The Voice Over

Translator’s Note to

War of the Beasts and the Animals

By Sasha Dugdale

Maria Stepanova wrote her epic poem War of the Beasts and the Animals in 2015, when the war in the Donbas region of Ukraine was at its height. Every line in this densely populated and highly allusive poem emerges from a consciousness of conflict and the martial culture and mythology that allows state-sponsored violence to happen. Stepanova traces the mythmaking culture of war from ballads and films of the Russian Civil War through the Second World War and into the twenty-first century, and Russia’s illegal and covert involvement in a war against Ukraine.

War of the Beasts and the Animals is impossible to translate in a superficially “faithful” way; the language is so much a captive of the surrounding culture: folk refrains jostle for space against psalms, Silver Age Russian poetry, the Old Russian epic The Tale of Igor’s Campaign, pop ballads, phrases from popular culture, Paul Celan, T. S. Eliot—the list is endless. Many of these allusions are simply not accessible to a non-Russian audience and the challenge in translating this extraordinary poem was to find strategies to deal with this super-charged and highly specific “modernism.”

Maria and I worked on this translation together during her residency at The Queen’s College in Oxford in 2017, and I used her extensive notes and comments to guide me through. Often, where I felt an image wouldn’t work in translation, I could return to Maria’s notes on her intended effect and choose a slightly different image, or extend the image in some way. Maria also gave me the freedom to use images with a currency in the UK, and as both Russia and Britain suffer from martial and imperial mythmaking, this gave me great satisfaction. Lines from Kipling found their way into the poem, for example, and a pre-battle quote from Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra replaced a line from a Russian poem about lovers on the eve of a battle.

In the end this text is a triangulation rather than a translation. It is the result of a dance between the original poem, Maria, and me, and it has at its heart the Russian poet Grigory Dashevsky’s concept of the existence of “a poem’s pre-textual body” from which we can both draw.

WAR OF THE BEASTS AND THE ANIMALS

TRANSLATED BY SASHA DUGDALE

look, the spirits have gathered at your bedside

speaking in lethean tongues

hush-a-bye, so flesh and fine,

for what do you long?

——

I smiled

he said, marusya,

marusya, hold on tight and down

we went

—

no vember

the cruellest month, the hoarsest mouth

driving from the dead clay

peasants forged to the field,

cows, curs, leaving over their dead body

the postbag snagged in the stream

the tin spoon

the quick streams slipping the quicksilver

  slip sliding away to the estuary

this little piggy went to market

and this little piggy froze to death

and the landowner put a gun to his head

and a black car came for the officer

the greek in odessa, the jew in warsaw

the callow young cavalryman

the soviet schoolboy

gastello the pilot

and all those who died in this land

out of the murky pool, the surface still warmed by the sun

in a night in may, steps rus al ka and quickly begins her work

throws her wet clothes from her tramples with her wet feet

her black body shines her white smock cast

mother, mother is that you? alyosha I don’t rightly know

o swallow, swallow, is it her? she flew away, my friend

——

such high-minded intercourse

topples and must fall at last

a plague a’ both your

(ivy-clad turret, waterside folly)

masha learns on breakfast tv

’er petticoat was yaller an’ ’er little cap was green

till apples grow on an orange tree

breaches of password security

if I were drowned in the deepest sea

thus sung the maid down in the valley

russian actor mikhail porechenkov

fingers his warm little rifle

like the latest novelty musical box

like he’s desperate

to grow his own golden fleece

and the narrow water’s already round his knees

svyatoslav in kiev did hear the ringing of that knell

and tom thumb

bid them listen

who were of the lands of surozh and korsun:

black night brings long strings

foot-foot-foot-foot slogging

all the millers-of-god

hi ho hi ho and off they go

to civil war

——

lay to the left

a general touched his side

over the marxist’s chest

the liberal’s curls spread wide

o your goldenes haar

and a pair of blue eyes

few words spoken

feel free to surmise

thou art the armorer of the heart

sing me a ditty, something from rossini

rosina, perhaps, like on radio rossiya

——

as in a chariot race

the chosen one, glistening like quartz

in his roaring metal carapace

whips this way along the course

but the chariot is cleverer

throwing up stones

crashes the barrier

and crushes

the marrow from bones,

so, setting out rooks and queen

in their checkered chambers

culture leads fear

down the gauntlet of human nature,

stinking of laurel wreaths

steeped in a boiling pan,

to where there’s a lively trade

in the living unit of man

sing to me of how, on an ancient alley on your family’s estate,

the weathered bones lay bleached and scattered

under a birch tree; quietly they chattered:

there was no point to us, we didn’t lend each other our hands

like babes we lay in the nursery in our swaddling bands

——

I can just imagine coming under him

says one, and I can hear everything

and the other is speaking, speaking

fruits of the curbside reads the jar label

from whatever takes root in the stony rubbish

embers, sawdust, scorched wood

suspended in sweet amber sugar

cockerel-shaped lollies for the day of the dead.

when I’m off to market, or when I’m coming home

I always remember what she said back then

——

one leg crossed the other: who goes on top

one leg vows to the other: I’ll top you

——

when we seize all the banks!

share out the fruits of labor!

and the engines in all the tanks

flooded with rainwater

then we’ll help the poor earth

shake the wig from her head

erect a polytunnel instead

with a multiplication of those poles: cold and dead

and the south will come knocking at our ears

pears will droop in the heat

gleaming bulbous pears

swollen globular fruit

and the pizza delivery’s well-oiled

and the truth wears at our heart:

for the rapid soil

shall bring forth its own bard.

——

were it not seemly, citizens

to begin in ancient diction

to stay silent

——

oh in paris I could have lived and died

if there had been nowhere else besides

moscow of your land

china of your water

and tanganyika of the small trees

where the saplings and new roots are hidden

when it comes to it

somebody’s been put here to keep guard over it all

here, at the crossroads

of two legs, vast, fumble-footed

the un-russian god rose

the puddles reflected

to swell the goats and plump the hazel shell

the shadows under a birch like a cut out

my darling priapus, surely it’s time to sprout?

or is the geist not doing so well?

nothing here corresponds to the spotted skin

and the pink dusk

comes from the time of a nation’s devastation

no one calls for coolness,

             all want con flag ration

and here the iambs trip-trap: tetrameters chirrup

but trip up on naked vowels

and fall so far from europe

bleeding pelts, they howl

——

children in the yard played at being olympian gods

and then at gestapo interrogation—tbh it’s much the same

I had a dream

night in its nuptial attire

the cornfield the melon’s swelling belly

under the stars the machine gunner sings

to the machine gun,

swaddled

cradled at his breast

sleep my sunflower

sleep my poppy

soon the warm sun will come back from the south

and there’ll be new life in the

pedestrian subway

playing on the half-dismembered harmony

and soldiers soldiers

gather the light ash in pots

——

how little earth was saved on the bosom of the earth

lift the corner of the blanket, replace the hot water bottle

measure perspiration, water allow reach for it

deep in-draught:

ditch after

dug-out

dogged  indrafted

——

say the word that don’t belong

put it on and march along

forget the old and step anew

and the word will march with you

that word, it curls up and dies

at your lips as it emerges

like the spread-eagled toad it lies

in the heat on the verges

it clots sticky in the mouth

froths issues

here let me wipe out

it’s in the tissue

ugh with it  e  u

and gagging  om

they don’t half-mean anything

when they die they’re gone

blue wings thrown wide

under the weight of the sky

the eagle floats over the forest

undulating in the air like a plaice

divested of alphabet

——

on the twenty-second of june

at four o’clock on the dot

I won’t be listening to anything

I’ll have my eyes shut

I’ll bury the foreign broadcast

It’s the news but I won’t lift a hand

If anyone comes I’m out of the loop

I’m a sparrow I’m no man’s land

——

the home fires are burning low

be still my heart beat slow

don’t spend the kerosene douse the fire

it won’t end as I desire

strongly it bears us along in swelling and limitless billows

a hundred young warriors scrambling to form the watch

the warrior’s raven-black horse returns without its rider

the dark cloud was without silver lining

the song snatched

from the river the bayonets glittered

glimpses of white sleeve

volunteer walking at volunteer

cigarette in the death-grip of teeth

human waves

drum bangs

machine gun strafes

camera pans

birds singing in the sycamore tree

major petrov fucks major deyev

in the coarse pockets of ploughed soil

——

that night

over the field of battle

the nachtigall tells the nachtigall

nightingasps in disbelief

and in neighboring places

bird tells bird passing

from beak to beak like a dead frog

the exact science:

earth’s caesura

between the stains of the sighted

between one mottled zone of streetlights

warmed by proximate life

and its answering beam

the sightlessness of moss on boughs

anxious flight

armored vehicles

lenses

aimed at movement

——

no difference between first and second

patriotic or patriotic

great or pacific

atlantic

world

all the same they fall

to the only the civil

where sunrise quivers in the cinders

draws out the spear-tips

mate eh mate

giss a light

says the dead to the dead

says the killed to the killer

——

the flower dies under a skin of glass

mouth blackens stumps trickly crust

earth takes the dead she keeps them

and brings them up when she must

the sensible animals hold court

the witness box is a transparent lung

dark and trickled the way is damp

the bitch suckles her young

the judge lifts its eyes from the bench

to daylight’s low-hung bulb

holds up wanted posters

and asks the jury if I am absolved

barely pausing their talk

yesterday’s brothers emerge from the copse

in charred pelts, mud-crusted

get up on the cart, whip on the horse

to where the meadow holds an awning,

pins a path of stinging plants and thorns

the way back is belted down

even hope is stillborn

how to justify this? on the greedy tongue

milk writes in curds,

and paper is marked by  tree rings

traces of axe  a fool’s words

magna imago

——

the acacia has long blossomed

the army is long gone

melodeclamation

         has spread its wings and flown

ride a cock horse

to wherever the cross

and rip out the stuffing

and give it a toss

and freedom needs stripping

stay standing, lads, as long as you can

bust the joint, smash the game

one of our gang will crouch in a hole

wherever we are, and swig champagne

gypsies—dead

hussars—defunct

dusk now falls

color shrunk

pitter patter

across the heart

sputter spatter

on the tablecloth

voices raised in lament

which once were full of joy

——

who is that riding on to red square

towards st basil’s cathedral

countries rejoice cities jubilant

across my territory

begins two minutes history

vixens bark at the crimson shields

mosquitoes’ drone

drowns out the pealing of bells

russian hares

in all the polling stations

the country has spoken

and then the midges

tearing themselves from flesh

rotate tactically overhead

who wouldn’t want to be drinking the quiet don from grandfather’s

wooden cup, going back in time, rub your eyes

put kebabs on the fire

reclaim those words  sprinkle them on

soup

sprinkle earth

——

Vlas the volunteer, a fortnight dead

forgot the ruble rate, and what the sparrows said

and where he was from.

           A current of explosive air

held his bones in embrace. As he flew

the years passed from him, chubby-cheeked

babbling.

         Russky or Ukrainian,

o you, whoever you are, in this neglected crossing place,

consider Vlas. Vlas was nicer than you.

——

——

the human body

is not soap wearing thin to a hole

in the scented water bowl

nor is it ever wholly

of the past, always of the here and now

glows through the deadwood

not easy to dispatch

it creeps up like a snowdrop

through the carbon patch

and what was pining, barely alive

shut away within its bony cage

now floods into the dark recesses

to happen again

new life emerges when hope is no more

and you stand there, empty-handed and unsure

——

they traveled a long time

longlongtime

dumbstruck stillstanding trees

not-earth and earth pressed close

builder’s yards morgues fly-tips

skyfail palewhite

bluehills skywarmed

up and down the road and the road

swallet

grim

droop

spinybroom

steep

stonecrop

cumb

the unbending river vodopr’

can’t swallow enough water—

its shame next to the

perfectly round hills

they call the hills “mounts”

and we walked on the mount

we strolled in ornamental gardens

reflected in the long shanks of birch

we gazed in the heavenly blue

we noticed that populousness is bluer:

roofs fences

cars

heavy colors like a waterproof tarp

no one from our family

has been in these lands

since nineteen sixteen

glare of white handkerchiefs

spread wide

on the uncharted waters

non op posing

non meta morph osing

non harvest table

non stop able

——

life, you are a gash in need of stitching

death, you are a crust that yearns for filling

——

those who carry in their mouths, at first with care, heads with seeing eyes

those who touched newspaper print in their heads, as mother said never to do, never, wash your hands

those who rip apart in flight, carrying from nest to nest, smearing on the glass

attempt to mount the blunt-snouted body on a set of wheels,

set it trundling, throat outstretched and spouting fire

yes, them and these, too

but actually more these

for them conscripts spread their green arms wide

like a tablecloth plentifully spread

lie heaped at their feet like birch logs

to please the valkyries

at the harpies’ hearts desire

to the bayan’s thrum

the accordion’s reveille

and o, those children’s voices, singing where once there was a dome

in the soiled field

surrounded by corn and scarecrows

——

not on the earth but above or below

war’s deep grunt

producing slimy rivers of sweat

its hand feels for the gut

and we stagger

carry ourselves through the darkness

and mother demeter mithering in the muck

and anguish of the fields

hears from below: mother fuck

yet the sky might be brightening, or so it feels

and mother hecate comes out for a smoke

from the back street

from the foul black streets from the pecking fowl

the puddles of spilt milk

the earth lying like a kitbag

behind enemy lines  give it tongue

mother mary hurries

but hasn’t yet come

——

in a great and strong wind

a still small voice

she who cradles leviathan in her hands like the infant

and she who rises above the rye

all are present for this, as it happens

they watch, they steadily

unspeaking

as the ice in the ice house and the tear in the bottle come of age

as the soil tastes the first weight of the rain

as the ice-stoves send out blocks of

smoking death

in the big brother house a fight opens like a flower

women in flip-flops

fixated

shut the fuck up why don’t

spring in the recruiting office

knee jerk, stethoscope down the spine

picking out the shaggy the short-legged the sinewy

under matron’s watchful eye

how the thick plaits of herring stream away

the lines of tanks on bridges flash in the sun

a waiter’s flourish reveals a pitiful morsel

shivering, drizzled in salt, underdone

and over there is everything that I kiss from afar

that I love to smithereens

all of it still shouting alleluia

but no respite from the shameful dream

serpents and all deeps

tin soldiers at the city walls

all the ranks of angels

nanny lena digging vegetables

snow like wool and hoarfrost like ashes

throat like spindrift, legs like a foal

heart thrust through the noose

like a button through a button hole

save us from the right hand of falsehood

a memory

won’t save us

lies in the ashes

biting its own tail

he taketh not pleasure in the legs of a man

nor the strength of a horse

——

like the tailor who sews

not the straitjacket

(which from childhood has begged to sit up

woken from the canvas)

but the pattern

cuts on the bias

and the dress isn’t tight

just itchy

like a court proceeding

down the long hospital corridor

with a heavy trolley

handing out the tightly wrapped packages

the little living weights of verdicts

three per cord, ladies

like when in a moment’s confusion you spit out a barbed word

and it lodges in a treebody

or the body of a comrade

or a friendlip

and the line

goes taut

fish hooks a fish

like a mound

under a snowdrift

means nothing

writing on a tomb

sees no one

writing on a stone

nothing, we read

it not

but it is

2015