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Native Tongue

Ну что язык --
Язык поможет
тонкости мысли описать.
И ложку облизать
он сможет.
От него ето не отнять.

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Your native tongue,
of some assistance
in capturing a nuanced thought.
Could lick a spoon too,
one more instance
where it will be denied for naught.

Author notes: In Russian, language and tongue is the same word (as in mother tongue, or native tongue), and so I play on that here.

It's A Gig

Fairy godmothers -- they must have goddaughters --
says the directive -- it's straight from headquarters.
No substitutions -- not an inch or iota.
Fairies work hard to accomplish this quota.

Mostly, they look for a type -- Cinderellas.
But on occasion -- this happens, my fellas --
some Cinderellas are not into balls.
Rue the godmother on whom this befalls.

This way, and that, they will tempt their assignment.
Beautiful dresses -- lent out on consignment.
Carriages, gilded, a fresh pumpkin latte.
Keep striking out like an unlucky batter.

So, does the story achieve a good ending?
Given the quotas are harsh and unbending
cases like this rarely end in a happy
Fairy godmothers, they better be scrappy

Author notes: Prompt #5 Cinderella

A Burning Candle (Loose Translation, Pasternak)

The flurries blow, snow white and thick,
too much to handle.
A table with a candlestick,
a burning candle.

Just as the summer's gnats to flame,
drawn to the fire.
The snowflakes love the window frame
they so admire.

The blizzard sculpts in bas-relief,
the glass its mantle.
А flame that's waving like a leaf,
a burning candle.

The ceiling lit as shadows play
and grip, engrossing.
Crossed arms and legs into the fray
as fates are crossing.

Two slippers soon abandon fear
and fall to pieces.
The candle sheds a waxy tear,
the dress releases.

All reason lost in snowy dusk,
grey and mishandled.
A candle burning, waxy musk,
a burning candle.

The drafty corner does its part
to blow and capture
the candle's flame into their heart,
an angel's rapture.

The whole of February, snow,
ain't that a scandal.
The candle burned, it ought to know,
a burning candle

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The blizzard pastes the earth with snow,
and blowing, blowing.
A candlestick gives off a glow,
a candle glowing.

Just as the summer's gnats to flame,
drawn to the fire.
The snowflakes love the window frame
they so admire.

The snowflakes sculpt in bas-relief,
with crystal drawing.
А flame that's waving like a leaf,
a candle glowing.

The ceiling lit as shadows play
and grip, engrossing.
Crossed arms and legs into the fray
as fates are crossing.

Two slippers soon abandon fear
and fall to pieces.
The candle sheds a waxy tear,
the dress releases.

All reason lost in snowy dusk,
its grey is showing.
A candle burning, waxy musk,
a candle glowing.

The drafty corner does its part
to blow and capture
the candle's flame into their heart,
an angel's rapture.

The whole of February, snow,
persists, ongoing.
A candlestick gives off a glow,
a candle glowing.

Author notes: This is perhaps the most famous "candle" poem in Russian, The Candle Was Burning, by Pasternak, from Dr. Zhivago One of the most difficult translations I've ever done, given how alliterative the original Russian is, and the short phrases, so it's perhaps looser than I would like.  But here are two slightly different attempts nonetheless, matching the meter and rhyme scheme. Мело, мело по всей земле Во все пределы. Свеча горела на столе, Свеча горела. Как летом роем мошкара Летит на пламя, Слетались хлопья со двора К оконной раме. Метель лепила на стекле Кружки и стрелы. Свеча горела на столе, Свеча горела. На озаренный потолок Ложились тени, Скрещенья рук, скрещенья ног, Судьбы скрещенья. И падали два башмачка Со стуком на пол. И воск слезами с ночника На платье капал. И все терялось в снежной мгле Седой и белой. Свеча горела на столе, Свеча горела. На свечку дуло из угла, И жар соблазна Вздымал, как ангел, два крыла Крестообразно. Мело весь месяц в феврале, И то и дело Свеча горела на столе, Свеча горела.

Footprints In The Sand

Our love, like gentle footprints in the sand
first softened, and then overrun by waves,
now barely visible in outline, flat and bland.
A hint of what once was, these shallow graves.

Like carefree flotsam tossed into the spray,
we traveled with the current, duty free,
mistaking our proximity for play,
and all the while abandoned to the sea.

What happened to us? Was it just the years
exerting their inexorable pull
as grain by grain, replaced by salty tears,
made every touch mundane, and passions cool?

Here, take my hand. Let's walk this sandy beach.
The tide is low. The waves are out of reach.

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older version

Our love, like gentle footprints in the sand
first softened, and then overrun by waves;
now barely visible in outline, flat and bland,
a hint of what once was, these shallow graves.

Oh, how we laughed, and fell into the spray.
The ocean toying with us, as it must,
and just as well: we did come here to play.
Our bodies shining, was it love? Or lust?

What happened to us? Was it just the years
exerting their inexorable pull
as grain by grain, replaced by salty tears,
made every touch mundane, and passion cool?

Here, take my hand. Let's walk this sandy beach.
The tide is low. The waves are out of reach.

Ditty On The End Of The World (Loose Translation from Czesław Miłosz)

On the day the world ends...
It is over.
Bees still bumble above cress and clover.
As the fisherman mends shiny net,
dolphins porpoise and splash, wild and merry,
sparrows pick at their favorite berry,
and the snake hasn't lost its scales yet.

On the day the world ends,
dark and zealous.
Women still carry sunny umbrellas.
Drunkards still fall asleep on the lawn.
Market peddlers still call: come here, fellas.
Pastel sails near the shore as if drawn.
And the fiddle will play until dawn,
and the stars still appear to go on.

Those awaiting both lightning and thunder
angels trumpeting, earth torn asunder --
will not get it --  there will be no trumpet,
and so they will ignore it and stamp it.
With the sun and the moon still in orbit,
bee still sipping cress juice to absorb it,
and with rosy cheeked babies still crying,
they'll refuse to believe it, denying.

Just an ancient old man, some say prophet --
he's too busy and thinks nothing of it,
long white beard, and his mustache quite curled.
He'll repeat, while he binds his tomatoes:
This is it (and he'll say it with pathos)
There'll be no other end of the world.
There'll be no other end of the world.

Author notes: This is a loose translation - while many of the internal rhymes match, the meter is invented https://www.tania-soleil.com/czeslaw-milosz-piosenka-o-koncu-swiata/ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mOT3PDi3FMs