A poem by Alexander Pushkin – Pouchkine, Pooshkin (1799-1837), in English translation
In lakeside leafy groves, a friar
Escaped all worries; there he passed
His summer days in constant prayer,
Deep studies and eternal fast.
Already with a humble shovel
The elder dug himself a grave –
As, calling saints to bless his hovel,
Death; nothing other; did he crave.
So once, upon a falling night, he
Was bowing by his wilted shack
With meekest prayer to the Almighty.
The grove was turning slowly black;
Above the lake a mist was lifting;
Through milky clouds across the sky
The ruddy moon was softly drifting,
When water drew the friar’s eye…
He’s looking puzzled, full of trouble,
Of fear he cannot quite explain,
He sees the waves begin to bubble
And suddenly grow calm again.
Then — white as first snow in the highlands,
Light-footed as nocturnal shade,
There comes ashore, and sits in silence
Upon the bank, a naked maid.
She eyes the monk and brushes gently
Her hair, and water off her arms.
He shakes with fear and looks intently
At her, and at her lovely charms.
With eager hand she waves and beckons,
Nods quickly, smiles as from afar
And shoots, within two flashing seconds,
Into still water like a star.
The glum old man slept not an instant;
All day, not even once he prayed:
Before his eyes still hung and glistened
The wondrous, the relentless shade…
The grove puts on its gown of nightfall;
The moon walks on the cloudy floor;
And there’s the maiden; pale, delightful,
Reclining on the spellbound shore.
She looks at him, her hair she brushes,
Blows airy kisses, gestures wild,
Plays with the waves; caresses, splashes –
Now laughs, now whimpers like a child,
Moans tenderly, calls louder, louder…
“Come, monk, come, monk! To me, to me!..”
Then; disappears in limpid water,
And all is silent instantly…
On the third day the zealous hermit
Was sitting by the shore, in love,
Awaiting the delightful mermaid,
As shade was covering the grove…
Dark ceded to the sun’s emergence;
Our monk had wholly disappeared –
Before a crowd of local urchins,
While fishing, found his hoary beard.
translated by: Genia Gurarie
email: egurarie@princeton.edu
http://www.princeton.edu/~egurarie/
Copyright ©:
Genia Gurarie
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External links
Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus
Talking Writing Monster’s Page –
Batty Writing – the bat’s idle chatter, thoughts, ideas and observations, all original, all fresh
Poems in English
- Dews of Silence by Raju Baruah
- Catching the Rain by Raj Napal
- Blame by Raj Napal
- Better Be by Raj Napal
- Be Prepared by Raj Napal
- An empty photo album by Raj Napal
- Your Dog Dies by Raymond Carver
- Written Manna by Rangam Chiru
- What The Doctor Said by Raymond Carver
- Tyburn by Ramesh Anand
- The Scratch by Raymond Carver
- The Passing Cloud by Rashmi Sreekumar
- The Mountain Crumbles by Rashmi
- The Moon’s Truth (before the war) by Reena Ribalow
- The Heart Chirps by Ramesh Anand
- The Current by Raymond Carver
- The Cobweb by Raymond Carver
- The Best Time Of The Day by Raymond Carver
- Stupid by Raymond Carver
- Still Life by Reena Ribalow
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Alexander Pushkin (1799-1937) was a Russian poet, playwright and prose writer, founder of the realistic trend in Russian literature, literary critic and theorist of literature, historian, publicist, journalist; one of the most important cultural figures in Russia in the first third of the 19th century.