I’ve always been amazed by the multi-lingual poet or author; I have a hard enough time writing (and thinking) in the one language I know. An even more impressive feat - well, to me at least - is the translator who is able to take a poem in one language and re-work it into another. I say “re-work” because I cannot imagine it’s as easy as just doing a translation - there is a flow and a mood that must be preserved in poetry that’s not as simple as going to bablefish and clicking the “translate” button.

Having read a few Russian novels for literature classes in college, I have to say that Russian has to be a particularly hard language to work with; the nuances and complexities must make it a total bitch. Funny, once upon a lifetime I took Russian for about 1/4 of a semester, which was long enough for me to realize that I was in way over my head. With Russian, there didn’t seem to be the same wiggle room that there was with Spanish where I could bullshit my way through the class. The upside to that 1/4 of a semester in Russian is that I can say about 5 words in that language, with one of them being “vodka”. Oh, and I have a whole new appreciation for Russian insults which are…..oddly complete and descriptive. No simple “sod off” for these folks. When they insult you, they insult you.

Which brings us to today’s poem; I was initially drawn to it by the title. Although I do like the sun, there is just something about a grey (or gray) day that appeals to me. The poem itself I find to be captivating in the emotions it pulls at; to me it feels like she is taking a dull ache and ripping it open to the world in order to achieve some measure of relief from the pain.

A Gray Day

BY ELENA SHVARTZ

TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSION BY STEPHANIE SANDLER

 

I spoke in a hurry, in a nervous hush,

Because the time was short—

The lightning was shuddering,

Slowing down, running.

 

Or was that my blood,

The quiet diminishing of daily life?

It’s time for me to go forth

Into Your tiny mustard seed.

 

In the house of my Father, everything is fading,

In the house of the Father, all the angels are crying,

Because the anguish of a jaded, exhausted horse

Sometimes finds its way even unto them.

 

One gray day, I was alive on this earth,

And amid the mist of day—in triumph—

The Spirit may approach and look

So that you will see Him, without seeing.

 

And, so, celebrate the meager light,

Curse not the twilight.

If Christ is to visit us

It will be on such pitiful days as these.

 

I was thinking: God has abandoned me,

So, what of it—he is a priceless ray of light,

Or a thin needle in the haystack of man. And cruel.

I have turned away from him—torment me no more.

But which of us is more cruel? More to be feared?

The one who has no body, of course.

He has made us endless, vast—

So that our grief will know no bounds.