordinarily, the self-consciousness of literary movements -- definite Isms in this case -- does not extend to such clear recognition of their own demise. But it was a time of Isms, and apparently the passing away of one called for the immediate emergence of another.
The major, although not the only, replacement for Russian Symbolism, the new "watch-word," was Acmeism, a name which eventually came more to be associated with Osip Mandelstam than with its founder, the poet Nikolai Gumilev.
Gumilev, the husband of another significant Acmeist poet, Anna Akhmatova, was the original, if not the most profound, theoretician of Acmeism. A scant three years following the official extinction of the Symbolists in Vesy, Gumilev proposed both the name and the central theme of this new movement:
To replace Symbolism there is a new movement, which, whatever it is called -- Acmeism (from the word '-- the highest degree of something, the flower, the time of flowering), or Adamism (a manfully firm, clear view of life), -- demands, in any case, greater balance of powers and a more exact knowledge of the relationships between subject and object than there was in Symbolism... The first thing that Acmeism can answer is to point out that the unknowable, by the very meaning of the word cannot be known. The second, that all endeavors in that direction are unchaste. The whole beauty, the whole sacred meaning of the stars lies in the fact that they are infinitely far from earth.
It was to this kind of poetics that Mandelstam was drawn in his mid-twenties. Gumilev and the other Acmeists, having identified the cornerstones of the new school as Shakespeare, Rabelais, Villon and Théophile Gautier, had constructed a stance relative to the strong but waning influence of the earlier movement which suited Mandelstam's temperament and credentials. The essence of this stance is aptly described by Clarence Brown:
Equipped with his knowledge of human psychology and physiology, the Acmeist was to 'adjust' -- not in gloomy resignation, but joyfully -- to reality, and in the strictness of self-imposed forms write balanced, clear poems about it all.
[Mandelstam, 141]
Obviously, if Mandelstam had himself not been capable of raising
this platform to a new level, it would be difficult to make the
claim that I am about to make, namely that the poems of Tristia represent the acme of Acmeism, which in turn became a literary philosophy whose concerns resonate with many issues in
The title of Mandelstam's first book Kamen' (Stone; 1913) suggests the solidity of the Mandelstamian poem. But in that first book, the stone's quality of heaviness -- the heart -- is more evident than its quality of stability, that which makes it useful as a material for building. It is as if Mandelstam has identified, by the time of his first collection, the objective reality that true poetry can have, but has not yet learned of its transformative power. For it is of stone that the Gothic cathedral -- an ever-present image in Mandelstam's later critical writings -- is built; an organic "physiology," constructed from a common participation in the "fight against emptiness." "The fine arrow of the Gothic belltower," he maintains in his manifesto "The Morning of Acmeism," "is angry, for the whole idea of it is to stab the sky, to reproach it for being empty."
If the poems of the present collection transcend those of his earlier book, it is because the stones -- the words -- have been so assembled that we are able to perceive the divine physiognomy within the architected space:
And in the stone arches of the Assumption
I see high, arched brows.
From the ramparts, fortified with archangels,
I surveyed the city from a marvelous height.
The pinnacle constructed by this labor is, of course, acme. Acme, for Mandelstam, must have meant a position, an actual perceptive situation, from which one can see directly into the real. From this vantage, Mandelstam is able to observe (and thereby report upon) the city -- grand plan of the mesocosm -- in a fashion that the Symbolists, their attentions fastened upon the macrocosm, could not.
It is hard to talk about Mandelstam without resorting to some kind of spatial, usually architectural, metaphor -- not just because of the clarity of Mandelstam's own elaboration of such metaphors, but also because of his enormous awareness. The city -- Petersburg, for Mandelstam -- exists in time, a net of nodes which connect all history to a geography at any event. He "surveys the city from a marvelous height."
It is this perspective, obtained through Mandelstam's patient and careful use of language, that enables him to retain his artistic integrity in the face of the very historical forces that were to conspire against him. Mandelstam's unshakable faith in his art, based primarily upon the vision obtained from it, prevented him from sacrificing the Word rather than his life.
Tristia -- 'sad things,' 'sorrows' -- is the condition of these poems not because of some personal ego loss. Rather, the title of this collection is apt because the acme as the high point is a place of isolation -- not desolation. The sadness of Mandelstam -- a Jew fascinated his entire life with the Christian myth and its cultural effects -- in the years of war and chaos is the sadness of Christ surveying from the cross the mass of spectators who were unaware of their own involvement in history. It is the sadness of the alienated true poet, the one who has mastered language and its powers only to discover that his voice has not been heard above the rush of history's wave.
It was a sad time. These are not 'sad' poems, as a whole, or if so, not nearly so sad as those in Stone, which falls prey too often to that "emptiness" that Mandelstam's version of Acmeism intended to fight. But collectively, they convey the pain of an isolation caused by the maintenance of absolute integrity, which in his case led to his involuntary exile and destruction.
The beautiful and oft-cited title poem provides better than any critical statement the key to the problem of acmeism, the problem of Mandelstam:
Who can know, at the word "farewell,"
What separation awaits us,
What the cockcrow augurs
When fire glows in the Acropolis,
And on the dawn of some new life,
While an ox chews lazily in his shed,
Why the cock, herald of new life,
Beats his wings on the town's walls?
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE
to the 1987 bilingual edition
to the 1987 bilingual edition
I am glad that these translations are at last illuminated by the intense rays of Mandelstam's exquisite originals. Glad, of course, that in facing their source, they may bask, may even be elucidated as English poems. I am apprehensive, too, for now they may be examined under sufficient light to detect the flaws that distinguish them as imitations.
Mandelstam is worth the risk. His place in Russian literature (different, to be sure, from his place in Soviet literature) demands at the very least that complete translations of his primary published texts be made available in English.
This volume provides a complete, bilingual edition of a collection of poems as they were published during the poet's own lifetime. As one of Osip Mandelstam's translators, and by implication, devotees, it strikes me as almost incomprehensible that Mandelstam's public fate has been such that the unavailability of a major work, Tristia, can have continued for so long.
Imagine, if you can, that a bilingual edition of Rilke's Sonnets to Orpheus had not appeared until some fifty years after the poet's death! And yet, Mandelstam is no more difficult to appreciate than Rilke, whose major books have enjoyed -- or suffered, in some cases -- continual retranslation, often published facing the original texts, over the years of his renown. And it would not be particularly controversial to suggest that Mandelstam's contribution to Russian literature is as great as Rilke's to German, even European, poetry.
The problem, as I have rather unscientifically discerned it over the years [many of the translations presented here were first drafted in 1971], seems to originate from two rather hard-to-shake general notions concerning Mandelstam and his poetry: first, his books are impossible to get; second, his poetry is too difficult to understand.
Unfortunately, both of these disserving notions are rooted in some truth. The history of the publication of Mandelstam's work from its very beginnings is somewhat confused. Mandelstam's earliest and chief advocate in English, Clarence Brown, describes the situation thus:
Mandelstam published two books of poetry, or two and a half, or three, depending upon how you wish to regard a special section of poems that appeared in the collection of 1928. The first was Kamen' (Stone), the second Tristia. And when these appeared under their original titles within the collection Stikhotvoreniia (Poems) of 1928, Mandelstam printed twenty poems under the rubric '1921-1925.'
These books appeared in various editions, under various names, and -- what is somewhat more surprising and confusing -- with a varied composition of poems.
[Mandelstam, 159]
For readers in the West, the problem in one sense was alleviated by the publication of the three volumes of Collected Works completed in 1971 by editors Gleb Struve and Boris Filippov. In fact, when I and many others first got our hands on Mandelstam, the Struve and Filippov version was almost canonical, because it was next to impossible to obtain a copy of the original edition.
At the same time, more confusion was added because the poems that made up the Struve/Filippov Tristia did not correspond to the set in the original Tristia, published in Berlin in 1922. The first edition was actually arranged and edited by the poet/publisher Mikhail Kuzmin, and Osip Mandelstam himself was not entirely satisfied with the final selection.
From an historical point of view, the first edition of Mandelstam's "second book" (which, by the way, Tristia was called in the subsequent, 1923 edition) is the best we have. It is the text chosen by the late Carl Proffer for the Ardis Press facsimile edition (now out-of-print), and it is the text supplied for this bilingual edition. The slight inconvenience of the typographic differences, which can easily be overcome, may be compensated for by the authenticity of the text.
A confusing publication history, however, while providing grist for some future editor's mill, is not the only force at work in keeping alive the sense that Mandelstam is unavailable. Much has been written about the politics and biographical issues behind this sad state of affairs. For my part I wish simply to narrate three somewhat telling personal experiences for the light they may shed on the problem.
The first took place some time ago, the mid-Seventies, to the best of my recollection, in the Four Continents bookstore (now Victor Kamkin) in New York. This particular bookstore had a reasonably good selection of Soviet published editions of literature, science, technology, art, criticism, what have you, and it was clearly supplied directly by the Soviets. After browsing naively quite some time in the literature and poetry shelves, I approached the snide and supercilious, Nabokovian bookseller, and in my best student Russian, asked where I might find works by Mandelstam. Not deigning to respond to me in Russian, he said, after a haughty silence, "You might look over there, but we don't have much in our Jewish section."
Some years later -- 1982, to be exact -- in Moscow -- I noticed that an Intourist interpreter was reading the Russian poet Aleksandr Blok on the bus. A brief conversation with her about modern Russian poetry led me to mention that I had translated Mandelstam. A strange, anxious look came over her face, and she said, "Oh, but he's so difficult. as if she were impressed that a foreigner had tackled him. "Oh," I said, "you have read him?" "No," she replied.
And now, thirty years after the first collection of Mandelstam in Russian was made available in the West by Struve and Filippov, the following: a proposal for research at Moscow State University (MGU) is kicked back at me not because of the unsuitability of the topic, but rather because my anketa -- a sort of proposal-cum-vita -- includes the fact that I have translated Mandelstam. I am called by MGU administrators a "provocateur."
Politico-historical "accidents" have somehow conspired to prevent the sort of free circulation of source texts that one generally expects so long after the death of a major literary figure. Despite Mandelstam's reputation for abstruseness or arcanity, it would still be a mistake for anyone in the West to assume that the work is in any sense "impenetrable." On the contrary: as the most important representative of a poetic movement called Acmeism, which demanded above all else clarity (as against the vague mysticism of the Russian Symbolists), Mandelstam at his best is precise, clear, totally present within the poem.
At the same time, he does not condescend; he does not popularize or simplify grand poetic themes. He found such practice abhorrent:
The whole tragedy arises when, instead of the real past with its deep roots, we get "yesterday"...easily understood poetry, a cozy little corner.
"An Acmeist Manifesto"
By focusing upon the solidity inherent in the language itself, he is able to contain the metaphysical within beautiful, religious spaces. And his obvious affection for things and words Russian; for classical, Hellenic themes; for church architecture -- these and other attentions naturally enough inform his writing to the extent that one must try to be aware of at least the explicit references and allusions in order to apprehend the poem most fully.
For their part, my own annotations serve as a sort of minimum of "background information" for the reader totally unacquainted with Mandelstam and his culture. The reader wishing to examine Mandelstam more thoroughly would do well to take up quickly both Clarence Brown's Mandelstam and the memoirs of the poet's wife Nadezhda Yakovlevna Mandelstam, the first volume of which is entitled in English Hope Against Hope.
It is my sincere desire that the publication of this edition will contribute to the continuing effort to establish for this great modern Russian poet a reputation founded upon thorough familiarity with the work itself, rather than upon hearsay and criticism. As this reputation grows, perhaps, as occurred just recently with Nabokov, the literary legislator's in Mandelstam's own homeland (and let us not forget that Tristia was the title of Ovid's memoirs from exile) may soon have to overcome their embarrassment, and admit, by publishing his works, that it is useless to deny that great literature is what it is.
Bruce McClelland, 1987.
("How hard for me, the splendor of this crown and robe")  [Page 02] | ||
1: -- Kak etix pokryval i etogo ubora Mne pyshnost' tjazhela sred' moego pozora! -- Budet v kamennoj Trezene Znamenitaja beda, Carskoj lestnicy stupeni Pokrasnejut ot styda, ............................... ............................... I dlja materi vljublennoj Solnce chernoe vzojdet. -- O, esli b nenavist' v grudi moej kipela, -- No, vidite, samo preznan'e s ust sletelo. -- Chernym plamenem Fedra gorit Sredi belogo dnja. Pogrebal'nyj fakel chadit Sredi belogo dnja. Bojsja materi ty, Ippolit: Fedra -- noch' -- tebja storozhit Sredi belogo dnja. -- Ljubov'ju chernoju ja solnce zapjatnala... ............................... -- My boimsja, my ne smeem Gorju carskomu pomoch'. Ujazvlennaja Tezeem, Na nego napala noch'. My zhe, pesn'ju poxoronnoj Provozhaja mertvyx v dom, Strasti dikoj i bessonnoj Solnce chernoe ujmem. 1916 |
1: -- How hard for me, the splendor of this crown and robe, amidst my shame -- -- In stony Troezen will be an infamous calamity, the royal staircase will grow red with disgrace, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and for the mother in love, the black sun will rise. -- O, if hate would boil in my breast -- but see, the admission itself has fallen from my lips. -- Phedre [*] burns in a black flame in broad daylight. The funeral torch fumes in broad white daylight. Dread your mother, Hippolytus: Phedre -- night -- watche s over you in broad white day. -- I have stained the sun with black love . . . Death from a bottle will cool my ardor -- . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -- We are afraid, we do not dare relieve the king's grief. Wounded by Theseus, night fell upon him. But we, with a funeral song bringing home the dead, will pacify the black sun of wild and sleepless passion. |
"Как этих покрывал и этого убора Мне пышность тяжела средь моего позора!" -- Будет в каменной Трезене Знаменитая беда, Царской лестницы ступени Покраснеют от стыда, ............................... ............................... И для матери влюбленной Солнце черное взойдет. "О, если б ненависть в груди моей кипела, -- Но, видите, само презнанье с уст слетело". -- Черным пламенем Федра горит Среди белого дня. Погребальный факел чадит Среди белого дня. Бойся матери ты, Ипполит: Федра -- ночь -- тебя сторожит Среди белого дня. "Любовью черною я солнце запятнала..." ............................... -- Мы боимся, мы не смеем Горю царскому помочь. Уязвленная Тезеем, На него напала ночь. Мы же, песнью похоронной Провожая мертвых в дом, Страсти дикой и бессонной Солнце черное уймем. 1915, 1916 |
(ЗВЕРИНЕЦ) (THE MENAGERIE)  [Page 04] | ||
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("Every church sings its own soft part")  [Page 08] | ||
1: V raznogolosice devicheskogo xora Vse cerkvi nezhnye pojut na golos svoj, I v dugax kamennyx Uspenskogo sobora Mne brovi chudjatsja, vysokie, dugoj. I s ukreplennogo arxangelami vala Ja gorod oziral na chudnoj vysote. V stenax Akropolja pechal' menja snedala Po russkom imeni i russkoj krasote. Ne divo l' divnoe, chto vertograd nam snitsja, Gde rejut golubi v gorjachej sineve, Chto pravoslavnye krjuki poet chernica: Uspen'e nezhnoe -- Florencija v Moskve. I pjatiglavnye moskovskie sobory S ix ital'janskoju i russkoju dushoj Napominajut mne -- javlenie Avrory, No s russkim imenem i v shubke mexovoj. 1916 |
1: Every church sings its own soft part In the polyphony of a girl's choir, And in the stone arches of the Assumption I make out high, arched brows. From the ramparts, fortified by archangels, I surveyed the city from a marvelous height. Within the walls of the Acropolis, I was consumed With sorrow for the Russian name, for Russian beauty. Isn't it just marvelous, we dream Of an orchard, soaring pigeons in the hot blue sky, A nun is singing the litany: Tender Assumption: Florence in Moscow. The five-domed cathedrals of Moscow, With their Italian and Russian soul Bring to mind the Aurora [*], but with a Russian name, and in a fur coat. |
1: В разноголосице девического хора Все церкви нежные поют на голос свой, И в дугах каменных Успенского собора Мне брови чудятся, высокие, дугой. И с укрепленного архангелами вала Я город озирал на чудной высоте. В стенах Акрополя печаль меня снедала По русском имени и русской красоте. Не диво ль дивное, что вертоград нам снится, Где голуби в горячей синеве, Что православные крюки поет черница: Успенье нежное_Флоренция в Москве. И пятиглавные московские соборы С их итальянскою и русскою душой Напоминают мне явление Авроры, Но с русским именем и в шубке меховой. 1916 |
("On a sleigh, padded with straw")  [Page 10] | ||
1: Na rozval'njax, ulozhennyx solomoj, Edva prikrytye rogozhej rokovoj, Ot Vorob'evyx gor do cerkovki znakomoj My exali ogromnoju Moskvoj. A v Ugliche igrajut deti v babki I paxnet xleb, ostavlennyj v pechi. Po ulicam menja vezut bez shapki, I tepljatsja v chasovne tri svechi. Ne tri svechi goreli, a tri vstrechi, Odnu is nix sam Bog blagoslovil, Chetvertoj ne byvat', -- a Rim daleche -- I nikogda on Rima ne ljubil. Nyrjali sani v chernye uxaby, I vozvrashchalsja s gul'bishcha narod. Xudye muzhiki i zlye baby Lushchili semja [*] u vorot. Syraja dal' ot ptich'ix staj chernela, I svjazannye ruki zatekli' Carevicha vezut -- nemeet strashno telo, I ryzhuju solomy podozhgli. 1916 |
1: On a sleigh, padded with straw, Barely covered by the fateful mat, From the Vorobevy hills to the familiar chapel We rode through enormous Moscow [*]. But in Uglich [*], the children play mumbletypeg, And it smells of bread left in the oven. They carry me along the streets without my hat [*]; In the oratory three candles [*] burn. Not three burning candles -- three meetings. One consecrated by God Himself. A fourth would never be, but Rome is far -- And He was never fond of Rome. The sled dashed through black ruts, People were returning from the promenade. Wretched peasants with their angry wives Cracked seeds [*] by the gate. The damp distance blackened with flocks of birds, The bound hands swelled. They carry the Carevich [*], The body grows terribly numb, They set fire to the reddened straw. |
На розвальнях, уложенных соломой, Едва прикрытые рогожей роковой, От Воробьевых гор до церковки знакомой Мы ехали огромною Москвой. А в Угличе играют дети в бабки И пахнет хлеб, оставленный в печи. По улицам меня везут без шапки, И теплятся в часовне три свечи. Не три свечи горели, а три встречи -- Одну ис них сам Бог благословил, Четвертой не бывать, а Рим далече -- И никогда он Рима не любил. Ныряли сани в черные ухабы, И возвращался с гульбища народ. Худые мужики и злые бабы Переминались у ворот. Сырая даль от птичьих стай чернела, И связанные руки затеклиь Царевича везут, немеет страшно тело -- И рыжую соломы подожгли. 1916 |
(СОЛОМИНКА) (STRAW) [*]  [Page 12]  [Page 14] | ||
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("I've lost a delicate cameo")  [Page 16] | ||
1: -- Ja poterjala nezhnuju kameju, Ne znaju gde, na beregu Nevy. Ja rimljanku prelestnuju zhaleju -- Chut' ne v slezax mne govorili vy. No dlja chego, prekrasnaja gruzinka, Trevozhit' prax bozhestvennyx grobnits? Eshche odna pushistaja snezhinka Rastajala na veere resnic. I krotkuju vy naklonili sheju. Kamei net -- net rimljanki, uvy. Ja Tinotinu smugluju zhaleju -- Devichij Rim na beregu Nevy. 1916 |
1: "I've lost [*] a delicate cameo, Somewhere on the Neva's shore. I pity the charming Roman girl," You said to me, almost in tears. But why, fair Georgian beauty, Stir up the dust on a sacred tomb? Another downy snowflake Melted on her eyelid's fan. You bowed your gentle neck. Alas, no cameo, no Roman girl. I pity the tawny Tinotine -- virgin Rome on the Neva's shore. |
-- Я потеряла нежную камею, Не знаю где, на берегу Невы. Я римлянку прелестную жалею, -- Чуть не в слезах мне говорили вы. Но для чего, прекрасная грузинка, Тревожить прах божественных гробниц? Еще одна пушистая снежинка Растаяла на веере ресниц. И кроткую вы наклонили шею. Камеи нет -- нет римлянки, увы. Я Тинотину смуглую жалею -- Девичий Рим на берегу Невы. Осень 1916 |
("The Greeks planned for war")  [Page 18] | ||
1: Sobiralis' elliny vojnoju Na prelestnyj ostrov Salamin. On, ottorgnut vrazheskoj rukoju, Viden byl iz gavani Afin. A teper' druz'ja-ostrovitjane Snarjazhajut nashi korabli. Ne ljubili ran'she anglichane Evropejskoj sladostnoj zemli. O, Evropa, novaja Ellada, Oxranjaj Akropol' i Pirej. Nam podarkov s ostrova ne nado, Celyj les nezvanyx korablej. 1916 |
1: The Greeks planned for war On the delightful island of Salamis [*]. From the harbor of Athens, you could see it Seized by the enemy's hand. And now our friends the islanders Are fitting out our ships. Earlier the English didn't love The sweet European soil. O, Europe, new Hellas, Save the Acropolis and Pireus. We do not need the island's gifts, A forest of uninvited ships. |
1: Собирались эллины войною На прелестный остров Саламин. Он, отторгнут вражеской рукою, Виден был из гавани Афин. А теперь друзья-островитяне Снаряжают наши корабли. Не любили раньше англичане Европейской сладостной земли. О, Европа, новая Эллада, Охраняй Акрополь и Пирей. Нам подарков с острова не надо, Целый лес незваных кораблей. 1916 |
("I am cold. Transparent Spring dresses")  [Page 20] | ||
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("Not believing in the Resurrection")  [Page 22] | ||
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("This night is beyond recall")  [Page 24] | ||
1: Eta noch' nepopravima, A u vas eshche svetlo. U vorot Erusalima Solnce chernoe vzoshlo. Solnce zheltoe strashnee. Baju, bajushki, baju, V svetlom xrame Iudei Xoronili mat' moju. Blagodati ne imeja I svjashchenstva lisheny, V svetlom xrame Iudei Otpevali prax zheny. I nad mater'ju zveneli Golosa izrail'tjan. -- Ja prosnulsja v kolybeli, Chernym solncem osijan. 1916 |
1: This night is beyond recall, But it is still bright at your place. At the gates of Jerusalem, The black sun has risen. The yellow sun is more fearful -- In a bright temple, the Jews Have buried my mother. Not having Grace, Deprived of priesthood, The Jews, in a bright temple, Chanted over the woman's ashes. And the voices of the Israelites Rose above the mother. I awoke in a cradle, shone upon By a black sun. |
Эта ночь непоправима, А у вас еще светло. У ворот Ерусалима Солнце черное взошло. Солнце желтое страшнее, -- Баю-баюшки-баю, -- В светлом храме иудеи Хоронили мать мою. Благодати не имея И священства лишены, В светлом храме иудеи Отпевали прах жены. И над матерью звенели Голоса израильтян. Я проснулся в колыбели -- Черным солнцем осиян. 1916 |
(ДЕКАБРИСТ) (THE DECEMBRIST)  [Page 26] | ||
1: "Tomu svidetel'stvo jazycheskij senat -- Sii dela ne umirajut." On raskuril chubuk i zapaxnul xalat, A rjadom v shaxmaty igrajut. Chestoljubivyj son on promenjal na srub V gluxom urochishche Sibiri I vychurnyj chubuk u jadovityx gub, Skazavshix pravdu v skorbnom mire. Shumeli v pervyj raz germanskie duby, Evropa plakala v tenetax, Kvadrigi chernye vstavali na dyby Na triumfal'nyx povorotax. Byvalo, goluboj v stakanax punsh gorit, S shirokim shumom samovara Podruga rejnskaja tixon'ko govorit, Vol'noljubivaja gitara. Eshche volnujutsja zhivye golosa O sladkoj vol'nosti grazhdanstva, No zhertvy ne xotjat slepye nebesa, Vernee trud i postojanstvo. Vse pereputalos', i nekomu skazat', Chto, postepenno xolodeja, Vse pereputalos', i sladko povtorjat': Rossija, Leta, Loreleja. 1917 |
1: "To this the pagan senate bears witness: -- THESE DEEDS SHALL NEVER DIE! -- "
He lit his pipe and wrapped his cloak around While some play chess nearby. He traded his ambitious dream For a godforsaken Siberian plot And an elegant pipe at his venomous lips, Which uttered truth in a mournful world. When the German oaks first rustled, Europe wept in her snare. Black horses in quadrigae [*] reared on each triumphant turn. Once, the blue punch glowed in our glasses. With the broad noises of the samovar, A friend from across the Rhine spoke In muted tones -- a freedom-loving guitar. The lively voices are still excited Over the sweet liberty of citizenship; But the victims don't want blind skies, Toil and consistency are truer. Everything's confused and there is no one to say, As things grow colder, Everything's confused, it is sweet to repeat: Russia, Lethe, Lorelei... |
-- Тому свидетелжство языческий сенат -- Сии дела не умирают! -- Он раскурил чубук и запахнул халат, А рядом в шахматы играют. Честолюбивый сон он променял на сруб В глухом урочище Сибири И вычурный чубук у ядовитых губ, Сказавших правду в скорбном мире. Шумели в первый раз германские дубы, Европа плакала в тенетах, Квадриги черные вставали на дыбы На триумфальных поворотах. Бывало, голубой в стаканах пун горит, С широким шумом самовара Подруга рейнская тихонько говорит, Вольнолюбивая гитара. -- Еще волнуются живые голоса О сладкой вольности гражданства! Но жертвы не хотят слепые небеса: Вернее труд и постоянство. Все перепуталось, и некому сказать, Что, постепенно холодея, Все перепуталось, и сладко повторять: Россия, Лета, Лорелея. 1917 |
(МЕГАНОМ) (MEGANOM)  [Page 28] | ||
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("When on the squares and in solitary silence")  [Page 30] | ||
1: Kogda na ploshchadjax i v tishine kelejnoj My sxodim medlenno s uma, Xolodnogo i chistogo rejnvejna Predlozhit nam zhestokaja zima. V serebrjanom vedre nam predlagaet stuzha Valgally beloe vino, I svetlyj obraz severnogo muzha Napominaet nam ono. No severnye skal'dy gruby, Ne znajut radostej igry, I severnym druzhinam ljuby Jantar', pozhary i piry. Im tol'ko snitsja vozdux juga -- Chuzhogo neba volshebstvo, -- I vse-taki uprjamaja podruga Otkazhetsja poprobovat' ego. 1917 |
1: When on the squares and in solitary silence We slowly go out of our minds, Brutal winter will offer us Cold and clear Rhine wine. The frost offers us in a silver pail The white wine of Valhalla, And for us it recalls A clear image of a northern man. But northern skalds [*] are rude, Don't know the joy of the game, And to northern troops are dear Amber, feasts and flames. They only dream of the southern air, The magic of a foreign sky. -- Nevertheless the stubborn friend Still refuses to try. |
Когда на площадях и в тишине келейной Мы сходим медленно с ума, Холодного и чистого рейнвейна Предложит нам жестокая зима. В серебряном ведре нам предлагает стужа Валгаллы белое вино, И светлый образ северного мужа Напоминает нам оно. Но северные скальды грубы, Не знают радостей игры, И северным дружинам любы Янтарь, пожары и пиры. Им только снится воздух юга -- Чужого неба волшебство, -- И все-таки упрямая подруга Откажется попробовать его. 1917 |
(А. В. Карташеву) ("A young Levite among priests") A. V. Kartashevu [*]  [Page 32] | ||
1: Sredi svjashchennikov levitom molodym Na strazhe utrennej on dolgo ostavalsja. Noch' iudejskaja spushchalasja nad nim, I xram razrushennyj ugrjumo sozidalsja. On govoril: Nebes trevozhna zheltizna, Uzh nad Evfratom noch', begite, ierei. A starcy dumali: Ne nasha v tom vina. Se cherno-zheltyj svet, se radost' Iudei. On s nami byl, kogda, na beregu ruch'ja My v dragocennyj len subbotu pelenali I semisveshchnikom tjazhelym osveshchali Ierusalima noch' i chad nebytija. 1917 |
1: A young Levite [*] among priests, He remained long on morning watch. Jewish night grew thick around him, The ruined temple was solemnly being raised. He said: the yellow of the skies is alarming. Run, priests, for night is already over the Euphrates! But the elders thought: this is not our fault; Behold the black and yellow light, the joy, the Jews. He was with us when, on the stream's shore, We swaddled the sabbath in precious linen With a heavy menorah lit the night of Jerusalem, The heady fumes of non-existence. |
Среди священников левитом молодым На страже утренней он долго оставался. Ночь иудейская спущалася над ним, И храм разрушенный угрюмо созидался. Он говорил: небес тревожна желтизна! Уж над Енфратом ночь: бегите, иереи! А старцы думали: не наша в том вина -- Се черно-желтый свет, се радость Иудеи! Он с нами был, когда, на берегу ручья, Мы в драгоценный лен Субботу пеленали И семисвещником тяжелым освещали Ерусалима ночь и чад небытия. 1917 |
("The thick golden stream of honey took so long")  [Page 34] | ||
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("That evening the forest of organ pipes did not play") Du, Doppelganger [*]! du, bleitscher Geselle!...  [Page 36] | ||
1: V tot vecher ne gudel strel'chatyj les organa. Nam pela [*] Shuberta rodnaja kolybel'! Shumela mel'nica, i v pesnjax uragana Smejalsja muzyki goluboglazyj xmel'! Starinnoj pesni mir korichnevyj, zelenyj, No tol'ko vechno-molodoj, Gde solov'inyx lip rokochushchie krony S zverinoj [*] jarost'ju kachaet car' lesnoj. I sila strashnaja nochnogo vozvrashchen'ja, Ta pesnja dikaja, kak chernoe vino. Eto dvojnik -- pustoe prividen'e -- Bezsmyslenno gljadit v xolodnoe okno. 1918 |
1: That evening the forest of organ pipes did not play. A native cradle sang [*] Schubert for us, The mill was grinding, the music's blue-eyed drunkenness Laughed in the songs of the hurricane. The brown-green world of the old song, But only eternally young where the Erl-king Shakes the rumbling crowns of nightingaled Linden trees in savage [*] rage. The awesome force of night's return, That wild song, like black wine: It is a double, a hollow ghost Peering senselessly through the cold window! |
В тот вечер не гудел стрельчатый лес органа. Нам пели Шуберта -- родная колыбель -- Шумела мельница, и в песнях урагана Смеялся музыки голубоглазый хмель -- Старинной песни мир -- коричневый, зеленый, Но только вечно-молодой, Где соловьиных лип рокочущие кроны С безумной яростью качает царь лесной. И сила страшная ночного возвращенья -- Та песня дикая, как черное вино: Это двойник -- пустое привиденье -- Бессмысленно глядит в холодное окно! 1918 |
("Your marvelous pronunciation")  [Page 38] | ||
1: Tvoe chudesnoe proiznoshen'e, Gorjachij posvist xishchnyx ptits, Skazhu l' -- zhivoe vpechatlen'e Kakix-to shelkovyx resnits [*]. "Chto" -- golova otjazhelela... "Vo" [*] -- Eto ja tebja zovu. I daleko proshelestelo: Ja tozhe na zemle zhivu. Pust' govorjat: ljubov' krylata. Smert' okrylennee stokrat. Eshche dusha bor'boj ob"jata, A nashi guby k nej letjat. I stol'ko vozduxa, i shelka I vetra v shopote tvoem, I, kak slepye, noch'ju dolgoj My smes' bessolnechnuju p'em. 1918 |
1: Your marvelous pronunciation -- The scorching whistle of birds of prey; Or should I say: a living impression Of some sort of silken eyelashes. -- What? -- your head grew heavy... -- And in the distance, rustling: I, too, live on earth. Let them say love has wings. Death has a hundred more; My soul is filled with strife, But our lips fly to it. So much air and silk and Wind in your whisper, Like blind men, through the long night We drink a sunless mixture. |
Твое чудесное произношенье -- Горячий посвист хищных птиц; Скажу ль: живое впечатленье Каких-то шелковых зарниц. "Что" -- голова отяжелела. "Цо" -- это я тебя зову! И далеко прошелестело: -- Я тоже на земле живу. Пусть говорят: любовь крылата, -- Смерть окрыленнее стократ. Еще душа борьбой объята, А наши губы к ней летят. И столько воздуха и шелка И ветра в шопоте твоем, И, как слепые, ночью долгой Мы смесь бессолнечную пьем. 1918 |
(TRISTIA)  [Page 40] | ||
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(ЧЕРЕПАХА) (TORTOISE)  [Page 42] | ||
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(ФЕОДОСИЯ) ("Let us go where there are varied crafts")  [Page 44] | ||
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("In a crystal whirlpool, such steepness!")  [Page 46] | ||
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("Nature's the same as Rome, was reflected in it")  [Page 48] | ||
1: Priroda tot zhe Rim, i otrazilas' v nem. My vidim obrazy ego grazhdanskoj moshchi V prozrachnom vozduxe, kak v cirke golubom, Na forume polej i v kolonnade roshchi. Priroda tot zhe Rim, i kazhetsja opjat' Nam nezachem bogov naprasno bezpokoit', Est' vnutrennosti zhertv, chtob o vojne gadat', Raby, chtoby molchat', i kamni, chtoby stroit'. |
1: Nature's the same as Rome, was reflected in it. We see images of its civic might In the clear air, as in the sky-blue circus, In the forum of fields, the colonnade of the grove. Nature is the same as Rome, again it seems We have no reason to trouble the gods. We've got the viscera of the sacrifices To tell the fortunes of war, and slaves To keep the silence, and stones with which to build. |
Природа -- тот же Рим и отразилась в нем. Мы видим образы его гражданской мощи В прозрачном воздухе, как в цирке голубом, На форуме полей и в колоннаде рощи. Природа -- тот же Рим, и, кажется, опять Нам незачем богов напрасно беспокоить -- Есть внутренности жертв, чтоб о войне гадать, Рабы, чтобы молчать, и камни, чтобы строить! 1914 |
("To read only children's books")  [Page 50] | ||
1: Tol'ko detskie knigi chitat', Tol'ko detskie dumy lelejat', Vse bol'shoe daleko razvejat', Iz glubokoj pechali vozstat'. Ja ot zhizni smertel'no ustal, Nichego ot neja ne priemlju, No ljublju moju bednuju zemlju, Ottogo chto inoj ne vidal. Ja kachalsja v dalekom sadu Na prostoj derevjaannoj kacheli, I vysokie temnye eli Vspominaju v tumannom bredu. |
1: To read only children's books, To have only childish thoughts, To throw everything grown-up away, To rise from deep sadness. I am deathly tired of life, I will accept nothing from it. But I love my poor land, For I have seen no other. I rocked in a distant garden On a plain wooden swing, Tall dark fir trees I recall in a hazy fever. |
Только детские книги читать, Только детские думы лелеять, Все большое далеко развеять, Из глубокой печали возстать. Я от жизни смертельно устал, Ничего от нея не приемлю, Но люблю мою бедную землю, Оттого что иной не видал. Я качался в далеком саду На простой деревяанной качели, И высокие темные ели Вспоминаю в туманном бреду. 1908 |
("Go back to the tainted lap, Leah")  [Page 52] | ||
1: Vernis' v smesitel'noe lono, Otkuda, Lija, ty prishla, Za to, chto solncu Iliona Ty zheltyj sumrak predpochla. Idi, nikto tebja ne tronet, Na grud' otca, v gluxu[ noch', Puskaj glavu svoju uronit Krovosmesitel'nitca-doch'. No rokovaja peremena V tebe ispolnit'sja dolzhna. Ty budesh' Lija -- ne Elena. Ne potomu narechena, Chto carskoj krovi tjazhelee Struit'sja v zhilax, chem drugoj, -- Net, ty poljubish' iudeja, Ischeznesh' v nem -- i Bog s toboj. 1920 |
1: Go back to the tainted lap, Leah, Whence you came, Because to the sun of Ilion You preferred yellow twilight. Go, no one will touch you, Let the incestuous daughter Drop her head on her father's breast In the dead of night. But the fatal change Must be fulfilled in you; You shall be Leah -- not Helen -- Thus not betrothed, For it is harder for a king's blood To flow in the veins than another's -- No, you will love a Jew, You will vanish in him, and God help you. |
Вернись в смесителжное лоно, Откуда, Лия, ты пришла, За то, что солнцу Илиона Ты желтый сумрак предпочла. Иди, никто тебя не тронет, На грудь отца в глухую ночь Пускай главу свою уронит Кровосмесительнитца-дочь. Но роковая перемена В тебе исполниться должна: Ты будешь Лия -- не Елена! Не потому наречена, Что царской крови тяжелее Струиться в жилах, чем другой, -- Нет, ты полюбишь иудея, Исчезнешь в нем -- и Бог с тобой. 1920 |
(O this air, intoxicated with sedition")  [Page 54] | ||
1: O, etot vozdux, smutoj p'janyj, Na chernoj ploshchadi Kremlja Kachajut shatkij "mir" smut'jany, Trevozhno paxnut topolja. Soborov voskovye liki, Kolokolov dremuchij les, Kak by razbojnik bez"jazykij V stropilax kamennyx ischez. A v zapechatannyx soborax, Gde i proxladno, i temno, Kak v nezhnyx glinjanyx amforax, Igraet russkoe vino. Uspenskij, divno okruglennyj, Ves' udivlen'e rajskix dug, I Blagoveshchenskij, zelenyj, I, mnitsja, zavorkuet vdrug. Arxangel'skij i Voskresen'ja Prosvechivajut, kak ladon' -- Povsjudu skrytoe goren'e, V kuvschinax sjurjatannyj ogon'... |
1: O this air, intoxicated with sedition, On the black square of the Kremlin. The agitators rock the teetering world [*]. It smells of restless poplars. The waxen facades of the cathedrals, The thick forest of bells, As if a tongueless bandit Had vanished in the stony rafters. But in the sealed cathedrals, Where it is cool and dark, Like in delicate clay amphoras, The Russian wine sparkles. The whole Assumption, wonderfully rotund, The marvel of the arches of Paradise. And the Annunciation, in green, Suddenly seems to start to crow. The Archangel and Resurrection [*] Show through like a palm, Everywhere the secret burning, -- In the wine jugs a hidden flame. . . |
О, этот воздух, смутой пьяный, На черной площади Кремля Качают шаткий "мир" смутьяны, Тревожно пахнут тополя. Соборов восковые лики, Колоколов дремучий лес, Как бы разбойник безъязыкий В стропилах каменных исчез. А в запечатанных соборах, Где и прохладно, и темно, Как в нежных глиняных амфорах, Играет русское вино. Успенский, дивно округленный, Весь удивленье райских дуг, И Благовещенский, зеленый, И, мнится, заворкует вдруг. Архангельский и Воскресенья Просвечивают, как ладонь, -- Повсюду скрытое горенье, В кувшинах спрятанный огонь... Апрель 1916 |
("In Petersburg we'll meet again")  [Page 56] | ||
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("Stretching taut the silken threads")  [Page 58] | ||
1: Na perlamutrovyj chelnok Natjagivaja shelka niti, O, pal'ci gibkie, nachnite Ocharovatel'nyj urok. Prilivy i otlivy ruk, Odnobraznyja dvezhen'ja, Ty zaklinaesh', bez somnen'ja, Kakoj to solnechnyj ispug, Kogda shirokaja ladon', Kak rakovina, plameneja, To gasnet, k tenjam tjagoteja, To v rozovyj ujdet ogon'. |
1: Stretching taut the silken threads On a mother-of-pearl shuttle, O, lithe fingers, begin Your fascinating lesson. Ebb and flow of your hands, Monotonous movements, No doubt you are conjuring Some kind of solar fright. When your broad palm, Like a shell, flaming, First dies down, drawn to the shadows, Then sinks at last in a rosy light. |
На перламутровый челнок Натягивая шелка нити, О, пальци гибкие, начните Очаровательный урок. Приливы и отливы рук, Однобразные движенья, Ты заклинаешь, без сомненья, Какой то солнечный испуг, Когда широкая ладонь, Как раковина, пламенея, То гаснет, к теням тяготея, То в розовый уйдет огонь. 1911 |
("We went out of our minds with the easy life")  [Page 60] | ||
1: Ot legkoj zhizni my soshli s uma. S utra vino, a s vechera poxmel'e. Kak uderzhat' naprasnoe vesel'e, Rumjanec tvoj, o p'janaja chuma? V pozhat'i ruk muchitel'nyj obrjad, Na ulicax nochnye pocelui, Kogda rechnye tjazhelejut strui, I fonari, kak fakely, gorjat. My smerti zhdem, kak skazochnogo volka, No ja bojus', chto ran'she vsex umret Tot, u kogo trevozhno-krasnyj rot I na glaza spadajushchaja chelka. |
1: We went out of our minds with the easy life, Wine from morning on, hungover by evening, How can I keep this idle gaiety, Your blush, O drunken plague? An agonizing ceremony in a handshake, Nocturnal kisses on the streets, While the currents of speech grow heavy, And lanterns burn like torches. We wait for death, like the fairytale But I'm afraid that the first to die will be The one with the anxious red mouth And the forelock covering his eyes. |
1: От легкой жизни мы сошли с ума. С утра вино, а с вечера похмелье. Как удержать напрасное веселье, Румянец твой, о пьяная чума? В пожатьи рук мучительный обряд, На улицах наканы И слузить тебе готов. Кахетинское густое Хорошо в подвале пить, -- Там в прохладе, там в покое Пейте вдоволь, пейте двое, Одному не надо пить! В самом маленьком духане Ты обманщика найдешь. Если спроцишь "Телиани", Поплывет Тифлис в тумане, Ты в бутылке поплывешь. Человек бывает старым, А барашек молодым, И под месяцем поджарым С розоватым винным паром Полетит шашлычный дым... 1920, 1927, 1935 |
("Why do the clock-hoppers sing")  [Page 62] | ||
1: Chto pojut chasy-kuznechik, Lixoradka shelestit I shurshit suxaja pechka, -- Eto krasnyj shelk gorit. Chto zubami myshi tochat Zhizni tonen'koe dno, Eto lastochka i dochke [*] Otvjazala moj chelnok. Chto na kryshe dozhd' bormochet, -- Eto chernyj shelk gorit, No cheremuxa uslyshit I na dne morskom prostit. [*] Potomu chto smert' nevinnyx, [*] I nichem nel'zja pomoch', Chto v gorjachke solov'inoj Serdce teploe eshche. 1918 |
1: Why do the clock-hoppers [*] sing, And fever rustle And dry stove crackle -- It is red silk burning. Why do the mice grind with their teeth The slender ground of life -- A swallow has loosened My shuttle for her daughter. Why does rain murmur on the roof -- It is black silk burning, But the cherry blossom will hear, And on the bottom of the sea, forgive. Because of the death of the innocent And with no way to help, In a nightingale's fever, There is still a warm heart. |
1: Что поют часы-кузнечник, Лихорадка шелестит, И шуршит сухая печка, -- Это красный шелк горит. Что зубами мыши точат Жизни тоненькое дно, Это ласточка и дочке Отвязала мой челнок. Что на крыше дождь бормочет, -- Это черный шелк горит, Но черемуха услышит И на дне морском простит. Потому что смерть невинных, И ничем нельзя помочь, Что в горячке соловьиной Сердце теплое еще. |
("The flame annihilates")  [Page 64] | ||
1: Unichtozhaet plamen' Suxuju zhizn' moju, I nyne ja ne kamen', A derevo poju. Ono legko i grubo> Iz odnogo kuska I serdcevina duba, I vesla rybaka. Vbivajte krepche svai, Stuchite, molotki, O derevjannom rae, Gde veshchi tak legki. |
1: The flame annihilates My withered life, Now it isn't stone I sing, but wood. It is light and rough; From a single piece come The heart of the oak And the fisherman's oars. Drive the pilings tighter. Pound, you hammers, About the wooden paradise Where things are so much easier. |
Уничтожает пламень Сухую жизнь мою, И ныне я не камень, А дерево пою. Оно легко и грубо; Из одного куска И сердцевина дуба, И весла рыбака. Вбивайте крепче сваи, Стучите, молотки, О деревянном рае, Где вещи так легки. |
("I dream of hunchbacked Tiflis")  [Page 66] | ||
1: Mne Tiflis gorbatyj snitsja, Sazandarij [*] ston zvenit, Na mostu narod tolpitsja, Vsja kovrovaja stolica, A vnizu Kura shumit. Nad Kuroju est' duxany, Gde vino i milyj plov, I duxanshchik tam rumjanyj Podaet gostjam stakany I sluzit' tebe gotov. Kaxetinskoe gustoe Xorosho v podvale pit', -- Tam v proxlade, tam v pokoe Pejte vdovol', pejte dvoe: Odnomu ne nado pit'. V samom malen'kom duxane Ty tovarishcha [*] najdesh', Esli sprosish' Teliani. Poplyvet Tiflis v tumane, Ty v butylke poplivesh'. [*] 1920, 1927, 1935 |
1: I dream of hunchbacked Tiflis, Where a The people cluster on the bridge, The crowd carpets the whole capital, While below, the Kura [*] murmurs. Above the Kura are Where there is wine and good pilaf, A ruddy dukhanshchik Gives glasses to the guests, He is ready to serve you. The thick Cahetian wine In the cellar is ready to drink -- There in the coolness, in peace, You drink your fill, drink in pairs: Don't drink alone. In the smallest dukhan, If you ask for Teliani, You will find a friend. [*] Tiflis will be swimming in a fog, Your head will be swimming at the inn. [*] |
1: Мне Тифлис горбатый снится, Сазандарей стон звенит, На мосту народ толпится, Вся ковровая столица, А внизу Кура шумит. Над Курою есть духаны, Где вино и милый плов, И духанщик там румяный Подает гостям стаканы И служить тебе готов. Кахетинское густое Хорошо в подвале пить, -- Там в прохладе, там в покое Пейте вдоволь, пейте двое, Одному не надо пить! В самом маленьк |