SHEVCHENKO, Taras


Fate

You did not play me false, 0 Fate,

You were a brother, closest friend

To this poor wretch. You took my hand

When I was still a little tot

And walked me to the deacon's school

To gather knowledge from the sot.

"My boy, just study hard," you said,

And you'll be somebody in time!"

I listened, studied, forged ahead,

Got educated. But you lied.

What am I now? But never mind!

We've walked the straight path, you and I,

We have not cheated, compromised

Or lived the very slightest lie.

So let's march on, dear fate of mine!

My humble, truthful, faithful friend!

Keep marching on: there glory lies;

March forward - that's my testament

Translated by John Weir

Kobzar

…..
And the sky unwashed and

the drowsy waves; and

along the coast far-off

as if drunk, the reeds buckle

without wind. Jesus Christ!

Am I going to be trapped for long

in this unlocked prison, wasteland at the edge

of this monstrous sea,

nauseated globe? Speechless,

shut up and bent as if alive

in the steppe: the yellowing grass:

it doesn’t want to speak the truth,

but there’s no one else to ask.
…..


The Mighty Dnieper

The mighty Dnieper roars and bellows,

The wind in anger howls and raves,

Down to the ground it bends the willows,

And mountain-high lifts up the waves.

The pale-faced moon picked out this moment

To peek out from behind a cloud,

Like a canoe upon the ocean

It first tips up, and then dips down.

The cocks don't crow to wake the morning,

There's not as yet a sound of man,

The owls in glades call out their warnings,

And ash trees creak and creak again.


My Thoughts

My thorny thoughts, my thorny thoughts,

You bring me only woe!

Why do you on the paper stand

So sadly row on row? ...

Why did the winds not scatter you

Like dust across the steppes?

Why did ill-luck not cradle you

To sleep upon its breast? ...

My thoughts, my melancholy thoughts,

My children, tender shoots!

I nursed you, brought you up -- and now

What shall I do with you? ...

Go to Ukraine, my homeless waifs!

Your way make to Ukraine

Along back roads like vagabonds,

But I'm doomed here to stay.

There you will find a heart that's true

And words of welcome kind,

There honesty, unvarnished truth

And, maybe, fame you'll find ...

So welcome them, my Motherland,

Ukraine, into your home!

Accept my guileless, simple brood

And take them for your own!


Why Weighs The Heart Heavy?

Why weighs the heart heavy? ? Why drags life so dreary?

Why is the heart weeping and sobbing and sighing

As a child cries from hunger? Heart, heavy and weary,

What do you long for? Why are you sighing?

Are you longing for food or for drink or repose?

Slumber, my heart, for eternity sleeping,

Uncovered and shattered... Let hateful people

Rage on... O my heart, let your eyes gently close! ...


Calamity Again

Dear God, calamity again! ...

It was so peaceful, so serene;

We but began to break the chains

That bind our folk in slavery ...

When halt! ... Again the people's blood

Is streaming! Like rapacious dogs

About a bone, the royal thugs

Are at each other's throat again.

Translated by John Weir

In Prison: III It Makes No Difference To Me

It makes no difference to me,

If I shall live or not in Ukraine

Or whether any one shall think

Of me 'mid foreign snow and rain.

It makes no difference to me.

In slavery I grew 'mid strangers,

Unwept by any kin of mine;

In slavery I now will die

And vanish without any sign.

I shall not leave the slightest trace

Upon our glorious Ukraine,

Our land, but not as ours known.

No father will remind his son

Or say to him, "Repeat one prayer,

One prayer for him; for our Ukraine

They tortured him in their foul lair."

It makes no difference to me,

If that son says a prayer or not.

It makes great difference to me

That evil folk and wicked men

Attack our Ukraine, once so free,

And rob and plunder it at will.

That makes great difference to me.


The Maiden's Nights

Unplaited braids of maiden's hair

Down to her waist fall free;

Her heaving breasts are now revealed

Like waves amid the sea;

Her hazel eyes are gleaming fair,

Like stars at night they shine;

Her snow-white arms are now outspread

As longing to entwine

A young man's form—her fingers tense,

Sunk in her pillow cold,

Grow numb and rigid there. She weeps;

Her hands at last unfold:

"What use is all my grace to me,

My soft and dove-like eyes,

My supple shape . . . If I have not

A husband as my prize?

If none I have whom I may love,

With whom my soul may meet? ...

My heart, my heart, how hard it is

For you alone to beat!

With whom, alas, am I to live,

O wicked world? Ah me,

What use is reputation's fame

And my virginity?

I want to love, I want to live

With heart and not with face!

The wicked people round about

Are envious of my grace!

They call me proud, they call me vain,

And they are not aware

Of all the longing in my breast

That life has hidden there ...

But let them call me what they will —

The sin be theirs! But only,

Dear God, pray shorten for my heart

These nights so dark and lonely,

So difficult for me to bear!

By day I'm not alone:

Out in the fields, I greet the fields

And there forget my moan.

But in the night ...

Her voice was mute.

She drooped, a weeping willow,

Stretched out her arms, and fiercely sank

Her fingers in the pillow.

Translated by C. H. Andrusyshen and Watson Kirkconnell