The Tired World, Alena Podobed

Marilyn Higginson, Quiet Afternoon, Oil on Wrapped Canvas



Усталый мир

Хочется укрыться одеялом,
Спрятаться от зимних холодов
И лежать… Душа твоя устала
Прибирать усталый этот дом,
Развлекать усталый и сердитый
Мир усталых и чужих людей…
Да кому нужны твои обиды?
Просто это были всё не те…
Зеркало усталое потрогай –
Патину* усталых долгих лет…
Где же те, какой бредут дорогой,
Или тех в усталом мире нет?
И кому нужна твоя усталость —
Каждый переполнен ею сам.
Счастье для тебя — такая малость:
Снова лето, хоть на полчаса…
Лечь бы на песок и шум прибоя
Слушать, понимая — смерти нет.
Есть лишь обещание покоя,
Отдыха от бестолковых лет:
От ненужных встреч и откровений,
От ошибок глупых и потерь.
От своей усталости и лени,
Ты и сам из тех, что всё не те…

В долгом ожидании разлуки
Рушатся усталые сердца.
Душу пожалей и убаюкай,
Ей тебя баюкать до конца…


The Tired World

(translated by Sergey Gerasimov from Russian)

I want to get under a blanket
to hide myself from winter’s cold
and lie… My soul is so tired
of cleaning up this tired, tired house.
Of entertaining this tired, angry world,
the world of tired strangers
who are not the right ones
and don’t care about my afflictions…
I touch the tired mirror.
The patina is weary of long, tiring years…
Where are the right ones, what road do they plod along?
Or probably they don’t exist at all in this tired world?
Nobody cares of your fatigue.
Everyone is brimful of their own.
Happiness is actually a mere trifle:
a bit of summer again, just half an hour of summer…
To lie down on the sand
and listen to the crashing waves
and understand: there is no death.
There is only a promise of peace,
of a break from the stupefying years.
From the useless meetings, revelations,
from my stupid errors and losses.
From my own fatigue and laziness.
Or probably I am also not the right one?
Our tired hearts collapse,
unable to stand the separation and waiting.
So take care of your soul and soothe it to calm.
It’s going to soothe you till the very end…

Alena Podobed


Review by Jared Pearce

The wanting to retreat, to need to get another, a better vision of living, to get some relief from alienation, this poem touches on these ideas. The repetition of tiredness, the speaker’s clear separation from most things meaningful, drive the poem’s themes. And then, what is most striking, is that the speaker then begins to doubt even the poem’s intentions and themes: “Or probably I am also not the right one.” Since there’s nothing upon which to rely, since all, even the self, is tired and meaningless, there must be a spiritual sense or essence or something that might offer some comfort. The poem then pares the world, shearing away all except the possibility that some help might be available; indeed, that chance is, according to the poem, our only hope.


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