Vladimir Vysotsky: Songs: Trans. by Kathryn & Bruce Hamilton

Vysotsky's Lyrics: Translation by Kathryn & Bruce Hamilton

Common graves
How I detest...
Lyricale
Masks
My neighbour
Ships
Unruly horses
Wolf hunt

Source: Sent in by Artem Feofilov. Published in "Sputnik", No.11, 1987.


Unruly horses
Russian title: Koni priveredlivye 
Along the chasm's edge, upon the precipice's brink
I urge my horses onward, I coerce them whiplash flying.
I'm somehow short of breath, I gulp the air, the wind I drink...
I'm gripped with mortal ecstasy: I'm dying, oh, I'm dying!

     Slower, slower, oh my horses, slowly run, slowly run!
     Pay no heed to the lash's taut thong.
     The horses that fell to my lot are unruly ones...
     I've not lived out my life, I can't finish my song.

     I'll water my horses,
                     I'll sing some more verses -
     Yet a moment I'll stand on the brink
                     ere I sink.

I'll perish: from its outstretched hand the frenzied wind will blow me,
At a gallop through the morning snow my sleigh's drawn helter-skelter.
Be patient, patient, wayward horses, make the journey slowly,
And delay if but a while before we reach the final shelter.

     Slower, slower, oh my horses, slowly run, slowly run!
     You don't serve the lash or the thong.
     The horses that fell to my lot are unruly ones...
     I've not lived out my life, I can't finish my song.

     I'll water my horses,
                     I'll sing some more verses -
     Yet a moment I'll stand on the brink
                     ere I sink.

It's all over: guests to God cannot delay until the morrow.
But why then should the angels' voices sound so harsh and hoarse?
Is it but the harness bell that jangles wildly out of sorrow,
Or do I harangue the horses to slow down their hectic course?

     Slower, slower, oh my horses, slowly run, slowly run!
     I implore you, don't gallop headlong!
     The horses that fell to my lot are unruly ones...
     I've not lived out my life, yet I'd finish my song.

     I'll water my horses,
                     I'll sing some more verses -
     Yet a moment I'll stand on the brink
                     ere I sink.
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Common graves
Russian title: Bratskie mogily 
No crosses stand over these war graves of ours,
No widows come sobbing to mourn here
But people bring garlands and bouquets of flowers,
And a small flame perpetually burns here.

This place was once bare, the earth ravaged and torn,
Today it has slabs for a cover
Today in the graves are these dead all made one
Their separate lives now are over

But deep in the flame you see gutted tanks smoke,
And razed Russian villages smoulder;
Blazing Smolensk, and the blazing Reichstag
The fierce blazing heart of the soldier

No sorrowing wives wet these graves with their tears.
The people who come here are stronger.
No crosses stand over these war graves of ours
But is there, for all that less to mourn for?
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How I detest...
Russian title: Ya ne lyublyu 
How I detest the fatal final curtain!
I never find life dull or wearying.
I've got no time for any time or season
When I don't have a cheerful song to sing.

I've got no time for cynicism cold, nor
Can I be fooled by hankerings for the Grail.
I hate when people peer over my shoulder
And crane their necks to try to read my mail.

I can't stand those whose actions are half-hearted,
Or who interrupt a cordial exchange;
Or shoot you in the back, an easy target,
Or pull a gun on you at point-blank range.

I can't stand idle talk in any vein,
The worms of doubt, the needles of false praise,
Or things that are meant to go against the grain
And grate your nerves like metal scraped on glass.

I don't like self-assured complacency.
You're better off being hanged and letting rip.
I don't like those who forget all decency
And give an eager ear to slanderous gossip

I don't feel sympathy for damaged limbs
Or broken wings - lame ducks I can't abide.
I don't like bullies or acquiescent victims
Yet pity moves me for Christ crucified.

I hate it when I've played the coward's part.
I hate to see the guiltless victimized.
I hate when people pry into my heart,
The more so when it's spat on and despised.

I can't abide the stadium or ring
Where all is vilely cheapened and defied.
Whatever alterations time may bring
To these I know I wont be reconciled.
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Wolf hunt
Russian title: Okhota na volkov 
In my flight, sinews bursting, I hurtle,
But as yesterday - so now today,
They've cornered me! Driven me, encircled,
Towards the huntsmen that wait for their prey!
From the fir-trees the rifle-shots quicken -
In the shadows the huntsmen lie low.
As they fire, the wives somersault, stricken,
Living targets brought down on the snow.

They're hunting wolves! The hunt is on, pursuing
The wily predators, the she-wolf and her brood.
The beaters shout, the dogs bay, almost spewing.
The flags on the snow are red, as red as the blood.

In the fight heavy odds have opposed us,
But the merciless huntsmen keep ranks.
With the flags on their ropes they've enclosed us.
They take aim and they fire at point blank.
For a wolf cannot break with tradition.
With milk sucked from the she-wolfs dugs
The blind cubs learn the stern prohibition
Never, never to cross the red flags!

They're hunting wolves! The hunt is on, pursuing
The wily predators, the she-wolf and her brood.
The beaters shout, the dogs bay, almost spewing.
The flags on the snow are red, as red as the blood.

We are swift and our jaws are rapacious.
Why then, chief, like a tribe that's oppressed,
Must we rush towards the weapons that face us
And that precept be never transgressed?
For a wolf cannot change the old story
The end looms and my time's, almost done.
Now the huntsman who's made me his quarry
Gives a smile as he raises his gun.

They're hunting wolves! The hunt is on, pursuing
The wily predators, the she-wolf and her brood.
The beaters shout, the dogs bay, almost spewing.
The flags on the snow are red, as red as the blood.

But revolt and the life-force are stronger
Than the fear that the red flags instil
From behind come dismayed cries of anger
As I cheat them, with joy, of their kill.
In my flight, sinews bursting I hurtle,
But the outcome is different today!
I was cornered! They trapped me encircled!
But the huntsmen were foiled of their prey!

They're hunting wolves! The hunt is on, pursuing
The wily predators, the she-wolf and her brood.
The beaters shout, the dogs bay, almost spewing.
The flags on the snow are red, as red as the blood.
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Average rating for this translation: 4.25 (out of 4)


Masks
Russian title: Maski 
I laugh, but with wild laughter nearer tears.
As if seen in distorting mirrors, all
Have crooked noses and grin from ear to ear
Like grotesques at a Venetian carnival

What shall I do? Shall I take flight, I ask,
Or shall I stay and frolic with these creatures?
Can I not hope, behind an animal mask,
To find a face endowed with human features?

For each of them is wearing mask and wig,
Some from literature, some from old romances.
The one beside me sports a harlequin's rig,
The next a hangman's and a third a dunce's.

With loud guffaws I join the merry crowd,
But still I feel uneasy, though I laugh.
Supposing one - a hangman - grows too fond
Of his grim mask and will not take it off?

What if a harlequin should learn to love
His mournful face, and so be sad forever?
Or if a fool should like his mask enough
To forget his wits and lose them altogether?

The circle closes in and rings me round.
They seize me, forcing me to take my place
And join the dance. My features they confound
And see a mask where is but my face.

Confetti fills the hall and fireworks flare!
The masks scowl hatefully and look askance:
I'm out of step, they cry, and take no care -
I tread upon the others in the dance.

The spiteful masks pour scorn on me, and rail;
The jolly ones are starting to be irked.
Hidden behind them, as if behind a wall,
Furtively watching, human faces lurk.

I run after my muses and give chase,
Hard on their heels, but there's not one I'll ask
To throw off her disguise and show her face -
For might she not reveal half-face, half-mask?

And yet, I've plumbed their secret. If correct -
And I've no serious grounds for doubting it -
I know the indifferent mask is to protect
The real face from blows and gobs of spit.

But how can I spot goodness? Recognize
The rogues and tell them from the honest ones?
Each dons his mask and puts on his disguise
So as not to dash his face against the stones.
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My neighbour
Russian title: Moj sosed 
(Song of a professional trouble-maker)

My next-door neighbour's travelled everywhere,
Away prospecting for some sort of mineral.
Other folk's concerns aren't my affair
But somehow he gets up my nose in general.

They've had their windows done in silk and plush.
His lady wife goes round in robe and towel.
If I'd a wage like his, or half as much,
I'd find ore in Moscow with a trowel

It's my belief that all his cronies lie.
He finds nowt on purpose - that's his racket.
But all the same, his salary's sky-high -
Make no mistake, he's worth a bleeding packet.

At our place yesterday this neighbour's lad
Fell against our door and knocked his forehead,
And smashed up my decanter. Well, his dad
Can pay me back the price with interest on it.

A quid to him is like a bob to me
So he can pay me three times what the cost is.
It isn't out of spite - that's not my way.
The only thing that interests me is justice.

I'll give him so much gip that he'1l soon move.
He'll be off, and what's more, pretty briskly.
He's stiff with loot - his income's through the roof,
But I can barely keep myself in whiskey.
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Ships
Russian title: Korabli 
Anchored ships lie in port
And then put out to sea
But they always return again,
Braving foul weather.
In six months I'll return
But my journey will be
Ended only to start
        on another.

Everyone returns
But the friends you most trust,
And the dearest of women,
The truest and best.

Everyone returns
Except those you need most.
I have no faith in fate,
        in myself
        even less.

But how good to imagine
Things aren't as they seem,
That to burn all your boats
Will soon pass out of fashion.
I'll be sure to return
Both in friends and in dreams...
Before six months are out
        I'll sing again
        With new passion.
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Lyricale
Russian title: Liricheskaya 
Where fingers of fir-trees tremble, enthralled,
And birds trill their anxious palaver,
You live in a forest enchanted and wild
And can't get away from it ever.

Let cherry blossom dry in the wind like lace,
Let the lilacs bend low in the rain.
I'll still bear you away in my arms from this place
To halls gay with the piper's strain.

Fell witches have kept you for thousands of years
>From me and the great world's contentment,
And their spells have convinced you that nothing compares
With this magical forest's enchantment.

Let the dew in the morning not gleam on the grass,
Let the moon and the dark sky wrangle.
I'll still bear you away in my arms from this place
To a mansion with a view on the shingle.

Is there ever a time, by night or by day,
That you come to me anxious or timorous?
Come into my arms and I'll bear you away
To a place in which none shall discover us.

If it's thieving you want, I'll go gladly with thieves -
Or in vain have I tried to entice you?
If the mansion's not free, then a hut roofed with leaves
Will in paradise surely suffice you.
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