Often when I try to translate Taras Zaitsev's work I am only able to beautifully translate a few lines of a given poem. Converting a poem one language to another requires that each line retain meaning, feeling, sometimes rhyme, and most problematically dimensions (beats). This requires tremendous effort, and for an amateur, hobbyist is often beyond my abilities or time. But the beautiful fragments which I could translate should not be punished, unknown for my limitations... So, periodically I'll post those fragments, so they are not wasted... maybe someday I'll go back and put them in their more perfect context. But somedays rarely come.
divine suffering, unavailable beauty: such a thing should be hidden from eyes unprepared to see and a soul unprepared to feel [your exquisiteness].
were i another me, i may have wrested more undeserved moments.
how very i want you
to know me
enough to miss me
when i go.
that ever was within my heart
with such a spark as you.
mourning the disconnection of two like souls,
wishing things could unbe.
and that I had gravity enough to hold you.
pity this poor creature, me,
who can be unsecured in an instant by a unique you.
pity this poor selfish me
who wants you at whatever cost to he.
pity this poor and silly me,
that screws up its ego to believe that
my goodly self deserves no less than you.
i cannot create, cannot contain, cannot perpetuate joy. if/when it exists, it arrives mysterious and immediately threatens sudden departure. and it holds me crippled, hostage ('til it goes).
alone i am [uncomfortable for my desire is to be with you],
as always was (when not with),
it is a wicked and pitiful thing
to remove yourself [me] from an otherwise embracing world of potential someones.
silent, loving, slowing
then rage eyes met,
made wide, collapsing
in a long unending maybe.
sleeping, somewhere outside my reach
to hold you,
now and a divine forever.
i wonder in her under thoughts
just what i am.
she who knows well so many
must suspect me
of some something (noble, or great, or useful).
love is the defiance of death.
the choice to feel more than a well reasoned nothing.
i wish to one day see some unordinary her
who in one look transmutes my cautious reason into reckless feeling
whose visage screams her goodness
whose being makes me brave
and who sees in me so some much somehow the same.
oh sweet and mighty mysterious yearned quasi nothing
how i would love you. for in your every breath you make me more myself than e'er i've known.
the frightening becoming more, facing old fears, releasing old imperfect response.
i hold in as you nothing, but an idea; illusorious.
Poet Taras Zaitsev, various poems over various years
Translation by Quinxy von Besiex, 2008