Translated, not mine

and just a little bit of mine.
Some poetry translated by Anna S.

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ТілБасқа

Канал құрылған күніБер 27, 2023

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Жовт 11, 2024

Мен каналдың иесімін

Өзгерістер тарихы

Қосылған топ

We talk here

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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

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

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

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.

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.

27.03.202504:09

9 слов
Сегодня каналу два года. Спасибо, что вы со мной.

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

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!"

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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!

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08.04.202508:27

27.03.202504:09

9 слов
Сегодня каналу два года. Спасибо, что вы со мной.

27.03.202515:19

03.04.202504:49

03.04.202504:50

25.03.202518:56

06.04.202513:02

Көбірек мүмкіндіктерді ашу үшін кіріңіз.