Поэту
Поэт! не дорожи любовию народной.
Восторженных похвал пройдет минутный шум;
Услышишь суд глупца и смех толпы холодной,
Но ты останься тверд, спокоен и угрюм.
Ты царь: живи один. Дорогою свободной
Иди, куда влечет тебя свободный ум,
Усовершенствуя плоды любимых дум,
Не требуя наград за подвиг благородный.
Они в самом тебе. Ты сам свой высший суд;
Всех строже оценить умеешь ты свой труд.
Ты им доволен ли, взыскательный художник?
Доволен? Так пускай толпа его бранит
И плюет на алтарь, где твой огонь горит,
И в детской резвости колеблет твой треножник.
Александр Пушкин, 7 июля 1830
---
To the Poet
Sonnet
Poet, not popular applause shalt thou prize!
Of raptured praise shall pass the momentary noise;
The fool's judgment hear thou shalt, and the cold mob's laughter,
Calm stand, and firm be, and sober!
Thou art king: live alone. On the free road
Walk, whither draws thee thy spirit free:
Ever the fruits of beloved thoughts ripening,
Never reward for noble deeds demanding.
In thyself reward seek. Thine own highest court thou art;
Severest'judge, thine own works canst measure.
Art thou content, O fastidious craftsman?
Content? Then let the mob scold,
And spit upon the altar, where blazes thy fire.
Thy tripod in childlike playfulness let it shake.
-
This is the only poem Turgenef quotes in his speech
at the unveiling of the Pushkin monument in 1880.
"Of course," he said, " you all know it, but
I cannot withstand the temptation to adorn my slim,
meagre prosy speech with this poetic gold.
Ivan Panin, 1888
---
To a Poet
A poet! Do not prize the love of people around,
It soon will pass -- the glorifying hum --
And come a court of fools and laughing of cold crowd --
But you must always stay firm, morose and calm.
You're king: live lonesome. Along the freedom's road,
Stride there, to where just shows your free mind,
While modernizing fruits of thoughts, beloved,
And not demanding you to be awarded.
Awards inside of you. You are your highest court;
Severely then all, you value your effort.
Well, are you satisfied, oh, my severe artist?
You're satisfied. Then let the mob condemn your verse,
Spit at the altar, where your fire burns,
And toss your brass tripod with somewhat childish wildness.
Yevgeny Bonver, January, 2000
---
To the Poet
Poet, though people praise you, don't feel proud.
A minute later, people's praise can disappear.
Hearing the verdict of a fool and laughing crowds,
You must remain unmoved, and calm and clear.
You are a czar: live on your own. Wander about
Wherever boundless musings guide your way,
Refine the fruits of your dear thoughts each day,
Don't seek rewards or strive to be renowned.
Yourself, you are the most supreme of courts;
You pass the strictest verdicts on your works.
Determined artist, are you satisfied?
If you are pleased, let crowds be profane.
Let them disgrace the altar, spit into the flame,
And shake your tripod with a childish delight.
Андрей Кнеллер
---
Poet! Don't value people's love too much,
The noise of commendations won't last long;
You'll hear the voice of ignorance and grudge,
But you remain morose, and calm, and strong.
Just stay apart. All this should be ignored.
Your roads are free, so like a pilgrim go
Wherever your inspiration choose to draw,
And don't expect for this a prize or a reward.
It is inside yourself. You are your highest court;
Most rigorously you can estimate your word.
Whether you're satisfied with it, the severe judge?
If yes then let the crowd swear and laugh.
You shouldn't hear it from your place above.
Do not explain, regret, complain, or grudge.
VG, 14 июля 2013