10.10.14

I am currently reading Russia at the time of the Revolution by Alan Moorehead. While the book focuses on the political and cultural forces surrounding the events of the time, I'm sure the effect on the fine arts was as strong a force as it was on the political and economic course of the country. While there is always difficulty and interest in poems that have been translated into English, I thought I'd give it a go.

One of the names that kept popping up in my searches was Alexander Blok. He was born into a well-off and intellectual family in St Petersburg, and married the daughter of famous chemist Mendeleev. His family had literary members, professors, lawyers, and aristocrats, and his early work was influenced by philosophy and 19th century poetry, but as his participation in the revolution occurred, his verse changed to a political and social theme (this all from Wikipedia). Apparently he was also a stenographer at the interrogations of those who personally knew Rasputin.

One of Blok's most famous poems is The Twelve, which describes twelve apostle-like revolutionaries led by a Christ-figure. At the time, his fans decried it as being unlike his previous lyrical, mystical work, although he credited it as his best work. Nerdpop has a translation by Alecksay Calvin and a good accompanying article. From Calvin's text:

Prior to the work’s publication, Alexander Blok’s reputation was of an ingenious but almost remarkably uncontroversial and undivisive poet. Much of his poetry was widely revered at the time by everyone and their babushka and could touch both an exiled princess and a peasant anarchist. Blok’s reputation as one of the most eloquent Russian poetic voices since Pushkin had long been secure. He was respected, widely published, rarely criticized and stood at the head of the many entwined Russian “Silver Age” poetic movements, though he was most associated with the romantic, mystical, and sometimes formally experimental Russian brand of Symbolism. But then “The Twelve” appeared and in a lightning flash undermined Blok’s easy position. He was attacked from all sides. The various causes of such an intense public reaction to the poem are fascinating in themselves, but I am not about to elaborate on them in this short text.

He draws symbolist parallels between The Twelve and T.S. Eliot's The Wasteland, both in style and message. A short note from Calvin on the difficulty of translating poetry: "Though I believe that I was mostly able to effectively convey the basic flow, language-type, and the currents of meaning contained in the poem without too many sacrifices, any translation is a sketch compared to the original, or at best a reinterpretation. The context always slightly shifts. However, I am reassured by the fact that certain parts of the translation came to me very easily, as if by magic, just like – I imagine – they came to Blok". Since the poem is epic in scope, I will only reproduce a portion of his translation, but I encourage you to seek out the full work.




2


The wind strolls, flutters the snow.

There are twelve of them as they go.


Their rifles’ black belts,
And around them – flames, flames, flames…
Rolled cig in the teeth, a crumpled hat,
Gotta stick an ace of diamonds to the back!

Freedom, freedom,
Hey, hey, without a cross!

Tra-ta-ta!
It’s cold, comrades, cold!

- Ivan and Katya – in the drinking hole…
- Inside her sock she hides Kerensky dough!

- And Vanya’s gotten rich as well…
- Was once our boy, he’s now a soldier!
-Well, Vanya, bitch’s spawn, boughie-man,
Try and kiss my ass, if you can!


Freedom, freedom,
Well, well, well, without a cross!

Katya and Vanya are busy,
Busy doing what?..


Tra-ta-ta!

All around them – flames, flames, flames…
Upon the shoulders – rifle belts…

Keep up the pace with Revolution’s thunder!
Our tireless enemy never slumbers!

Hold up your rifle, comrade, don’t you cower!
Let’s lodge a bullet into Blessed Russia!
Into the hardy,
And the wooden-hutted,
Into the fat-assed Russia!
Hey, hey, without a cross!

3

How our guys at once went off
In the Red Guard went to serve –
In the Red Guard went to serve –
To lay down their stormy skulls!

Oh you, bitter-bitterness,
Oh, sweet life of fun!
A torn up little overcoat,
And an Austrian gun!

And for the bourgeois to cry
We will blow our fires worldwide,
Fire across the globe in blood –
Worldwide fire, so bless us God!

5


Katya, right there on your neck,
There’s a knife-scar that remains.
Katya, right beneath your breast,
There’s a scratch and it’s still fresh!

Hey, hey, go on and dance!
Much too fine your little legs!

Strolled in lacy underwear –
Stroll-away-hey, stroll away!
With the officers you cankered –
Whore-away-hey, whore away!


Do you still recall the sergeant –
How the knife tore up his flesh…
Maybe, scum, you can’t remember?
Or is your memory not fresh?


Hey, hey, freshen up,
Let him sleep next to your lap!


Walked around in those gray gaiters,
Guzzled Mignon chocolates…
With the junkers promenanded –
Going out with soldiers now?


Hey, hey, sin along!
It will liberate your soul!

9

The city’s noise has melted down,
Around the Nevsky tower silence hangs,
Even the town guardsman’s gone somewhere.
So party without wine tonight, my friends!

The bourgeois man at a crossroad stands,
Inside the collar hides his nose.
Beside him, cringes its coarse fur
And hides its tail some lousy dog.

The bourgeois stands like a starving mutt,
Without a word stands, like a question mark.
And the old world, just like some mongrel dog,
Stands right behind him, tail pressed to its back.

11

…So they walk without a holy word,
All twelve – walk far along.
All ready for any thing,
All regretting nothing…

Aiming their darling rifles
At a ghostly foe…
Right into the voiceless alleys,
Where snowstorm dusts alone,
They go…
And into feathered snowbanks -
Where boots get stuck in snow…

Their scarlet flag
Strikes the eyes.
Their measured pace
Resounds.

Their ferocious enemy -
Soon enough will rise…

And the blizzard dusts their eyes
Days and nights
Away…


Forward, forward,
Working folk!
Forward and ahead!

Blok became disillisioned with the revolution, and stopped writing altogether, saying "All sounds have stopped. Can't you hear that there are no longer any sounds?" Rapidly thereafter he became sick, and was recommended ot leave the country to convalesce, but was not allowed to leave Russia. When he finally received a visa, it was too late and he was already dead.