Perebendya, old and sightless,
(Surely you all know him?)
Playing on his kobza ever,
Far and wide he’s roaming.
People all know who ’tis plays so
And thank him sincerely;
He drives their grief away although
For him the world is dreary.
Frieze-clad wretch, beneath the fence
Day and night he tarries
There’s no home for him on earth;
And misfortune harries
Jesting, over his old head
- Yet he endures his burden!...
And he sits and sings his song:
“Meadow, do not murmur!”
He sings his song, recall that he
Lone in the world must live now,
So he sits beneath the fence
Sorrowing and grieving.
That is Perebendya, old,
So changeable and moody,
Now he sings the song of Chalyi,
“Horlytsia” now he’s choosing,
With the girls out in the pasture,
“Hryts” or “Springtime ditty”,
With the lads down at the inn,
“Serbyn” or “Barmaid pretty”,
With young husbands at a feast
(When in-law trouble’s looming)
“The poplar-tree” – adversity –
And then “In woodlands gloomy”.
Sings “Lazar” in the bazaar,
And – so folk learn the story –
Sings, weary-dreary, how the Sich
Was ruined, robbed of glory.
That is Perebendya, old,
So changeable and moody,
Sings his song and smiles his smile,
And then in tears sits brooding.
The wind is blowing, softly blowing,
Through the field roams, straying,
On the gravemound sits the kobzar,
On his kobza playing,
Round him, like a sea, the steppe-land
Spreads and bluely shimmers,
Gravemound beyond gravemound – and
Yonder, a hazy glimmer.
Grey moustache and aged scalp-lock
The wind stirs, wildly flinging,
As it draws close, as it listens
To the kobzar’s singing.
How the heart smiles, how the blind eyes are weeping,
It listens, blows softly...
The old man is hid
In the steppe, on a gravemound, so no one may see him,
So the wind through the field bring the message it bids,
So folk should not hear, for divine words it carries,
And the heart then can freely converse with the Lord,
And the heart then can sing, like a bird, of God’s glory,
And thought in the clouds to the world’s end will soar.
Like a grey-plumaged eagle will fly, winging higher,
Until with its broad wings it beats on the blue,
It rests on the sun, and asking, enquires
Where it slumbers at night, how it wakens anew;
It hearkens and listens to words the sea whispers,
Or asks the black mountain, “Why then are you dumb?”
Then returns to the sky, for on earth sorrow lingers,
For in all its expanse, there’s no corner as home
For one who knows all things, who all things rightly,
What the sea whispers, where sleeps the sun nightly –
Yet in this world none will welcome him, none!
Like the high sun, dwelling lone among people,
They know him, for still the earth bears him, indeed;
But if they should hear how, his lonely watch keeping,
He sings on the gravemound, he speaks with the sea,
Then they would mock the divine word he carries,
Would name it as foolish, would not let him tarry,
“Let him roam”, they would say, “far over the sea!”
Wise you are, indeed, my minstrel,
Wisely act and sagely,
Father, that to sing and talk, you
Come out to the gravemound;
Come, my friend, sing until the end,
Until in rest eternal.
The heart sleeps, but sing truly where
Folk will not hear and spurn you.
And, lest they indeed should mock you,
Humour all their fancies,
Those who pay we must obey
When they call the dances!
That is Perebendya, old
So changeable and moody,
Merrily he sings his song,
And then in grief sits brooding.
Author notes
This is my translation of a poem by Taras Shevchenko(1814-1861), the Ukrainian national poet.
It reproduces the rhyme-scheme of the original... though following the Ukrainian convention that providing the stressed vowels match, the consonants and any following unstressed vowels do NOT have to match... Thus a rhyme like "burden/murmur" is a "perfect" rhyme to the Ukrainian ear. (When I first began translating Ukrainian poetry back in 1956, my "mentor" was always taking me to task for trying to make the rhymes "too exact" - this, he said, was jingling and inartistic! (Please note this is explanation, not self-justification)
I think the poem should be fairly self-explanatory. However, I should
perhaps explain that the "kobza" is the traditional stringed instrument of the wandering Ukrainian minstrels, and the "Sich" was the stronghold of the independent Ukrainian Cossacks, which was destroyed in the 18th century by orders of the Russian Tsaritsa Catherine II, when she annexed much of eastern Ukraine into the Russian empire.
A contest entry
- Rhyme and Flow part 7 Old - 50,000 points series by cricketjeff.
4000 points, ended August 15, 2008, 36 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest - Character growing (PW Allowed by SoulfulBubbles.
300 points, ended October 16, 2008, 11 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please do not feel obliged to comment - and if you DO comment, please understand that it may be some time before I respond.
Comments
-
Thank you for this entry in the contest. A very unusual and interesting translation, we found this a joy to read.
Sue and Jeff
-
This flows like music, happy and sad at the same time, tunes that float on the air and grind through the channels of the mind. Weep for the past, for it is with us always, a burden which we sing in sad tones, and celebrate in the music of the soul.
Take care. K.
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