30 Days of Ukrainian Poetry - Day 6 - "To Little Mariana"

Day 6! Soon I will have read a poem a day for an entire week! It hasn't been easy. Today I was tired, and I'm only barely going to get this blog posted before midnight. At least I was able to find a good English translation of today's poem, another classic by Taras Shevchenko. It says something about his status and popularity that I can easily find English translations of his works.

"To Little Mariana" is an interesting mix of sweetness tinged with dark bitterness. I picked it from a list because of the name, thinking it would be simple and sweet - and it starts out that way, but like a pot of untended pasta on the stove it quickly goes from happily simmering away, to boiling over and making the flames pop and hiss. It left me a bit startled.

I almost decided not to do this one, except it reminds me of something I hear in the words of my friends who have children: Why do they have to grow up? Can't they stay small forever?

Тарас Шевченко

Маленькій Мар'яні

Рости, рости, моя пташко,
Мій маковий цвіте,
Розвивайся, поки твоє
Серце не розбите,
Поки люди не дознали
Тихої долини,
Дознаються – пограються,
Засушать та й кинуть.
Ані літа молодії,
Повиті красою,
Ні карії оченята,
Умиті сльозою,
Ані серце твоє тихе,
Добреє дівоче
Не заступить, не закриє
Неситії очі.
Найдуть злії та й окрадуть…
І тебе, убогу,
Кинуть в пекло… Замучишся
І прокленеш бога.
Не цвіти ж, мій цвіте новий,
Нерозвитий цвіте,
Зов'янь тихо, поки твоє
Серце не розбите.

Taras Shevchenko

To Little Mariana

Grow, grow, my little birdie fair,
My poppy blossom, grow,
Keep on unfolding while your heart
Is still uncrushed by woe,
While people are still unaware
Of your secluded valley ...
They'll find you, mock you, wither you
By their malicious sally.
For neither years of youthful joy
Enveloped in sweet grace,
Nor yet your sparkling hazel eyes
And tear-besprinkled face,
Nor yet your gentle, maiden heart,
In which all kindness lies,
Will serve to cover from your sight
Their fierce, infernal eyes —
The wicked folk will find you out,
Despoil you, and still worse
Will cast you down to hell itself
And God your tongue will curse.
Do not unfold your bloom, my flower,
My fresh unfolded bud!
Die softly, ere your heart shall lie
All shattered in the mud!

Translated into English by С.H. Andrusyshen and Watson Kirkconnell. 

Like many Ukrainian poems, this one has been set to song - and the version below performed on the traditional Ukrainian bandura captures the poem's various moods brilliantly.

Here's to reaching Day 7 tomorrow!



The content of this blog reflects my views and experiences only, and is not indicative of the views of Peace Corps or of the governments of the US or Ukraine.