Евтушенко Евгений Александрович
5 стихов Евгения Евтушенко о любви и времени
Пять стихотворений Евтушенко о жизни, смерти и любви
Translated by Alec Vagapov. Alec Vagapov, translation, I fear the Greeks, even when they offer gifts HUMAN BEINGS To S. Thus people pass away, and they will not return. Their inmost worlds will never be reborn. Death is often more fragile. Something more than just ourselves. We remain as bits and pieces: Will you be from Hell released? And she obeys him in excitement I would keep living Snow flakes are falling Some day I shall go I do not believe in. Thank all the guardians of Russia! Thank their skillful, masterly hand. Do I get it right? Our children, too, are liars They, too, can be pretentious. And that will settle all. But who on earth was she to me? My sister, or my wife, maybe? Women, you are certainly the weaker vessels! How can you endure it? And the women, armed with crow-bars, shout: Women tend to flood geology these days. Why does it appeal to you? Kitchen work is a hard on you of course. Why make pretence at length? The way he runs about, he can go quite mental Why do we clothe our lies into a wedding dress? A vision is all right until it melts like ice. All houses in it were under lock and key. There was some wicked subtlety about it. So we set out Where did we flee? Have you deserted me, I wonder? Why long for it? It is deserted, dark! This magic power of the past! The dust and ashes are quite powerful things. They have a mystery of their own. Yes, you have changed a lot. We were dying there but we were still living. We loved each other still which meant we were alive. My love is turned to ashes. I used to be in love. I used to be alive. I wonder why they were trodden. A gift will always be a gift! Now why do I say it? It made the pharaoh feel inferior We fuss about, full of care Death is what we ought to be aware of. Happiness is distant and unreal. Trouble sees the earth in its true light. A nice sweet lie is poison in the ladle. As for me, at each step I get shy. Big is the coffin without flowers in it. As dense as taiga trees is our ignorance. My ma is getting old, to my dismay. You can depart quite easily, of course. But you and I will not revive. Forget the shade in our way. Love is for two. We have atoned for our sin You can do it in no time. How can we subsequently see each other? And can there be the double, yours and mine? Exclusively in our kids, I gather. Give me your hand It feels like giving them a chance to have their say. Perhaps, all is power struggle in this world: A rooster is engaged in power struggle. Over control of sand-box children wrangle. All has its limits in this world of ours: To say that talent is unlimited is wrong. Instead, I have her thanks! How could it happen? How can it be done? I have not just had my say. Great talent is alarming, alien: I have given way to weakness, I admit it. Conscience-smitten, I have hung my head. Now my first offence I have committed: And I tell myself: You should ground your complaints or else! It is nice to be self-pitying and humble. Everybody wants to be a saint. When they trample you, make no complaint. Poets seeking lenience are dead. The spirit of old tarry settings! How come you took it? Why were you so unwise? Enchantment is a wonderful sensation. But it can also be a menacing temptation Our life was outrageous! We should be buried live for that! When did we actually alienate each other? When did we lose our ability to chat? I hear you reply: I AM AN ANGEL. I do no drink. I love my wife. This way of life has made me sick. I shut my eyes to girls and women. My heart may break. The wings are growing! THE MONOLOGUE OF THE BEATNIKS. We rose above the rest for we were rigid. But take a careful look and you will see: There is no way: This fear is nothing else but love. Our eyes grow dim, our movements weary. THE KNOCK AT THE DOOR. Then I made a call. I opened up the door. There was no one there at all. Perhaps, it was a friend of mine? There is some idea behind a fairy tale, and I recall the dream I had long, long ago: Our good old tsar had asked me to come over, and he said the following to me: Go lay out green gardens for me on water and erect a white-stone palace there. Come along, you footmen, get this daring fellow, take him to the place along the bright blue sea, if, by morning, he does not do as I tell him he will lose his reckless head. So may it be! Show him to the sea, and make no bones about it And they grabbed me, holding tight, and lead me out, and they brought me to this steep, where I am now. I was broken-hearted, in a state of bother, I just wondered what I was supposed to do. Suddenly, I saw you burst out of water, as a fair nymph you came into my view! You looked at me, as if encouraging and cheering, then you trod upon the surface of the sea, and you stamped your foot You were wearing stylish boots with gold-embroidered filigree. As you raised your beautiful black eyebrows, pointing to the waves, they turned to a garden plot. Then, you cast a pearl down on the ground, and a white-stone palace sprang up on that spot. I stood there, stunned and overwhelmed with wonder watching you make islands, with a gracious smile, playfully, from one ear, then from the other, you withdrew a garden in a splendid style. You let out birds, laid bridges here and there, then you said: Go and have a sleep". Like a shadow, you slipped off and faded in the air leaving me, for the time being, on this steep. In the morning I was roused by a hubbub sound. Looking out I saw people stand and gape. Then I saw a huge acclaiming crowd, And they took me to the palace gate. Our tsar is kind to me and always takes me welcome. A free translation is not a fault. A loving man has a poetic license. Do not let pedantry restrain your style. More freedom, music, inspiration! The vast was blue, then red, chirps filled the air. Sysoyev, the crane driver, had a bad hangover. And he expressed his feelings with a swear. He was recurring to the wood. A village lass, a rebellious chick! But he had saved the bird with no intent. But the little boy is striving for release. The mother takes it all in real earnest: The mutinies, pretended snivels, cries
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