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- Bu səhifədəki naviqasiya:
- Dmitry Shostakovich, Symphony No. 14, Op. 135
- Reply of the Zaparogue Cossacks to the Sultan of Constantinople
| Dmitry Shostakovich, Symphony No. 14, Op. 135 8.573132 www.naxos.com/catalogue/item.asp?item_code=8.573132
Page 1 of 4 [1] De profundis Federico García Lorca (1898-1936) / I. Tynyanova
Sto goryacho vlyublyonnïkh Snom vekovïm usnuli Gluboko pod sukhoy zemlyoyu. Krasnïm peskom pokrïtï Dorogi Andalusii. Vetvi oliv zelyonïkh Kordovu zaslonili. Zdes’ im krestï postavyat, Chtob ikh ne zabïli lyudi. Sto goryacho vlyublyonnïkh Snom vekovïm usnuli.
Smert’ voshla i ushla iz tavernï. Smert’ voshla i ushla iz tavernï. Chyornïye koni i tyomnïye dushi V ushchel’yakh gitarï, brodyat. Zapakhli sol’yu i zharkoy krov’yu Sotsvet’ya zïbi nervnoy. A smert’ vsyo ukhodit I vsyo ne uydyot iz tavernï.
La Loreley / Loreleya Guillaume Apollinaire (1880-1918) / Mikhail Kudinov
K belokuroy koldun’ye iz prireynskogo kraya Shli muzhchinï tolpoy, ot lyubvi umiraya.
I velel yeyo vïzvat’ yepiskop na sud, Vsyo v dushe yey proshchaya za yeyo krasotu.
‘O skazhi, Loreleya, ch’i glaza tak prekrasnï, Kto tebya nauchil etim charam opasnïm?’
‘Zhizn’ mne v tyagost’, yepiskop, i proklyat moy vzor. Kto vzglyanul na menya, svoy prochyol prigovor.
O yepiskop, v glazakh moikh plamya pozhara, Tak predayte zh ognyu eti strashnïye charï!’
‘Loreleya, pozhar tvoy vsesilen: ved’ ya Sam toboy okoldovan i tebe ne sud’ya.’
‘Zamolchite, yepiskop! Pomolites’ i ver’te: Eto volya Gospodnya predat’ menya smerti.
Moy lyubimïy uyekhal, on v dalyokoy strane. Vsyo teper’ mne ne milo, vsyo teper’ ne po mne.
Serdtse tak isstradalos’, chto dolzhna umeret’ ya. Dazhe vid moy vnushayet mne mïsli o smerti.
Moy lyubimïy uyekhal, i s etogo dnya Svet mne belïy ne mil, noch’ v dushe u menya.’
I tryokh rïtsarey kliknul yepiskop: ‘Skoreye Uvedite v glukhoy monastïr’ Loreleyu.
Proch’, bezumnaya Lor, volookaya Lor! Tï monakhiney stanesh’, i potyomknet tvoy vzor.’
Troye rïtsarey s devoy idut po doroge. Govorit ona strazhnikam khmurïm i strogim:
‘Na skale toy vïsokoy dayte mne postoyat’, Chtob uvidet’ moy zamok mogla ya opyat’,
De profundis
Those one hundred lovers are sleeping for ever beneath the dry earth. Andalusia has long red roads. Cordoba, green olive trees where a hundred crosses can be raised in their memory. Those one hundred lovers are sleeping for ever.
Death walks in and out of the tavern. Black horses and sinister people wander the deep paths of the guitar. And there’s a smell of salt and women’s blood on the febrile spikenards along the coast. Death walks in and out, out of and into the tavern walks death.
who let every man around die of love.
The bishop had her summoned to his tribunal but absolved her in advance on account of her beauty.
O fair Lorelei, with your eyes full of gemstones, from which magician did you get your sorcery?
I’m weary of living and my eyes are damned; all men have perished, my lord, on meeting my gaze.
My eyes are flames and not gemstones, throw, oh throw this sorcery into the flames.
I am ablaze in those flames, o fair Lorelei; let another condemn you, for I am bewitched by you.
You laugh, my lord, when you should be praying to the Virgin for me, so let me die, and may God protect you.
My lover has left for a far-off land, so let me die, since there is nothing I love.
My heart aches so that I must die, were I to look into my own eyes I should have to die.
My heart has ached so since he left, my heart began to ache so the day he went away.
The bishop summoned three knights armed with lances: Take this poor demented woman off to the convent.
Go now, deluded Lore, go, Lore with your trembling gaze, you will be a nun, dressed all in black and white.
Then all four set off along the highway. Lorelei begged them, her eyes shining like stars,
Good knights, allow me to climb up to that cliff so high, to look one last time upon my fine castle,
Dmitry Shostakovich, Symphony No. 14, Op. 135 8.573132 www.naxos.com/catalogue/item.asp?item_code=8.573132
Page 2 of 4 Chtob svoyo otrazhen’ye ya uvidela snova, Pered tem, kak voyti v monastïr’ vash surovïy.’
Veter lokonï sputal, i gorit yeyo vzglyad, Tshchetno strazha krichit: ‘Loreleya, nazad! Nazad!’
‘Na izluchinu Reyna lad’ya vïplïvayet, V ney sidit moy lyubimïy, on menya prizïvayet.
Tak legko na dushe, tak prozrachna volna…’ I s vïsokoy skalï v Reyn upala ona,
Uvidav otrazhyonnïye v gladi potoka Svoi reynskiye ochi, svoy solnechnïy lokon.
Le suicidé / Samoubi’ytsa Guillaume Apollinaire / Mikhail Kudinov
Tri lilii, tri lilii… Lilii tri na mogile moyey bez kresta, Tri lilii, ch’yu pozolotu kholodnïye vetrï sduvayut,
I chyornoye nebo, prolivshis’ dozhdyom, ikh poroy omïvayet, I slovno u skipetrov groznïkh, torzhestvenna ikh krasota.
Rastyot iz ranï odna, i kak tol’ko zakat zapïlayet, Okravavlennoy kazhetsya skorbnaya liliya ta.
Tri lilii, tri lilii… Lilii tri na mogile moyey bez kresta, Tri lilii, ch’yu pozolotu kholodnïye vetrï sduvayut.
Drugaya iz serdsa rastyot moyego, chto tak sil’no stradayet, Na lozhe chervivom. A tret’ya kornyami mne rot razrïvayet.
Oni na mogile moyey odinoko rastut, i pusta Vokrug nikh zemlya, i kak zhizn’ moya, proklyata ikh krasota. Tri lilii, tri lilii… Lilii tri na mogile moyey bez kresta.
V transheye on umryot do nastuplen’ya nochi, Moy malen’kiy soldat, chey utomlyonnïy vzglyad Iz-za ukrïtiya sledil vse dni podryad Za Slavoy, chto vzletet’ uzhe ne khochet. V transheye on umryot do nastuplen’ya nochi, Moy malen’kiy soldat, lyubovnik moy i brat.
I vot poetomu khochu ya stat’ krasivoy. Pust’ yarkim fakelom grud’ u menya gorit, Pust’ opalit moy vzglyad zasnezhennïye nivï, Pust’ poyasom mogil moy budet stan obvit. V krovosmeshenii i v smerti stat’ krasivoy Khochu ya dlya togo, kto dolzhen bït’ ubit.
Zakat korovoyu revyot, pïlayut rozï, I siney ptitseyu moy zacharovan vzglyad. To probil chas lyubvi, i chas likhoradki groznoy. To probil smerti chas, i net puti nazad. Segodnya on umryot, kak umirayut rozï, Moy malen’kiy soldat, lyubovnik moy i brat.
Les attentives II / Madam, posmotrite! Guillaume Apollinaire / Mikhail Kudinov
Madam, posmotrite! Poteryali vï chto-to… - Akh! Pustyaki! Eto serdtse moyo, Skoreye yego podberite. Zakhochu—otdam. Zakhochu— Zaberu yego snova, pover’te. I ya khokhochu, khokhochu, khokhochu, khokhochu, Kha, kha, kha, kha, kha, kha, kha, kha, kha, kha, kha. I ya khokhochu, khokhochu To see one last time my reflection in the river, then I shall go to the convent of maidens and widows.
There on high the wind twisted her tumbling locks. The knights cried out, Lorelei, Lorelei.
There far below a little boat is floating along the Rhine: my lover is at the helm, he has seen me, he’s calling me.
My heart is filled with tenderness, ‘tis my lover who comes. Then she leant over the edge and fell down into the Rhine.
For the fair Lorelei had seen in its waters her Rhine-coloured eyes, her tresses golden as the sun.
Three tall lilies dusted with gold that the wind scatters in fright,
watered only when a dark sky showers them, majestic and handsome like royal sceptres.
One is growing from my wound, and when daylight catches it, bloodied, it reaches upwards: this is the lily of fear.
Three tall lilies, three tall lilies on my grave with no cross. Three tall lilies dusted with gold that the wind scatters in fright.
Another grows from my heart as it lies aching in the earth where the worms are eating it; the last is growing from my mouth.
On my grave set apart all three reach upwards, all alone, all alone, and, I believe, as damned as I am. Three tall lilies, three tall lilies on my grave with no cross.
The one who has to die tonight in the trenches is a young soldier whose eye idly falls throughout the day on the trophies that were hung from the cement crenellations during the night. The one who has to die tonight in the trenches is a young soldier, my brother and my lover.
And since he has to die, I want to make myself beautiful. I want to light the torches with my bare breasts, I want to melt the frozen pool with my wide eyes, and as for my hips, I want them to be gravestones. For since he has to die, I want to make myself beautiful, in incest and death, two such handsome gestures.
The cows at sunset are lowing all their roses, the wing of the blue bird gently fans me. It’s the hour of Love and its ardent neuroses, it’s the hour of Death and the final promise. The one who has to die just as roses die is a young soldier, my brother and my lover.
you’ve dropped something. It’s my heart, nothing much. Pick it up again then. I gave it, I took it back again. It was down there in the trenches. It’s here, and I laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh, Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. It’s here, and I laugh and laugh Dmitry Shostakovich, Symphony No. 14, Op. 135 8.573132 www.naxos.com/catalogue/item.asp?item_code=8.573132
Page 3 of 4 Nad lyubov’yu, chto skoshena smert’yu.
Menya razdeli dogola, Kogda vveli v tyur’mu; Sud’boy srazhyon iz-za ugla, Nizvergnut ya vo t’mu.
Proshchay, vesyolïy khorovod, Proshchay, devichiy smekh. Zdes’ nado mnoy mogil’nïy svod, Zdes’ umer ya dlya vsekh.
Net, ya ne tot, Sovsem ne tot, chto prezhde. Teper’ ya arestant, I vot konets nadezhde.
V kakoy-to yame, kak medved’, Khozhu vperyod, nazad, A nebo! Luchshe ne smotret’. Ya nebu zdes’ ne rad. V kakoy-to yame, kak medved’, Khozhu vperyod, nazad.
Za chto Tï pechal’ mne etu prinyos? Skazhi, vsemogushchiy Bozhe. O szhal’sya, szhal’sya! V glazakh moikh netu slyoz, Na masku litso pokhozhe.
Tï vidish’, skol’ko neschastnïkh serdets Pod svodom tyuremnïm b’yotsya! Sorvi zhe s menya ternovïy venets, Ne to on mne v mozg vop’yotsya.
Den’ konchilsya. Lampa nad golovoyu Gorit, okruzhonnaya t’moy. Vsyo tikho. Nas v kamere tolko dvoye: Ya i rassudok moy.
Réponse des Cosaques Zaporogues au Sultan de Constantinople / Otvet zaporozhskikh kazakov konstantinopol’skomu sultanu Guillaume Apollinaire / Mikhail Kudinov
Tï prestupney Varravï v sto raz. S Vel’zevulom zhivya po sosedstvu, V samïkh merzkikh grekhakh tï pogryaz. Nechistotami vskormlennïy s detstva, Znay: svoy shabash tï spravish’ bez nas.
Rak protukhshiy, Salonik otbrosï, Skvernïy son, chto nel’zya rasskazat’, Okrivevshiy, gniloy i beznosïy, Tï rodilsya, kogda tvoya mat’ Izvivalas’ v korchakh ponosa.
Zloy palach Podol’ya, vzglyani: Ves’ tï v ranakh, yazvakh i strup’yakh. Zad kobïlï, rïlo svin’i, Pust’ tebe vse snadob’ya skupyat, Chtob lechil tï bolyachki svoi!
O Del’vig, Del’vig! Chto nagrada I del vïsokikh i stikhov? Talantu chto i gde otrada Sredi zlodeyev i gluptsov?
about the love affairs cut down by the scythe of death.
I had to strip naked and that sinister voice howled, Guillaume, what’s become of you?
Farewell, farewell, songs and dances, o my youth, o young girls. Lazarus going into his tomb instead of rising from it as he did.
No, here I no longer feel I’m myself. I’m number fifteen in block eleven.
Every morning I pace around a pit, like a bear. We go round and round and round again. The sky is blue like a chain. Every morning I pace around a pit, like a bear.
What will become of me, o God, you who know my pain, you who gave it to me? Take pity on my dry eyes, my pallor...
And on all those poor hearts beating in prison. Love, my companion, take pity above all on my feeble wits and this despair that’s overpowering them.
The day is dying, see how a lamp is burning in the prison. We are alone in my cell, fair light, beloved reason.
More criminal than Barabbas, horned like fallen angels, what Beelzebub are you there below, nourished on mud and filth? We shall not come to your sabbaths.
Putrid fish of Salonica, long chain of nightmarish slumber, eyes gouged out with the tip of a pike. Your mother passed wind half-heartedly and you were born from her colic.
Butcher of Podolia, lover of wounds, of ulcers, of scabs, pig’s snout, mare’s arse, hold on tight to all your money to pay for your medicines.
O, Delvig, Delvig, what is the reward for poems and noble deeds? What comfort is there, and where, for talent that lives among villains and fools?
Dmitry Shostakovich, Symphony No. 14, Op. 135 8.573132 www.naxos.com/catalogue/item.asp?item_code=8.573132
Page 4 of 4 V ruke surovoy Yuvenala Zlodeyam groznïy bich svistit I krasku gonit s ikh lanit, I vlast’ tiranov zadrozhala.
O Del’vig, Del’vig! Chto gonen’ya? Bessmertiye ravno udel I smelïkh vdokhnovennïkh del I sladostnogo pesnopen’ya.
Tak ne umryot i nash soyuz, Svobodnïy, radostnïy i gordïy! I v schast’i i v neschast’i tvyordïy, Soyuz lyubimtsev vechnïkh muz!
Der Tod des Dichters / Smert’ poeta Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926) / T. Silman
Poet bïl myortv. Litso yego, khranya vsyo tu zhe blednost’, chto-to otvergalo, ono kogda-to vsyo o mire znalo, no eto znan’ye ugasalo. i vozvrashchalos’ v ravnodush’ye dnya.
Gde im ponyat’, kak dolog etot put’; o, mir i on—vsyo bïlo tak yedino: ozyora i ushchel’ya, i ravnina yego litsa i sostavlyali sut’.
Litso yego i bïlo tem prostorom, chto tyanetsya k nemu i tshchetno l’nyot, a eta maska robkaya umryot, otkrïto predostavlennaya vzoram, na tlen’ye obrechyonnïy nezhnïy plod.
Vsevlastna smert’. Ona na strazhe I v schast’ya chas. V mig vïsshey zhizhni ona v nas strazhdet, Zhdyot nas i zhazhdet I plachet v nas.
In Juvenal’s harsh hand the sound of a whip threatens the villains, and drains blood away from their faces, and the tyrants’ power diminishes.
O, Delvig, Delvig, what is persecution? Bold inspired deeds and sweet songs are destined for immortality!
And so our union will not die, liberated, joyous, and proud! Equally strong in happiness and sorrow, the union of those who are loved by the immortal muse!
had been pale and unconsenting among the steep pillows since the world and this knowing-about-it – ripped away from his senses – had reverted to the indifferent year.
Those who saw him living did not know how very much he was one with all of this; for this – these depths, these meadows and these waters – were his visage and vision.
Oh, his visage and vision was this whole wide-open space, which as yet still wants to go to him and woos him, and his mask, now dying in trepidation, is tender and open, like the inside of a fruit going bad through contact with the air.
Death is great. We are his when our mouths are filled with laughter. When we think we are in the midst of life, he dares to weep in our midst.
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