Alexander Blok Line by line literal translation
Evenings about the restaurants, The hot air is wild and oppressive And the shouts of the drunks are governed by A springtime, rotten spirit.
Far above the dust of alleys Above the boredom of suburban dachas, The golden roll of a bakery can just be seen. And a child’s crying resounds.
And every evening beyond the toll gates Cocking their hats, Among the canals, there walk with ladies Jokers who have been around.
Above the lake the oarlocks creek. And a woman’s squeal resounds, And in the sky, inured to everything, A disk grimaces senselessly.
And every evening my only friend Is reflected in my glass And affected by an acrid, mysterious liquid, As I am, he is subdued and meek.
And next to me at neighboring tables Sleepy lackey hang about And drunks with the eyes of rabbits Shout, “In vino veritas!”
And every evening, at a predetermined hour, (Or am I only dreaming this?) A girlish figure, wrapped in silks, Moves in the fogged window.
And slowly, passing between the drunks, Always without escorts, alone, Breathing perfume and fog She sits down at the window.
And they waft old superstitions, Her resilient silks, And the hat with mourning feathers, And the rings on her narrow hand.
And transfixed by this strange proximity, I look behind the dark veil, And see an enchanted shore And an enchanted distance.
Obscure secrets have been entrusted to me Someone’s sun has been handed over to me, And all the twists of my soul Were penetrated by the acrid wine.
And the slanted ostrich feathers Sway in my brain, And eyes that are blue and bottomless Will flower on the distant shore.
A treasure lies within my soul And the key has been entrusted only to me! You are right, drunk monster. I know: truth lies in wine.
Translation by Lydia Razran Stone
Vladimir Mayakovsky Line by line literal translation
With the power of one hundred and forty suns the sunset burned, the summer rolled in in July, there was heat the heat flowed this was at the dacha.
A humped hill in Pushkino Akulova mountain, and low on the mountain, was a village, with crooked roofs like bark.
And beyond the village, was a hole and into that hole, most likely the sun descended every time slowly and surely.
But the next day in order to suffuse the world the scarlet sun arose. And day after day all this began to make me terribly angry.
And so once getting so angry That everyone paled in terror, I yelled at the sun, “Climb down! Enough of this messing around in the inferno!”
I yelled at the sun: “Parasite!” you have grown spoiled in the clouds, but here, no matter if it is summer or winter, you have to sit drawing posters!”
“I yelled at the sun, “Wait! listen, Golden Brow, since you’ve nothing to do you ought to come have tea with me!?
What had I done! I was done for! Toward me, of his own free will, he, himself, spreading his raylike steps, the sun was striding through the field.
I don’t want to show my fear, so I turn my back. His eyes are already in the yard. Already he is crossing the yard.
In through the window, in through the door, in through a crack, he enters, and collapses; catching his breath, and said in a bass voice.
“I will drive back my fires for the first time in creation. You invited me? Bring on the tea, bring on, poet, the jam!”
Tears were in his eyes— the heat had driven him mad, but I led him to the samovar “Well, now, have a seat, Heavenly Body!”
The devil had provoked my impudence (so that I had) roared at him, embarrassed, I sat on the edge of my bench, Afraid that things would get worse!
But a strange clarity from the sun streamed, and my prudence, forgetting, I sit and begin chatting with the Heavenly Body little by little.
About this and about that I talk, saying that Rosta has been killing me, and the sun (says), “Never mind, don’t fret, look at things simply!
You think for me, shining is easy. “Well, try it then! But once you do it, have undertaken to do it, then go — and shine with all your might.”
We chatted like that till dark, till what used to be night, I mean. What darkness could there have been? We were using the familiar form, with each other, feeling at ease. And soon, not hiding my friendship, I was pounding him on the shoulder.
And the sun did the same, saying: “You and I, comrade, are two of a kind! Let’s go poet, to light up, to sing to, the world (steeped) in gray rubbish. I, the sun, will pour out my light, And you — your own, Your verses.
A wall of shadows, a prison of nights fell under the sun’s double-barrel(ed rifle). Commotion of verse and light shine on no matter what!
Someone will be tired and want the night to lie down, blank sleep. Suddenly, I’ll shine with all my might and day will ring out again.
To shine for ever, to shine everywhere, till the days of the last message, to shine— and not let anything stop us. That is my motto and the sun’s!
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