We present this work in honor of the 145th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Pyotr Vyazemsky Russian 1792 – 1878
I have outlived most things and people round me and weighed the worth of most things in this life; these days I drag along though bars surround me, exist within set limits without strife. Horizons now for me are close and dreary and day by day draw nearer and more dark. Reflection’s dipping flight is slow and weary, my soul’s small world is desolate and stark. My mind no longer casts ahead with boldness, the voice of hope is dumb — and on the route, now trampled flat by living’s mundane coldness, I am denied the chance to set my foot. And if my life has seemed among the hardest and though my storeroom’s stock of grain is small, what sense is there in hoping still for harvest when snow from winter clouds begins to fall? In furrows cropped by scythe or sickle clearance there may be found, it’s true, some living trace; in me there may be found some past experience, but nothing of tomorrow’s time or space. Life’s balanced the accounts, she is unable to render back what has been prised away and what the earth, in sounding vaults of marble, has closed off, pitiless, from light of day.
We present this work in honor of the 140th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Ivan Turgenev Russian 1818 – 1883
There lived a fool.
For a long time he lived in peace and contentment; but by degrees rumours began to reach him that he was regarded on all sides as a vulgar idiot.
The fool was abashed and began to ponder gloomily how he might put an end to these unpleasant rumours.
A sudden idea, at last, illuminated his dull little brain… And, without the slightest delay, he put it into practice.
A friend met him in the street, and fell to praising a well-known painter…
‘Upon my word!’ cried the fool,’ that painter was out of date long ago… you didn’t know it? I should never have expected it of you… you are quite behind the times.’
The friend was alarmed, and promptly agreed with the fool.
‘Such a splendid book I read yesterday!’ said another friend to him.
‘Upon my word!’ cried the fool, ‘I wonder you’re not ashamed. That book’s good for nothing; every one’s seen through it long ago. Didn’t you know it? You’re quite behind the times.’
This friend too was alarmed, and he agreed with the fool.
‘What a wonderful fellow my friend N. N. is!’ said a third friend to the fool. ‘Now there’s a really generous creature!’
‘Upon my word!’ cried the fool. ‘N. N., the notorious scoundrel! He swindled all his relations. Every one knows that. You’re quite behind the times.’
The third friend too was alarmed, and he agreed with the fool and deserted his friend. And whoever and whatever was praised in the fool’s presence, he had the same retort for everything.
Sometimes he would add reproachfully: ‘And do you still believe in authorities?’
‘Spiteful! malignant!’ his friends began to say of the fool. ‘But what a brain!’
‘And what a tongue!’ others would add, ‘Oh, yes, he has talent!’
It ended in the editor of a journal proposing to the fool that he should undertake their reviewing column.
And the fool fell to criticising everything and every one, without in the least changing his manner, or his exclamations.
Now he, who once declaimed against authorities, is himself an authority, and the young men venerate him, and fear him.
And what else can they do, poor young men? Though one ought not, as a general rule, to venerate any one … but in this case, if one didn’t venerate him, one would find oneself quite behind the times!
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 130th birthday.
Vladimir Mayakovsky Russian 1893 – 1930
The moon is emerging. It going to be here soon. Now, it hangs in the air, full and stark. That is probably God, with a divine silver spoon, groping in the fish-soup of stars.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 280th birthday.
Gavriil Derzhavin Russian 1743 – 1816
I was sleeping on a high hill, nightingale, I heard you calling, my soul itself could hear it, in the very depths of sleep: now sounding, now re-sounding, now sorrowing, now laughing, floating, from the distance, to my ear: while I lay there with Callisto, songs, sighs, cries, and trilling, thrilled me in the very depths of sleep.
If, after death, I lie there in a sleep that’s dull, unending, and, ah, these songs no longer travel to my ear: if I cannot hear the sound then of that happiness or laughter, of dancing, or of glory, or of joy — then it’s life on earth I’ll cling to, kiss my darling one, and kiss her, as I listen to the distant nightingale.
We present this work in honor of Defense of the Fatherland Day.
Denis Davydov Russian 1784 – 1839
Where are you, old friends of mine, True hussars by avocation, Comrades both in arms and wine, Champions of conversation?
Grayheads, I remember you, Dippers full, in blissful poses. Drinking while the fire burned through, Glowing like your own red noses!
Sprawled on hayricks for settees, Jaunty shakoes backward tilted, Hussar jackets to your knees, Sabres resting, carven-hilted.
Black-stained pipes between your teeth, Puffing, there you lay in clover, While the smoke, wreath after wreath, Floated lock and whisker over.
Tire re you drowsed and hugged your swords; Not a sound, while smoke curled densely, Not a murmur – drunk as lords, Drunk till you were almost senseless.
But as soon as dawn arrived Off to battle you rode daily With your shakoes to one side, In tire wind your jackets flailing.
Under riders horses fly, Sabres whistle, foemen slaying… Battle over, nightfall nigh — Dippers once again start playing.
Mat do I see now, though? God! War has given way to dancing; Like officials clad and shod. Through a waltz hussars go prancing.
They’ve grown wise, you’ll say to me… Listen to those home-bred Frenchmen: Jomini1 — just Jomini. But of vodka — ne’er a mention!
Where are you, old friends of mine, True hussars by avocation, Comrades both in arms and wine, Champions of conversation?
We present this work in honor of Holocaust Remembrance Day.
Itzik Feffer Russian 1900 – 1952
The generations-old wine has strengthened me in my wanderings. The angry sword of pain and sorrow has not destroyed my treasure.
My people, my faith and my flowering—it has not chained my freedom. From under the sword I’ve cried out: I am a Jew!
The clever twists of Rabbi Akiva, the wis- dom of Isaiah’s words nourishing my thirst and my love, and fought against hate.
The zest of the Maccabbean heroes and Bar Kokhba’s blood boils in mine. From all the burnings at the stake I’ve cried out: I am a Jew!
And may my enemies be pierced by spears, those who are preparing a grave for me. Be- neath the flag of freedom I’ll yet have no end of pleasure. I’ll plant my vineyards and be the architect of my fat. I’ll yet dance on my enemies graves. I am a Jew!
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