Translations

Michael Lavers

A Translation from the Russian of “The Mermaid” by Alexander Pushkin

It was a hidden lake, in green shade,

where once an ancient monk escaped.

He studied constantly, and prayed,

and in harsh fasts groveled and scraped,

then, using half of a broken shovel,

dug a grave under the open sky,

and spent each minute in his hovel,

begging the saints to let him die.

One day, out in the summer air

beside the doorframe of his shack,

the anchorite stood lost in prayer.

The oaks were turning slowly black.

The mist above the lake lifted

like smoke, which whorled and spread, 

up where the red moon slowly drifted.

The monk stared at the lake instead. 

He stood, and watched, and grew afraid;

even himself he didn’t understand,

but noticed how the small waves sprayed

and fell and lapped against the sand.

Then, whiter than the hills’ first snow,

as smoothly as the spreading night,

a naked girl crawled from the undertow

into the stark moonlight.

She glanced at the old man, and stroked

her moonwhite arms, her soaking hair,

while he stood quivering and looked

right back, not moving out of fear.

At last she waived her hand and beckoned

with a sudden nod, and then—

quick as a falling star, gone in a second—

disappeared into the waves again.

All night the hermit couldn’t sleep.

A full day passed—he hadn’t prayed.

His whole world had begun to creep

with mystifying maiden-shade. 

Darkness disguised the oaks. The owls called.

The moon hid in the clouds’ dark sail,

and once again the strange girl crawled

up on the shore, lovely and pale.

She looked at him and tossed her hair,

and blew a playful kiss, and smiled,

and, rousing waves through midnight air,

now laughed, now whimpered like a child.

She moaned and called toward the bank

“Come here, dear monk, to me, to me,”

then down into the clear waves sank.

The whole world waited silently.   

Still our poor recluse, on day three,

sat waiting by that moonstruck shore.

But on the fourth, when oaks sat silently,

the monk was not there anymore.

With him the darkness disappeared.

The sun rose up, the day grew hotter.

The lake was calm. Only a greying beard

that a few boys saw, bobbed on the water.

Michael Lavers is the author of two poetry collections, After Earth and The Inextinguishable, both published by the University of Tampa Press. His poems have appeared in Ploughshares, The Kenyon Review, AGNI, Southwest Review, The Georgia Review, and elsewhere. He teaches poetry at Brigham Young University.

Ethan McGuire

A Translation of Two Poems from the Chinese of Yue Fei

A Face Toward Snow

The willow trees stand green;

      the tranquil river runs snow-clear.

      Among the warbling orioles,

             the youthful Spring’s returning.

Without a thought, I sit

      upon the bank and shed a tear…

      How can it be? Invading dusk

             creeps down the hills still burning.

Living for the Sacred Things

As countless Autumns pass, Mount Lushan watches his great empire.

Beneath his gaze, the Yangtze River winds forever east.

Beside these rides a warrior, young, who’s sworn to serve his emperor

And lead his men in war, to vanquish the invading beast.

If he can find a way to carve his deeds on marble tablets,

He’ll sheath his sword, to walk the sacred path beneath the pine,

And send his kind regards to any rural temple abbots:

“Your humble servant comes this way to study the divine.”

Ethan McGuire