Round Two (after a couple of days):
VP: Welcome back, Gary! I'm glad you liked my translation of the Tsvetaeva poem, and thanks for the nuances that you've corrected. (Nuances are very important! Sometimes a sole phrase is worth the poem--that's hermeneutics!)) Here is my most recent version:
"Nostalgia," by Marina Tsvetaeva:
Nostalgia--a hassle,
Long-exposed!
I'm absolutely pointless
Where to go--
Along the streets of cobble,
I drag myself,
To some unknown barrack
I call "my place."
I'm absolutely passive
If I must snap
Like a lion captivated
By a human crowd--
Or, ousted, hide in private,
Like a bear,
Can't bear innuendos
Everywhere--
I won't be either flattered
By native tongue,
Don't matter in what language
I'm cursed by one!
Those who engage in
Papers, fond of buzz!--
They're eager for the Century--
I can't care less!
I'm like a lifeless trunk
Left from a tree--
All people look alike
To mindless me!
Or maybe even days
I held most dear--
My soul, my precious soul,
Could not secure!
That land was so unfeeling
Even a sleuth
Would not detect a birthmark
'cross my soul.
Each home, each dome is foreign,
Indiscreet,
But should I meet a rowan
On the street.
GC: I had to look up "rowan." I don't think I've ever seen such a tree in North America!
VP: The rowan is a very common plant in northern Russia ("ryabina"). I"m sure you saw it many times in Northern America. Dark red grapes, with sharp bitter-sweet taste. "Ryabinovka," a popular Russian vodka, is infused with rowan. But the poem is bitter indeed!
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