Here’s a 1960 poem by Yevgeny Yevtushenko—not my favorite poet, but some of his pieces, like this one, are irresistible. I didn’t bother with the stairstep lineation in the original and crib, but it’s the author’s own. Late for Mother’s Day, I’m afraid.
Our Mothers Leave Us
For R. Pospelov
Our mothers leave us gradually behind.
They slip away on tiptoes
imperceptibly,
while we, our bellies full,
sleep unsuspectingly,
not sensing that the awful hour has chimed.
Our mothers don’t just leave all of a sudden.
No,
it only seems to us a sudden passing.
Instead, they—strangely, gradually advancing—
descend the years like stairsteps as they go.
And then some year we nervously come to
and throw a noisy birthday celebration,
but this belated rite is no salvation
for their souls
or for ours; it just won’t do.
They trail away in columns,
trailing endlessly.
We reach for them,
awaking with a start,
but find it’s only air we’re grasping helplessly.
A wall of glass is holding us apart!
We’re just too late.
The awful hour has chimed.
We watch them, and the tears well up inside of us,
as softly, gravely, trailing off in spite of us,
our mothers leave us gradually behind …
Уходят матери
Р. Поспелову
Уходят наши матери от нас,
уходят потихонечку, на цыпочках,
а мы спокойно спим, едой насытившись,
не замечая этот страшный час.
Уходят матери от нас не сразу, нет —
нам это только кажется, что сразу.
Они уходят медленно и странно
шагами маленькими по ступеням лет.
Вдруг спохватившись нервно в кой-то год,
им отмечаем шумно дни рожденья,
но это запоздалое раденье
ни их, ни наши души не спасет.
Все удаляются они, все удаляются.
К ним тянемся, очнувшись ото сна,
но руки вдруг о воздух ударяются —
в нем выросла стеклянная стена!
Мы опоздали. Пробил страшный час.
Глядим мы со слезами потаенными,
как тихими суровыми колоннами
уходят наши матери от нас…
Literal translation:
Our Mothers Leave
For R. Pospelov
Our mothers leave us;
they leave quietly/secretly, on tiptoe,
while we sleep peacefully, having eaten our fill,
not noticing the frightful hour.
Mothers don’t leave all of a sudden, no;
it only seems to us that it’s sudden.
They leave slowly and strangely,
taking small steps along the stairs of the years.
Suddenly, nervously coming to [realizing] some year,
we noisily mark their birthdays,
but this belated rejoicing
won’t save either their souls or ours.
They keep receding, keep receding.
We reach for them, having woken from sleep,
but our hands suddenly strike against air:
a glass wall has arisen in it [the air]!
We’re too late. The frightful hour has struck.
We watch with secret tears
as, in quiet, severe columns,
our mothers leave us …
The NYT printed a superb obituary of Yevtushenko five years ago:
https://www.nytimes.com/2017/04/01/w...viet-poet.html
Edits
L6: party’s > rite is
L14: not noticing until the hour has chimed. > not sensing that the awful hour has chimed.