Мы живем, под собою не чуя страны

Мы живем, под собою не чуя страны,
Наши речи за десять шагов не слышны,
А где хватит на полразговорца,
Там припомнят кремлевского горца.
Его толстые пальцы, как черви, жирны,
И слова, как пудовые гири, верны,
Тараканьи смеются глазища
И сияют его голенища.

А вокруг него сброд тонкошеих вождей,
Он играет услугами полулюдей.
Кто свистит, кто мяучит, кто хнычет,
Он один лишь бабачит и тычет.
Как подкову, дарит за указом указ –
Кому в пах, кому в лоб, кому в бровь, кому в глаз.
Что ни казнь у него – то малина
И широкая грудь осетина.

Ноябрь 1933
Осип Мандельштам (1891-1938)

We are living, but can’t feel the land where we stay

We are living, but can’t feel the land where we stay,
More than ten steps away you can’t hear what we say.
But if people would talk on occasion,
They should mention the Kremlin Caucasian.
His thick fingers are bulky and fat like live-baits,
And his accurate words are as heavy as weights.
Cucaracha’s moustaches are screaming,
And his boot-tops are shining and gleaming.

But around him a crowd of thin-necked henchmen,
And he plays with the services of these half-men.
Some are whistling, some meowing, some sniffing,
He’s alone booming, poking and whiffing.
He is forging his rules and decrees like horseshoes –
Into groins, into foreheads, in eyes, and eyebrows.
Every killing for him is delight,
And Ossetian torso is wide.

November 1933
Osip Mandelstam
Translated from Russian by Dmitri Smirnov

We live, not sensing our own country beneath us

We live, not sensing our own country beneath us,
ten steps away they evaporate, our speeches,

but where enough meet for half-conversation,
the Kremlin mountain man’s our occupation.

They’re like slimy worms, his fat fingers,
his words, as solid as weights of measure.

In his cockroach moustaches there’s a beam
of laughter, while below his top boots gleam.

Round him a mob of thin-necked henchmen,
he toys there with the slavery of half-men.

Whoever whimpers, whoever warbles a note,
Whoever miaows, he alone prods and probes.

He forges decree after decree, like horseshoes –
in groins, foreheads, in eyes, and eyebrows.

Wherever an execution’s happening though –
there’s raspberry, and the Georgian’s giant torso.

Osip Mandelstam
Translated by A. S. Kline

Stalin Epigram

We live, not feeling the earth beneath us
At ten paces our words evaporate.
But when there’s the will to crack open our mouths
our words orbit the Kremlin mountain man.
Murderer, peasant killer.

His fingers plump as grubs.
His words drop like lead weights.
His laughing cockroach whiskers.
The gleam of his boot rims.

Around him a circle of chicken-skinned bosses
sycophantic half-beings for him to toy with.
One whines, another purrs, a third snivels
as he babbles and points.

He forges decrees to be flung
like horseshoes
at the groin, the face, the eyes.

He rolls the liquidations on his tongue like berries
delicacies for the barrel-chested Georgian.

Osip Mandelstam
Translation by Darran Anderson

The Stalin Epigram

Our lives no longer feel ground under them.
At ten paces you can’t hear our words.

But whenever there’s a snatch of talk
it turns to the Kremlin mountaineer,

the ten thick worms his fingers,
his words like measures of weight,

the huge laughing cockroaches on his top lip,
the glitter of his boot-rims.

Ringed with a scum of chicken-necked bosses
he toys with the tributes of half-men.

One whistles, another meows, a third snivels.
He pokes out his finger and he alone goes boom.

He forges decrees in a line like horseshoes,
One for the groin, one the forehead, temple, eye.

He rolls the executions on his tongue like berries.
He wishes he could hug them like big friends from home.

Osip Mandelstam
Translated by W.S. Merwin and Clarence Brown

Our senses grew numb in this country of fear…

Our senses grew numb in this country of fear;
At ten paces they can’t our talk overhear.
But if we start a chat on occasion,
Each would speak of the Kremlin Caucasian.

Fat as maggots, his thick fingers wriggle and crawl,
Sure as stone weights, his ponderous sentences fall;
His moustache of a cockroach is grinning,
And his well-polished boot-tops are beaming.

Fawning “leaders” surround him: some go — others come,
As he plays with this hideous, half-human scum.
Someone hoots, someone howls, someone hisses,
But his goad driving them never misses.

His pernicious decrees tosses he low and high —
Like horseshoes — in the groin, in the ear, in the eye.
This broad-chested Ossetian is willing
To derive sweetest pleasures from killing.

Osip Mandelstam
Translation by Boris Meshcheryakov