Translated, not mine
08.04.202508:27
Dmitry Filippov
If I'm not coming back, promise me to retain this fine morning,
Lights of sunshine, the tremulant smell of the juvenile spring,
Like the powder, the late April snow fills the streets with adorning,
Bringing dreams, cool and clear - the ones, only marvel could bring.
Even if I'm not back, promise me, you won't be a long griever,
After all, in the end we all fly to the "over the edge"!
Let you see how the Volga is splashing, the great Russian river,
Rocking slow the reflection of sunset between the green sedge.
I will stay in the grass, in the wind, in the fragrance of pine-trees,
Go through lines that you read, where the pain meets the peace of the soul.
Help us God to remain in the world of Your fondness and heart ease!
Till the end I am staying, my Angel, with you, we are whole!
https://t.me/vozhak_Z/1290
If I'm not coming back, promise me to retain this fine morning,
Lights of sunshine, the tremulant smell of the juvenile spring,
Like the powder, the late April snow fills the streets with adorning,
Bringing dreams, cool and clear - the ones, only marvel could bring.
Even if I'm not back, promise me, you won't be a long griever,
After all, in the end we all fly to the "over the edge"!
Let you see how the Volga is splashing, the great Russian river,
Rocking slow the reflection of sunset between the green sedge.
I will stay in the grass, in the wind, in the fragrance of pine-trees,
Go through lines that you read, where the pain meets the peace of the soul.
Help us God to remain in the world of Your fondness and heart ease!
Till the end I am staying, my Angel, with you, we are whole!
https://t.me/vozhak_Z/1290
27.03.202515:19
Не вдруг подумалось. Чисто субъективно.
Вообще, по-правильному, переводить на иностранный язык должен носитель этого языка, либо билингв с рождения. Тогда все будет гладко.
Как бы искуссно ты ни общался на иностранном языке, как бы легко ты ни читал книги и смотрел фильмы/программы на оригинале - ты продолжаешь думать на своем родном. И вне зависимости от твоих хотелок, родной язык оставляет отпечаток в переводе. Это как профессиональная деформация некоторых видов деятельности.
Вот как-то я не припомню ни одного примера, чтобы иностранная книга, переведенная на русский, была бы переведена родным носителем того иностранного языка, а не русскоговорящим человеком.
Для меня английский совсем не родной. Я думаю на русском. Тем не менее, я пытаюсь переводить.
Если меня спросить: "Вы профессиональный переводчик?", я скажу "Нет". Это не есть сейчас моя профессия, это скорее хобби, хотя много лет я занималась самыми различными переводами с английского на русский - еще тогда, когда "любой студент или домохозяйка" еще не могли заниматься переводами, как многие сейчас думают. Еще тогда, когда иностранный текст был единственным источником информации по тому или иному вопросу. Например, по некоторым отраслям бизнеса, которые сейчас считаются чуть ли не исконно российскими, но в начале 2000х информацию собирали по крупицам, переводили, анализировали, адаптировали. Тогда владеть английским было СИЛЬНО! Сейчас у всех на службе есть бесплатный и никогда не берущий больничный ИИ.
Ладно, в дебри лезть не будем. Ограничимся некими итогами:
Будут ли мои переводы понятны носителю? - Да.
Будут ли они идентифицированы носителем, как "неродные"? - Да.
Дают ли они понятие и образ того, как звучит современная русская поэзия? - Да.
Есть ли в них ошибки любого плана? - Да.
Критичны ли эти ошибки? - Нет.
Понятны ли мои тексты тем, кто не является носителем английского? - Да.
Работаем дальше.
Вообще, по-правильному, переводить на иностранный язык должен носитель этого языка, либо билингв с рождения. Тогда все будет гладко.
Как бы искуссно ты ни общался на иностранном языке, как бы легко ты ни читал книги и смотрел фильмы/программы на оригинале - ты продолжаешь думать на своем родном. И вне зависимости от твоих хотелок, родной язык оставляет отпечаток в переводе. Это как профессиональная деформация некоторых видов деятельности.
Вот как-то я не припомню ни одного примера, чтобы иностранная книга, переведенная на русский, была бы переведена родным носителем того иностранного языка, а не русскоговорящим человеком.
Для меня английский совсем не родной. Я думаю на русском. Тем не менее, я пытаюсь переводить.
Если меня спросить: "Вы профессиональный переводчик?", я скажу "Нет". Это не есть сейчас моя профессия, это скорее хобби, хотя много лет я занималась самыми различными переводами с английского на русский - еще тогда, когда "любой студент или домохозяйка" еще не могли заниматься переводами, как многие сейчас думают. Еще тогда, когда иностранный текст был единственным источником информации по тому или иному вопросу. Например, по некоторым отраслям бизнеса, которые сейчас считаются чуть ли не исконно российскими, но в начале 2000х информацию собирали по крупицам, переводили, анализировали, адаптировали. Тогда владеть английским было СИЛЬНО! Сейчас у всех на службе есть бесплатный и никогда не берущий больничный ИИ.
Ладно, в дебри лезть не будем. Ограничимся некими итогами:
Будут ли мои переводы понятны носителю? - Да.
Будут ли они идентифицированы носителем, как "неродные"? - Да.
Дают ли они понятие и образ того, как звучит современная русская поэзия? - Да.
Есть ли в них ошибки любого плана? - Да.
Критичны ли эти ошибки? - Нет.
Понятны ли мои тексты тем, кто не является носителем английского? - Да.
Работаем дальше.
15.03.202519:41
Alexey Surkov
(1943)
To a Soldier's Girlfriend (Wife)
For what the sobbing, grunt and lamentation?
Accept your loss, reload, you should arouse!
No! You will never feel the stairs' vibration
Beneath his soldier boots in your old house.
No! You will never see through snows and tempest,
The gleams of dear eyes you loved so much...
The lines he wrote - the latest and the deepest,
You keep as memory to read and touch.
Yes, countless are the losses, separations.
This war is gluttonous and hungry bitch.
Well, may be kids and future generations
Will get some peace and calmness, inch by inch.
We hope and we believe. Still, it's not finished.
For now, against the powers of the gun,
Do save the father's image undiminished,
With soldier's courage - in your little son.
https://t.me/philol_lol/10151
(1943)
To a Soldier's Girlfriend (Wife)
For what the sobbing, grunt and lamentation?
Accept your loss, reload, you should arouse!
No! You will never feel the stairs' vibration
Beneath his soldier boots in your old house.
No! You will never see through snows and tempest,
The gleams of dear eyes you loved so much...
The lines he wrote - the latest and the deepest,
You keep as memory to read and touch.
Yes, countless are the losses, separations.
This war is gluttonous and hungry bitch.
Well, may be kids and future generations
Will get some peace and calmness, inch by inch.
We hope and we believe. Still, it's not finished.
For now, against the powers of the gun,
Do save the father's image undiminished,
With soldier's courage - in your little son.
https://t.me/philol_lol/10151
28.01.202513:37
👆👆👆
ВАРИАНТ ВТОРОЙ СТРОФЫ, КОТОРЫЙ РОДИЛСЯ ПЕРВЫМ, НО ПОТОМ ОТОШЕЛ НА ВТОРОЙ ПЛАН В УГОДУ БОЛЬШЕЙ БЛИЗОСТИ К АВТОРСКОМУ ТЕКСТУ.
Men from many parts of homeland,
Standing in a half-a-ring,
Push out free a heathen, offhand
Soldiers' ritual: "Dance and sing!"
ВАРИАНТ СЕДЬМОЙ СТРОФЫ
And the future WILL BE graceful,
Planet WON'T need any guns.
Feet are freezing? This is awful,
And it means it's time to dance!
ВАРИАНТ ВТОРОЙ СТРОФЫ, КОТОРЫЙ РОДИЛСЯ ПЕРВЫМ, НО ПОТОМ ОТОШЕЛ НА ВТОРОЙ ПЛАН В УГОДУ БОЛЬШЕЙ БЛИЗОСТИ К АВТОРСКОМУ ТЕКСТУ.
Men from many parts of homeland,
Standing in a half-a-ring,
Push out free a heathen, offhand
Soldiers' ritual: "Dance and sing!"
ВАРИАНТ СЕДЬМОЙ СТРОФЫ
And the future WILL BE graceful,
Planet WON'T need any guns.
Feet are freezing? This is awful,
And it means it's time to dance!
21.01.202515:21
Sergey Efimov
The tiredness affects the nerves and instincts,
Those, who are weak, can simply get depressed...
This war turned not to be among the short sprints,
We'll have to dig more trenches in this "quest".
This war is different. We learn its lessons.
Without the studyings you are dead at once.
Three years... We still absorb its cruel essence
And fight. Who, if not us to lead this "dance"?
This war has checked us all, like litmus test strip:
Some went away, to "feel ashamed" abroad;
Some took off cursing, breaking up the friendship;
Some left the Motherland in foolish mod.
The others, strong-willed men, picked up the gauntlet.
Till now they drag the hardships of the war.
Some look too young, too old - but in the outlet,
They have this fighting spirit in the store.
But moments of the tiredness can worry,
The weariness is worse than mortar rounds.
And each should overcome it - young or hoary.
And soldiers do - to keep the senses sound.
So, smoking slowly, only in the half breast,
You chase away the weakness with a fume,
And keep on sewing up the strap of old vest,
While night is quiet, and silent is the gloom.
https://t.me/orthodoxoprichnick/52
The tiredness affects the nerves and instincts,
Those, who are weak, can simply get depressed...
This war turned not to be among the short sprints,
We'll have to dig more trenches in this "quest".
This war is different. We learn its lessons.
Without the studyings you are dead at once.
Three years... We still absorb its cruel essence
And fight. Who, if not us to lead this "dance"?
This war has checked us all, like litmus test strip:
Some went away, to "feel ashamed" abroad;
Some took off cursing, breaking up the friendship;
Some left the Motherland in foolish mod.
The others, strong-willed men, picked up the gauntlet.
Till now they drag the hardships of the war.
Some look too young, too old - but in the outlet,
They have this fighting spirit in the store.
But moments of the tiredness can worry,
The weariness is worse than mortar rounds.
And each should overcome it - young or hoary.
And soldiers do - to keep the senses sound.
So, smoking slowly, only in the half breast,
You chase away the weakness with a fume,
And keep on sewing up the strap of old vest,
While night is quiet, and silent is the gloom.
https://t.me/orthodoxoprichnick/52
06.01.202508:39
Igor Karaulov
Royal families always unhappy. As well
As the miners' - are gorgeous and lovely.
Sailors' kin are so neat, pure, like ringing ship's bell,
Kin of actors are flammable, lively.
Santa Claus leads a golden-bright deer by the bridle,
Far away from the old, pompous castles,
Where for centuries anguish been stored, like an idol,
Where the halls bear the curtains with tassels.
Santa Claus knocks the doors of the rooms and the flats,
Where the humble folk holds celebration.
"That's my lad!" - and a boy gets some wholehearted pats,
And a girl gets a kiss of elation.
And he sits on a chair and he takes from his bag
Candies, marzipans, sweetmeats and apples,
Silks and emerald earrings, brocade ribbons pack,
Bows, swords, arrows and muskets from Naples.
And before lands are covered with lime, cold and white -
Yard-thick, trackless, impassable, hard-knit, -
He is giving a model of ship with delight
To an orphan in sailor-like outfit.
And he orders that laugh should be falling like snow:
Over porch, over columns and steeple.
God was born for them all, for the each anthropo,
Just except for the crown-wearing people.
Royal families always unhappy. At night
Santa's flying above roofs and squares.
And his beard glows with silver- magnesium light,
Boding flames of the Spring - with fanfares.
https://t.me/igorkaraulov/195
Royal families always unhappy. As well
As the miners' - are gorgeous and lovely.
Sailors' kin are so neat, pure, like ringing ship's bell,
Kin of actors are flammable, lively.
Santa Claus leads a golden-bright deer by the bridle,
Far away from the old, pompous castles,
Where for centuries anguish been stored, like an idol,
Where the halls bear the curtains with tassels.
Santa Claus knocks the doors of the rooms and the flats,
Where the humble folk holds celebration.
"That's my lad!" - and a boy gets some wholehearted pats,
And a girl gets a kiss of elation.
And he sits on a chair and he takes from his bag
Candies, marzipans, sweetmeats and apples,
Silks and emerald earrings, brocade ribbons pack,
Bows, swords, arrows and muskets from Naples.
And before lands are covered with lime, cold and white -
Yard-thick, trackless, impassable, hard-knit, -
He is giving a model of ship with delight
To an orphan in sailor-like outfit.
And he orders that laugh should be falling like snow:
Over porch, over columns and steeple.
God was born for them all, for the each anthropo,
Just except for the crown-wearing people.
Royal families always unhappy. At night
Santa's flying above roofs and squares.
And his beard glows with silver- magnesium light,
Boding flames of the Spring - with fanfares.
https://t.me/igorkaraulov/195
06.04.202513:02
ВАЛЬКИРИЯ
Once I had a debate with a knowing cat,
He was right in the mood for a decent talk,
So he said: "There's no "then", there's no "after that",
There is "here", there is "now" on the lifetime clock.
All the cats know this wisdom and follow it:
You keep calm, and the world goes around of you.
Watching out of the window supplies your wit,
Cardboard box hides a treasure, so does a shoe.
If you hungry - go eat, sleepy - go to sleep,
If the thoughts are so hard - go and wash your face.
And the ninth of the lifes is a mere trip,
Like the fifth or the seventh, it goes its pace".
I exclaimed: "After that..., after - comes the Death!..."
And the cat waived his tail, yawned aloud and said:
"You forgot: there's no "after", no "end", no "Lethe"",-
And went ON licking paws so to groom his head.
https://t.me/ZOVvalkirii/29175
Once I had a debate with a knowing cat,
He was right in the mood for a decent talk,
So he said: "There's no "then", there's no "after that",
There is "here", there is "now" on the lifetime clock.
All the cats know this wisdom and follow it:
You keep calm, and the world goes around of you.
Watching out of the window supplies your wit,
Cardboard box hides a treasure, so does a shoe.
If you hungry - go eat, sleepy - go to sleep,
If the thoughts are so hard - go and wash your face.
And the ninth of the lifes is a mere trip,
Like the fifth or the seventh, it goes its pace".
I exclaimed: "After that..., after - comes the Death!..."
And the cat waived his tail, yawned aloud and said:
"You forgot: there's no "after", no "end", no "Lethe"",-
And went ON licking paws so to groom his head.
https://t.me/ZOVvalkirii/29175
27.03.202504:09
9 слов
Сегодня каналу два года. Спасибо, что вы со мной.
Сегодня каналу два года. Спасибо, что вы со мной.
11.03.202509:16
Inna Kucherova
"Excuse me, doctor, there's one thing, that bothers me:
It's all about my severed hand I've lost. You see,
I know it's gone. I'm getting used to new regime,
But in my sleep I often see a senseless dream.
With my lost arm I grab the handle of the door,
With it I pull the rifle bolt, as used before.
I draw some tactic lines and circles on the map,
I scratch my head or nose, and sometimes even clap.
But what is burdering and hurts me most of all -
I cross myself with it while in the chapel hall.
Then I wake up: I'm here, not in that dugout hole,
And feel that pain - not of the body, but of soul..."
The doctor, noticing the fighter's pallid face,
When the confession finished, rose to leave the place,
And whispered: "Get your rest, and take it as command:
Henceforth, my friend, you cross yourself with your left hand"...
https://t.me/izzalenty/2230
"Excuse me, doctor, there's one thing, that bothers me:
It's all about my severed hand I've lost. You see,
I know it's gone. I'm getting used to new regime,
But in my sleep I often see a senseless dream.
With my lost arm I grab the handle of the door,
With it I pull the rifle bolt, as used before.
I draw some tactic lines and circles on the map,
I scratch my head or nose, and sometimes even clap.
But what is burdering and hurts me most of all -
I cross myself with it while in the chapel hall.
Then I wake up: I'm here, not in that dugout hole,
And feel that pain - not of the body, but of soul..."
The doctor, noticing the fighter's pallid face,
When the confession finished, rose to leave the place,
And whispered: "Get your rest, and take it as command:
Henceforth, my friend, you cross yourself with your left hand"...
https://t.me/izzalenty/2230
28.01.202513:36
Neal Sornyakov
When at rest, the best of leisure -
Are: the dance, the song, the tune.
Have you ever had the pleasure
See the soldiers dance and croon?
From Altay, and from the Urals,
From the Ladoga, the Don,
Men dance heathenly, like ferals,
In a graceful unison.
On the snow and frozen soils,
In a mesmerising rage,
Legs and arms make steps and coils -
Fighters dance despite of age.
And the song is old and pure,
Dashing, soothing - like a call.
Where it came from? — I'm not sure,
Does not matter, after all.
A roulade from misty highland?
Or a canto from the plain?
Soldiers get the tune at first-hand,
And it flows without a strain.
Soldiers' needs are clear and easy:
Healthy limbs and sleeping off.
Warming sunshine, slightly breezy -
Nothing weird to dream of.
And the future WILL BE graceful!
Like it HAS BEEN more than once.
Feet are freezing... This is awful,
And it means it's time to dance!
https://t.me/nilsornyakov/659
When at rest, the best of leisure -
Are: the dance, the song, the tune.
Have you ever had the pleasure
See the soldiers dance and croon?
From Altay, and from the Urals,
From the Ladoga, the Don,
Men dance heathenly, like ferals,
In a graceful unison.
On the snow and frozen soils,
In a mesmerising rage,
Legs and arms make steps and coils -
Fighters dance despite of age.
And the song is old and pure,
Dashing, soothing - like a call.
Where it came from? — I'm not sure,
Does not matter, after all.
A roulade from misty highland?
Or a canto from the plain?
Soldiers get the tune at first-hand,
And it flows without a strain.
Soldiers' needs are clear and easy:
Healthy limbs and sleeping off.
Warming sunshine, slightly breezy -
Nothing weird to dream of.
And the future WILL BE graceful!
Like it HAS BEEN more than once.
Feet are freezing... This is awful,
And it means it's time to dance!
https://t.me/nilsornyakov/659
18.01.202512:29
Святослав Сахарнов
"Рам и Рум", 1963.
"Рам и Рум", 1963.
24.12.202419:27
Думаю, рапортом и закончим в этом году.
С наступающим новым годом, дорогие подписчики! 🎄
С наступающим новым годом, дорогие подписчики! 🎄
03.04.202504:50
Elena Fomina
A Soldier - to a Schoolboy
Write me not about the dreadful war,
Not about the fights, the tanks and shellings.
Write about the things that you adore,
Like the running on the dew with yellings.
Tell me of the happy life you have,
Playing football, sometimes skipping classes,
How you with your little sister laugh,
How you help your mom to wash the glasses.
Draw me not the picture of a gun,
Not the blast and rocket, not the bodies...
Make the drawing of the rising sun,
Singing nightingale and croaking froggies.
Draw a picture of the morning fog,
Spreading over fields of wheat and grasslands,
Draw a jolly boy and his black dog,
Splashing in the river with the white sands...
And the war... I'm telling what I view:
Let it never happen. War is bloody.
Someone should be fighting, so that YOU
Could enjoy the peaceful sunshine, buddy.
https://t.me/SVOy_rifmy/25
A Soldier - to a Schoolboy
Write me not about the dreadful war,
Not about the fights, the tanks and shellings.
Write about the things that you adore,
Like the running on the dew with yellings.
Tell me of the happy life you have,
Playing football, sometimes skipping classes,
How you with your little sister laugh,
How you help your mom to wash the glasses.
Draw me not the picture of a gun,
Not the blast and rocket, not the bodies...
Make the drawing of the rising sun,
Singing nightingale and croaking froggies.
Draw a picture of the morning fog,
Spreading over fields of wheat and grasslands,
Draw a jolly boy and his black dog,
Splashing in the river with the white sands...
And the war... I'm telling what I view:
Let it never happen. War is bloody.
Someone should be fighting, so that YOU
Could enjoy the peaceful sunshine, buddy.
https://t.me/SVOy_rifmy/25
25.03.202518:56
Vadim Stepantzov
Donetsk. District "Vtoraya Ploshchadka" (the Second Square"). Year 2015.
In peace time, it should have been good to get drunk in these places:
Strong booze or some beer, tea or moonshine - all kinds of this treat.
The houses stand blind. And Vtoraya Ploshchadka's all faces -
Are eight die-hard grannies and three hopeless drunkards. That's it.
Vtoraya Ploshchadka: two-storey small homes, lilac bushes -
The district was living and working just some time ago...
No one even cares, but old Aunty Harpina still pushes
Her barrow with garbage, and swipes empty streets till they glow.
The gloomy "seceders" still live on the wrecks of the village,
They have electricity, gas, but the roofs need repair....
But those, on the front's other side, toy with murders and pillage,
Cause "All is Ukraine!" and for other men's lives they don't care.
The mayor called Igor is boozing as much, yet keeps busy,
And babushkas drink all the time - there's not much to be done,
When sniper is shooting, and shellings are pouring "at easy!",
And mother in Kiev is missing her mortarman-son.
It's their ATO*. "It's not us! Blame for this that fierce Russia!"
Well-well, so it Russia was jumping all over Maidan?
Alina Kabaeva fed you with cookies and kasha?
And crushed Lenin monuments all over country for fun?
Oh, sage grandpa Lenin, oh, wisely- discerning, great Stalin!
Galizia threatening Donbas - who would think that could be?!
She, Nenka-Ukraine, rose from ashes, and looking at Kremlin,
Set whole Novorossiya on fire, turning life in debris...
The sparkle grew into a blaze, and it's gonna be ruthless,
To those, who've been killing, to those, who've been giving commands...
Don't spare your ex-countrymen, as the revenge can't be toothless!
Give Poland Galizia. Cheers to the New Russia lands!
*Anti-terrorism operation
https://t.me/stepantsov_z/6927
Donetsk. District "Vtoraya Ploshchadka" (the Second Square"). Year 2015.
In peace time, it should have been good to get drunk in these places:
Strong booze or some beer, tea or moonshine - all kinds of this treat.
The houses stand blind. And Vtoraya Ploshchadka's all faces -
Are eight die-hard grannies and three hopeless drunkards. That's it.
Vtoraya Ploshchadka: two-storey small homes, lilac bushes -
The district was living and working just some time ago...
No one even cares, but old Aunty Harpina still pushes
Her barrow with garbage, and swipes empty streets till they glow.
The gloomy "seceders" still live on the wrecks of the village,
They have electricity, gas, but the roofs need repair....
But those, on the front's other side, toy with murders and pillage,
Cause "All is Ukraine!" and for other men's lives they don't care.
The mayor called Igor is boozing as much, yet keeps busy,
And babushkas drink all the time - there's not much to be done,
When sniper is shooting, and shellings are pouring "at easy!",
And mother in Kiev is missing her mortarman-son.
It's their ATO*. "It's not us! Blame for this that fierce Russia!"
Well-well, so it Russia was jumping all over Maidan?
Alina Kabaeva fed you with cookies and kasha?
And crushed Lenin monuments all over country for fun?
Oh, sage grandpa Lenin, oh, wisely- discerning, great Stalin!
Galizia threatening Donbas - who would think that could be?!
She, Nenka-Ukraine, rose from ashes, and looking at Kremlin,
Set whole Novorossiya on fire, turning life in debris...
The sparkle grew into a blaze, and it's gonna be ruthless,
To those, who've been killing, to those, who've been giving commands...
Don't spare your ex-countrymen, as the revenge can't be toothless!
Give Poland Galizia. Cheers to the New Russia lands!
*Anti-terrorism operation
https://t.me/stepantsov_z/6927
14.02.202507:48
Dmitry Moldavsky
Paschal
He, by whose good prayer (as people talk)
Lazarus rose from the dead,
All alone is carrying his cross through the mock
To be crucified ahead.
As the covers gone, tombstone moved away,
And the darkness all over fell,
Judas got his silver, and Devil - prey,
And He entered inside the Hell.
Every year since then, on that Saturday,
He's been put deep inside the flames.
And Satan himself, bristling, came "to play",
Shouting: "Speak!" and demanding names.
But as Saturday was a holy day,
He kept silent, mouth shut till dawn.
Morning lights, again, tossed the Death away!
Gates turned broken down, and He's gone!
For two thousand years He's been all alone,
But now He is leading a troop.
And they can't be stopped by a weapon known,
Nor by any of nazi-like group.
Through the deepest depths, with no rest between,
They come to the gloomy gates.
"Givi, you cover. And Batya, get in!
Brothers, work on! It's time, mates!"
And those hands, holding AK guns, won't slow,
They won't hesitate or stall.
They are not afraid of Death, as they know:
There's only one Death at all!
Scattering down the shields, knocking off the locks,
They enter the yard's front flank.
And the guards run scared, loosing boots and socks,
Those, who lingered - done point-blank.
Civilians get into buses, go free.
The captives crowd by the wall.
And Hell will get empty. Amen! Let it be.
It's Easter today, after all.
https://t.me/moldavskiydm/16
Paschal
He, by whose good prayer (as people talk)
Lazarus rose from the dead,
All alone is carrying his cross through the mock
To be crucified ahead.
As the covers gone, tombstone moved away,
And the darkness all over fell,
Judas got his silver, and Devil - prey,
And He entered inside the Hell.
Every year since then, on that Saturday,
He's been put deep inside the flames.
And Satan himself, bristling, came "to play",
Shouting: "Speak!" and demanding names.
But as Saturday was a holy day,
He kept silent, mouth shut till dawn.
Morning lights, again, tossed the Death away!
Gates turned broken down, and He's gone!
For two thousand years He's been all alone,
But now He is leading a troop.
And they can't be stopped by a weapon known,
Nor by any of nazi-like group.
Through the deepest depths, with no rest between,
They come to the gloomy gates.
"Givi, you cover. And Batya, get in!
Brothers, work on! It's time, mates!"
And those hands, holding AK guns, won't slow,
They won't hesitate or stall.
They are not afraid of Death, as they know:
There's only one Death at all!
Scattering down the shields, knocking off the locks,
They enter the yard's front flank.
And the guards run scared, loosing boots and socks,
Those, who lingered - done point-blank.
Civilians get into buses, go free.
The captives crowd by the wall.
And Hell will get empty. Amen! Let it be.
It's Easter today, after all.
https://t.me/moldavskiydm/16
24.01.202522:44
Сидел в парке,
Жарко.
Не прятал протез
(стыд исчез).
Гуляют дети.
При ярком свете
Прикрыл глаза,
Мозг принажал на тормоза....
Вдруг резкий толчок,
Сузился зрачок.
На мою скамейку
Присела воробейка.
Лет семь, не больше,
Буханки хлеба тоньше,
Пискнула: "Простите,
Я ненадолго, дядя, дальше спите".
Поправляет ботинки,
На хвостиках резинки
"Мама, я тут!"
Мама смотрит. Не украдут.
А она говорит,
Будто кто ей велит.
- Мы в больницу, на замЕр,
А дядя Саша-инженер
Подарил это,
Сказал, для укрепления скелета.
Она следит за моим взгядом.
Мама тоже. Мама рядом.
- Думала, просто листок,
Оказался "лепесток".
Но мне повезло!
Выше колена не взялО!
Врач говорит:
"К тому времени, как будешь выходить замуж, тебе сделают такую ножку, что на каблуках сможешь вальс танцевать!"
А пока - так,
Прими как факт:
Часто придется менять,
Позвоночник не нагружать,
Но ты не парься,
Учись, катайся!"
Я и учусь!
Хотя часто валюсь.
А ты, дядя, оттуда?
(Эта девочка просто чудо! -
Кивает на мою протез,
Проявляет интерес!)
- Да.
Ведь не солжешь.
От правды не убережешь.
Таким, как она
Не вновинку война.
Они знают,
Они страдают.
- Ну, выздоравливай, дядя!
И на маму глядя:
- Я поеду,-
Сказала девочка поэту.
Такая яркая!
- Как твое имя?
- Ярка я!
Покатили ролики...
На плече две родинки,
Шортики как флаги.
В ней столько отваги!
Жарко.
Не прятал протез
(стыд исчез).
Гуляют дети.
При ярком свете
Прикрыл глаза,
Мозг принажал на тормоза....
Вдруг резкий толчок,
Сузился зрачок.
На мою скамейку
Присела воробейка.
Лет семь, не больше,
Буханки хлеба тоньше,
Пискнула: "Простите,
Я ненадолго, дядя, дальше спите".
Поправляет ботинки,
На хвостиках резинки
"Мама, я тут!"
Мама смотрит. Не украдут.
А она говорит,
Будто кто ей велит.
- Мы в больницу, на замЕр,
А дядя Саша-инженер
Подарил это,
Сказал, для укрепления скелета.
Она следит за моим взгядом.
Мама тоже. Мама рядом.
- Думала, просто листок,
Оказался "лепесток".
Но мне повезло!
Выше колена не взялО!
Врач говорит:
"К тому времени, как будешь выходить замуж, тебе сделают такую ножку, что на каблуках сможешь вальс танцевать!"
А пока - так,
Прими как факт:
Часто придется менять,
Позвоночник не нагружать,
Но ты не парься,
Учись, катайся!"
Я и учусь!
Хотя часто валюсь.
А ты, дядя, оттуда?
(Эта девочка просто чудо! -
Кивает на мою протез,
Проявляет интерес!)
- Да.
Ведь не солжешь.
От правды не убережешь.
Таким, как она
Не вновинку война.
Они знают,
Они страдают.
- Ну, выздоравливай, дядя!
И на маму глядя:
- Я поеду,-
Сказала девочка поэту.
Такая яркая!
- Как твое имя?
- Ярка я!
Покатили ролики...
На плече две родинки,
Шортики как флаги.
В ней столько отваги!
09.01.202516:15
👆👆👆
Перевод получился "по мотивам". От Пикалова осталась, безусловно, идея и построение, но образность иная, и финал - олицетворение образа Войны.
Перевод получился "по мотивам". От Пикалова осталась, безусловно, идея и построение, но образность иная, и финал - олицетворение образа Войны.
14.11.202405:18
Хочу сюжет для перевода:
Меньше пафоса — больше дела.
Меньше бога (при всем уважении к любой религии) — больше человеческого характера. Разного, не картонного, живого.
Меньше причитаний - больше здравых рассуждений и планирования.
Сюжет с обычными людьми, не "обремененных сверхспособностями".
Чтобы было честно, без оглядки на "а вдруг не так скажу". Чтобы каждый получал заслуженного.
Должна быть история, захватывающая с самого начала.
И, наверное, не обязательно про СВО? Хотя, можно и про СВО...
Пусть крупная форма. После ШД я могу все ))
А потом это нужно будет распространить по всему миру, чтобы все, кто так или иначе владеет английским, зачитывались красотой русского стихосложения.
Ну, и русскоязычный оригинал, конечно, должен заучиваться наизусть, потому что так прекрасно написан! Чтобы подростки цитировали в сочинениях на ОГЭ и ЕГЭ не потому, что надо, а потому, что хочется!
Да, нужна поэма для подростков. Чтобы ее читали подростки в любой стране, но чтобы написана она была про Россию. Чтобы после прочтения подросток из Австралии или США говорил родителям - давайте на каникулы махнем в Россию!
И распространять ее надо по главам, как сериал, по популярным у детей тиктокам (или где они там сидят)... Чтобы выходили два языка одновременно - мировая премьера единовременная.
Короче, нужен новый "Сын артиллериста". Надо сделать в 2025 году.
Только где ж его взять-то...
Меньше пафоса — больше дела.
Меньше бога (при всем уважении к любой религии) — больше человеческого характера. Разного, не картонного, живого.
Меньше причитаний - больше здравых рассуждений и планирования.
Сюжет с обычными людьми, не "обремененных сверхспособностями".
Чтобы было честно, без оглядки на "а вдруг не так скажу". Чтобы каждый получал заслуженного.
Должна быть история, захватывающая с самого начала.
И, наверное, не обязательно про СВО? Хотя, можно и про СВО...
Пусть крупная форма. После ШД я могу все ))
А потом это нужно будет распространить по всему миру, чтобы все, кто так или иначе владеет английским, зачитывались красотой русского стихосложения.
Ну, и русскоязычный оригинал, конечно, должен заучиваться наизусть, потому что так прекрасно написан! Чтобы подростки цитировали в сочинениях на ОГЭ и ЕГЭ не потому, что надо, а потому, что хочется!
Да, нужна поэма для подростков. Чтобы ее читали подростки в любой стране, но чтобы написана она была про Россию. Чтобы после прочтения подросток из Австралии или США говорил родителям - давайте на каникулы махнем в Россию!
И распространять ее надо по главам, как сериал, по популярным у детей тиктокам (или где они там сидят)... Чтобы выходили два языка одновременно - мировая премьера единовременная.
Короче, нужен новый "Сын артиллериста". Надо сделать в 2025 году.
Только где ж его взять-то...
03.04.202504:49
Не могу найти текста для перевода по душе, ни у "именитых", ни у любителей. Хочется, чтобы не только эмоции-чувства-сетования, но и какое-то ядро, конструктив, история. Может быть, не там ищу.
👇👇👇 А здесь по сути обращение большого мальчика к маленькому. Это воспоминания солдата о том, как он сам был мальчишкой. Его радостные детские флешбеки.
Не всегда же солдаты думают о женах-матерях, о своих детях - много тех, у кого ни детей, ни жен, ни подруг сердечных. А мальчишеские озорные картинки из беззаботного детства есть у всех.
Стих, как и огромное количество стихов, которые я отношу к категории "Любая война" — вне локации, вне времени, вне национальности. Актуально для любой стороны.
👇👇👇 А здесь по сути обращение большого мальчика к маленькому. Это воспоминания солдата о том, как он сам был мальчишкой. Его радостные детские флешбеки.
Не всегда же солдаты думают о женах-матерях, о своих детях - много тех, у кого ни детей, ни жен, ни подруг сердечных. А мальчишеские озорные картинки из беззаботного детства есть у всех.
Стих, как и огромное количество стихов, которые я отношу к категории "Любая война" — вне локации, вне времени, вне национальности. Актуально для любой стороны.
18.03.202506:26
Мне идет коричневый цвет.
Цвет земли. И цвет обезьяны.
Ждете рифмы "вот вам ответ!
Этот цвет скрывает изъяны!"?
Из приятного: кофе цвет,
Ствол у дерева, мишка бурый,
Тертый тряпочками паркет -
Заблестит, и уже не хмурый!
Для кого-то "цвет-шоколад",
Для кого-то "орех" и "глина".
Для кого - деревянный приклад,
Для кого - бездомная псина.
Мне коричневый мил теплом:
Цвет коровы и цвет каштана.
Иногда он пахнет дерьмом,
Ну, и луковицей тюльпана.
Дай коричневый цвет ребенку -
Нарисует тропинку в лесу,
Птичку, гнездышко, лошаденку,
Негритенка с кольцом в носу.
Гречка, чай, хлеб, картошка, финик -
Вкус коричневый всем знаком.
Звонкий гость в саду, дрозд-рябинник
Машет пестрым, землистым крылом.
Табачок достав из кисета,
Дед нюхнет по обе ноздри:
"Хоть краснА, зеленА планета,
Но коричневая внутри!"
Цвет земли. И цвет обезьяны.
Ждете рифмы "вот вам ответ!
Этот цвет скрывает изъяны!"?
Из приятного: кофе цвет,
Ствол у дерева, мишка бурый,
Тертый тряпочками паркет -
Заблестит, и уже не хмурый!
Для кого-то "цвет-шоколад",
Для кого-то "орех" и "глина".
Для кого - деревянный приклад,
Для кого - бездомная псина.
Мне коричневый мил теплом:
Цвет коровы и цвет каштана.
Иногда он пахнет дерьмом,
Ну, и луковицей тюльпана.
Дай коричневый цвет ребенку -
Нарисует тропинку в лесу,
Птичку, гнездышко, лошаденку,
Негритенка с кольцом в носу.
Гречка, чай, хлеб, картошка, финик -
Вкус коричневый всем знаком.
Звонкий гость в саду, дрозд-рябинник
Машет пестрым, землистым крылом.
Табачок достав из кисета,
Дед нюхнет по обе ноздри:
"Хоть краснА, зеленА планета,
Но коричневая внутри!"
02.02.202511:29
Anna Dolgareva
Two of them, lying there, in the neutral zone,
Dying there, in the neutral zone.
Winter rain's pouring down in a muted tone,
Dank and chilly is droplets' tone.
From the East, covering all, comes the blinding night,
And the darkness comes with the night.
On the shoulder one has sticking tape, red-bright,
And the other - has it blue-bright.
And the searching groups weren't in hurry that day,
The stormtroopers were there to stay....
One was pardoned inmate, on his only way,
The other was TCC's prey.
And in front of death, each is equal and right,
And the blood is equally red.
Like as if so tired, resting after the fight,
They were lying there, head to head.
God was there with them both, pouring Quiet and Love,
Leaving no one outside His grace.
God was hugging them both, coming from Above,
Like a mother's final embrace.
https://t.me/dolgareva/906
Two of them, lying there, in the neutral zone,
Dying there, in the neutral zone.
Winter rain's pouring down in a muted tone,
Dank and chilly is droplets' tone.
From the East, covering all, comes the blinding night,
And the darkness comes with the night.
On the shoulder one has sticking tape, red-bright,
And the other - has it blue-bright.
And the searching groups weren't in hurry that day,
The stormtroopers were there to stay....
One was pardoned inmate, on his only way,
The other was TCC's prey.
And in front of death, each is equal and right,
And the blood is equally red.
Like as if so tired, resting after the fight,
They were lying there, head to head.
God was there with them both, pouring Quiet and Love,
Leaving no one outside His grace.
God was hugging them both, coming from Above,
Like a mother's final embrace.
https://t.me/dolgareva/906
24.01.202522:43
Творчечкий застой.
Творческий простой.
Творческий отстой.
Ничего не нравится.
Творческий простой.
Творческий отстой.
Ничего не нравится.
09.01.202516:15
Victor Pikalov
I know, one can't return from "there" completely,
While leaving War behind, far in the past.
One can't drive out the nightmares and sleep sweetly.
One can't just tightly shut his soul, at last.
And time, too bad, is not at all a healer,
Time only humbles burden of the loss,
That's pressing down on me. Like caterpillar
It's gnawing me inside with heavy jaws.
If only I could find a place for truthness,
Where I could drop the guilt and burning pain...
But point is, if you met Her - ugly, ruthless,
The War won't leave you fully. All in vain.
https://t.me/vremya_vibralo_nas/28
I know, one can't return from "there" completely,
While leaving War behind, far in the past.
One can't drive out the nightmares and sleep sweetly.
One can't just tightly shut his soul, at last.
And time, too bad, is not at all a healer,
Time only humbles burden of the loss,
That's pressing down on me. Like caterpillar
It's gnawing me inside with heavy jaws.
If only I could find a place for truthness,
Where I could drop the guilt and burning pain...
But point is, if you met Her - ugly, ruthless,
The War won't leave you fully. All in vain.
https://t.me/vremya_vibralo_nas/28
11.10.202408:41
Vit Dorofeev
At Dusk
The dusk today is sad and red,
Looks like the glowing from the shelling.
Sit, Soldier, rest, throw back your head,
Your war is over, keep exhailing.
With no self-mercy, for so long
You've been protecting, liberating.
You fought and died all front along,
You laughed and cried in heavy plating.
You drank the dew, you breathed the flame,
The Truth you stood for in the warfare.
And then the blessing Silence came,
As the reward - so pure and so fair.
All possible was done. Always.
And even what was not - done slickly.
You have survived, and through your gaze,
God's watching the surrounding, strictly.
Sit down. Let's have a smoke, not talk,
As words won't ever heal the sore heart,
With "War" is done. Restart the clock,
This day is yours - that's from "the Peace"- part.
At home, when hugged and kissed your wife,
Remember us, who've gone and perished.
Hey, I'm so glad that you're alive!
Thanks for the Victory! Keep cherished.
https://t.me/VoynaZaDushi/989
At Dusk
The dusk today is sad and red,
Looks like the glowing from the shelling.
Sit, Soldier, rest, throw back your head,
Your war is over, keep exhailing.
With no self-mercy, for so long
You've been protecting, liberating.
You fought and died all front along,
You laughed and cried in heavy plating.
You drank the dew, you breathed the flame,
The Truth you stood for in the warfare.
And then the blessing Silence came,
As the reward - so pure and so fair.
All possible was done. Always.
And even what was not - done slickly.
You have survived, and through your gaze,
God's watching the surrounding, strictly.
Sit down. Let's have a smoke, not talk,
As words won't ever heal the sore heart,
With "War" is done. Restart the clock,
This day is yours - that's from "the Peace"- part.
At home, when hugged and kissed your wife,
Remember us, who've gone and perished.
Hey, I'm so glad that you're alive!
Thanks for the Victory! Keep cherished.
https://t.me/VoynaZaDushi/989
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