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Trefild Apr 12
no matter how he's telly-sold
in connection with the country he's running
he's hella cold
like in that game with hiding and hunting
unbearable and bare of *****
he plays the calm
but there's a name he's all
afraid to call
it's that Navalny that bugs him
rocking the already unsteady boat
so much that he's gotten
put in–to a pen; a chain of events the whole
blue marble is watching
since that poisoning prior to the 2020 fall
bugged like the Kremlin halls
by a sterling mole
every luster, every wall
even where you pay a call
therefore, ***, beware of jaw–
–ing, it's not safe at all
[jaw in]
to ones getting Russian-TV-fed and those
not plugged in like a telephone
before the renovation hit
the doorstep of the Idokopas dwelling told
to belong to that ex-KGBist
[cagey/cage a beast]
the house was rather whelmed with gold
had a Las Vegas taste to it
by dint of a gambling zone
had a lounge with a stage equipped
with a metal pole
something's gonna get raised, a tip
like an extra dough
as a form of favor; get
some shots for a centerfold
if you fancy getting a prize (skrrt)
but with jesting aside
he must think he's exceptional
to him and his men that hold
their henchman roles
all those petty folks
are nothing but expendables
THE MUSE by Anna Akhmatova

This is my English translation of an epigram by Anna Akhmatova …

The MUSE
by Anna Akhmatova
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My being hangs by a thread tonight
as I await a Muse no human pen can command.
The desires of my heart — youth, liberty, glory —
now depend on the Maid with the flute in her hand.

Look! Now she arrives; she flings back her veil;
I meet her grave eyes — calm, implacable, pitiless.
“Temptress, confess!
Are you the one who gave Dante hell?”

She answers, “Yes.”



I have also translated this tribute poem written by Marina Tsvetaeva for Anna Akhmatova:

Excerpt from “Poems for Akhmatova”
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You outshine everything, even the sun
at its zenith. The stars are yours!
If only I could sweep like the wind
through some unbarred door,
gratefully, to where you are...

to hesitantly stammer, suddenly shy,
lowering my eyes before you, my lovely mistress,
petulant, chastened, overcome by tears,
as a child sobs to receive forgiveness...


Keywords/Tags: Anna Akhmatova, Marina Tsvetaeva, Russia, Russian, translation, Muse, sun, stars, poems, poetry, poets, writing, mrbtran
Trefild Jul 2020
you'd be PUT INto confinement
in a lunatic asylum
for posting a pic. some look at as quite spiteful
[for some info, check the notes]
doing what Navalny
does, you would get a fine in
the sum of a few tens of millions of rubles & aside from
that, your bank account would get frozen
[not to mention later things happened to him]
that's Putin being riley
and for certain content getting posted
you'd get your front door chainsawed in
the middle of the night by special forces
after they have stormed in
you'd get toppled to the floor, then
you'd get beaten
the whole picture's having your li'l kids screaming
then some of your stuff becomes forfeit
later, it turns out you aren't the right person
they've left with your property stolen
that's the rotten syst. working
anomie's growing
US Eng

The picture's Russian-language caption translates as
"get an axe, meet guests from mountains".
People of the Caucasus - that's what thought those lead the case and taken the posted picture as offensive.
Moreover, the picture was posted by tens of other users, but those lead the case don't care about that fact.

The source (a Russian-language article): echo.msk.ru/blog/atanor/1166002-echo
Michael R Burch May 2020
I Know The Truth
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I know the truth―abandon lesser truths!
There's no need for anyone living to struggle!
See? Evening falls, night quickly descends!
So why the useless disputes―generals, poets, lovers?

The wind is calming now; the earth is bathed in dew;
the stars' infernos will soon freeze in the heavens.
And soon we'll sleep together, under the earth,
we who never gave each other a moment's rest above it.

###

I Know The Truth (Alternate Ending)
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I know the truth―abandon lesser truths!
There's no need for anyone living to struggle!
See? Evening falls, night quickly descends!
So why the useless disputes―generals, poets, lovers?

The wind caresses the grasses; the earth gleams, damp with dew;
the stars' infernos will soon freeze in the heavens.
And soon we'll lie together under the earth,
we who were never united above it.

###

Poems about Moscow
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

5
Above the city Saint Peter once remanded to hell
now rolls the delirious thunder of the bells.

As the thundering high tide eventually reverses,
so, too, the woman who once bore your curses.

To you, O Great Peter, and you, O Great Tsar, I kneel!
And yet the bells above me continually peal.

And while they keep ringing out of the pure blue sky,
Moscow's eminence is something I can't deny...

though sixteen hundred churches, nearby and afar,
all gaily laugh at the hubris of the Tsars.


8
Moscow, what a vast
uncouth hostel of a home!
In Russia all are homeless
so all to you must come.

A knife stuck in each boot-top,
each back with its shameful brand,
we heard you from far away.
You called us: here we stand.

Because you branded us criminals
for every known kind of ill,
we seek the all-compassionate Saint,
the haloed one who heals.

And there behind that narrow door
where the uncouth rabble pour,
we seek the red-gold radiant heart
of Iver, who loved the poor.

Now, as "Halleluiah" floods
bright fields that blaze to the west,
O sacred Russian soil,
I kneel here to kiss your breast!

###

Insomnia
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

2
In my enormous city it is night
as from my house I step beyond the light;
some people think I'm daughter, mistress, wife...
but I am like the blackest thought of night.

July's wind sweeps a way for me to stray
toward soft music faintly blowing, somewhere.
The wind may blow until bright dawn, new day,
but will my heart in its rib-cage really care?

Black poplars brushing windows filled with light...
strange leaves in hand... faint music from distant towers...
retracing my steps, there's nobody lagging behind...
This shadow called me? There's nobody here to find.

The lights are like golden beads on invisible threads...
the taste of dark night in my mouth is a bitter leaf...
O, free me from shackles of being myself by day!
Friends, please understand: I'm only a dreamlike belief.

###

Poems for Akhmatova
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

4
You outshine everything, even the sun
at its zenith. The stars are yours!
If only I could sweep like the wind
through some unbarred door,
gratefully, to where you are...

to hesitantly stammer, suddenly shy,
lowering my eyes before you, my lovely mistress,
petulant, chastened, overcome by tears,
as a child sobs to receive forgiveness...

###

This gypsy passion of parting!
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This gypsy passion of parting!
We meet, and are ready for flight!
I rest my dazed head in my hands,
and think, staring into the night...

that no one, perusing our letters,
will ever understand the real depth
of just how sacrilegious we were,
which is to say we had faith,

in ourselves.

###

The Appointment
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I will be late for the appointed meeting.
When I arrive, my hair will be gray,
because I abused spring.
And your expectations were much too high!

I shall feel the effects of the bitter mercury for years.
(Ophelia tasted, but didn't spit out, the rue.)
I will trudge across mountains and deserts,
trampling souls and hands without flinching,

living on, as the earth continues
with blood in every thicket and creek.
But always Ophelia's pallid face will peer out
from between the grasses bordering each stream.

She took a swig of passion, only to fill her mouth
with silt. Like a shaft of light on metal,
I set my sights on you, highly. Much too high
in the sky, where I have appointed my dust its burial.

###

Rails
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The railway bed's steel-blue parallel tracks
are ruled out, neatly as musical staves.

Over them, people are transported
like possessed Pushkin creatures
whose song has been silenced.
See them: arriving, departing?

And yet they still linger,
the note of their pain remaining...
always rising higher than love, as the poles freeze
to the embankment, like Lot's wife transformed to salt, forever.

Despair has arranged my fate
as someone arranges a wedding;
then, like a voiceless Sappho
I must weep like a pain-wracked seamstress

with the mute lament of a marsh heron!
Then the departing train
will hoot above the sleepers
as its wheels slice them to ribbons.

In my eye the colors blur
to a glowing but meaningless red.
All young women, at times,
are tempted by such a bed!

###

Every Poem is a Child of Love
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Every poem is a child of love,
A destitute ******* chick
A fledgling blown down from the heights above―
Left of its nest? Not a stick.
Each heart has its gulf and its bridge.
Each heart has its blessings and griefs.
Who is the father? A liege?
Maybe a liege, or a thief.

Keywords/Tags: Marina Tsvetaeva, Russia, Russian, translation, Akhmatova, Moscow, Tsar, poet, poetess, poets, poetry, lovers, generals, truth, earth, stars, life, death, grave
Carlo C Gomez Aug 2020
April showers
bring with them atomic flowers,
strewn about Elena’s hair,
her forest painted
the colors of Red Square.
Children play in the fun zone
where radiation particles
are active and windblown,
forming flakes on rosy cheeks,
floating down toxic creeks.
The smell of graphite burning in a kiln
makes the nostrils flare,
what’s this metallic taste in the air?

Clouds drift over weddings
and Ferris wheels,
rain falls black and surreal.
Mother goes about her routine
humming dirges like a godless fiend.
36 hours to figure the science,
past time to evacuate
a city in brisk silence.
Brides scream and children cry,
from the fall-out they mummify.
Pripyat’s dying metropolis
they euthanize and lay to rest
in a sarcophagus.

And atop her shallow grave,
deep within the exclusion zone,
sit the sickened stems
and decaying fragrance
of nuclear flora over bone.
Here in the jackal's sanctum,
a capsule car on the lifeless
pleasure wheel
swings like a pendulum,
over a wooded lot with not a soul in sight,
only fresh morbid blooms
that glow in the night.
Insomnia, Insomnia, I really hate ya
you make me wanna call a terrorist
So he can blow you up after shouting Allah
hell yeah, America
It's either that or call Russia and China
so together they can obliterate ya
You understand, yeah?
how about the secret weapon
A secret weapon where I call up Yoda
so he can slice ya, yeah?
Insomnia, Insomnia, goodbye
I really really hated ya.
Created by me on January 10th, 2020
Nah, Insomnia isn't so bad. if I didn't have it, then I wouldn't be posting all my poems. Insomnia, Insomnia, I really really like ya. but not that much....
Michael R Burch Feb 2020
Я вас любил ("I Loved You")
by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I loved you ... perhaps I love you still ...
perhaps for a while such emotions may remain.
But please don’t let my feelings trouble you;
I do not wish to cause you further pain.

I loved you ... thus the hopelessness I knew ...
The jealousy, the diffidence, the pain
resulted in two hearts so wholly true
the gods might grant us leave to love again.

Keywords/Tags: Russia, Russian, Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin, modern English translation, regret, remorse
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