One added indignity of the translation project I had to undertake to honor my late father’s request is that the novel I’m translating has a lot of poetry by the poets from the Silver Age of Russian poetry. These are great poets but most of them have not been translated. So I have to provide the translations. The very last thing I want to be doing is translating any poetry and especially the Russian kind. But duty calls. Here is my rendition of a poem by Vyacheslav Ivanov.

First, the original:

Может быть, это смутное время
Очищает распутное племя;
Может быть, эти лютые дни —
Человечней пред Богом они,
Чем былое с его благочинной
И нечестья, и злобы личиной.

And here is my translation:

It might be that this tragic time
Is cleansing our perverted tribe.
Maybe the cruel days we see
Will more humane and godly be
Than our past that was so fake
And lacking honor like a snake.

I’m substituting the “ch” alliteration in the Russian version with the “k” alliteration in English because it has a similar effect.

And here is my translation of a poem by Natalia Krandiyevskaya.

The original:

Свидание наедине

Назначил и мне командор.

Он в полночь стучится ко мне,

И входит, и смотрит в упор.

Но странный на сердце покой.

Три пальца сложила я в горсть.

Разжать их железной рукой

Попробуй, мой Каменный Гость.

And the translation:

To me, preserving the rhyme is more important than anything else. I’m a poetry philistine, and to me it’s not a poem if it doesn’t rhyme.

But Lord have mercy, what extraordinarily weird things does one find oneself doing our of grief.