POST FACTUM

RESULTS OF THE TRANSTION CONTEST

We are happy to introduce the winners of the contest we announced in English No. 20, 2000. We received a lot of wonderful translations of the poem by Konstantin Balmont, so it was not an easy task to chose the best ones. We were greatly impressed by the creativity and imagination of our readers, as well as by their intimate knowledge of English. Unfortunately, we cannot publish all the translations we received, but we do hope that the participants of this contest would like to take part in further competitions. We’d like you to know that we are going to give some more inspiring tasks for you during the coming year and we are open to your suggestions and ideas for such contests.
We also really appreciate all the letters you, our readers, have written to us. You warm us with your kind words and favourable reviews, and your censorious remarks and criticism help us to perfect our newspaper and ourselves. Please, stay with us, and keep in touch!

 

 

 

 

БЕЗАЛКОГОЛЬНОСТЬ

Есть в русской природе усталая нежность,
Безмолвная боль затаенной печали,
Безвыходность горя, безгласность, безбрежность,
Холодная высь, уходящие дали.

Приди на рассвете на склон косогора,–
Над зябкой рекою дымится прохлада,
Чернеет громада застывшего бора,
И сердцу так больно, и сердце не радо.

Недвижный камыш. Не трепещет осока,
Глубокая тишь. Безглагольность покоя.
Луга улетают далеко-далеко.
Во всем утомленье, глухое, немое.

Войди на закате, как в свежие волны,
В прохладную глушь деревенского сада,–
Деревья так сумрачно-странно-безмолвны,
И сердцу так грустно, и сердце не радо.

Как будто душа о желанном просила,
И сделали ей незаслуженно больно.
И сердце простило, и сердце застыло,
И плачет, и плачет, и плачет невольно.

SILENCE

Some desperate sorrow, some grief of despair,
The secret of pain and the cold of the rise
Is felt in your tender, you motionless air,
The name of Russia, no end to your skies.

Come here on the slope on the birth of the day –
You’ll see over there, through the black of the pines
A trembling with chill crystal river in grey…
Your heart is in pain, and you feel that it cries.

There’s silence in peace, there’s peace in the silence,
The sedge with the reed never dare to speak.
The nature’s regarding the death of the sounds,
The meadows fly far, far away in fatigue.

Dip into the waves of the cool garden wild
The sun going out and closing its eyes.
The trees are so strange in the silent twilight…
Your heart is in grief, and you feel that it cries.

As though it was once undeservedly offended
When begging for what it had cherished a lot.
Now all’s in the past, but the pain can’t be deadened –
It’s weeping and weeping again with no stop…

By Ann Morozova, Pyatigorsk

STILLNESS 

The nature of Russia has tired affection,
The heart that is tacitly, painfully bleeding,
Immensity, stillness, in sorrow-dejection,
The vanishing skyline and distance receding.

My friend, if you come to the riveret steaming
The nebulous cool, while Aurora is petting
The blackness of forests still peacefully dreaming –
Your heart will be mournful, you heart’ll be regretting.

The reedshoots are quiet. The sedge does not quiver.
So deep and profound the silence of sleep is.
The meadows and fields run away from the river.
The world is fatigued, it is deaf, it is speechless.

My friend, if you enter the arbour recesses,
Where freshness is nice when the sun is just setting;
The reticent coppice with anguish oppresses, –
Your heart will be mournful, your heart’ll be regretting.

Imagine, your soul for a wish was appealing.
Some rude and offensive misdeed made it dying…
The heart has forgiven, the heart is unfeeling;
And having been injured your heart can’t help crying.

By Yana Slepchenko, Kurgan 

SPECECHLESS SILENCE 

Oh, tired tenderness of Russian countryside
And silent pain of its secret sadness
So desperate and speechless and wide
That rises high and cold and gives no gladness.

Come in the morning to the sleepy hill
Where it’s cool and misty by the chilly river
Where the forest stands so dark and so still
And feel how quickly you begin to shiver.

The reeds don’t move nor do the rushes
The silence is deep, so deep it seems
That meadows fly away like thrushes
And everywhere mute fatigue dreams.

Come out at sunset and slowly enter
The garden so cool and so forlorn.
The trees standing there look strange and tender
As though for someone dear they mourn.

The soul’s desire was hard to master
And pain was great and all undeserved
The heart stayed weary and numbed by disaster
Forgave its hurts and wept unobserved.

By X.Antonova, Tuapse