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Стихи Бориса Пастернака на английском языке с переводом. Poems of Boris Pasternak

На этой странице вы найдёте стихи Бориса Пастернака на английском языке с переводом на русский язык.


Борис Леонидович Пастернак (29 января (10 февраля) 1890 — 30 мая 1960) — советский писатель и поэт.


C переводом:

February Февраль

Oh February, to get ink and weep!
And write about it mourning,
While the uproaring, raging sleet,
Like in the spring, is burning.

Go rent a buggy. For six grivnas,
Race through the blare of bells and wheels,
To where the shower often drizzles
Much louder than ink and tears.

Where, like the charcoal pears, the crows
From trees, by thousands, will rise,
Crash into puddles, and then toss
Dry sadness deep into your eyes.

Below, thawed patch is showing through,
With loud cries, the wind is grubbed.
The more haphazard the more true--
The poems are composed and sobbed.

translated by Andrey Kneller

Февраль. Достать чернил и плакать!
Писать о феврале навзрыд,
Пока грохочущая слякоть
Весною черною горит.

Достать пролетку. За шесть гривен,
Чрез благовест, чрез клик колес,
Перенестись туда, где ливень
Еще шумней чернил и слез.

Где, как обугленные груши,
С деревьев тысячи грачей
Сорвутся в лужи и обрушат
Сухую грусть на дно очей.

Под ней проталины чернеют,
И ветер криками изрыт,
И чем случайней, тем вернее
Слагаются стихи навзрыд.


Hamlet Гамлет

The clamor ceased. I walked onto the stage.
While leaning on a jamb, through cheers,
I'm grasping in the echo's distant range
What will occur during my years.

The twilight of the night has gathered
Like thousands of binoculars on me.
If so you're willing, Father,
I beg you, take this cup from me.

I love your plan, so firm and stubborn
And I agree to play this role.
But as of now, there's another drama.
This time, expel me, I implore.

But, the predestined plot proceeds.
I cannot alter the direction of my path.
I am alone, all sinks in phariseeism.
To live a life--is not an easy task.

translated by Andrey Kneller

Гул затих. Я вышел на подмостки.
Прислонясь к дверному косяку,
Я ловлю в далеком отголоске,
Что случится на моем веку.

На меня наставлен сумрак ночи
Тысячью биноклей на оси.
Если только можно, Aвва Oтче,
Чашу эту мимо пронеси.

Я люблю твой замысел упрямый
И играть согласен эту роль.
Но сейчас идет другая драма,
И на этот раз меня уволь.

Но продуман распорядок действий,
И неотвратим конец пути.
Я один, все тонет в фарисействе.
Жизнь прожить - не поле перейти.


To Be Famous… Быть знаменитым некрасиво…

To be famous is not in good taste.
That is not what will exalt us.
Don’t build an archive, it’s but a waste
To raise with manuscripts a fuss.

Creation calls for self-surrender
And not loud noise and cheap success.
Shame on the ignorant offender
Who lets all lips his fame confess.

Life must he lived without false face,
Lived so that in the final count
We draw unto ourselves love from space,
Hear the future call from the mount.

Some blank spaces should he left to chance
And not to this paper shuffling,
Not marking the margins in advance,
Places and chapters of nothing.

So plunge yourself in obscurity
And conceal there all of your tracks,
The way lands dissolve with surety
In the fog where vision on lacks.

Others then will track your living trail,
Retracing step by step your feet,
But you must inevitably fail
To tell your triumph from defeat.

And you must not by a single hair
Retreat from their face, nor bend,
But be alive, alive your full share,
Alive and only til the end.

Translated by Albert C. Todd

Быть знаменитым некрасиво.
Не это подымает ввысь.
Не надо заводить архива,
Над рукописями трястись.

Цель творчества — самоотдача,
А не шумиха, не успех.
Позорно, ничего не знача,
Быть притчей на устах у всех.

Но надо жить без самозванства,
Так жить, чтобы в конце концов
Привлечь к себе любовь пространства,
Услышать будущего зов.

И надо оставлять пробелы
В судьбе, а не среди бумаг,
Места и главы жизни целой
Отчеркивая на полях.

И окунаться в неизвестность,
И прятать в ней свои шаги,
Как прячется в тумане местность,
Когда в ней не видать ни зги.

Другие по живому следу
Пройдут твой путь за пядью пядь,
Но пораженья от победы
Ты сам не должен отличать.

И должен ни единой долькой
Не отступаться от лица,
Но быть живым, живым и только,
Живым и только до конца.


Winter Night Зимняя ночь

The blizzards covered up the earth
And roamed uncurbed
The candle burned upon the desk
The candle burned

As in the summer, moths are drawn
Towards the flame
The pale snowflakes flown
Unto the pane

Upon the glass, bright snowy rings
And streaks were churned
The candle burned upon the desk
The candle burned

On the illumined ceiling
Shadows swayed
A cross of arms, a cross of legs
A cross of fate

Two boots fell down on the floor
With crashing sound
And from the crown tears of wax
Dripped on the gown

And nothing in the snowy haze
Could be discerned
The candle burned upon the desk
The candle burned

A gentle draft blew from the corner
Flame in temptation,
Would raise two wings into a cross
As if an angel

It snowed a lot all through the month
This frequently occurred
The candle burned upon the desk
The candle burned

translated by Andrey Kneller

Мело, мело по всей земле
Во все пределы.
Свеча горела на столе,
Свеча горела.

Как летом роем мошкара
Летит на пламя,
Слетались хлопья со двора
К оконной раме.

Метель лепила на стекле
Кружки и стрелы.
Свеча горела на столе,
Свеча горела.

На озаренный потолок
Ложились тени,
Скрещенья рук, скрещенья ног,
Судьбы скрещенья.

И падали два башмачка
Со стуком на пол.
И воск слезами с ночника
На платье капал.

И все терялось в снежной мгле
Седой и белой.
Свеча горела на столе,
Свеча горела.

На свечку дуло из угла,
И жар соблазна
Вздымал, как ангел, два крыла

Мело весь месяц в феврале,
И то и дело
Свеча горела на столе,
Свеча горела.


Без перевода:


There's still a twilight of the night.
The world's so young in its proceeding,
That countless stars in sky abide,
And each one, like the day, is bright,
And if the Earth contained that might,
She'd sleep through Easter in delight,
Under the Psalter reading.

There's still a twilight of the night.
It's far too early; it appears,
That fields eternally subside,
Right from crossroad to the side,
And 'til the sunrise and the light,
There is a thousand years.

The Mother Earth, of clothes deprived,
Has nothing else to wear,
To strikes the church bell through night
Or echo choirs in the air.

And from the Maundy Thursday night
Right 'til the Easter Eve,
The water bores the coastal side
And whirlpools heave.

The forest, in exposed expanse,
To celebrate Christ's Holy times,
As though in prayer, calmly stands,
In gathered stems and trunks of pines.

And in the city, in one place,
As if a mob commenced,
The naked trees sincerely gaze
Upon the Church's fence.

Their eyes are fully filled with rage.
And their concern is heard.
The gardens slowly leave their cage,
The Earth shakes wildly in its range,
They're burying the Lord.

A light is seen that dimly glows,
Black kerchiefs and the candle rows,
By weeping eyes--
And suddenly, there's a procession,
With holy shroud of the Christ
And every birch, with a concession,
Along the entrance subsides.

They walk around the royal square,
Along the sidewalk's edge.
Into the vestibule with care,
They bring the spring and springtime flair,
A scent of Eucharist in the air
And vernal rage.

And March is tossing snow around
To beggars gathered on Church ground,
As though a person just walked out,
Opened the shrine, took what he found
And gave it all away.

The singing lasts throughout the night,
Those who have wept enough, they lastly,
Calmly and gently stroll outside,
Onto the land under the light,
To read the Psalter or Apostles.

But after midnight, all will quiet,
Hearing the vernal lecture,
That if we wait just for a while,
We'll cast His death into exile
With holy resurrection.

translated by Andrey Kneller



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