Dream 0 Reality 1

I read a quote recently that said "the reality is rarely as good as the dream but always better than the office". We've been reminding ourselves of this quite a bit over the past few days. We arrived in Plymouth full of bonhomie and good spirits, ready to tackle a few pesky jobs and get sailing at last. We spent a few nights in a b&b and then decided to have our first night on the boat. Only one word springs to mind to describe the experience and that word is DAMP! It was hellishly damp - duvet, cushions, sheets, pyjamas, the lot. The following day, undeterred, we followed the advice of the boat yard sages to sand the hull to get it ready for a coat of antifouling paint (stuff you paint on the bottom of the boat to prevent weeds and barnacles from sticking to it). It was a drizzly and freezing cold evening and the messy, gruelling job took us the best part of four hours. afterwards, we were completely sodden, our hands were raw and blistered from the coarse sandpaper, our wedding rings were badly scratched and the lovely toxic blue paint was all over our clothes, faces and hair! No chance of a shower as the local marina was closed, so we dried off as best we could and turned on our trusty diesel boat heater ("heats the whole boat in 30 minutes!"). As it hadn't been turned on for ages, the exhaust was full of crap and poured smoke into the yard and into the boat! we let it run for a while, hoping the pipe would clear but 10 minutes later, the cabin was full of smoke so we turned it off and huddled outside til it cleared away. After this fiasco, thoroughly shattered, we settled in for night 2 on board...spent mostly shivering and putting on extra layers of clothes...at our lowest ebb, Tim said, "put me back in my cubicle!" We later found out that the temperature dropped to the lowest recorded for May in the past 15 years! Aaaanyway, we've managed to get ourselves pretty much ready to launch finally so the next update should be more upbeat! For now, here are some long overdue pix, of Waimangu when we arrived, me grinning stupidly at all the mess when we moved in, Tim looking like a na'avi from Avatar sanding the hull and the boat now with her new coat of paint.

Noch v Galitsii, Night in Galicia, Ukraine. By Velimir Khlebnikov. Trans by Aoife

Ночь в Г алиции

Велимир Хлебников

Русалка

С досок старого дощаника
Я смотрю на травы дна,
В кресла белого песчаника
Я усядуся одна.
Оран, оран дикой костью
Край, куда идешь.
Ворон, ворон, чуешь гостью?
Мой, погибнешь, господине!

Витязь

Этот холод окаянный,
Дикий вой русалки пьяной.
Всюду визг и суматоха,
Оставаться стало плохо.

(Уходит.)

Песня ведьм

Ла-ла сов! Ли-ли соб!
Жун-жан - соб леле.
Соб леле! Ла, ла, соб.
Жун-жан! Жун-жан!

Русалки

(поют)

Иа ио цолк.
Цио иа паццо!
Пиц пацо! Пиц пацо!
Ио иа цолк!
Дынза, дынза, дынза!

Русалки
(держат в руке учебник Сахарова и поют по нему)

Между вишен и черешен
Наш мелькает образ грешен.
Иногда глаза проколет
Нам рыбачья острога,
А ручей несет и холит,
И несет сквозь берега.
Пускай к пню тому прильнула
Туша белая овцы
И к свирели протянула
Обнаженные резцы.
Руахадо, рындо, рындо.
Шоно, шоно, шоно.
Пинцо, пинцо, пинцо.
Пац, пац, пац.

Похороны опришками товарища

"Гож нож!" - то клич боевой,
Теперь ты не живой.
Суровы легинй,
А лица их в тени.

Русалка

Кого несет их шайка,
Соседка, отгадай-ка.

Русалки

Ио иа цолк,
Ио иа цолк.
Пиц, пац, пацу,
Пиц, пац, паца.
Ио иа цолк, ио иа цолк,
Копоцамо, миногамо, пинцо, пинцо,
пинцо!

Ведьмы

Шагадам, магадам, выкадам.
Чух, чух, чух.
Чух.

(Вытягиваются в косяк, как журавли, улетают.)

Разговаривающие галичанки

Вон гуцул сюда идет,
В своей черной безрукавке.

Он живет
На горах с высокой Мавкой.
Люди видели намедни,
Темной ночью на заре,
Это верно и не бредни,
Там на камне-дикаре.
Узнай же! Мава черноброва,
Но мертвый уж, как лук, в руках:
Гадюку держите сурово,
И рыбья песня на устах.
А сзади кожи нет у ней,
Она шиповника красней,
Шагами хищными сильна,
С дугою властных глаз она,
И ими смотрится в упор,
А за ремнем у ней топор.
Улыбки нету откровеннее,
Да, ты ужасно, привидение.

Night in Galicia, Ukraine

Velimir Khlebnikov

Rusalka

From the planks of an old row-boat

I look down at river reeds,

Onto couches of white sandstone

I seat myself alone.

Dig up; dig up with the wild bone

The place you’re headed to.

Raven, raven – you sense a visitor?

My dear sir – you are finished!

Knight

Damn it’s cold here,

Wild wails from the drunken she-fiend.

All around me cries and chaos,

To delay would be senseless.

(He goes out).

Song of the Witches

La-la sov! Li-li sob!

Jun-jan – sob lehleh.

Sob lehleh! La, la, sob.

Jun-jan! jun-jan!

Rusalkas

(singing)

Ya yo zolk.

Zio ya pazzo!

Piz pazo! Piz pazo!

Yo ya zolk!

Dinsa, dinsa, dinsa!

Rusalkas

(they hold Sakharov’s textbook in their hands and sing from it)

In between sweet cherry trees

Our sinful faces flicker.

From time to time the harpoon, fishing,

Hooks us in the eye,

But our brook bears and tends us

Winding through the banks.

Let the sheep’s white carcass

Cling on that stump

And stretch bared teeth

To the reed-pipe.

Ruahado, rindo, rindo.

Shonoh, shonoh, shonoh.

Pinzo, pinzo, pinzo.

Paz, paz, paz!

Comrades buried by the Oprishki

“Knives out!” – that’s the war-cry,

Now you’re not alive.

They’re bleak fellows,

Their faces in shadow.

Rusalka

Whom does their tub carry?

Sister, have a guess.

Rusalkas

Yo ya zolk,

Yo, ya, zolk.

Piz, paz, pazou,

Piz, paz, pazah.

Yo ya zolk, yo, ya zolk,

Kopozamo, minogamo, pinzo, pinzo, pinzo!

Witches

Stanadam, magadam, vicadam.

Chuh, chuh, chuh.

Chuh.

(They stretch out into a flock and, like cranes, fly away).

Chattering Galician women

That Huzul is coming here,

In his black and sleeveless blouse.

He lives

In the hills with the tall Mavka.

People saw it the other day

In dawn’s darkness,

This is true, it’s no lie.

There on the standing stone.

Know this! Dark-browed Mava,

But he’s dead already, like an onion on your palm:

Grasp the viper tightly,

The fish song on your lips.

Oh from behind she has no skin,

She is redder than the red dogrose,

She is a queen with stalking steps,

She arches empress eyes - she

Uses them and looks straight at you!

She bears an axe on her belt.

She will smile without restriction,

Yes, you’re awful, apparition.

Ptaki, The Birds. By Czeslaw Milosz. Trans by Aoife

‘Ptaki’, ‘The Birds’ is the first poem in Czesław Miłosz’s early collection of poetry, Trzy Zimy, Three Winters (1936).

Ptaki

Czesław Miłosz

Już rok odnowień pianę na piaskach rozbija,

Pragnienie, sen i miłość odtąd nic nie waży,

Lekkie ręce, z chmur lekkich altana i schron,

Lekkie białe kamienie górzystych cmentarzy,

I wiatr, swobodny wiatr z dalekich stron.

Schodzi uczeń marzenia na północne kraje,

Ogniem błyszczy jak Cyrus, morduje pokrzywy,

Przewiązał gałąź wiśni i chce wody żywej

Szukać w jeziorze. O, wy ziemskie ciernie,

Cóż znajdę w tej przepaści, która łez nie daje,

Na połamanych polach, w lodowej cysternie.

Pod rozpalonym słońcem milczenie popiołów,

Dzień mija. Zimne szczęście, sen pusty, noc głucha,

Noc mija. Po kamieniach krok tauryjskich wołów.

Czym jestem, czym ja jestem i czym oni są?

Upici kwaśnym winem, czerwone wypieki

Zakrywają i rzędem nad brzegami śpią.

Milczenie długie, długie. Serce głód poraża,

Jakby pierwszy dzień świata nieruchomie stał.

Słychać z dna białych jarów dzwoneczki kuglarza.

Trąbka gra, dźwięk przerażeń śpiące ziemie budzi,

I podróżnicy, którym nadałem twarz ludzi,

To są ptaki, co we mnie gniazdo swoje wiły.

The Birds

Czesław Miłosz

The year of renewals breaks up foam on the sands,

Desire, dream and love won’t carry weight from now on,

Light hands, arbour and shelter from light clouds,

Light white stones in the graveyards on the mountainside,

And wind, a free wind from far away.

The student of dream comes down to the midnight lands,

Glittering with fire like Cyrus, he kills nettles,

He has tied up the branch of the cherry-tree and wants to seek

The water of life in the lake. Oh you wild thorns,

What will I find in this abyss, which causes no tears,

On the broken plough-fields, in the frozen cistern.

Silence of ashes under a sun set on fire,

Day passes. Winter joy, empty dream, hollow night,

Night passes. The tread of Taurus’ oxen on the stones.

What am I, what am I and what are they?

Drunk on bitter wine, they cover up their flushed

Faces and sleep in a row on the riverbanks.

A long, long silence. Hunger defeats the heart,

As though the first day of the world stood still.

The wizard’s bells are heard from the floors of white ravines.

The trumpet plays, the awful sound rouses sleeping lands,

And the travellers, whom I had given human faces,

Are the birds, who have woven their nest within me.

Intro

Greetings to all comrades and co-habitants of Cyberia! After several weeks of inactivity the time has come to finally post something of substance! This site was created to provide a forum for translators and those looking for translations. At the moment, the only translations posted are by the site owner, however, it is envisaged that other translators (friends of the author!) will submit work to the site. I also intend to create a section of works in progress / literal translation, as well as a comments section and perhaps some sort of voting system for what should be translated next. The author is based in Dublin, Ireland and local info about the (limited) translation scene here will also be shared.

Preliminary greeting

privet

10/06/2006: Boo!