ГлавнаяПараллели-ru-enСтихи русских поэтов на английском языке«Лиличка! Вместо письма» Маяковского в переводах на английский язык

Три перевода на английский язык известного стихотворения Владимира Маяковского, адресованного Лили Брик, «Лиличка! Вместо письма».


Вместо письма

Дым табачный воздух выел.
Комната —
глава в крученыховском аде.
Вспомни —
за этим окном
руки твои, исступлённый, гладил.
Сегодня сидишь вот,
сердце в железе.
День ещё —
может быть, изругав.
В мутной передней долго не влезет
сломанная дрожью рука в рукав.
тело в улицу брошу я.
отчаяньем иссеча́сь.
Не надо этого,
дай простимся сейчас.
Всё равно
любовь моя —
тяжкая гиря ведь —
висит на тебе,
куда ни бежала б.
Дай в последнем крике выреветь
горечь обиженных жалоб.
Если быка трудом уморят —
он уйдёт,
разляжется в холодных водах.
Кроме любви твоей
нету моря,
а у любви твоей и плачем не вымолишь отдых.
Захочет покоя уставший слон —
царственный ляжет в опожаренном песке.
Кроме любви твоей,
нету солнца,
а я и не знаю, где ты и с кем.
Если б так поэта измучила,
любимую на деньги б и славу выменял,
а мне
ни один не радостен звон,
кроме звона твоего любимого имени.
И в пролёт не брошусь,
и не выпью яда,
и курок не смогу над виском нажать.
Надо мною,
кроме твоего взгляда,
не властно лезвие ни одного ножа.
Завтра забудешь,
что тебя короновал,
что душу цветущую любовью выжег,
и су́етных дней взметённый карнавал
растреплет страницы моих книжек…
Слов моих сухие листья ли
заставят остановиться,
жадно дыша?
Дай хоть
последней нежностью выстелить
твой уходящий шаг.

26 мая 1916, Петроград
Владимир Маяковский (1893-1930)


(Instead of a letter)

Tobacco smoke eats the air away.
The room,-
a chapter from Kruchenykh’s Inferno.
by the window,
that day,
I caressed you ecstatically, with fervor.
Here you sit now,
with your heart in iron armor.
In a day,
you’ll scold me perhaps
and tell me to leave.
Frenzied, the trembling arm in the gloomy parlor
will hardly be able to fit the sleeve.
I’ll rush out
and hurl my body into the street,-
lashed by despair
and sadness.
There’s no need for this,
my darling,
my sweet.
Let’s part tonight and end this madness.
Either way,
my love is
an arduous weight,
hanging on you
wherever you flee.
Let me bellow out in the final complaint
all of my heartbroken misery.
A laboring bull, if he had enough,
will leave
and find cool water to lie in.
But for me,
there’s no sea
except for your love,-
from which even tears won’t earn me some quiet.
If an elephant wants to relax, he’ll lie,
pompous, outside in the sun-baked dune,
Except for your love,
there’s no sun
in the sky
and I don’t even know where you are and with whom.
If you thus tormented another poet,
would trade in his love for money and fame.
nothing sounds as precious to me
as the ringing sound of your darling name.
I won’t drink poison,
or jump to demise,
or pull the trigger to take my own life.
Except for your eyes,
no blade can control me,
no sharpened knife.
Tomorrow you’ll forget
that it was I who crowned you,
who burned out the blossoming soul with love
and the days will form a whirling carnival
that will ruffle my manuscripts and lift them above…
Will the dry autumn leaves of my sentences
cause you to pause,
breathing hard?

Let me
pave a path with the final tenderness
for your footsteps as you depart.

Vladimir Mayakovsky
Translation by Andrey Kneller

Lily Dear!

In lieu of a letter

The room’s a chapter of Kruchonykh’s Inferno.
gnawed out by tobacco smoke.
Remember –
At the window,
For the first time,
With tender frenzy your arms I’d stroke.

Now you’re sitting there,
Heart in armour;
A day,
And perhaps,
I’ll be driven out,
To the bleary hall:
Let’s dress: be calmer,
Crazy heart, don’t hammer so loud!

I’ll rush out, raving,
Hurl my body into the street,
slashed by despair from foot to brow.
Don’t do it,
Better say goodbye right now.

My love’s a crippling weight
To hang on you
wherever you flee.
Let me sob it out
In a last complaint,
the bitterness of my misery.

A bull tired out by a day of sweat
Can plunge into water,
Get cooled and rested.
For me
There’s no sea but your love,
And yet
From that even tears can’t wrest me a respite.

If a weary elephant wants some calm,
Lordly, he’ll lounge on the sun-baked sun.
Only your love,
For sun and balm,
Yet I can’t even guess who’ll be fondling your hand.

If a poet were so tormented
He might
Barter his love for cash and fame.
For me
The world holds no other delight
Than the ring and glitter of your dear name.

No rope will be noosed,
No stairwell leapt in.
Nor will bullet or poison take my life.
No power over me,
Your glance excepting,
Has the blade of any knife.

Tomorrow you’ll forget
It was I who crowned you,
Who seared out a flowering soul.
The pages of my books will be vortexed
Around you
By a vain existence’s carnival whirl.

Could my words,
Dry leaves that they are but,
Detain you
With throbbing heart?

Let the last of my tenderness carpet
Your footfall as you depart!

Vladimir Mayakovsky
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg


Instead of a letter

Tobacco smoke corroded the air.
The room —
is a chapter in Kruchenykh’s hell.
Remember —
this window,
I stroked your hands in a frenzy.
Your heart encased in iron.
You’ll throw me out, perhaps,
one day.
My arm will break out in tremor,
while I
fight with the sleeve
in your dim doorway.
Lashed by despair I’ll run out.
I’ll become frantic
hurling my body into the street.
Don’t let this happen,
dearest, beloved.
Let’s say good-by now
and then let’s split.
I know,
my love,
it’s a heavy burden
and weighs you down
wherever you run.
Let me bellow out all words in —
one last cry of bitter complaint.
If an ox is exhausted by hard work —
it goes off
to lie down in cool sea water
to relieve the pain.
Apart from your love
there is no harbor,
and even through tears —
no respite from you to obtain.
When a tired regal elephant
craves rest,
it lies down in the scorched sand.
Apart from your love
there is no sun for me. The best
knowledge is not to guess
where and with whom you are. And
if she can so wear a poet
he would gladly trade her for
money and fame,
to me — there is no such joyful sound
but that of your beloved name.
I won’t throw myself down
in the stair-well —
when your face is dour —
nor drink poison
nor press the trigger
to my breast.
for your gaze,
nor razor has any power,
for your hands
there is no rope my neck to caress.
Tomorrow you will have forgotten
that I crowned you,
and burnt out a blossoming soul
with my love,
and the blasted carnival
of the fussy autumn
will ruffle my books
with a thunderlike laugh…
Will the dry leaves of my words
make you pause,
just for a second,
gasping for breath?
Let me at least,
lay the path for your,
departing steps
with the last tenderness.

Vladimir Mayakovsky
Translated by Alex Sitnitsky

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