[Carl Copeland]

You’ve long been dead for me, decaying
into a ghost of paradise,
so why must you insist on claiming
the right to haunt me and chastise?
When I feel others’ dull caresses
and hide my gritted teeth in shame
and, in the midst of my transgressions,
forget and whisper your dear name,
my languor leaves me of a sudden,
and all enchantments lose their force,
and intimacy makes me shudder
as if I lay beside a corpse.
And I imagine how you shatter
the night, amid a blaze of gold,
and slash my soul with talons after
your wings have turned it icy cold.


Crib

You have long been dead for me
and have decayed into a ghost of heaven/paradise,
so why then do you assert
your rights, castigating?
When, amid unliked caresses,
I, in forgetfulness/oblivion, sinning with others,
having concealed the clack of clenched teeth,
whisper your kindred/dear name,
the languor of sleep suddenly disappears—
and charm has flown away/vanished,
and passionate closeness is frightening,
as if beside me was the body of a dead [woman].
And it appears to me that, in nocturnal
stillness, a flame like gold will surge,
and you will claw my soul,
having frozen it with [your] wings.


Original

Ты для меня давно мертва
И перетлела в призрак рая,
Так почему ж свои права,
Отстаиваешь ты, карая?
Когда среди немилых ласк
Я в забытьи, греша с другими,
Зубов зажатых скрывши лязг,
Шепну твое родное имя,
Исчезнет вдруг истома сна —
И обаянье отлетело,
И близость страстная страшна,
Как будто рядом мертвой тело.
И мне мерещится, что в тишь
Ночную хлынет златом пламя
И ты мне душу искогтишь,
Оледенив ее крылами.


This poem resonates with one of Pushkin’s early “imitations of the ancients.” Here it is, rendered in English by James Falen, one of Pushkin’s best translators:

Dorida

Dorída cheers my heart … I love her golden hair,
the light-blue eyes she has, her pale and languid air …
Abandoning my friends, I left the feast last night
and tasted in her arms the fullness of delight;
fresh ecstasies replaced each ecstasy that dwindled,
and passions quickly slaked were once again rekindled;
I swooned, but in the dim uncertainty of night
another’s lovely form intruded on my sight,
and, stricken with a sad and secret sense of shame,
I heard my lips call out an unexpected name.

It’s a beautiful translation, but on first reading, I took exception to the last two lines, which literally read: “and I was full of mysterious sorrow, / and my lips were whispering another name.” No “shame” and no “calling out.” Ironically, I ended up adding “shame” to my translation of Zenkevich for the same irresistible rhyme.