Wednesday, December 28, 2011

बुर्जुआ न्याय और अपराध

अपराध पूंजीवादी जीवन की एकरसता और सुरक्षा भाव को तोड़ता है। इस तरह से वह इसे ठहराव का शिकार बनने से रोकता है और इसमें कठिन तनाव और चपलता पैदा करता है जिसके बिना प्रतियोगिता का डर भी कम पड जाता है। इस तरह वह उत्पादक शक्तियों को प्रेरित करता है। जहाँ अपराध श्रम के बाजार से अतिरिक्त आबादी के एक हिस्से को अपने साथ हटा लेता है और इस तरह मजदूरों के बीच प्रतियोगिता को कम करता है- उस निश्चित बिंदु तक ताकि मजदूरों के वेतन न्यूनतम से नीचे न गिरें- वहीं अपराध के विरुद्ध संघर्ष इस आबादी के एक दुसरे हिस्से को अपने भीतर शामिल कर लेता है। इस प्रकार अपराधी प्राकृतिक संतुलनकारी के रूप में सामने आता है और अनेक उपयोगी जरूरी पेशों के लिए रास्ता खोल देता है।

 उत्पादक शक्तियों के विकास पर अपराध के प्रभाव को विस्तार से दिखाया जा सकता है। यदि चोर नहीं होते तो क्या कभी ताले अपने वर्तमान स्तर तक पहुँच पाते? यदि जालसाज न होते तो क्या बैंक नोटों की छपाई इस स्तर तक पहुँच पाती? यदि व्यापर धोखाधडी न होती तो क्या सामान्य व्यापार में सूक्ष्मदर्शियों का उपयोग संभव होता? क्या व्यावहारिक रसायन शास्त्र मालों में मिलावट के लिए आभारी नहीं है? अपराध संपत्ति पर लगातार नए-नए हमलों के जरिये सुरक्षा के नए-नए तरीकों की जरूरत पैदा करता है और इसीलिए उसी प्रकार उत्पादक है जैसे मशीनों के अविष्कार के लिए हडतालें। और यदि हम व्यक्तिगत अपराधों के दायरे को छोड दें तब भी क्या बिना राष्ट्रीय अपराधों के वैश्विक बाजार अस्तित्व में आया होता? बल्कि क्या राष्ट्र भी जन्मे होते?

-कार्ल मार्क्स 

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Vorovsky



Proletariat,
Unchain your voices' thunder, 
forget
universal clemency'softness. 
murdered 
by a gang of fascists and plunderers, 
for the last time 
through Moscow
today goes Vorovsky.
How many will go yet...
How many have gone...
How many-to shreds,...
into smithereens...
Some may surrender.
Some lose vim.
Yet we haven't
and won't give in!
Mould your wrath 
in a bomb's great ball.
Let voices 
today cut like bayonet-lightening; 
become a bogy
for capitalists all.
On royal curtains flit,
spectral and frightening. 
With a million feet's thunder
answer blatant notes.
Let millions queue,
serpentine,
by the Kremlin.
Let a comrades's death 
affirm beyond all doubts
the deathlessness of Communism,
making enemies tremble.

Vladimir Mayakovsky

(Written in connection with the murder in Lausanne on May 10, 1923, of Vatslav Vorovsky, a prominent figure in the Communist Party, then Soviet Ambassador of Italy.)



Monday, October 31, 2011

बाढ़ और पेड़


जब शैतानी आंधी दौड़ पड़ी 
और क्रूर किनारे उगलने लगे बाढ़ का काला पानी 
हमारी प्यारी हरी-भरी धरती पर 
शैतान हुंकारने लगा हवाओ में 
वह पेड़ गिर पड़ा 
उस पेड़ को गिरा दिया गया 
उसका विशाल तना तोड़ दिया 
आंधी ने 
वह पेड़ मर गया 

पेड़, क्या तुम मर सकते हो 
छोटी लाल नदी ने पुछा 
तुम्हारी जड़ें सिंची गयी हैं 
शराबों से 
जो निकाली गयी हैं 
नरम शाखाओं से 
प्यारे पेड़ 
अरब की जड़ें 
कभी मरती नहीं 
वे गहरे जाती हैं 
पत्थरों से भी नीचे 
और धरती की गहराई में 
अपना रास्ता बना लेती हैं 
पेड़, ओ पेड़ 
तुम फिर उगोगे 
तुम्हारी कोंपले फूटेंगी 
हरी हरी और रसीली 
सूरज की रोशनी में 
खुशियों की घंटियाँ
पत्तों में बजेंगी 
सूरज तक अपनी आवाज पहुंचाएगी 
और लावा पक्षी 
लोट आयेंगे 
अपने घर 
अपने घर
अपने घर 

फदवा तुकन 

Thursday, October 27, 2011

This World



 
My own planet, my Earth,
      My globe spinning through space!
By the sun’s flaming hands
      You were launched on your race.

On his wheel your moist clay
      He lovingly threw
And with tender caresses
      Gave life unto you.

In the kilns of the cosmos
      Where cosmic storms blaze
You were fired and were tempered
      And coaled with glaze.

When at last you were finished
      And fired, shining new,
The sun poured the oceans
      And seas onto you.

With dawns and with sunsets
      He painted you too,
Then washed you with showers
      He sent from the blue
O’er the firmament wide
      He then stepped aside,
Looked down on his masterpiece,
      Beaming with pride.



For that globe was just perfect,
          No more and no less
And the potter was happy
          At such a success.

Through distant mists shining
      On the planet he smiled,
Then gave it to Man,
      Saying: "Take it, my child!

“Take care not to break it,
      For surely, I feel,
I’ll never repeat it
      On my potter’s wheel!”

Translated by Louis Zellikoff


SEMYON KIRSANOV

Saturday, October 1, 2011

स्मृति से प्रेरणा

जिंदगी के हालात को बदलने की सतत प्रक्रिया के दौरान, स्मृति हमारी मति को समृद्ध करती है और फिर प्रज्ञा आलोकित होती है. प्रज्ञा फिर हमारी मति को समृद्ध करती है और मति फिर स्मृति को ज़रूरी मार्गदर्शन के लिए टटोलती हुयी उसका नवीनीकरण करती है और इस क्रम को हर बार उन्नततर धरातल पर दोहराया जाता है. 
(बिगुल, मई २०१० से साभार) 

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

नये गीत

(लोर्का की याद में)
तीसरा पहर कहता है : मैं छाया के लिए प्यासा हूँ 

चाँद कहता है : मुझे तारों की प्यास  है.
बिल्लोर की तरह  साफ़  झरना  होंठ  मांगता  है
और हवा  चाहती  हैं आहें.
मैं प्यासा हूँ खुशबु और हंसी का 
मैं प्यासा हूँ चंद्रमाओं, कुमुद्नियो
और झुर्रीदार मुहब्बतों  से मुक्त  
गीतों  का. 



कल  का एक ऐसा  गीत 
जो भविष्य के शांत जलों में हलचल मचा दे 
और उसकी लहर और कीचड को आशा से भर दे. 

एक दमकता, इस्पात-जैसा ढला गीत 
विचार  से समृद्ध 
पछतावे  और पीड़ा  से अम्लान 
उड़ान भरे  सपनो  से बेदाग़. 
एक गीत जो चीज़ों की आत्मा तक
पहुँचता हो, हवाओं की आत्मा तक 
एक गीत जो अंत में अनंत हृदय के 
आनंद में विश्राम करता हो.
-लोर्का 

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Casida of the Rose


The rose
was not seeking the dawn
almost eternal on its branch
it was seeking something else.

The rose
was seeking neither science nor shade
juncture of flesh and dream,
it was seeking something else.

The rose
was not seeking the rose
immobile in the sky
it was seeking something else.

LORCA

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Hero

"A hero is a man whose life is such that instinctive equipment being what it is, and his environment being what it is, the effect he has on his environment is much greater than the effect it has on him. We may, therfore, say that he is a man who dominates and moulds his environment."

Christopher Caudwell

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Song of the Dry Orange Tree

To Carmen Morales



Woodsman,
chop down my shadow.
Free me from the torture
of not bearing fruit.

Why was I born among mirrors?
Around me day dances
and night copies me
onto her stars.



I want to live blind to myself.
And I’ll dream
that ants and burrs
are my leaves and my birds.

Woodsman,
chop down my shadow.
Free me from the torture
of not bearing fruit.

Lorca

Monday, June 13, 2011

Marxism

Marx stood higher, saw further, and took a wider and quicker view than all the rest of us. Marx was a genius; we others were at best talented. Without him the theory would not be by far what it is today. If therefore rightly bears his name.


-Fredrick Engels 

Questions From a Worker Who Reads


Who built Thebes of the seven gates?
In the books you will find the names of kings.
Did the kings haul up the lumps of rock?
And Babylon, many times demolished
Who raised it up so many times?
 In what houses
of gold-glittering Lima did the builders live?
Where, the evening that the Wall of China was finished
Did the masons go? Great Rome
Is full of triumphal arches. Who erected them? Over whom
Did the Caesars triumph? Had Byzantium, much praised in song
Only palaces for its inhabitants? Even in fabled Atlantis
The night the ocean engulfed it
The drowning still bawled for their slaves.
The young Alexander conquered India.
Was he alone?


Caesar beat the Gauls.
Did he not have even a cook with him?
Philip of Spain wept when his armada
Went down. Was he the only one to weep?
Frederick
the Second won the Seven Year's War. WhoElse won it?
Every page a victory.
Who cooked the feast for the victors?
Every ten years a great man?
Who paid the bill?
So many reports.
So many questions.
                                                   
Bertolt Brecht

Friday, June 10, 2011

Neither Stars, nor flowers

No, not for me to catch the stars above  
Or pluck the springtime flowers in meadows fair
To carry them to you as gifts of love
To be accepted with a gracious air.


Let flowers remain ungathered in the glade
For us to roam among them arm in arm.
Put them in flowerbowls and by evening they will fade:
The lack of air and sunshine does them harm.


The distance to the stars is far too great.
All I can do is watch them in the night.
A rocket might have helped—but it is late,
Too late for me to undertake the flight.

The strain would be too heavy for this heart,
An engine near the limit of its powers,
Clogged by the dust of countless roads and paths.
So take just it with neither stars nor flowers.





ARKADI KULESHOV
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg

Friday, May 27, 2011

The Ballad of the Pail




I’m a form out of zinc. I contain
Heavy pellets—the fruit of the dust-sprayed cherry.
Crimson sunsets and dawns they retain.
Now they doze in me, berry on berry.
I’m a form. In the autumn my content are pears,
The lamps of the orchard, the sun’s gleaming rivals,
Stray souls of the bark-clad Republic of Sap
Gathered in aprons as welcome arrivals.

I’m a form.
I’m a body,
A cone out of zinc
Whose content is multiform—free of its form.
Filled with dagger-like carrots or beet to the brink
Or brittle green stalks, without measure or norm.





I’m a form. It’s to man that I owe my birth
And what I am filled with is subject to him.
And when I am free of the flesh of the earth
I am laden with air—full of sky to the brim.

IVAN DRACH

Translated by Dorian Rottenberg

Friday, May 20, 2011

Poem by Feynman....



There are the rushing waves
mountains of molecules
each stupidly minding its own business
trillions apart
yet forming white surf in unison.



Ages on ages before any eyes could see
year after year
thunderously pounding the shore as now.
For whom, for what?

On a dead planet
with no life to entertain.
Never at rest
tortured by energy
wasted prodigiously by the sunpoured into space.
A mite makes the sea roar.

Deep in the sea
all molecules repeat
the patterns of one another
till complex new ones are formed.

They make others like themselves
and a new dance starts.
Growing in size and complexity
living things masses of atoms

DNA, protein
dancing a pattern ever more intricate.
Out of the cradle
onto dry landhere it is
standing:

atoms with consciousness;
matter with curiosity.
Stands at the sea,
wonders at wondering:
 I a universe of atoms
an atom in the universe.

Richard Phillips Feynman

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Sholokhov on Red Army.....


. . . While no war in world history has been as bloody and destructive as the war of 1941–1945, no army in the world has ever scored such brilliant victories as our own Red Army, nor appeared before the amazed eyes of mankind bathed in such a radiance of glory, might and greatness.

When our armies had taken Eidtkunen in Eastern Prussia, an inscription in Russian was made on the wall of the railway station building next to the German words: “741.7 kilometres to Berlin”. One of our soldiers had written in a bold scrawl: “We”ll get there anyway.” And signed it: Chernousov.

Do not these simple words written by a Russian soldier ring with truly magnificent confidence? And these Russian soldiers did get to Berlin, and what is more they buried forever under
the ruins of Hitler’s metropolis his mad dreams of world domination.

Centuries will pass, but mankind will always gratefully remember our heroic Red Army. . . .

Mikhail Sholokhov

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

ओडिसियस एलाइटिस...

जब तक कि चेतना पदार्थ में वापस नहीं लौटती
हमें दोहराते रहना होगा
कि दुनिया में कोई छोटे और बड़े कवि नहीं- सिर्फ मनुष्‍य हैं,










कुछ ऐसे जो कविताएं ऐसे लिखते हैं
जैसे वे पैसा कमाते हैं
या वेश्‍याओं के साथ सोते हैं
और कुछ ऐसे मनुष्‍य , जो ऐसे लिखते हैं
जैसे प्रेम के चाकू ने उनका दिल चीर दिया हो...........

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Parabolical Ballad



Fortunes like rockets fly routes parabolical,
Rainbows less widespread than gloom diabolical.
For instance, the iiery-red painter Gaugin,
Bohemian, though sales-agent until then:
To get to the Louvre from nearby Montmartre
He looped through Tahiti, just missing Sumatra.

Sped skyward, forgetting of money-born madness,
Of cackling wives and of stifling academies.
And so
          he surmounted
                    terrestrial gravity.

The priests of the fine arts were eager to have
                    at him:
"A parabola’s fine, but a straight line’s far
                    shorter.
Better copy old Eden,” they scoffed over porter.
But Gaugin zoomed away like today’s rocketeers
In a wind that went tearing at coat-tails and ears
And entered the Louvre not through the front door,
But crashed his parabola through ceiling and floor!
Each reaches his truth with his own share
                    of nerve:
A worm through a chink
                    and a man by a curve.

There once lived a girl—just a few blocks away.
We took college together until one fine day.
Why on earth did I fly
          like a blinking old ass
To mix with Tbilisi’s ambiguous stars?
Don’t blame me too hard for that barmy parabola,
Poor shoulders left out in the cold by a rambler!
How clear you rang out through the gloom of the
                    universe,
My slender antenna, in gales truly furious.
On and on I keep flying,
          to land by your call,
My earthly antenna left out in the cold.
It’s difficult business to fly a parabola.
Yet when art, love or history is the traveller,
Then, paragraphs, canons, prognoses defying,
Parabolical trajectories they go flying....
_ _ _
Siberian spring drowns galoshes in water
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Perhaps, after all, though, a straight line
                    is shorter?

ANDREI VOZNESENSKY


Translated by Dorian Rottenberg

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Lenin on non-class politics

After the experience both of Europe and Asia, anyone who speaks of non-class politics and non-class socialism, ought simply to be put in a cage and exhibited alongside the Australian kangaroo or something like that.
-Lenin

Monday, April 18, 2011

An appeal for solidarity to all justice-loving people



The urban and rural working class population of India is living through a life of intolerable and unutterable misery, injustice and economic oppression. In other words it can be best described as a ‘cold day in hell’. The condition of the urban and rural laborers working in unorganized sector and the unorganized laborers of the organized sector is worst amongst them. The fruits of the progress achieved in the last twenty years of the market liberalisation and privatisation have been enjoyed by the top 15 percent of the total Indian population while the gulf between the rich and poor has yawned to an unprecedented scale. In these   twenty years of rapid economic development, the condition of the toiling masses has worsened. Government data alone is enough to justify this claim.  The workers have only got promises after promises from successive governments but not a single drop of development trickled down to their dark world.
Whatever legal rights the workers had managed to achieve through prolonged struggles and sacrifices, have been mostly snatched back .The age old labor laws present in the statute book, insufficient enough as they are, have been rendered meaningless in practice.  Whatever new laws are introduced by the government as ostentation, are either mostly ineffective and hypocritical or they are pro-capitalist. The labor laws are not only intriguing but also the whole process of justice is so complex and lengthy that the laborers hardly have any chance to get justice .The number of labor dept offices including the officers and the staffs are vastly inadequate and instead of fulfilling its duty of enforcing the labor laws these labor departments often end up acting as an agent of the industry owners .Even the number of labor courts and industrial tribunals are grossly inadequate. For the toiling masses of India, the fundamental right to life as guaranteed by the Constitution has been rendered meaningless. Civil liberty and democratic rights bear no meaning to them. The state machinery is always geared to suppress, directly or indirectly, strike and all the democratic means of resistance through the draconian laws and despotic bureaucracy.
The basic rights such as minimum wages, proper limit of the working hours, ESI, job card etc. are not available to more than 90% of the industrial and rural laborers of India. Even after toiling for 12-14 hours at a stretch in hellish, unhygienic and dangerous conditions they hardly get enough money needed to fulfill their basic needs. Even in these days of severe price-rise, most of the factory workers are paid a paltry sum, ranging between 1800 to 4500 rupees per month for 8 hours of work. In case of death or injury due to the accidents occurring frequently in the workplaces, they are hardly compensated and often not even provided with the basic medication as well, and rather sacked from the job. Most of the workers here are contract, casual, wage and piece-rate laborers and not even a single labor law is implemented for them.
Under these circumstances, the workers of India, would like to let the Parliament and the Government Of India know that, they are not going to bear any more this anarchy and the atrocities meted to them. Enough is enough! They want justice and our rights back and we will regain it at any cost. This is just the beginning of a long campaign. And  as a first step towards  this, they are planning to present this charter to the people’s representatives occupying the Parliament and also the parties ruling at the centre  for  a dignified life,for living by  fulfilling our basic necessities of life, for their just and democratic demands and for gaining their legitimate share in the development of this country.
This charter has 26 categories of demands which represent almost all the major needs and political demands of the working class people of India.
On the forthcoming labor day (1 May, 2011) workers from several parts of the country will knock on the doors of the parliament in Delhi, along with this charter signed by thousands of workers across the country.
As for the present, the workers are not asking the deaf occupying the parliament for anything more than just implementing the basic rights guaranteed by the constitution of the land, for us. We are only asking for the minimum requirements a human being needs to live. The struggle of the working class has a long way to go but for the time being let us start this long journey with the demand for our democratic rights, as a first step.
The significance of this movement is that the workers are presenting their demands under the combined banner of the ‘Workers’ Charter Movement’ instead of different banners. Fighting different owners separately divides the workers and thus weakens the whole struggle, which ultimately benefits the industrialists. For this reason, the ‘Workers’ Charter Movement’ is presenting the common demands of the whole working class, in front of the rulers of the country.
Some independent labor organisations and unions active in different parts of the country and a labor journal played a major role in formulating the demands in this charter and a few small labor assemblies (Mazdoor Panchayats) also aided in this process; and they have taken the initiative to draft the charter and take it to the workers, but at the same time it also has to be clarified that this movement is not under the banner of any union, organisation or political party at all. The aim is that the ‘Workers’ Charter Movement’ should become the struggle of all those working people, whose demands are mentioned in the charter, thus to transform it into a unified struggle of the whole working class of the country. This movement is intended to run in several phases and cycles. A symbolic start is being made on the occasion of the 125th anniversary of the historic ‘May Day’. This is the first step towards the long march for the liberation of the working class.
Today, this start is a symbolic one because the vast working class population is divided and unorganised. But this cannot remain as such for long. The number of urban and rural proletariat along with the semi-proletariats in India, is about 75 crores. It will also gain support of the lower middle class, who are constantly been oppressed by this suppressive regime. When organised, it would become a very strong force. The demand for the rights of this three-fourth of the total population would go a long way. Since the past few months, teams of workers and activists have been visiting industrial areas, workers colonies, workers lodges, lanes and by-lanes in the slums – where ever workers live, to educate the workers about the charter and get it signed by them. Night meetings are held and street meetings and cultural shows are organised to popularise the charter in several areas.
We appeal to all the people to build solidarity and stand by this movement. If you are a worker then don’t forget to sign this charter yourself, get it signed by your fellow workers and also be present at Jantar Mantar (New Delhi) on 1st May. If you are not a worker, go to the labor colonies and slums around you, educate them about the charter and its implications, get it signed by them and come with us at the Jantar Mantar to express solidarity on the said date. Though the signatures in this charter should be of the worker’s alone but whoever agrees with these demands should certainly reach Delhi to express solidarity.
The middle class is evidently unhappy with the rampant corruption in our system but isn’t it the biggest corruption which constantly denies the workers, the fruit they yield with their blood and tears? There can be no justice when 80% of the population lives in continuous denial of their basic rights. Anguish of the people is mounting high and the day this dormant volcano wakes up, the pillars of the heaven will be terribly shaken for sure.
The beginning of every long journey starts with a small step. We invite you to join and stand by this campaign for rights and justice.
- Convening Committee, Worker’s Charter Movement – 2011.

Friday, April 15, 2011

Come and see the blood In the streets!


And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?

Come and see the blood in the streets.



Come and see
The blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
In the streets! 

Pablo Neruda
(Graphic by Naji)

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

...जाने क्या मिल जाए!!


मुझे कदम-कदम पर 
चौराहे मिलते हैं 
बाहें फैलाये!!

एक पैर रखता हूँ 
कि सौ राहें फूटतीं,
व मैं उन सब पर से गुजरना चाहता हूँ,
बहुत  अच्छे लगते हैं
उनके तजुर्बे और अपने सपने...
सब सच्चे लगते हैं;

अजीब-सी लगती अकुलाहट दिल में उभरती है,
मैं कुछ गहरे में उतरना चाहता हूँ,
जाने क्या मिल जाए!!
-मुक्तिबोध

Monday, April 11, 2011

Our Culture


      Our culture is a people's culture; our cultural workers must serve the people with great enthusiasm and devotion, and they must link themselves with the masses, not divorce themselves from the masses. In order to do so, they must act in accordance with the needs and wishes of the masses. All work done for the masses must start from their needs and not from the desire of any individual, however well-intentioned. It often happens that objectively the masses need a certain change, but subjectively they are not yet conscious of the need, not yet willing or determined to make the change. In such cases, we should wait patiently. We should not make the change until, through our work, most of the masses have become conscious of the need and are willing and determined to carry it out. Otherwise we shall isolate ourselves from the masses. Unless they are conscious and willing, any kind of work that requires their participation will turn out to be a mere formality and will fail. The saying "Haste does not bring success" does not mean that we should not make haste,
    but that we should not be impetuous; impetuosity leads only to failure. This is true in any kind of work, and particularly in the cultural and educational work the aim of which is to transform the thinking of the masses. There are two principles here: one is the actual needs of the masses rather than what we fancy they need, and the other is the wishes of the masses, who must make up their own minds instead of our making up their minds for them.----(Quotation from Chinese Revolutionary Leader Mao Tse-Tung ) 

Friday, March 25, 2011

No Higher Power


You suppose it wasn’t a horror at first
To think there’s no god and another force
Exists in the godless universe
To drive the planets along their course?

Maybe you think it was very simple —simple as drinking a glass of water—
For a soul of medium, average calibre
To acknowledge itself to be mortal?

No, it wasn’t easy one day to awake
And watching the stars roll down from their heights
To behold infinity and not to quake
At the thought that we, men, were simply mites!

Not so simple to break through the mist of frustration
For a human, in love with this life and this earth,
Finding out that thousands of generations
Long before him were doomed to death from birth.

No, it wasn’t easy to realise
Hard and clear, that you had to die
And all this beauty before your eyes
Would fade together with your restless I,

That life could go on without Allah or Saviour,
Heaven’s enticement or Hell’s torment,
So just overcome fear of death and brave your
Destiny with your head unbent.

Only boldly dispensing with the last of chimeras
That cut through the heart like the blade of a knife,
Can you put back your shoulders and in full measure
Know all the joy of this earthly life.

Hearing a human song resound
You’ll understand, stirred by Nature’s call:
No higher power or idea can be found:
Man alone is almighty after all.

Translated by Dorian Rottenberg


ALEXEI SURKOV

Friday, February 25, 2011

Strength of Metal


The Goths of old at baptism meekly wore
A look of doom.... But when the holy waters
Washed over them, aloft they held their swords,
Their fists unbaptised left for ever after.


Whatever the commandment’s stern behest,
Humility, like patience, has its limit.
Though kind at heart, yet clenched I’ll keep my fist—
And may there be the strength of metal in it.

Translated by Irina Zheleznova


YEVGENI VINOKUROV

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Life's Beginning



There were no toasts, no loaded tables,
No songs were sung when we were born,
And just our mothers at our cradles
Crooned over us a tune forlorn.



They carried us to work each day,
With none an eye on us to keep,
And while they stacked and forked the hay
They left us in the shade to sleep.



They toiled till dark and knew no rest
When night-time came and day was done,
For then they rocked us at their breast
And hushed us: "Sleep, my baby son.”



Some days they could not nurse or mind us,
And so we wouldn’t fret or weep
They stopped our mouths with pacifiers—
Rag dummies soaked in syrup sweet.



When harvest-time was at its height
They could not take us to the farm,
They left us, bundled very tight,
And prayed we wouldn’t come to harm.



We wriggled free and crawled outside
Into the sunlight and the heat,
And on the prickly stubble tried
To learn to walk on shoeless feet.

The world seemed strange and very new,
All things look different when you walk,
Familiar things you thought you knew:
The cat, the chickens, and the dog...

And stranger still—the rustling trees,
The moon, the thunder and the rain,
The silence and the rising breeze,
The creaking of the bucket chain...



Day followed day... The years rolled on.
Our shoulders broadened, arms grew strong.
With faces washed by many rains,
Dried in the morning wind and sun,
We started out upon our own.



Petrus Brovka


Translated by Olga Shartse

Friday, February 11, 2011

Everything Changes

Everything changes. you can make
a fresh start with your last breath.
but what has happened has happened.
And the water
you once poured in wine cannot be 
drained off again.

What has happened has happened. the water
You once poured in wine cannot be
Drained off, but
Everything changes. you can make
a fresh start with your last breath.

Bertolt Brecht

Monday, January 31, 2011

Narcissus



Child!
You’ll fall in the river!

In the depths there’s a rose
and in the rose another river.

See that bird! Look
at that yellow bird!

My eyes have disappeared
into the water.

Oh!
He’s slipping! Little boy!

… and I myself am in the rose.

When he was lost in the water
I understood. But I shan’t explain.

Lorca

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Radiation sickness


Radiation sickness!
                    Humanity
puts it bluntly:
          learn to endure.
The treatment
Takes an eternity,
and there’s little chance
of a cure.
Judgement’s passed.
No hope,
not a glimmer.

Is it fair—

          come, speak up and say—
that the heirs
of the Hiroshimas
for their fathers
                    are made to pay?...
Drops of dew
have a poisonous glitter,
and the air
pretends to be clean.
The complaints
          of the guiltless
                    are bitter,
malformed infants
moan and scream.
Mauled by time,
          our ancient planet
is a gaping wound.

 You are
omnipresent,
          and many-handed,
radialion sickness;
                    your scars
never heal.
Look!
    The calendar, grinning croukedly,
sheds its sheets....
          The deadly blast
fades away with the years,
                    but, wickedly,
time itself
you seek
to outlast.
In our blood-stream you rove,
                    sowing panic,
to our marrow
          you eat
                    your way,
like the germ
of an epidemic,
like the curse
of a blighted day.
You attack us in secret.
                    Your villainy,
like your sores,
is not pretty to see,
radiation sickness
          of calumny
swagger,
cowardice, spiteful glee!
It’s a fact,
          not a fruit of fantasy,
I am not
          sending words
                    down the drain.
Look how beardless
          these days
                    is hypocrisy:
it’s a sign
you’ve cropped up again!
 
Radiation sickness—
 how lavishly
You bestow your bounty.
                    Alas!
Exhortations won’t help
                    to banish you
from the planet’s
tormented face.
There’s no drug
in the medical cabinet,
there’s no doctor
          to spell your doom.
Time will kill you
                    in time.
That’s definite.
It’s a pity
it won’t be soon.

Translated by Irina Zheleznova

ROBERT ROZHDESTVENSKY

Night


Night
Lamp, candle,
firefly, lantern.

The saeta’s
constellation.
Little windows of gold
tremble,
and in the dawn the sway
of cross upon cross.


Lamp, candle,
firefly, lantern.

LORCA

Water

Water?
Yes, it’s water.
And here we have the surety:
It follows water’s laws;
It falls in drops,
It flows,
It passes all the tests of clarity and purity—
But does it serve to slake
Your thirst, or wash your clothes?
It scorns to deck its rim with rushes, reeds
                    and sedges—
No sheen of silv’ry fish in dim mysterious deeps,
No waving water-reeds. And round its tidy edges
No song-bird sings, and ne’er a willow weeps.

Water?
Yes, it’s water;
It’s proved by all the data,
Although it knows no wave of storm or strife.
And this
This H20
This aqua distillata
Has all that water has
Yes,
All but life.

LEONID MARTYNOV
Translated liy Archie Jolmstone

Sunday, January 9, 2011

Foolish Song

Mama,
I want to turn into silver.

Son,
you’d freeze.

Mama,
I want to turn into water.

Son,
you’d freeze.

Mama,
sew me into your pillow.

This time yes,
and straightaway!

LORCA

Saturday, January 8, 2011

To be Myself

I’ve had advice from everyone I know,
It was bestowed most subtly and astutely.
And all I did was nod my head: "That’s so.
You’re right.... You’re right, old fellow,
                    absolutely!”
          One finger stiffly raised,
          they’d clutch me tight
By the lapel.
          “I’m grateful beyond measure.”
I never argued:
          “Yes... Yes, thank you....
                    Quite.”
It cost me nothing, and it gave them pleasure.
"I do agree.... I do... That’s really clever!...
Without a doubt!... Of course.... I’ll think it over....”
      The harder did they try to shape my mind,
The more to be myself was I inclined.

YEVGENI VINOKUROV
 (Translated by Irina Zhelezrova)

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

The Oakleaf

The darkest clouds won’t terrify me,
I can withstand the fiercest winds,
I cling to life, all storms defying,
As to its branch an oakleaf clings.

Through autumn rain and gloom despairing
It blazes with a copper glint,
And when a vicious wind comes tearing
The oakleaf merely sways and rings.

In winter, when the cold turns mean
And every night a blizzard blows,
The oakleaf valiantly screens
The mother branch on which it grows.

But when the spring its magic weaves
The oakleaf welcomes it, enlhralled,
And ceding place to young green leaves
Upon the ground it softly falls.

PETRUS BROVKA
(Translated by Olga Shartse)