20-6-2004
Анна Александровна Баркова
Anna Alexandrovna Barkova
(1901 - 1976)
|
|
LINKS: |
||||||
|
Biographie en Français |
O | O | O | O | O | O |
|
Poemi in Italiano |
O | O | O | O | O | O |
|
Biography in Russian |
O | O | O | O | O | O |
|
Poems in Russian |
O | O | O | O | O | O |
|
Нечто автобиографическое
В
коллективной
яме,
без
гробницы, Октябрь 1953
|
A Few Autobiographical Facts
In a common pit, without a headstone, I shall finish walking my life's road. The pages of my writings, rubbed and faded, May be found by someone in the end; Perhaps he’ll be insane enough to like them, To like the vicious prickles of my verse, 'Genius and power of prophecy suffice here., He'll say. 'to make this stuff a name of sorts. And by the verb and adjective agreement I’d say it was a woman who wrote these texts, She was a restless soul and nothing pleased her , But she'd a sharp, a fierce intelligence. I'll send my pupils round the dusty attics, Yes. all the dusty attics in the town. With luck they'll find, I hope, some other matter That’s written in the same, though unknown. hand. The students sift the heaped-up sheets of paper . And grab assorted refuse by the ton. Mixing the sins I actually committed With other people's dull and trifling ones. All in good time these pupils get to work and- Enlightening themselves, enlightening others too- They write their dissertations by the dozen About my life, sunk in obscureness now. Their style's by turn gushing, dull, or dogmatic, From day to day hypotheses they mint, So in my common pit I'm fit to vomit, O, fit to vomit with the tripe they print. For reasons that the years have cloaked in mystery (For who can map the darkness of those times?) This poetess, we're loath to tell our readers, Was flung into a labour camp, it seems. Records allow us to make no suggestion Of how and for what reason she transgressed; Without a doubt her action was detestable, A crime that would make the law-abiding gasp. And whilst in prison, she was often beaten (So, at any rate, we may suppose), But her disciples all showed her devotion, And her students loved her none the less. From Fragment Number Eight we may construe that A patron of the arts came to her aid; But the paucity of evidence is such that We cannot speculate on names and dates. The other texts (q.v.) all have lacunae So that the work of many future years Is requisite if scholars are to pinpoint The reasons why this poet suffered thus. Oh! Poetess", not ..poet"! Please excuse me! But wait a moment! Let us pause for thought! Might it not be that there is some confusion, Might my mistaken not guide us to the truth? This intellect, so bitter and unsparing, Dear colleagues-surely it is masculine? Cool clarity of spirit so unwavering, The manner caustic, dry , as desert winds- Yes, all quite foreign to a woman's nature: Colleagues! We ought to track down all the facts, And when the evidence is on the table, We may determine character and sex. How much there is in this that's truly touching! How much of general interest in these themes! Well, to the documents! Begin researching! Gather the verse, prose, letters, all in reams! It seems our poet attained the furthest boundaries Of fame, poetic genius, and old age; And every town in Russia wished to tender For the chance to be his final resting-place; But his bones were buried in deep secret And proselytes in their devoted crowds Walked to the place of burial beside him Along a little path outside a town. They were decked by the night in starry robes of mourning, Torches were lit along the coffin's way... But regretfully I must inform you That we have yet to find the famous grave. ' But here my bones ring out in indignation, Beating against a stranger' s in the pit: What's this? I'm buried in a northern graveyard! You filthy hack, you're lying through your teeth! I know that your parade of erudition Is meant to net you a professorship; But readers who want to know what I have written Won't find me in your fly-blown vinaigrette. Beyond the grave they've given me a sex-change, When all my life, each hour, I was a she! Patrons- to hell with them. What use were patrons In the days that I was forced to see? And I never had a single pupil And they didn't beat me in the gaol; I was condemned by a ludicrous tribunal, And my ..crime" was just as laughable. I lived amongst young women who were stupidAnd old ones who were senile and ran mad; And the watery prison soup they fed me Made my flesh dry up, my spirit fade. The funeral procession and the torches Are all a figment of your clichéd brain- In a common pit my body rotted, Whilst alongside five others did the same.’
(c.1954)
|
|
Тоска татарская
Волжская тоска моя татарская,
|
Tatar Anguish
Tatar anguish. anguish of the Volga. Grief from far-away and ancient times. Fate I share with beggars and with royalty, Steppe and steppe-grass. ages gallop by.
On the salty Kazakh steppeland I walk, head bare beneath the skies; The mutter of grass dying of hunger, The dreary howl of wolves and wind.
So let me walk, fearless, unthinking. On unmarked paths, by wolfsbane clumps. To triumph, to shame, to execution, Heeding no time, saving no strength.
At my back lies a palisade of barbs, A faded flag, which once was red; Before me, death. revenge. Rewards, The sun, or a savage, angry dusk.
The angry twilight glows with bonfires, Great cities blaze. put to the flames; Knowing slave labour's agonies. They choke and putrefy with shame.
All is alight, all flies to ash. Yet why should breathing hurt me so? Closely you cleave to Europe’s flesh, Dark Tatar soul.
(c.1954)
|
||
|
|
Ты опять стоишь на перепутье, Мой пророческий, печальный дух, Перед чем-то с новой властной жутью Напрягаешь зрение и слух.
Не родилось, но оно родится, Не пришло, но с торжеством придет. Ожиданье непрерывно длится, Ожиданье длится и растет.
И последняя минута грянет, Полыхнет ее последний миг, И земля смятенная восстанет, Изменяя свой звериный лик.
1955 |
Ancora fermo a un bivio, mio afflitto spirito profetico, acuisci vista e udito davanti a che? Ancora un nuovo superbo errore.
Non dovrebbe, ma nasce, non dovrebbe, ma giunge solenne. Senza fine si prolunga l'attesa, si prolunga e cresce.
Scoccherŕ l'ultimo attimo, e la sua frazione deflagrerŕ, insorgerŕ la terra stravolta, alterando il suo volto ferino. Traduzione trovata qui |
|
Белая ночь. Весенняя ночь. Падает северный майский снег. Быстро иду от опасности прочь На арестантский убогий ночлег.
В душном бараке смутная тьма, На сердце смута и полубред. Спутано все здесь: весна и зима, Спутано «да» с замирающим «нет»,
1954 |
Notte bianca. Notte di primavera Cade neve nordica di maggio. Fuggo via dal pericolo Verso lo squallido alloggio dei detenuti.
La baracca afosa in una torbida oscuritŕ Il cuore ribelle e delirante, Si confonde tutto qui: primavera e inverno Un sě con un no smorzato.
Traduzione trovata qui
|
|
Где верность какой-то отчизне
Вспомянем с недоброй улыбкой
С покорностью рабскою дружно
Живет за окованной дверью
1932 |
What’s the point of faith to some fatherland, Why pretend that we’ve one settled home? Now, facing life’s judgement, each one of us Is merciless, indigent, strong.
With a sneer of disapprobation, We’ll remember our fathers’ mistakes; We know now that our sainted relations Were gambling for worthless stakes.
And with a slave’s quiescence We shall pay our blood-stained toll, In order to build a useless Heaven of concrete and steel.
Behind a door hoped with iron In the dark of our tortuous hearts A priest conducts godless rituals, A suffering saint, and a liar.
1932
|
|
Пропитаны кровью и желчью Наша жизнь и наши дела. Ненасытное сердце волчье Нам судьба роковая дала. Разрываем зубами, когтями, Убиваем мать и отца, Не швыряем в ближнего камень- Пробиваем пулей сердца. А! Об этом думать не надо? Не надо—ну так изволь: Подай мне всеобщую радость На блюде, как хлеб и соль. |
Scarlet blood and yellow bile Feed our life, and all we do; Malignant fate has given us Hearts insatiable as wolves, Teeth and claws we use to maul And tear our mothers and our fathers; No, we do not stone our neighbours, Our bullets rip their hearts in two. Oh! Better not to think like this? Very well, then – as you wish. Then hand me universal joy, Like bread and salt upon a dish.
1925 |
|
Жил в чулане, в избушке, без печки, В Иудее и Древней Греции. «Мне б немного тепла овечьего, Серной спичкой могу согреться».
Он смотрел на звездную россыпь, В нищете своей жизнь прославил. Кто сгубил жизнелюба Осю, А меня на земле оставил?
Проклинаю я жизнь такую, Но и смерть ненавижу истово, Неизвестно, чего взыскующ, Неизвестно, зачем воинствую.
И, наверно, в суде последнем Посмеюсь про себя ядовито, Что несут серафимы бредни И что арфы у них разбиты.
И что мог бы Господь до Процесса Все доносы и дрязги взвесить. Что я вижу? Главного беса На прокурорском месте.
|
He lived in a cold back garret In Judea, in ancient Greece. “I shall borrow the warmth of a lamb’s breath, Warm my blood with a match’s heat.”
He gazed at the constellations, Was a beggar, sang hymns to life; Who murdered Osip, * life’s lover, Yet chose to leave me alive?
With all my heart I curse life, But just as intently hate death. Who knows for what I am searching, Who knows for what reason I battle on?
No doubt on the Day of Judgement I shall laugh to myself in contempt When I hear the seraphs talk nonsense, And see that their harpstrings are frayed.
The refuse of denunciation Has seen sifted by God himself, And the acting Procurator Is the Master and Chief of the Devils.
22 January 1976 * The poet Osip Mandelstam, who died in the Vladivostok transit camp in 1938. |
ГЕРОИ НАШЕГО ВРЕМЕНИГероям нашего времени Мы герои, веку ровесники, Ворожили мы вместе с Блоком, Разрывали с народом узы Мы испробовали нагайки Трепетали,
заводя ромбы Мы всё видели, так мы выжили, 1952
|
The Heroes of our Time Our time has its own heroes, Not twenty, not thirty years old. Such could not bear this burden, No!
We’re the heroes, born with the century, Walking in step with the years; We are victims, we’re prophets and heralds, Allies and enemies.
We cast spells with Blok the magician, We fought the noble fight, We treasured one blond curl as keepsake, And slunk to brothels at night.
We struck off our chains with “the people”, And proclaimed ourselves in their debt; Like Gorky, we wandered with beggars; Like Tolstoy, we wore peasant shirts.
The troops of Old Belief Cossacks Bruised our backs with their flails, And we gnawed at the meagre portions Served to us in Bolshevik jails.
We shook when we saw diamond emblems or collars of raspberry hue: We sheltered from German bombardment And answered our inquisitors, “No!”
We’ve seen everything, and survived it, We sere shot, beaten, tempered like steel; The embittered sons, angry daughters, Of a country embittered, brought low.
|
|
|
В БАРАКЕ
Я не сплю. Заревели бураны С неизвестной забытой поры, А цветные шатры Тамерлана Там, в степях... И костры, и костры.
Возвратиться б монгольской царицей В глубину пролетевших веков, Привязала б к хвосту кобылицы Я любимых своих и врагов.
Поразила бы местью дикарской Побежденным в шатре своем царском Я устроила б варварский пир.
А потом бы в одном из сражений, Из неслыханных оргийных сеч В неизбежный момент пораженья Я упала б на собственный меч.
Что, скажите, мне в этом толку, Что я женщина и поэт? Я взираю тоскующим волком В глубину пролетевших лет.
И сгораю от жадности странной И от странной, от дикой тоски. А шатры и костры Тамерлана От меня далеки, далеки.
Караганда, 1935
|
In the Prison-Camp Barracks
I can’t sleep, and blizzards are howling In a time that has left no trace, And Tamburlaine’s gaudy pavilions Strew the steppes… Bonfires blaze, bonfires blaze.
Let me go, like a Mongol tsaritsa, To the depths of the years that have fled; I’d lash to the tail of my steppe mare My enemies, lovers, and friends.
And you, the world that I’d conquered, My savage revenge would lay waste; While in my pavilion the fallen Ate the barbarous meats of my feast.
And then, at one of the battles – Unimaginable orgy of blood – And defeat’s ineluctable moment I’d throw myself on my own sword.
So I am a woman, a poet: Now, tell me: what purpose has that? Angry and sad as a she-wolf I gaze at the years that are past.
And burn with a strange savage hunger, And burn with a strange savage rage. I am far from Tamburlaine’s bonfires, His tents are far away, far away.
Karaganda 1935
|
|
|
|
||
|
Помилуй, боже, ночные души. Не помню чье
Прости мою ночную душу
|
Forgive, O Lord, nocturnal spirits (I don’t remember who wrote this)
Forgive me, my nocturnal spirit, Take pit now, All around it’s quieter, thicker, The darkness grows.
I’m travelling to asphyxiation To November fogs. Forgive me my nocturnal spirit, My only love.
Sleep. I’ll eavesdrop on your reveries, Full of disquiet. Forgive me my nocturnal spirit Wherever you are.
21 January 1976
|
|
|
The last six poems were translated by Catriona Kelly, translations found in “Till my Tale is told – Women’s memoirs of the Gulag”, edited by Simeon Vilensky, Indiana University Press, Bloomington, 1999 ISBN 0-253-33464-0 |