Boris Pasternak (En>De>Ru)
Boris Pasternak in English and German
One of his most wondeful poems, a manifast frm1956.
I'vo found two translations into Englisch nut I don't know who is the translators.
Maybe somebody knows?
Which one find you better?
And also I have a german translation but without two last strophes (my favorite!), the translator is Ludolf Müller. Maybe somebody have the full text?
Many thanks!
(The last one ist the original russian text, if somebody like to have it.)
In everything I want to grasp
The essence underneath the nerve,
In work and on my chosen path
The languor that my heartstrings serve.
The essence of the days long past,
What are their purpose and design?
Which principles, which roots will last,
What core within the ball of twine?
And all the while to hold this string
Of life’s events and sundry fates,
To live, to love, to feel, to think,
To enter new and uncrossed gates.
If I could but elucidate
My passion whole or just in part,
Then I’d describe in lines of eight
What sparks reside within my heart.
Outlaws and sins would be my stars,
Pursuits and flights their lone resort,
And happenstance beguiled by scars
Would hasten palms and elbows forth.
Its law I would uncover bare
And show its source, its wellspring pure,
Its name I would repeat and wear
Upon my sleeve and soul demure.
And verse would grow in gardens mine,
A quiv’ring vein in every patch,
And there would bloom a linden line
Of single file and common back.
This verse would bear a rosy scent
And breaths of mint, and meadowed gaps,
And hay and sedge would too be lent
To scenes beneath my thunder claps.
So did Chopin infuse his staves
With wondrous life in greenest green,
Etudes of parks, of groves, of graves,
Estates which lived behind his sheen.
Both pain and joyous play arise
In all victories achieved,
A bowstring taut before our eyes,
Released in triumph unretrieved.
In everything, I want to reach
For the very essence.
In work, in searching for the path,
In the heart's turmoil.
For the essence of days gone by,
For their causes,
For foundations, for roots,
For the core.
I want to live, to think, to feel, to love,
To make discoveries
Always grasping the thread
Of fates and events.
Oh, if only I could
At least in part,
I would write eight lines
About the properties of passion.
About the transgressions, the sins,
The running, the pursuit,
The hasty inadvertences,
The elbows, the palms.
I would uncover its law,
Its source,
And I would repeat the initials
Of its names.
I would lay out poems like a garden.
In them, with every vein aquiver,
Lindens would bloom all in a line
Single file, one after another.
I would bring into poems a breath of roses,
A breath of mint,
Meadows, sedge, haymaking,
Bursts of thunder.
Thus Chopin once infused
With the living wonder
Of estates, parks, groves, graves
His etudes.
The play and pain
of triumph reached -
Is the drawn string
Of a taut bow.
In allem möchte ich zutiefst
Den Kern ergründen,
In Arbeit, Weg und Herzensnot
Die Wahrheit finden.
Ich dringe in das Wesen ein
Mit meiner Frage,
Bis an die Wurzel, bis zum Quell
Vergangner Tage.
Die Hand am Pulsschlag des Geschehns
Möchte ich halten,
Will lieben, denken, fühlen, sein,
Neues gestalten.
Oh könnte es, wenn auch zum Teil,
Mir nur gelingen,
Die Wesenheit der Leidenschaft
In Vers zu bringen.
Von Sünde gegen Pflicht und Norm,
Von Jagd und hasten,
Von schnellen Zufalls Augenblick,
von Glut und Rasten.
Ihren Beginn und ihr Gesetz
Würd ich erkennen
Und müßte ihrer Namen Klang
stets wieder nennen.
Wie einen Garten pflanz ich dann
meine Gedichte,
Dort werden Lindenbäume blühn
Zur Schnur gerichtet.
In meinen Vers dringt Minzenduft
Der Duft der Rose,
Das Gras, das Ried, gemähtes Heu,
Des Donners Tosen.
(Übrs. von Ludolf Müller)
Во всем мне хочется дойти
До самой сути.
В работе, в поисках пути,
В сердечной смуте.
До сущности протекших дней,
До их причины,
До оснований, до корней,
До сердцевины.
Всё время схватывая нить
Судеб, событий,
Жить, думать, чувствовать, любить,
Свершать открытья.
О, если бы я только мог
Хотя отчасти,
Я написал бы восемь строк
О свойствах страсти.
О беззаконьях, о грехах,
Бегах, погонях,
Нечаянностях впопыхах,
Локтях, ладонях.
Я вывел бы ее закон,
Ее начало,
И повторял ее имен
Инициалы.
Я б разбивал стихи, как сад.
Всей дрожью жилок
Цвели бы липы в них подряд,
Гуськом, в затылок.
В стихи б я внес дыханье роз,
Дыханье мяты,
Луга, осоку, сенокос,
Грозы раскаты.
Так некогда Шопен вложил
Живое чудо
Фольварков, парков, рощ, могил
В свои этюды.
Достигнутого торжества
Игра и мука -
Натянутая тетива
Тугого лука.