“The Eyes of God”… A Poem by Tatyana Dugil

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С нами Бог. А у Бога –
Глаза русских икон.
Смотрят лики их строго
Из разбитых окон.

Кровью, в венах вскипавшей
Залиты образа –
За живых и по павшим
Плачут Бога глаза.

Но в развалинах храма,
Хоть чадят купола,
Свечи тлеют упрямо,
Зло сжигая дотла.

Настоятель резонно
(Выбор – ясен и прост!)
В бой уходит с амвона
На ближайший блокпост.

Коль под рясою тельник
Да тату «ВДВ»,
Ныне – воин священник
И заступник вдове.

Чтоб с нацизмом расплата
Наступила скорей,
Как с крестом – с автоматом
Служит круг иерей.

Знает: зори – лучисты,
Час настал – не кликуш,
Не этнических чисток –
Очищения душ

И извечным итогом
Победившей любви
За родимым порогом
Запоют соловьи.

Вера в нас не убита.
Сердцу звоны слышны.
Двери храма раскрыты –
Ждут солдата с войны.

Не смыкаются вежды –
Взор промыла слеза.
Не с укором – с надеждой
Смотрят Бога глаза…

Татьянa Дугиль

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God is with us! He’s in the
Eyes of our Russian icons.
We see their austere faces
Through broken windows.

The effervescence of blood
Suffuses the image…
For the living and the fallen
God’s eyes cry.

But in the ruined temple,
Though shattered dome
Candles smoulder stubbornly
Burning evil to ashes.

The wise rector
(the choice… plain and simple!)
In the battle, leaves the ambo
For the near strongpoint.

Hidden under his cross on his riassa
Yes… a “VDV” tattoo
Now… the priest is a warrior
The defender of the widow.

To Nazism, vengeance
Will come quickly,
With the cross… with an avtomat…
In turn, the priest serves.

He knows… the dawn is radiant,
The hour has come… not frantic,
Not ethnic cleansing…
A purifying shower.

And the ultimate end is
Victorious love
For ancestral origins
The nightingales sing.

Our faith is not dead.
The heart hears the bells.
The temple gates open…
Waiting for the soldier from the war.

Not with closed eyelids…
Tears streak the eyes.
Not with reproach… with hope
God’s watching eyes look…

Tatyana Dugil

27 June 2014

TsIA Novorossiya

http://novorus.info/news/interesno/24365-glaza-boga-stihi-tatyan-dugil.html

Pushkin’s Spiritual Dialogue with Metropolitan St Filaret Drozdov of Moscow: A Birthday Meditation

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Editor:

Every so often, I do my best to translate poetry. It reminds me that it’s MUCH harder than doing straight prose. I’ve done my best to render the spirit of the poetry below. Excuse any infelicities, please…

BMD

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Pushkin:

Дар напрасный, дар случайный,
Жизнь, зачем ты мне дана?
Иль зачем судьбою тайной
Ты на казнь осуждена?

Кто меня враждебной властью
Из ничтожества воззвал,
Душу мне наполнил страстью,
Ум сомненьем взволновал?

Цели нет передо мною:
Сердце пусто, празден ум,
И томит меня тоскою
Однозвучный жизни шум.

******

A chance gift, a vain gift,
Life… why art thou given me?
Why did mysterious fate
Condemn me to this penalty?

What pitiless power called me
From profound nothingness?
What filled my soul with longing,
Upsetting me with doubt?

For me, there’s no point:
With empty heart, with idle mind;
With weary melancholy
From life’s monotonous noise.

1828

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Philaret:

Не напрасно, не случайно
Жизнь от Бога нам дана,
Не без воли Бога тайной
И на казнь осуждена.

Сам я своенравной властью
Зло из темных бездн воззвал,
Сам наполнил душу страстью,
Ум сомненьем взволновал.

Вспомнись мне, забвенный мною!
Просияй сквозь сумрак дум,
И созиждется Тобою
Сердце чисто, светел ум.

******

Not in vain, not by accident,
Did God give me life;
Nor will I be condemned to death
Without God’s mysterious Will.

I myself through wilful power
Called evil from its dark abyss,
Filling my soul with passion,
Troubling my mind with doubt.

I should remember what I’d forgot!
Pierce through my gloomy dark thoughts,
So that Thou canst give me
A mind that’s clear and a heart that’s pure.

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Pushkin:

В часы забав иль праздной скуки,
Бывало, лире я моей
Вверял изнеженные звуки
Безумства, лени и страстей.

Но и тогда струны лукавой
Невольно звон я прерывал,
Когда твой голос величавый
Меня внезапно поражал.

Я лил потоки слез нежданных,
И ранам совести моей
Твоих речей благоуханных
Отраден чистый был елей.

И ныне с высоты духовной
Мне руку простираешь ты,
И силой кроткой и любовной
Смиряешь буйные мечты.

Твоим огнем душа согрета
Отвергла мрак земных сует,
И внемлет арфе Филарета
В священном ужасе поэт.

******

In hours of amusement or idle boredom,
Once upon a time, I used to strum
Upon my lyre the soft sounds
Of foolishness, indolence, and passion.

Then, without volition, the crafty strings
Stopped me in my tracks
When your majestic voice
Suddenly struck me.

I poured forth streams of unwilled tears,
It struck my conscience to the quick.
The balsam of your fragrant words
Was as welcome as the resin’s savour.

Now from a spiritual height
You hold out your hand to me
With meek and loving strength
To still my restless dreams.

Your soul’s fire warms my soul,
Rejecting gloomy earthly vanities,
The poet listens to Filaret’s harp
In a state of holy awe.

1830

6 June 2014. Hey, Hey, Hey, It’s Pushkin’s Birthday! 215 Years Ago Today!

A Portrait of Aleksandr Pushkin

Vasili Tropinin

1827

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Aleksandr Sergeyevich Pushkin… what can one say? He’s the father of the Modern Russian Literary language… he was the pioneer, the trailblazer. What more can one say? He’s THE towering figure in Russian poetry, and few match him in Russian literature. His matrilineal great-grandfather, Abram Gannibal, came to Russia as a slave from Africa, but rose to be an aristocrat. That means that he had African blood in his veins… what’s wrong with that? According to the American “one drop” rule, that made him a “nigger”… according to our Russian “one drop” rule, it made him one of us, and honoured at that. I seem to notice a difference (and Anglo Americans look down their noses at us and call us “inferiors”, fancy that). However, A S Pushkin was a poet… let’s have some poetry…

BMD

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Awakening

O dreams, O dreams,
Where are your delights?
Oh, where are you,
The joys of night?
The joyous dream
Is vanished,
And in a deep darkness
I woke up
Alone.
The deathly-still night
Surrounds my bed.
The dreams of love
Grew cold in a moment,
And flew away
As a flock of birds.
But my soul
Is still full of desires,
And catches
The memories of a dream.
O love, O love,
Listen to my prayers,
Send me again
Yours sweet visions,
And in the morning
Let me die
In ecstasy
With no awakening.

1816

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The Prophet

I dragged my flesh through desert gloom,
Tormented by the spirit’s yearning,
And saw a six-winged Seraph loom
Upon the footpath’s barren turning.
And as a dream in slumber lies
So light his finger on my eyes,—
My wizard eyes grew wide and wary:
An eagle’s, startled from her eyrie.
He touched my ears, and lo! a sea
Of storming voices burst on me.
I heard the whirling heavens’ tremor,
The angels’ flight and soaring sweep,
The sea-snakes coiling in the deep,
The sap the vine’s green tendrils carry.
And to my lips the Seraph clung
And tore from me my sinful tongue,
My cunning tongue and idle-worded;
The subtle serpent’s sting he set
Between my lips—his hand was wet,
His bloody hand my mouth begirded.
And with a sword he cleft my breast
And took the heart with terror turning,
And in my gaping bosom pressed
A coal that throbbed there, black and burning.
Upon the wastes, a lifeless clod,
I lay, and heard the voice of God:

“Arise, oh prophet, watch and hearken,
And with my Will thy soul engird,
Through lands that dim and seas that darken,
Burn thou men’s hearts with this, my Word”.

1826

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Remembrance

When the loud day for men who sow and reap
Grows still, and on the silence of the town
The insubstantial veils of night and sleep,
The meed of the day’s labour, settle down,
Then for me in the stillness of the night
The wasting, watchful hours drag on their course,
And in the idle darkness comes the bite
Of all the burning serpents of remorse;
Dreams seethe; and fretful infelicities
Are swarming in my over-burdened soul,
And Memory before my wakeful eyes
With noiseless hand unwinds her lengthy scroll.
Then, as with loathing I peruse the years,
I tremble, and I curse my natal day,
Wail bitterly, and bitterly shed tears,
But cannot wash the woeful script away.

1828

24 December 2013. “A Hymn on the Nativity of My Saviour” (Ben Jonson)

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I sing the birth was born tonight,

The Author both of life and light;

The angels so did sound it,

And like the ravished shepherds said,

Who saw the light, and were afraid,

Yet searched, and true they found it.

 

The Son of God, the eternal King,

That did us all salvation bring,

And freed the soul from danger;

He whom the whole world could not take,

The Word, which heaven and earth did make,

Was now laid in a manger.

 

The Father’s wisdom willed it so,

The Son’s obedience knew no “No,”

Both wills were in one stature;

And as that wisdom had decreed,

The Word was now made Flesh indeed,

And took on Him our nature.

 

What comfort by Him do we win?

Who made Himself the Prince of sin,

To make us heirs of glory?

To see this Babe, all innocence,

A Martyr born in our defence,

Can man forget this story?

Ben Jonson