Translated Poem: Maria Petrovykh’s “Muse”

When I asked a professor of Russian at my university for suggestions on lesser-known and less frequently translated Russian poets, she suggested Silver Age poet Maria Petrovykh. Petrovykh was friends with such luminaries as Anna Akhmatova and Osip Mandelstam, and although they appreciated her work, she didn’t publish much or get a whole lot of attention during her lifetime. It seems she was more active as a multilingual translator of poetry (which made me even more interested in her).

Luckily, the university library had a few volumes of her poetry in Russian. Almost as soon as I opened the collection titled Домолчаться до стихов, I came upon a poem called “Muse” that hooked me right away with its beautiful imagery.

So, naturally, I had to translate it.

No formal translation this time, although it’s a shame to lose the rhyme and meter in the original, especially since Petrovykh’s own verses praise the “foaming rapture” or “foam of rapture” that comes streaming from the pleasure of rhyme. For those curious, her original poem was composed in what seems to be amphibrachic tetrameter (da-DA-da da-DA-da and so on) with masculine rhyming couplets (aabbccdd and so on, emphasis always on the final syllable).

This is the original (with a sound clip of me reading it, if you can stand my pronunciation):

Муза (1930)

Когда я ошибкой перо окуну,
Минуя чернильницу, рядом, в луну, --
В ползучее озеро чёрных ночей,
В заросший мечтой соловьиный ручей, --
Иные созвучья стремятся с пера,
На них изумлённый налёт серебра,
Они словно птицы, мне страшно их брать,
Но строки, теснясь, заполняют тетрадь.
Встречаю тебя, одичалая ночь,
И участь у нас, и начало точь-в-точь –
Мы обе темны для неверящих глаз,
Одна и бессмертна отчизна у нас.
Я помню, как день тебя превозмогал,
Ты помнишь, как я откололась от скал,
Ты вечно сбиваешься с млечных дорог,
Ты любишь скрываться в расселинах строк.
Исчадье мечты, черновик соловья,
Читатель единственный, муза моя,
Тебя провожу, не поблагодарив,
Но с пеной восторга, бегушей от рифм.

Since I don’t have a lengthy description of rhyme/meter decisions to lay out, I suppose I’ll just post my translation directly:

Muse

When I miss the inkwell beside me
and dip my quill into the moon—
into the black nights’ creeping lake,
the nightingale’s stream overgrown with dreams—
other harmonies spill from my pen,
silver-glazed with wonder.
They’re like birds I fear to grasp,
yet the lines flock, filling my book.
And I meet you, oh wild night,
whose lot and and whose origin are mine—
both of us dark to disbelieving eyes,
both of us of one immortal motherland.
I remember how the day would overwhelm you;
you remember how I crumbled from the cliff.
You’re always straying from the milky ways
to hide in clefts among the lines.
Oh wellspring of a dream and sketch of the nightingale,
my only reader, my muse,
I see you off, not with thanks,
but with foaming rapture streaming from rhyme.

The rhythm still doesn’t sound as I would like it to, so I’ll have to come back and think more carefully about the meter — but it’s getting there!

What do you think? Shall we see more of Maria Petrovykh?

Update! Amphibrachic Tetrameter Version

At the encouragement of a professor, I decided to create a version that tries to replicate the amphibrachic tetrameter, even if it is unrhymed. Here are the results so far:

Muse

When my hand slips, and I overreach for the ink
to discover I’ve dipped my dry quill in the moon—
the ebony nights’ ever wandering lake,
that silver-voiced stream overgrown with a dream—
alternative harmonies strive from my pen,
glazed silver, and coated with awe.
These sounds are like birds I’m afraid to call mine,
but still they flock in, flood my book to the brim.
And here’s where I meet you, oh night running wild,
whose fate and whose forging I share to the full—
we’re both of us dark to incredulous eyes,
both calling the same deathless motherland ours.
I remember how you would be conquered by day,
you remember me cracking and crumbling from cliffs.
Forever you’re straying from bright milky ways,
taking pleasure in hiding in clefts between lines.
Oh wellspring of dreams, and the nightingale’s sketch—
my muse, who alone reads these verses of mine,
as always, I bid you farewell—not with thanks—
but with foaming delight that runs streaming from rhyme.

Some lines, you’ll notice, are not tetrameter but trimeter…and some of the lines cheat on unstressed syllables…and I’m not sure I like the wording as much as the free verse version. In any case, it’s a work in progress, and I at least like the musicality of this one more than that of the first attempt!