Russian literature

Vladimir Vysotsky (1938-1980)

At Bolshoy Karetnyi

You lost seventeen good years
At Bolshoy Karetnyi.
Went through seventeen great fears
At Bolshoy Karetnyi.
Your black hand gun- anywhere?
At Bolshoy Karetnyi.
What's the place without you there?
At Bolshoy Karetnyi.
Need I remind you of that house once more?
Naw, you still remember, that's for sure.
Yes, anybody's life is only half complete,
If you haven't walked Koretnyi Street.
I'll bet you yes
You lost seventeen good years
At Bolshoy Karetnyi.
Went through seventeen great fears
At Bolshoy Karetnyi.
Your black hand gun- anywhere?
At Bolshoy Karetnyi.
What's the place without you there?
At Bolshoy Karetnyi.
Well, a while ago they changed it's name,
Things are turning into a whole new game.
No matter where you go to find what must be found:
I betcha that Koretnyi Street is all around,
I betcha yeah
You lost seventeen good years
At Bolshoy Karetnyi.
Went through seventeen great fears
At Bolshoy Karetnyi.
Your black hand gun- anywhere?
At Bolshoy Karetnyi.
What's the place without you there?
At Bolshoy Karetnyi.

Dialogue in front of the TV-set

“Look, Vanya, honey, at the funny clowns!
That one, he's got a mouth like a purse.
Check out the geezer with the loopy flounce.
A voice like he's pissed, or something worse.
”And that one's like, but no, I mean it,
Your brother-in-law, must drink as much.
Come on, just watch, one tiny minute,
I never seen such.«
»Now listen, Zina, leave my in-law out:
Remember, he's still our kith and kin.
And for mouths, you watch your snout
Instead, all right? Or I'll bash it in.
“Instead of carrying on, instead
Of all that crap that you get off on,
Go buy a bottle… No, you said?
Move over, Zina, on the sofa.”
“Look, Vanya, at those dwarfs, real dorky!
In real jerseys too, all foreign-spun.
At the Fifth Sewing Plant, where I been working,
They'd never think of sewing that for fun.
”Your buddies, by the other way,
Wear such crap, and always will,
And always snarf from morning on
Such awful swill.«
»My friends may lack your fancy labels,
But they work hard to keep their families fed.
Cheap swill perhaps, but more on staples;
A.M. or P.M., they've got the bread
“You, Zina, on the other hand,
Your pal is was that guzzled gas,
That tire-plant guy, he was your friend,
Speaking of crass!”
“Hey, Vany, parrots! Ever seen'em cuter?
I knew the'd jum like this, I must be psychic,
Who's that in pink, must be a tutu,
I want a little one just like it.
”When bonuses are due, say, honey,
Promise to get one, will you, hon?
But why say 'No, it's always money!'
You never let me have my fun.«
»I think you'd better shut your trap.
This quarter's bonus ain't comin'.
And why? Who wrote that crap
To my employer? You're the dummy!
“As for this fashion-item piece,
On you it would look cheap, and sordid.
A yard of cloth you'd need, at least.
So where can we afford it?”
“Watch, Vanya, now the acrobats are starting!
Those cartwheels, wow, the tall one with the hat!
The other day, at our factory party,
Comrade Satikov, he jumped around like that.
”But you, you just come home and gobble
Your food, then off to bed to snore.
Or else you yell at me when sober.
Well, Vanya, wanna hear more?«
»You're itching, Zina, for a bruising
With them insults and your baiting.
All day you lounge, no break refusing,
Come home, and sit there watching.
“So the liquor store I go,
Where with my pals I gather.
For as for drinking on my own,
That hardly happens ever.”

The Monument

When alive I was shapely and lordly,
Feared nothing them bullets and feelings,
Didn't fit a conventional frame.
but as soon as my death was recorded,
They hobnailed and lamed the Achilles
On the pedestal of here fame.
Can't shake off my flesh made of granite,
Can't extract my world-famous heel
From this foundation cement of mine,
And the iron ribs embedded in it,
The armature I cripplingly feel
Sending spasms up the back of the spine.
I used to brag about my broad shoulders:
“Measure'em, a whole crooked yard!”
Didn't know they would fit fooolscap folders
Of judgments on the deceased bard.
A conventional frame, I got shoved into one
As if on some crazy fixed bet,
And as for the shoulders, well, son of a gun,
They straightened out even that.
And no sooner did I up and pass away
They my kith'n'kin had themselves a race
To make a death mask of the dead master.
Who put them up to it, I can't say,
but for sure the Asiatic bones of my face
Got clean shaved off the dazzling plaster.
Never reckoned on this even dreaming,
Never thought that my fate, even sleeping,
Was to end up the deadest of stiffs.
But the plaster surface was gleaming,
And sepulchral boredom was seeping
From my gaping smile without teeth.
When alive I'd never stick a finger in
The mouth of a lout.
To come to me with the usual yardstick
They'd think twice about.
But I died, and then and there on the cot
The undertaker measured me with his rod.
Then a year had passed, flown fast,
And to crown the newly straightened-out me,
For the poeple who came, thronged and horded,
They unveiled a bust that was huge and robust,
To the deafening roar of loud-speaking glee,
Of my own lovely songs, pre-recorded.
Suddenly shattered above me was silence,
Sound burst forth from the loudspeaking battery,
Floodlights lit up the theatrical set-up…
And lo, by the powers of modern science,
The voice once voiceless with agony
Had turned to a pleasing falsetto.
Well, I was dumbstruck in my white shroud.
“Such in our common share!”
This I shouted, a loud-mouthed castrato,
Into the crowd's ear.
They tore the shroud from me: How thin'e is!
“Death, 'tis thy doing.”
Do you really need me like this,
My own shoe-in?
Hollow sound the Commander's grim footsteps.
Thought I: I'll have me an amble of old,
Take a walk where flagstones and echoes meet.
So I did. The crowds scrammed – what a mess!
As I wrenched my leg free from the mould,
And I let the rubble fall away at my feet.
I leant forward a neked and monstruous lump,
Out of my skin, trying to stand up straight.
Tumbling down, I reached for my rod of iron…
Even so, when I hit the ground with a thump,
From the busted-up loudspeakers I brayed,
“I'm alive!”, and it sounded a lot finer.
And that fall, it both broke me
And bent me.
And again my jawbones protrude
From the metal.
Didn't manage the way it was wanted,
On the quiet.
Made my exit publicly flaunted,
Out of granite.

A song about a friend

If your friend just became a man,
Not a friend, not a foe, – just so,
If you really can't tell from the start,
If he's strong in his heart, –
To the peaks take this man – don't fret!
Do not leave him alone, on his own,
Let him share the same view with you-
Then you'll know if he's true.
If the guy on the peak got weak,
If he lost all his care – got scared,
Took a step on the frost – got lost,
Tripped and screamed in exhaust, –
Then the one you held close is false,
Do not bother to yell- expel, –
We can't take such aboard, and in short
We don't sing of his sort.
If the guy didn't whine nor pine,
He was dull and upset, but went,
When you slipped from the cliff,
He heaved, holding you in his grip;
If he walked right along, seemed strong,
On the top stood like he belonged, –
Then, whenever the chances are slim
You can count on him!