Poems of Alexi Mozgovoy (Brain) - Translated by Valdimir Suchan

[blindpig]

My translation of Mozgovoy's poem No. 18



It so happened that this and the previous poem ("To Mother") were coincidentally translated by me on the 40th day since Mozgovoy's death on May 23, which happens to be the holiday of Vladimir according to the Czech calendar.

As this daemon of this poem says, Mozgovoy's fate was a life of a soldier and fighter, but his life was also a bridge--from one Russia (a Russia of new dead souls) to Novorossiya, a Russia New and Arisen. Russian reborn. Mozgovoy's own personal and physical life is now over. This personal life has become ashes in the steppes of Cossacks' Don. Spiritually, Mozgovoy has, however, become a fire of Novorossiya--the light that illuminates the road ahead.


Burning bridges




When the bridges are burned,

The watercourse stays and separates

The two disjointed shores.

Only the wind is moaning a complaint,




Still we are trying to find a ford

In the streams of time bygone.

But one cannot enter any river twice,

And there is so much of what divides.




Fate’s bridges do thus burn,

And its fire clouds, fogs, conceals,

Thus our mistakes with long tails

Come out of lie and deceit.




But if you want to undo all,

There is nothing to find or see.

For you cannot even perceive

Fate which now a different life lives.




The river grows deeper, there’s no ford,

Only the ashes that were a bridge.

And so many years will pass and go

In the light cast by those bridges behind.




Горят мосты...




Мозговой Алексей Борисович

Когда мосты все сожжены

А берегов крутые склоны,

Потоком вод разделены.

И слышно только ветра стоны...




Пытаемся мы брод найти,

В потоке времени ушедшем.

Но дважды в реку не войти...

Да и преград не стало меньше.




В огне горят судьбы мосты,

Река в дыму словно в тумане.

Ошибок тянутся хвосты,

Рождённые во лжи, в обмане.




Захочешь всё назад вернуть,

По берегу пройдёшь в пустую.

Не сможешь даже заглянуть,

В судьбу теперь уже чужую.




Река всё глубже, брода нет.

Лишь пепел пылью под ногами.

Пройдёт не мало долгих лет,


Но всё горят, мосты за нами...



Posted by Vladimír Suchan at 11:35 AM

http://vladimirsuchan.blogspot.com/2...oem-no-18.html

[blindpig]

My translation of Mozgovoy's poem No. 19
It is now absolutely clear that Alexey Mozgovoy was not only a great Novorossiya commander and leader. He was and will also remain a poet. But he was not just a poet, he was and is also a prophetic poet. But it is now also absolutely clear that he was and thus will also remain a visionary and, as such, one of among the first founding fathers of Novorossiya. This third translation--third poem of his, which I coincidentally translated on the 40th day following his death (when, as they wise say, the soul passes from death's antechamber into the Eternal Light), confirms this:


How my time met Eternity’s part

My time has passed away Into the deep river’s banks.The black-eyed night and gypsyCame and stole my golden stapes.

With three birches I got lost,Without fear, without thought,And so my time, that dream,Is now where the endless starts.

There the universe keeps its heartWith my gypsy and her lasting night.There the birches’ beauty cannot die.Even the storm of May there plays a part.

Into the flowers, into the meadow grass,I threw my body, burden, and so my timeCame on distant ferries where it ends,And what is lost Eternity grasps.

Потерялось... мое время

Мозговой Алексей БорисовичВ берегах реки глубокой, Потерялось моё время. Ночь, цыганкой черноокой, Золотое прячет стремя.

Заплутало в трёх берёзах, Так наивно и беспечно. Моё время где то в грёза , Там останется навечно.

Посреди большой вселенной, Ночь-цыганку обнимая. С красотой берёз нетленной, И с грозой, в начале мая...

В луговых цветущих травах, Суеты забросив бремя. На далёких переправах, Потерялось моё время...


http://vladimirsuchan.blogspot.com/2...oem-no-19.html

[blindpig]

I have been dabbling trying to learn Russia and reading these poems is very interesting. One thing I'm fairly sure is that "stapes" should be "stirrups". Or else there is a usage of stapes that I don't know.

EDIT: or else it adds to the ambiance
KOBH

[blindpig]

Translation of Mozgovoy's poem No. 20 (Fate is like the Light of which poets that it is not unilinear)


Grace is like the morning mist

Grace is like the morning mist
For in each the steppe is masked,
Tonight’s Moon has silver hoofs
And all is dazzled by his shine.

Already are the clouds above
In the rows and on the move
Where soon, so soon I’ll rise
To see the final Moon of mine.

There in the scarlet dark
A raven in black is in sight,
The one who speaks and hums
To his friends his somber sounds.

In that mode he makes my bed
On wings as pitch as night
Under Lugansk’ lucid sky
Where all is quiet, all is calm.

And with that graceful lullaby
The steppe, the poplars, and the path
Will soon invite me up and high
—into the scarlet, steepest dark.



Благодатью степь укрыта...

Благодатью степь укрыта,
Как туманом в пред рассвет.
Лунным светом вся залита,
Серебром копытит след.

Табуном над степью тучи,
Гонит ветер в даль табун.
Скоро, скоро я там встречу,
Свои дни последних лун.

Вдоль багровых горизонтов,
Кружит ворон чёрной мглой.
Под минорный звук аккордов,
Прилетит мой друг за мной.

Пухом чёрным, смолянитстым,
Он разложит мне постель.
Под Луганским небом чистым,
Меня примет колыбель.

Колыбель степных просторов,
Вдоль дороги тополя...
Скоро, скоро бархат склонов,
Позовёт к себе, меня...
Posted by Vladimír Suchan at 11:14 AM

http://vladimirsuchan.blogspot.com/2....html?spref=fb

[blindpig]

Translation of Alexey Mozgovoy's poem No. 21: Mozgovoy's Call to Arms (A New Sacred War)



Cossacks, let’s rise up again!


I see the steppe in flames,
And soon the Don will roar,
The nation’s foe has returned.
Cossacks! Let’s rise up again!


Comrades, yours is grandsons’
Honor, valor, glory, and the call!
Against the enemy’s squads,
Ours will be a new life force!


Under the famed old colors
We shall stand tall and strong.
For victory you have come,
You, the Don’s brave sons!


Let’s be blunt—we’ve had enough
Of bowing low, back and down.
It’s time that we cleaned the sty
By cracking the enemies’ pride!


Be brave and noble in your fight,
And let the banners fly up high!
In honor of your fathers before
Wake up freedom in your souls!


My Cossack people, let’s rise up, rise up again!
This is your hour, this is your call!
It’s time to wage a sacred war!
For honor! For Russia we will stand!





Казаков набат скликает!
Мозговой Алексей Борисович

Степь огнями запылает,
Дон угрюмо загудит!
Казаков набат скликает,
Враг державный не разбит.

Вспомним братцы дедов славу,
Честь и доблесть казаков!
Над врагом найдём управу,
Силой новых Лейб-полков.

Станем стройными рядами,
Под штандарты прошлых лет!
Пусть гордится Дон сынами,
Рождены мы для побед.

Скажем прямо - надоело,
В пояс кланяться врагу!
Так возьмёмся же за дело,
И согнём его в дугу!

Высоко поднимем знамя,
Смелых, доблестных донцов!
Пусть горит свободы пламя,
В память дедов и отцов!


Вставай, поднимайся казачий народ,
Станицы, полки собирайте!
Пора выступать нам в священный поход,
За честь! За Россию вставайте!!!

http://vladimirsuchan.blogspot.com/2...s-poem-no.html

[blindpig]

Rendering of Mozgovoy's poem No. 22 (Formula for his ressurrection)


I hear voices rise and glide over the Don untamed

I hear voices rise and glide
Over the Don untamed,
The evening turned to silk,
And purple is its dye.

The whole steppe expanse
Speaks in that evening song,
Now the chorus and now just one
Spin and span the sky with joy.

Women’s love is in the air,
in the laughter, in the tune,
In it the heart is almost bare,
So is pleasure when plain and true.

So well they chant and spell
That your heart is for them to pluck,
To pick, to play, and you think
That their beauty is divine.

Till the dawn you want to be
In their notes both low and high,
Which, in refrains, songbirds repeat
In the boughs or in the grass below.

Suddenly the river too will join,
Forgetting to remain untamed,
And the waves will liberate
the Don from pain and anger.

Echoes will be trembling
Through the ancient woods,
When both the wind and trees
Are for each other alive.

How much I wish I returned
To these days—that music!
Then gladly I would go and sink
Into the dew and waves of my gentle fields.

The spring of my life is in those songs,
Which I want to sing, hoist and drink,
So that my soul can fly and float
One with all, far and wide over the Don.


Над рекой суровой, заиграют песни...

Мозговой Алексей Борисович
Горизонта полоса,
Синяя с багровым.
Где то слышно голоса,
Над рекой суровой.

На закате всё слыхать,
Как поют просторы.
Наполняя смехом гладь,
То одним, то хором.

Бабьи, очень хороши...
Голоса и смехи.
Ох, поют ведь от души,
Девы, для потехи.

Так поют... что силы нет,
Сердце обрывают!
Голоса их... Божий свет,
И душа рыдает...

Так бы слушал до зари,
девичьи распевы.
В роще где то соловьи,
Вторят им припевы!

То река вдруг подпоёт,
Позабыв суровость.
И волною унесёт,
Дона гнев и строгость.

То напевно загудит,
Роща вековая.
Скрипом веток подтвердит,
Что она живая.

Как же хочется вернуть,
Время дней тех вольных!
В ранних росах утонуть,
На полях раздольных...

Из девичьих рук испить,
Жизни родниковой.
И душою песней плыть,
Над землёй Донскою!
Posted by Vladimír Suchan at 7:27 AM

http://vladimirsuchan.blogspot.com/2....html?spref=tw

[blindpig]

I'm not gone, for I didn't take my leave.
To be killed doesn't mean to die.
I won't leave till justice is repaid.
In an idea I live, which you cannot erase.

Я не ушел, ведь я не попрощался.
Убитым быть - не значит умереть.
Я не уйду пока не расквитался.
В идее я! Ее вам не стереть.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?f...e=3&permPage=1

[blindpig]

Rendering of Mozgovoy's poem No. 23


Bugs and Beetles

In a high bird’s sight
Every man is petite.
No pride, no conceit
Can there veil your eyes.

You see the busy ants
Running round in circles,
But here above the drowning
In their drumms is out and over.

It is quiet where the birds’ heights reign,
So quiet that your thoughts are heard again.
In the wholeness of the candid sky
Human schemes can lie—no longer.

From this height one can perhaps smile
At the buzz of bumbling drones and beatles,
Who go to collect and repossess
The essence of dirty, broken dishes.

One thing the sophists mean and say,
When the fools give them back another,
But, in life, all is one and very equal,
If adjusted, after hitting the bottom.

But the world of bugs and beetles
Keeps doing business with its buzz,
Except for some lyre’s gentle weepin’,
Which a sawyer-rapper strums and clicks.

And on and off the loner plays,
Until music spreads his wings
For a cruise surely to somewhere
Over the silver steppe and grass.

Букашкин мир

Мозговой Алексей Борисович

С высоты полёта птиц,
Мелкий всякий человек.
На краю моих ресниц,
Тает спесь, как первый снег.

Суетливость муравьёв,
Бег по замкнутому кругу.
И не слышно даже рёв,
Поглощающий округу.

Тихо здесь... на высоте,
Тихо так, что слышно мысли.
А в небесной чистоте,
В суете людской нет смысла.

Как смешно понаблюдать,
С высоты на мир букашек.
Где пытаются познать,
Суть разбитых, грязных чашек.

Мудрецы кричат одно,
Им глупцы в ответ другое.
Только жизни, всё равно...
Всё уйдёт на дно морское.

Но шумит букашкин мир,
Суетится муравейник!
Где то слышно звуки лир,
То играет жук отшельник.

Поиграет, замолчит...
И расправив свои крылья,
Вновь куда то улетит.
Над серебряной ковылью...
Posted by Vladimír Suchan at 10:48 AM

http://vladimirsuchan.blogspot.com/2....html?spref=tw

[blindpig]

Rendering of Mozgovoy's poem No. 24


***

The summer evening has grown old,
As the town was falling silent—worn.
Look, someone is trying to see his date
So he can share and divide joy by two.

Someone else is roaming alone
And feels no rush--somewhere to go.
But angst is tightly clenching his hand,
And his thoughts are cold and remote.

Yet both these men are on the same road,
And the same air is for both to breathe,
and both are carried on foot some way,
but for one love keeps herself out of reach.

From the outside it is hard to find
What cause exactly set them apart,
For the reasons must be deep,
And concealed they stay inside.

Meeting each other, they both pass:
What’s there in the other to welcome?
Why, there is a soul, but she is out of touch
As long as she is unchosen and denied.

So one of them is trying to reach his date,
Rushing on and forward to meet his fate,
While the other doomed in his own way
Will have the night, in which he may hide.

Мозговой Алексей Борисович

***

Поздний был летний вечер...
Город устал и притих.Тхэ
Кто-то спешит на встречу,
Радость делить на двоих.

Кто-то бредёт одиноко,
Не торопливо, ни как...
Мыслями где-то далёко,
Нервно сжимая кулак.

Оба идут по дороге,
Воздух вдыхая один.
Куда-то несут их ноги,
Но кто-то из них не любим.

Внешне с трудом различимы,
Разве что взгляд выдаёт...
Разные видно причины,
И каждый, с собой их несёт.

Встретятся и разминутся,
Трудно друг друга понять.
К душе не дано прикоснутся,
И все её тайны познать...

Один поспешит увлечённо
К любви, ускоряя шаг.
Закурит другой обречённо,
И скроет его ночи мрак...


Posted by Vladimír Suchan at 12:57 PM

http://vladimirsuchan.blogspot.com/2....html?spref=tw

https://web.archive.org/web/20151017001 ... 409&page=2

[blindpig]

Poems of Alexi Mozgovoy (Brain) - Translated by Valdimir Suchan



Mozgovoy's prophetic poem-epigraph
Even with few books of my own poems in Czech, I am not sure if I am qualified, but having read Alexey Mozgovoy's own farewell poem, I had to try.

I had to try to render in English (non my native tongue) at least the last very powerful and moving verses of Alexey Mozgovoy's poem on his own death and its meaning--that of our common life and awakening.

With thanks I borrowed much of the last verse from Gleb Bazov's translation.

After I overcome my own tears, I might then perhaps try to translate the poem as a whole:

Don’t place a cross above me

Among birches’ leaves so young

That long to whisper to you the living

For it is life which they’ve just reached.

And the grass is neither gray nor sad

For everything is only just awakening,

And so, truly, it is good to die in May

When, in the green Spring, one can stay.

And though I could not finish all I want,

I do not waver and cannot doubt

That it is a gift to live and die in May.

...
Пусть даже крест там не стоит,

Среди берёзок утомленных.

Под шелест листьев молодых,

Что только к жизни потянулись.

Пока ещё нет трав седых,

А только, только всё проснулось.

Не плохо в мае умереть…
Остаться в свежести весенней.

И хоть не смог я всё успеть,

Но не осталось уж сомнений…

Не плохо, в мае умереть…

http://vladimirsuchan.blogspot.com/2...-epigraph.html

kick...just because.