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Life Escaping - August Bromse, c. 1902

August Bromse

Nikolay Zabolotsky has always been one of my favorite poets. Born in the beginning of the xx century, he was a modernist and one of the founders of the Oberiu – an extraordinary avant-garde group of Russian Futurist writers, musicians, and artists. It’s hard to find Zabolotsky‘s works in English. Which is logical as this kind of poetry is not easy to translate. Below you see the “Temptation” – a grotesque poem of death and afterlife. I translated it myself. I’m not an experienced poetry translator but I’ve tried my best to express the macabre humor and the sounding of the original.

– August Brömse, “An Old Song”, 1902

Nikolay Zabolotsky - Temptation

Death comes to an old man’s house Says, “Oh Master, look at you, You’re a cripple and some louse Seems like’s eaten your skin through. Give up life and I will lead you To the coffin – calm and silent, Once I’ll cover all the living With a giant snow-white shroud. Don’t be sad; your work was worth it, What you’ve done won’t go in vain, And your field will grow and blossom, Feeding everyone with grain. And the sun, so hot at midday, By the evening will be cool, While you, so full of wisdom, Pale-skinned, my mortal mister, With a little cross, God save, Will be sleeping in the grave.”

“Don’t you touch me, oh Grim Reaper”, Says the old man to the Death, “Every day I’m growing weaker, Let me end with all my mess, Give me just a few more years, Let me go, and have my word – You can take my daughter with you, Lead her to the spirit world.” Death without laughs or tears Takes the girl in raw-boned hands, And like fire quickly flees, And the grass below it leans Near the house of the man. There’s a hill among the fields, And the maid inside it thrills, “It’s so hard here in the casket, Look – my hands are black and blasted, And my hair’s turned to dust, From my breasts grows feather grass. It’s so hard below the ground, Look – my lips are rotten, brown, Got no eyes, just shallow circles And I have no caring boyfriend.”

Death. Above the hill it flies, Shooting wildly from it’s riffle, Once it laughs but then it cries, Bending down, softly speaking, “Well, my girl, stop telling lies, Stop your silly little cries! There’s a world upon your world, Leave the coffin, go outside! Feel the wind, so fresh and cold, See the night – the dark delight, See the sleepy stars. They’re shining, Traveling the blackened sky. So, my darling, quit the whining, Leave the graveyard, go and try!”

And the girl in sudden wonder Shakes what once was tender hand, Brakes the deck and jumps out yonder Just to blow out. What an end! And she stands there, leaking slowly, With her guts outside the tum. And her shirt once white and lovely Turns into transparent scum. Every hole in her thin bones Holds some timid little worms They, like babies, tiny, soft, Drink the pinkish liquid off.

It’s some soup and not a girlie, But don’t laugh, it’s way too early! Look, the sun will rise again And the maid will come back then, And you’ll see: from her shinbone Little tree will grow and grow, Little tree will sing a tune, ‘Bout the maiden sing it soon, ‘Bout the maiden sing it soon, It’s a sweet and gentle tune, “Sleep, my daughter, don’t you cry, Sleep, my baby, hush-a-bye, See the crescent in the sky, And the wind is flying by, All the men they sleep in beds, Each of them has lots of cats. Every cat has scarlet gates And a blue coat – that is great! And one more thing I was told - They have boots all made of gold! Yes, their boots are made of gold – Too expensive to be sold.”