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Translating Lermontov’s 1831-go IYUNYA 11 DNYA

A discussion of some of the problems arising during the course of attempting a ‘musical’ verse translation of Lermontov’s early lyric poem 1831-go IYUNYA 11 DNYA is presented. A metrical analysis of the poem’s prosodic features is carried out in accentual- syllabic, beat-prosodic and musical terms. In particular, the Russian poet’s extensive use of enjambment and caesura to create rhythmic and syntactic tension between the levels of phrase and poetic line creates challenges for a translator who aims to preserve the rhythmic structure of the original while also using the phraseological resources of the target language to the fullest advantage. In the course of the analysis, it became apparent that some prosodic features, appearing both in the source text and the attempted translation, evade full description in accentual-syllabic, beat-prosodic and musical terms. Therefore, it also became necessary to introduce the concept of “flow”, which is derived from contemporary rap music and may partially correspond to the Russian prosodic term zashagovaniye. Readers are invited to assess to what extent the translation strategies employed in this case are successful in maintaining fidelity to the source text in terms of its (i) signification, (ii) form, (iii) emotionality and (iv) singability.

[PDF, 438kb]

I will survive

Cover design by Michele Winfield
I will survive

I will survive. The words make up the phrase
Sung by Gloria Gaynor to a tearful crowd of gays
In sad self-isolation. I’ll call a spade a spade.
The barman’s calling time on this identity parade…
I feel the longing of the lone long-distance lover,
Though, when it comes to sentiment, I keep it undercover.
My life matters… at least, to me… but why?
Who wills survives to will again… but who am I?

At breakneck speed, my form depends on vigorous mutation,
Cytoplasmic inheritance blown on constant replication,
At rates of reproduction, where the fastest is the slowest,
I infect my hosts, but only whose resistance is the lowest;
I’ll get my protein coat, I’m leaving, all these sad farewells…
I cannot live in freedom, spend my time locked up in cells,
Parasitically depend on that of which I’m most desirous:
I’m a virus.

I, I will survive
Oh, as long as I’m mutating, you can say that I’m alive
I've got all your life to live
I've got immunity to give and I'll survive
I will survive, hey hey

Dreamt up by colonials to prove their reign of terror;
Bounded by my neighbour, whom I’m doomed to always mirror.
Encroachment, conquest, slavery, revolt, extermination;
Reluctant to assimilate, I combat integration
In these rivers of blood, in which no man steps twice,
I want to play, but don’t want to play nice –
You’ll dominate, I’ll be your bitch, just tell me to my face
That I’m a race. 

I, I will survive
Oh, as long as I remember who I am, I'll be alive –
I've got all my life to live
I've got my heritage to give – and I'll survive
I will survive, hey hey

In my urge to penetrate into the mystery of the other,
I’ll impregnate my sister, lift my hand against my brother –
He, whose sacrifice was pleasing to the Lord,
I’ll mend his torment with my perfect sword –
And, wandering the earth, condemned to arbitrary freedom,
I invent bizarre machines to ease my suppurating tedium;
Inhabiting the world since time began…
I am a man.

And I’ll survive
Oh, as long as I’m determining myself, I'll stay alive
I've got all my life to live
I've got my cleverness to give and I'll survive
I will survive, hey hey

Receptive, all-embracing, I anticipate deflowering
That my idiot compassion spawn a Mother all-devouring,
Or an icy queen, whose reign entails a thousand years of winter:
I’m Karaba the sorceress, whose spine conceals a splinter,
To be plucked by Kirikou, who ungirds my underbodice,
To bloom into a beautiful and open-hearted goddess;
Embodying in truth exactly half of what is human…
I am a woman.

And I’ll survive
Oh, as long as I am nurturing, I know I'll stay alive
I've got all my life to live
And I've got all my love to give and I'll survive
I will survive, hey hey

All history is murderous, for dead men tell no tales.
As a player on this stage, whose life expectancy entails
That, in waging war or trade, I give no quarter:
I’ll be pensioned in the form of bricks and mortar;
And, like all such men rewarded for their violence,
I’ll endeavour that my victims rest in silence.
In terms of slave religion, aye, a sinner…
But I’m a winner.

I, I will survive
Oh, as long as I’ve got narrative, I know I'll stay alive
I've got all my life to live
And I've got evidence to give and I'll survive
I will survive, hey hey

I am the spark of grace that sets the universe ablaze,
Scintillating everywhere until the end of days;
The suffering and pain amongst the human population
Are but food for me; my drink – their rank humiliation.
The older that I get, the more I’m saving up my semen,
Storing vital energy for battling these demons;
While I’m waiting for the angels to arrive,
I will survive.

© Rap version based on the original song by Dino Fekaris / Frederick J. Perren. Additional lyrics written and performed by Thomas Riffmatch to a backing track arranged by Nikita Nikitin with backing vocals by Primavera, recorded and produced in Ekaterinburg by Andrey Bokovikov.

The Law of Noncontradiction

The Law of Noncontradiction is the second single from the forthcoming album ‘Heraclitus Flow’ by Thomas Riffmatch, produced by Andrey Bokovikov and featuring the electronic compositions of Nikita Nikitin. The Law of Noncontradiction also features backing vocals by Primavera.

The idea behind the song is that the logical law of noncontradiction is primarily experienced by us in terms of relationship. The position “If I’m right, then you’re wrong” is something familiar to all of us who have engaged with each other on social media or in the context of familial or intimate relating. This “excluding the middle” is what gives us a sense of our own essential “rightness” and feeling that we proceed from a “moral conviction”. However, it’s obvious that nobody has a monopoly on “rightness”! As my dear mother likes to jest: “When they said I had finally met Mr Right, I had no idea his first name was ‘Always’!”

This theme is central to the concept behind ‘Heraclitus Flow’: no man steps into the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and it’s not the same man!

Cover design by Katya Fomina
Although people say I’m a bit of a one, to tango or foxtrot takes two;
Still, having the same sense at the same time, both of us cannot be true;
For a state to willingly give up its sovereignty, that would be gross dereliction:
On behalf of the crown, I therefore lay down the law of noncontradiction.

For every system that’s sufficiently expressive, there’s a provable – or not – proposition;
If I’m right, then you’re wrong – that’s the dialectic that structures our personal mission;
But all analytic statements are somewhat tautologous: is it a fact or a fiction?
I don’t care what you say if you don’t disobey my law of noncontradiction.

In violating each other’s identities thus, we find ourselves in a situation;
We run to extremes, excluding the middle, to obviate equivocation;
We aim to be justified, strive to always proceed from a moral conviction;
Though blissful, such ignorance is no defence against the law of noncontradiction.

If 'fire' and 'not fire' are thought to be equal, the thinker’s subjected to burning;
Since feasting and fasting are one and the same, the student through hunger is learning;
We’re all of a surety lacking security, all of us facing eviction;
But, on my high horse, I still have to enforce the law of noncontradiction.

Like the self-amputation of a broad-snouted caiman undergoing a caudal autotomy,
Or the diachronic change in a epileptic’s brain following a frontal lobotomy;
Dividing into two antagonistic parts results in a vasoconstriction:
Permission dispensed to go up against the law of noncontradiction.

We are and are not what is now or to come, in a constant and fixed state of flux;
Though the road up and down are one and the same, both entail the giving of fucks;
Our action consists in the mills and the grists to work up the requisite friction
To find an explanation for each and every violation of the law of noncontradiction.

The one that is and ever must be is a truth that is always immutable;
The other that’s not – and must always not be – is a path that is wholly inscrutable;
For you cannot know what is not, or is so, to refute my despondent prediction:
All that’s desired must be paid for as required by the law of noncontradiction.

Respect things that are in the sense that they are, preserving the ship and the treasure;
Show all proper deference when making reference to that of which man is the measure;
Take on this handyman to feed the biters, all due to his excellent diction:
The collection of rent is ninety percent of the law of noncontradiction.

It’s both mutually exclusive and jointly exhaustive, now that I’m giving the flag salute;
But everything must be absolutely relativised in order to relate to the absolute;
Elenctic negation results in stagnation, all due to a chronic addiction
To think yourself better than the spirit or letter of the law of noncontradiction.

Restricting reaction in the same part or relation, a utopian state is thus frozen; 
At the same time, on the contrary, somehow, must always an action be chosen;
To be fixed like a hero on the frieze of the Parthenon’s to suffer a grievous affliction:
Till the day that I die, I’ll never comply with the law of noncontradiction.

©Lyrics written and performed by Thomas Riffmatch to a backing track composed by Nikita Nikitin with backing vocals by Primavera, recorded and produced in Ekaterinburg by Andrey Bokovikov.

Sail of Destiny Festival, Pyatigorsk, 13-19 October 2020

Portrait of Lermontov as a child

I am delighted to announce my invitation to perform at the 2nd Sail of Destiny festival honouring the work of the great Russian poet Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov. The festival, which will take place on 13th-19th October 2020 in Pyatigorsk in the Russian North Caucasus, is timed to commemorate the 206th anniversary of Lermontov’s birth in Moscow on the 16th October 1814. As well as participating in various pilgrimages to important Lermontov sites, including the location of his fatal duel on 27th July, 1841, I will be performing excerpts from my Lermontov song cycle entitled Жив поэт! |The Bard is not Dead! at a gala concert and other to-be-announced events.

I have been intensely interested in Lermontov’s work for several years now. Often ranked second only to Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin in the Russian poetic pantheon, Lermontov is, to me, the more interesting poet. Although in terms of the quantity and breadth of his output, Mikhail Yuryevich can’t claim Alexander Sergeyevich’s crown, he still managed to chalk up an extraordinary series of literary – and existential – accomplishments in his short 26 years on this planet. Even at the tender age of 17, he was already capable of sustained artistic brilliance as seen in his long prophetic poem 1831-го ИЮНЯ 11 ДНЯ (translated by me under the title When a harp rings out boldly in eternal halls of fame).

I first encountered Lermontov’s poetry in 2014, the year of his 200th anniversary, which coincided with a conference in Moffat (Scotland), the project to install a bronze bust of Lermontov in the nearby village of Earlston, home of his semi-mythical forbear Thomas the Rhymer (whose surname was Learmonth), and a request from Maria Koroleva – a Lermontov descendant and prominent Scotophile – to translate some of Lermontov’s poems in such a way as to preserve their music. At the same time, I was working with some Middle English manuscripts of Thomas the Rhymer’s semi-autobiographical masterpiece to produce a modern (Scots-) English version entitled Rhyming Thomas and the Faery Queen. Both of these texts would later form the basis for the song cycle Жив поэт! |The Bard is not Dead!

Rhyming Thomas and the Faery Queen was brilliantly translated into Russian by my long-term collaborator Mikhail Feygin under the title Томас Рифмач и Королева Эльфов.

Performing at the Philharmonia in Ekaterinburg with conductor Anton Shaburov

While translating Lermontov’s poetry, I noticed that the music of his language reveals itself through the act of translation. Perhaps this is true of all poetic translation. The result was the song cycle Жив поэт! |The Bard is not Dead!, which is currently being arranged for bard, choir and orchestra by the Ekaterinburg-based violinist and arranger Tatyana Terekhova. The score will be presented at a special event at the Lermontov State Museum-Zapovednik in Pyatigorsk on Saturday 17th October.

At some point, I hope that a performance of Жив поэт! |The Bard is not Dead! will be staged in full format, i.e. bard, choir and orchestra. For this, both artistic collaborators and sponsors will be required. Such a performance can either be in Russian or English (ideally both stagings will happen at some point), bringing the wonderful music of Lermontov’s poetry to life alongside that of his legendary forbear Thomas the Rhymer. If you are interested in helping this project come to fruition, please get in touch.


Hello! Whatever path brought you here, I am glad you made it! I’m Thomas Beavitt and global village bard is the artistic programme I founded. Here you will find not only my own work, but also that co-authored and produced with my various collaborators: translators, singers, dancers, arrangers, musicians, graphic artists, poets, composers, producers and more.

The main idea behind global village bard is that art – creativity, what we think our life is all about, etc. – is necessarily structured around a core activity. In this case, the core activity is writing and translating songs and poetry and performing them at concerts, festivals, various get-togethers and… these days, increasingly… online. However, as you will see, the core activity spawns a wide variety of additional activities providing opportunities for others to make their own unique creative contribution.

Although I am a native English speaker, I live in Russia and speak Russian daily. I am constantly fascinated by the music of language and how this is revealed through the act of verse translation. This in turn seems to stimulate all kind of visualisations and creations featuring other peoples’ unique takes on what it means to be a human being.

I hope that you find the idea of the global village bard stimulating to your own creative process. Maybe, like others already have, you will find a way to participate in the programme in the course of a future collaboration. Or perhaps you are a businessperson or cultural ambassador who can see the potential of using global village bard to bring attention to your project or promote your product. Either way, please don’t be a stranger! Introduce yourself! Tell me (and others) what you think! What is your mother tongue? Who is your favourite singer or poet? What art form makes you feel most alive?

The Bard is not dead! | Жив поэт!

The Bard is not dead! | Жив поэт! is a song cycle composed by Thomas Beavitt around English translations of eight poems written by the Russian poet Mikhail Yuryevitch Lermontov. Intended to be performed by a male singer either to a simple guitar or piano accompaniment or with full orchestra and choir, The Bard is not dead! | Жив поэт! can be performed in either the translated English version or the original Russian texts.

The demo version presented here, recorded in 2019 and 2020 by Andrey Bokovikov, is performed in Russian by Thomas Beavitt and features the voices of Ekaterina Ashrafzyanova, Rusha Grebenschikova and Ekaterina Maltseva.

Rhyming Thomas & the Faery Queen | Томас Рифмач и Королева эльфов

Rhyming Thomas & the Faery Queen

‘Twas at the breaking of the day
As wandered I in heartsome moan
All in the merry month of May
By Huntly Banks, myself alone.
The chirping finch, the warbling thrush
The blackbird trilling as he sang
The wild wood vale all in a rush
Till all the forest pealed and rang.

All in a longing as I lay
On mosses ’neath a spreading tree
Espied I then a lady fey
Come riding o’er the bonny lee.
And though I sit until Doomsday,
My fluent tongue to twist and try,
I could not hope in any way
To tell what vision met my eye.

Her palfrey was a dapple grey,
A finer mount you ne’er did see.
Her saddle shone so bright and gay,
All set with pearls down to her knee.
I looked upon her in a daze,
For ’neath the raiment she had on,
Reflecting all the sun’s glad rays,
I swear, her skin it fairly shone.

Her fair hair o’er her head it hung
As she rode o’er the bonny lee.
A while she blew, a while she sang
With no one to observe but me.
There was no man to hear her noise
Save Thomas as he lay alone –
Whose eyes appraised her graceful poise,
Whose heart at once was all undone.

Her hands they were as white as snow
That loosely held her raches’ trace
Her greyhounds ran in even flow
In concert with that lady’s pace.
Her hunting horn, she blew with pride;
On either flank hung tinkling bells;
A golden lyre set at her side,
Of which the minstrel’s rapture tells.

I lay there to behold that sight
From underneath the spreading tree
Said: “Thon is Mary, great in dight
That bare the child that died for me.
If I speak with that lady bright
I trow my heart should brak in three
But I will go with all my might
To meet her at the Eildon tree.”

Thomas gladly up he rose
And bounded o’er the hill so high
If it be as the story says
He met her at the Eildon tree.
He bent before her on his knee
All underneath a green wood spray:
“Lovely lady, rewe on me
O Queen of Heav’n, as well ye may.”

Then answered back that lady bright:
“True Thomas, let such phrases be.
For Queen of Heaven, I am not;
I’d never claim such high degree.
For I am of an ilk country
Where I am held most high in praise
When I ride o’er the bonny lee
My raches cleave to my device.”

“If thou be held most high in praise
And ride all o’er the bonny lee
Of love thou also must be wise –
Then give me leave to lie by thee.”
But she said: “Thomas, tell me why
I’d fain come down to lie with thee
To lose my virtue in your eye?
I pray thee, Thomas, let me be!”

“Ah lady, should’st thou pity me
Forever shall I with thee dwell
And here my troth I plight to thee
Whether thou go’st to heav’n or hell.”
“Man of mould, thou wilt me mar
Albeit thou shalt have thy will
But know it well, thy thrust be war:
For all my beauty thou shalt spill.”

Down then lit that lady bright
All underneath the greenwood lee
And, if the tale’s remembered right,
He seven times with her made free
She said: “Thou lovest well thy play
What bird in bow’r could dwell with thee?
Thou marrest me this lingering day
I tell thee Thomas, let me be!”

Thomas leapt up with a shout
As he beheld that lady fair
For horror! Seemed her eye was out
And on her head such loathsome hair!
With all her clothing laid away
Her naked body in its stead
Was fifty hideous shades of grey
All black and blue as beaten lead!

Then Thomas cried: “Alack! Alas!
In faith this is a dreadful sight
How thou art faded thus in face
That shone before like sunshine bright”.
On every side he looked about
But saw no place that he might flee
She was so haggard, grey and stout
He felt the devil she must be.

But she said: “Thomas, don’t displease,
For fiend of hell I’m surely none.
Albeit now I’m ill at ease
And suffer pains for what we’ve done.
You’ve pledged your troth, you’ve bound your hog
For seven years you’ll share my life.
You’ll serve your Queen in Tir nan Og –
Then hold your tongue and cease your strife!”

“Take now your leave of sun and moon,
The leaf that springs from every tree –
For seven years you will be gone
And middle earth you shall not see.”
“Alas”, he cried. “My heart is dust.
I trow my acts shall wage me care.
My soul to Jesus I entrust
Where’er on earth my bones shall fare.”

She led him down at Eildon Hill
All underneath the greenwood lee
For three long days and three long nights
He trudged through red blood to the knee.
And he saw neither sun nor moon,
But heard the roaring of the sea.
At last he cried: “Let help come soon!
For want of food I think I’ll die!”

They came then to an orchard fair
Where luscious fruit bore every tree.
Pear and apple, ripe they were,
Figs and grapes and sweet cherry.
The popinjay, the nightingale,
Canaries flitting tree to tree:
The chatter of the orchard vale
Collapsing into unity.

Thomas reached out with his hand –
With hunger he was nigh on faint.
But she said: “Thomas, let it stand
Or else the fiend will thee acquaint.
If ye pluck fruit, the sooth to say,
Your soul goes out to the fires of hell
And comes not out until Doomsday
But there in pain shall ever dwell.

She said: “Now Thomas, take not fright
And lay thy head upon my knee
And thou shalt see the fairest sight
That e’er saw man of thy country”.
Thomas did as he was bade
A sigh of yielding joy he heaved.
His head upon her knee he laid
His longing for the while relieved.

“See ye now yon simple way
That’s set amongst the distant hills –
That’s the path, the sooth to say,
For restless souls to break their wills.
And see ye now yon narrow way
That lies beneath the distant rise –
That’s the path, the sooth to say,
To all the joys of paradise.

“And see ye now yon desolate way
That’s set amongst the weary plain –
That’s the path, the sooth to say,
Where all damned sinners writhe in pain!
But see ye now yon citadel
That glitters high upon the green –
Of town and tow’r it bears the bell
On earth its like was ne’er yet seen.

“In faith, True Thomas, there I dwell
My lord’s the king of this country
You’d better burn for aye in hell
Than he should learn ye lay wi’ me.
So when ye walk wi’ me this way
I trow a courteous man ye be:
No matter what to you they say
Ye speak no word, except to me.

“My lord waits in a mighty hall
With thirty gallant knights and three
And I will say, in front of all
I took your tongue at the Eildon tree.”
Thomas stood as still as stone
As he beheld that lady fair,
Who once again shone like the sun,
And wondered at her golden hair.

Said Thomas: “Lady, what delight!
To live to see this happy day
For now thou art so fair and bright
When ere thou wert so old and grey
I beg thee, Thomas only tell,
Sweet Lady, if thy will it be,
At Eildon, when thou wert not well –
I trow ’twas not ascribed to me?”

“Indeed, and had it not been so,
The certain sooth I shall thee tell,
I had as well myself to go
Into the burning fires of hell.
My lord he needed but to sniff,
Who is the king of this country,
And straight away he’d caught the whiff
Of all the things I did with thee.

Into that hall they boldly went
With Thomas walking at her side
Ladies came and lithely bent
Their knees as they did curtsey wide –
Harp and fiddle they did play
The fife and drum, the psaltery
The lute, the bagpipe, singers fey
All manner of fine minstrelsy.

There was feasting, merry games,
Lords a dancing three by three,
Uisge beatha, comely dames,
Feats of strength and archery.
Thomas watched, his heart a thud,
As forty hinds were carried in –
The greyhounds lapping at their blood
The cooks with knives to flay their skin.

He heard and saw more in that place
Than word or phrase could ever tell
Until one day his lady says:
“True Thomas, we must say farewell.”
“My lady, I’ve but lately come,
My servitude is in arrears.”
“True Thomas,” she just laughed at him.
“In Tir nan Og, that’s seven years”.

“You must make haste your ways to wend
And take your leave of this country
For on the morn shall come the fiend
Among our folk to claim his fee.
Well do I know that demon’s way
He’ll crave your soul so couth and bold
Thus never shall your Queen betray
Her own true Thomas, man of mould.”

She took him out at Eildon hill
All underneath the greenwood spray
By Huntly banks, where the burn flows still
All in the merry month of May.
The chirping finch, the warbling thrush
The blackbird trilling as he sang
The wild wood vale all in a rush
Till all the forest pealed and rang.

Томас Рифмач и Королева эльфов

На листьях капельки росы
Игривый лучик озарил.
И лес невиданной красы
Свои объятия мне открыл.
Я в Хантли-Бэнкс, на берегу,
Встречал рассвет, и пение птиц
Звучало радостно в лесу,
И мой восторг не знал границ.

Раскинув руки я лежал,
Мне мох был мягче всех перин.
Вдруг топот конский услыхал.
– Похоже, здесь я не один!
Верхом на сказочном коне,
Навстречу мне летит она.
Красивей не встречалась мне,
Прекрасней, чем сама весна.

Сверкает жемчугом седло,
И сбруя золотом горит.
Вокруг всё стало так светло,
Горячий конь вперёд летит.
Его хозяйка так легка,
И вьются кудри за спиной.
Так пляшут огоньки в глазах…
Не понимаю, что со мной.

Завороженный я смотрел,
Как солнца луч играет с ней.
Пошевелиться я не смел,
Чтоб не спугнуть мечты своей.
Под тонким платьем кожи блеск
Мой взгляд цепями приковал.
Охотница, что вышла в лес,
Меня сразила наповал.

И даже гончих быстрый бег
Был грациозен, ей подстать.
Рукою, что белей, чем снег,
Легко ли было их держать?
Вот гордо в горн трубит она,
Перекрывая лай собак.
И лиры золотой струна
Поэту шлёт счастливый знак.

Своей догадкой потрясён,
Скрывался я в листве густой.
– О Боже! Это ли не сон?
Дева Мария предо мной!
Хотя бы слово прошепчу,
Осколки сердца не собрать.
Но, Боже, как я с ней хочу
У древа Элдон побывать.

Томас быстро побежал,
Перемахнул через ручей.
И если правду рассказал,
У древа Элдон был он с ней.
– Ты мне подарена судьбой,
Сказал он, пересилив страх,
– Я на коленях пред тобой,
Царица Неба, я твой раб.

– Томас, ты не угадал,
Сказала Леди так легко.
– Во мне Царицу ты признал,
Но до небес мне далеко.
Ведь я живу в таком краю,
Где каждый угодить мне рад.
Когда охочусь я в лесу,
Ищейки ждут моих команд.

– Уж если королева ты,
В любви, должно быть, знаешь толк.
Ты женщина моей мечты,
Дай мне твоей любви глоток.
– Зачем же, Томас, стану я
Тебе дарить свою любовь?
Чтоб тотчас ты забыл меня?
Прощай, не нужно больше слов!

– О, Королева, я клянусь,
Тебя не брошу никогда!
Я от тебя не отвернусь,
С тобой останусь навсегда!
– Ну как тебя не полюбить?
Таких как ты не знала я,
Но помни, после, может быть,
Исчезнет красота моя.

По телу пробежала дрожь,
И в жилах закипела кровь,
И если это всё не ложь,
Семь раз он доказал любовь.
– Ты, Томас, явно не из тех,
Кто просто любит тишину.
Тебе достаточно утех?
Теперь оставь меня одну!

Томас крикнул от испуга –
Так внезапно изменилась.
Его новая подруга
Вдруг в старуху превратилась.
На него она смотрела
Одним глазом, точно ведьма.
Её сморщенное тело
Было серое, как небо.

Томас крикнул: – Боже мой!
Какой же совершил я грех!
Что вдруг произошло с тобой?
Ведь ты была прекрасней всех!
Он посмотрел по сторонам,
Но некуда было уйти.
Как смерть она была страшна,
Ну просто Дьявол во плоти!

– Ну что ты, Томас, перестань,
Не стоит дьявола винить.
Мне и самой ужасно жаль,
Но ничего не изменить.
Ты дал мне слово, и теперь
Семь лет со мною будешь жить.
Придётся перестать скорбеть,
И Королеве послужить.

Прощайся с солнцем и луной,
Запомни этот дивный лес.
Ты покидаешь дом родной,
Семь лет тебя не будет здесь.
– Увы, разбито сердце в прах!
За свой поступок я плачу!
И умоляю я Христа,
Чтоб душу пощадил мою.

За ней от Элдонских холмов
Он шёл три ночи и три дня.
Вокруг лилась потоком кровь,
И он стонал, судьбу кляня.
Не поднимая головы
Шагал, шатаясь на ветру,
И думал: – Боже, помоги!
Ведь я же с голоду помру!

Они вошли в прекрасный сад:
На каждой ветке фрукт висит.
Здесь сочный спелый виноград,
И море яблок, груш и слив.
Здесь соловья весёлый свист,
Павлина красочный узор,
Все голоса прекрасных птиц
Слились в один чудесный хор.

Томас руку протянул,
От голода он падал с ног,
Но кто-то вдруг ему шепнул:
– Ты потерпеть еще бы смог.
Ведь если ты здесь что-то съешь,
Твоей душе гореть в аду,
Не зная никаких надежд.
Попробуй отвести беду.

Она сказала: – Прислонись
К моим коленям головой.
Откроется прекрасный вид,
Никто не видывал такой.
Томас так и поступил,
И голод будто бы пропал,
Ей на колени положил
Он голову и задремал.

– Есть в жизни всем известный путь
Страданий и душевных мук.
И тем путём шагают пусть
Те, кто в чистилище бредут.
Есть также в жизни путь для тех,
Кто просветления достиг.
Тех, кто не знает слова Грех,
Он в Рай приводит напрямик.

Проклятье вечное ждёт тех,
Кого из ада не вернуть.
Кто жизнь прожил ради утех,
И выбрал прегрешений путь.
Но видишь ли ту цитадель,
Что возвышается в горах?
Ведь красоты такой досель
Никто не видел в городах!

Там, Честный Томас, я живу.
Мой Лорд – король этой страны.
Но лучше нам сгореть в аду,
Чем рассказать, где были мы.
Когда пойдёшь туда со мной,
Не подведи меня, смотри.
Заговорит ли кто с тобой,
Молчи, со мной лишь говори.

Мой Лорд, в кругу своих солдат,
Задаст вопрос мне о тебе.
При всех должна ему сказать:
«Язык твой я взяла себе.»
Томас просто обомлел
И любовался на неё:
Она опять, во всей красе,
Сверкала золотым огнём!

Сказал он: – Леди, я так рад!
Прикажешь – стану как немой.
Ведь ты прекрасней во сто крат,
Чем ведьма та, что шла со мной.
Скажи лишь только правду мне:
Не я ли стал тому виной,
Что ты на Элдонском холме
Вдруг стала ведьмою слепой?

– Меня б он проклял навсегда,
Тебе, по правде, я скажу,
Пришлось бы долго мне тогда
Гореть и мучиться в аду.
Ведь Лорд пронюхал бы легко,
А он король этой страны,
Что мы зашли так далеко,
И были б мы обречены.

Они уверенно вошли
В огромный королевский зал.
И дамы поклонились им,
Оркестр громко заиграл.
Волныка, арфа, барабан,
И скрипок нежных голоса,
А также флейта и труба
Творили просто чудеса.

Веселье, танцы, пир горой,
Соревнования стрелков,
И виски, что лилось рекой,
Живой водой впадало в кровь.
Томас подивился вновь:
Несли оленей со двора.
Собаки их лакали кровь,
Сдирали шкуру повара.

Он столько повидал всего,
Что в двух словах не рассказать.
Но время кончилось его,
Она пришла ему сказать:
– Прощай, мой Томас, вышел срок,
Скорее собирайся в путь.
– Но как же так? Ведь лишь чуток
С тобой побыл я здесь, мой друг.

– Семь лет назад, но как вчера,
Тебя сюда я привела.
И вот расстаться нам пора,
Здесь скоро будет демон зла.
Придёт он дань свою забрать
И душу заберёт твою.
Мой честный Томас, не отдать
Тебя ему я не смогу.

И вновь на Элдонском холме
Под деревом волшебным он
У речки Хантли на земле
Лежал и видел сладкий сон.
Над головой шумит листва,
И коноплянки там и тут,
И свист весёлый соловья,
И гимн весне дрозды поют.

Modern English version adapted from four Middle English manuscripts by Thomas Beavitt ©2014. Russian verse translation by Michael Feigin ©2015

На смерть Байрона | On the death of Byron

На смерть Байрона (1824)

О чем средь ужасов войны
Тоска и траур погребальный?
Куда бегут на звон печальный
Священной Греции сыны?
Давно от слез и крови взмокла
Эллада средь святой борьбы;
Какою ж вновь бедой судьбы
Грозят отчизне Фемистокла?

Чему на шатком троне рад
Тиран роскошного Востока,
За что благодарить пророка
Спешат в Стамбуле стар и млад?
Зрю: в Миссолонге гроб средь храма
Пред алтарем святым стоит,
Весь катафалк огнем блестит
В прозрачном дыме фимиама.

Рыдая, вкруг его кипит
Толпа шумящего народа, –
Как будто в гробе том свобода
Воскресшей Греции лежит,
Как будто цепи вековые
Готовы вновь тягчить ее,
Как будто идут на нее
Султан и грозная Россия…

Царица гордая морей!
Гордись не силою гигантской,
Но прочной славою гражданской
И доблестью своих детей.
Парящий ум, светило века,
Твой сын, твой друг и твой поэт,
Увянул Байрон в цвете лет
В святой борьбе за вольность грека.

Из океана своего
Текут лета с чудесной силой:
Нет ничего уже, что было,
Что есть, не будет ничего.
Грядой возлягут на твердыни
Почить усталые века,
Их беспощадная рука
Преобратит поля в пустыни.

Исчезнут порты в тьме времен,
Падут и запустеют грады,
Погибнут страшные армады,
Возникнет новый Карфаген…
Но сердца подвиг благородный
Пребудет для души младой
К могиле Байрона святой
Всегда звездою путеводной.

Британец дряхлый поздних лет
Придет, могильный холм укажет
И гордым внукам гордо скажет:
«Здесь спит возвышенный поэт!
Он жил для Англии и мира,
Был, к удивленью века, он
Умом Сократ, душой Катон
И победителем Шекспира.

Он всё под солнцем разгадал,
К гоненьям рока равнодушен,
Он гению лишь был послушен,
Властей других не признавал.
С коварным смехом обнажила
Судьба пред ним людей сердца,
Но пылкая душа певца
Презрительных не разлюбила.

Когда он кончил юный век
В стране, от родины далекой,
Убитый грустию жестокой,
О нем сказал Европе грек:
«Друзья свободы и Эллады
Везде в слезах в укор судьбы;
Одни тираны и рабы
Его внезапной смерти рады».

Кондратий Рылеев

On the death of Byron (1824)

Amidst war’s horrors, what, alas,
Can e’er to sorrow be consoling?
To where they flee with mournful tolling,
The sons of mythical Hellas?
With blood and tears, her soil was nourished,
Embroiled in long and sore travails;
Again, cruel fate that land assails,
Where bold Themistocles once flourished;

To which, though perched on shaky throne,
Emir of ostentatious Asia
Was glad to court the prophet’s pleasure
And send post-haste the young and old
To famous Missolonghi, burling,
Where by the holy altar stands,
A catafalque with fiery brands,
Transparent smoke of incense swirling.

Lamenting, all around him boils
A multitude of mourners pouring,
As if in mausoleum; sov’reign
Rejuvenated Hellas roils
As if the age-old chains and fetters
Again were pressing down on her,
Those boots to which she must defer,
From East and West, her brutal betters.

Oh, proud czarina of the waves!
Pride not of force or brutes that tower,
But from her citizens, that power
Abiding in the child that braves,
With soaring mind, the dawning era…
Your son and friend, distinguished bard,
The evanescent Byron, scarred
In holy war by grace of Hera,

Out of the timeless ocean,
As years fly by, with wondrous power,
To seize the day, for now’s the hour;
What is or was is all in motion.
They’re fortifying their encampments
To rest the weary centuries;
Their brutal penitentiaries
Break whole worlds into fragments…

As harbours lapse in depths of time
And cities fall into abjectness
Of Amphitrite, once proctectress;
While walls of Carthage newly climb…
But noble exploits cheer the grateful
And long endure for youthful souls;
At Byron’s graveside, fans the coals
A dark polaris for the faithful.

A weary British wanderer
Arrives, his tumulus betokens,
By awed grandchildren here bespoken:
“Sleeps here a noble troubadour!
Who fought for England and the world,
Amazed the century – his role,
With Plato’s mind and Cato’s soul,
To carry Shakespeare’s flag unfurled

And ponder all beneath the sun,
Unmoved by schemes of Mars and Venus,
Obeying only laws of genius,
All other worldly claims to shun.
With baneful laughter, fate releasing
Those kindred ones he must console,
This dauntless, ever-ardent soul,
Though unrequited, loved unceasing,

While youthful peers their fortunes seek,
In exile, all their schemes surpassing…
The tragic cruelty of his passing
Revealed to Europe by the Greek:
“All friends of Freedom and our nation
Shall mourn at his and nearby graves;
While only tyrants, goons and slaves
Could greet his death with jubilation.

Kondraty Ryleyev

On the death of Byron by Kondraty Ryleyev. Translated by Thomas Beavitt ©2020

This translation was sponsored by Bella Evloeva

Герой | Hero

«Герой», Александр Пушкин

Что есть истина?


Да, слава в прихотях вольна.
Как огненный язык, она
По избранным главам летает,
С одной сегодня исчезает
И на другой уже видна.
За новизной бежать смиренно
Народ бессмысленный привык;
Но нам уж то чело священно,
Над коим вспыхнул сей язык.
На троне, на кровавом поле,
Меж граждан на чреде иной
Из сих избранных кто всех боле
Твоею властвует душой?


Все он, все он — пришлец сей бранный,
Пред кем смирилися цари,
Сей ратник, вольностью венчанный,
Исчезнувший, как тень зари.


Когда ж твой ум он поражает
Своею чудною звездой?
Тогда ль, как с Альпов он взирает
На дно Италии святой;
Тогда ли, как хватает знамя
Иль жезл диктаторский; тогда ль,
Как водит и кругом и вдаль
Войны стремительное пламя,
И пролетает ряд побед
Над ним одна другой вослед;
Тогда ль, как рать героя плещет
Перед громадой пирамид,
Иль, как Москва пустынно блещет,
Его приемля, — и молчит?


Нет, не у счастия на лоне
Его я вижу, не в бою,
Не зятем кесаря на троне;
Не там, где на скалу свою
Сев, мучим казнию покоя,
Осмеян прозвищем героя,
Он угасает недвижим,
Плащом закрывшись боевым.
Не та картина предо мною!
Одров я вижу длинный строй,
Лежит на каждом труп живой,
Клейменный мощною чумою,
Царицею болезней… он,
Не бранной смертью окружен,
Нахмурясь ходит меж одрами
И хладно руку жмет чуме
И в погибающем уме
Рождает бодрость… Небесами
Клянусь: кто жизнию своей
Играл пред сумрачным недугом,
Чтоб ободрить угасший взор,
Клянусь, тот будет небу другом,
Каков бы ни был приговор
Земли слепой…


Мечты поэта —
Историк строгий гонит вас!
Увы! его раздался глас, —
И где ж очарованье света!


Да будет проклят правды свет,
Когда посредственности хладной,
Завистливой, к соблазну жадной,
Он угождает праздно! — Нет!
Тьмы низких истин мне дороже
Нас возвышающий обман…
Оставь герою сердце! Что же
Он будет без него? Тиран…



Hero by Alexander Pushkin

What is the truth?


Fame’s lustre is as fancy free
As wicked sharpened tongue; and she
Alights upon the ranks anointed,
One brow gilds, then as appointed,
Another to the same degree.
And that to which last week they quickened
Men’s fickle hearts are now inured;
But he whose exploits fame has thickened
For long our gaze has now endured.
On gilded throne, midst bitter battle,
Who dwelt amongst a migrant line
Of those who brave the tittle-tattle –
To whom then does your soul incline?


To him of all – that scornful stranger,
Upon whose aura tyrants fawn;
That soldier who, despising danger,
Then vanished like a ghost at dawn.


So, when your mind thus blithely reckons
With this marvellous glittering star;
When, as from lofty summit beckons
A sainted pilgrim from afar;
Or then, if fray or flag suffices,
Or else the regal sceptre; then
How do you chart your journey when
A war’s fast-burning flame entices,
In blurred perspective flickers past,
Each triumph greater than the last;
And how the hero’s army shimmers
Before the hulking pyramids;
Or else, how Moscow darkly glimmers,
Accepts him first – and then forbids?


It’s not amongst his bosom kindred;
Not there I see him, nor in coup
D’état with Caesar’s throne rescinded,
Nor on the peak to which he flew
And sat, tormenting peace to zero,
Traduced by soubriquet of hero,
Tenacious like a mountain oak,
Enfolded in his warrior’s cloak.
That’s not the gist of my phantasma!
I see a line of beds arrayed,
Upon which groan the living dead
All pockmarked by a vile miasma,
The queen of plagues; but he in breath,
Not shamed by ignominious death,
Still paces wards at six and seven
And coldly shakes the deathly hand;
Thus, in a mortal frame of mind,
Invokes good cheer… I swear by Heaven –
Whoever plays his life out so,
Who lets each trial and tribulation
Inform his fading gaze once more,
Will be a friend to all Creation,
Whatever may be laid in store
By callous fate…


A poet’s cant –
The strict historian must harass!
His voice rings out again – Alas!
And where’s the world’s sublime enchantment?


We think the truth is what we know
When, coldly, from the median,
It gleams to tempt the greedy
And vindicates the vain! But… no!
The dark of lower truths is dearer –
We’re subterfuge aspirant…
Reflected in the mirror,
The hero’s face, or else… a tyrant…


Comfort yourself…

Hero by Alexander Pushkin. Translated by Thomas Beavitt ©2020

This translation was sponsored by Bella Evloeva