Introductory Notes for “On Hearing ‘Songs and Dances of Death’":  Circa 2012

These four sonnets were written upon hearing, in concert,  Mussorgsky's "Songs and Dances of Death" written in 1875.  With orchestral accompaniment, a singer performed the four original Russian poems that were written by the poet, Arseny Golenishchev-Kutuzov. 

Immediately following each of my sonnets, I have placed the English translation of the original poem that inspired it. The fine translation was written by Harlow Robinson, Professor of Modern Languages and History at Northeastern University, Boston MA. My own four poems are an attempt to respond to each (grim) original with a slight glimmer of optimism not found in the 19th Century Russian poems.I wish to thank Mr. Harlow Robinson who has granted me written permission to use his translations in conjunction with this work.

On Hearing "Songs and Dances of Death"

#1 Dueling Lullabies

Bemoan events that cause a child to wake,   
and more so if that knock upon the door   
is from the reaper; harvesting, he'll make   
no crops to feed. A mother now implores,   
"Dear sir,  just leave, do not disturb him yet;  
this fever will abate Now go! -- be gone!  
I'll sing with passion, warding off your threat   
’till from my sight, your specter is withdrawn." 
To win her infant's ear and gain control;   
to still the pain he suffers as he cries,   
she finds the words and songs to reach his soul...   
that melodies might grant a life's reprise. 
   Two chant into the cradle lullabies,   
   as life or death depends on "Hush-a-byes".
     

                                   






















The Original #1 - "Songs and Dances of Death: Serenade"
     Arseny Golenishchev-Kutuzov - Translation by Harlow Robinson

The child is moaning. 
The candle, burning down, 
throws a dim light all around. 
All night long, rocking the cradle, 
mother has not had a wink of sleep. 
At very first light at the door cautiously 
came the knocking of heart¬rending death. 

Mother shuddered and looked around in terror…
“Don’t be frightened, my friend! 
Pale morning is already peeking through the 

little window. Crying, wailing, loving, you’ve worn yourself out. Doze off now for a little while, I’ll keep watch for you. 
You couldn’t calm the child; 
I’ll sing more sweetly than you.”
“Quiet! My child is restless and struggling, 
he is torturing my soul!”

“Well, he’ll soon be in my hands. 
Hush¬a¬bye, hush, hush.”

“His cheeks are pale, his breathing weak … 
So please be quiet, I beg you!”

“It’s a good sign: the suffering will stop. 
Hush¬a¬bye, hush, hush.”

“Away with you, cursed one! 
With your affections 
you’ll kill my pride and joy.”

“No, a peaceful dream 
will I bring to the infant. 
Hush¬a¬bye, hush, hush.”

“Have mercy, if only for a moment, 
stop singing your terrible song!”

“You see, he fell asleep to the quiet singing. 
Hush¬a¬bye, hush, hush.”

   
 

#2 Who Serenades

Like blissful magic, love wafts in with spring
and whisp'ring through the crack beneath the door,
can mesmerize, intoxicate and sing
with tricks of lyrics telling her much more
about her youth and how it's doomed to fade,
that rosy cheeks and beauty, soon remanded,
are sung about within Death's serenade.
Oh, brighter she does glow as she's enchanted.
Which unknown knight shall woo her with his powers?
Through rapture, he shall tempt her and solicit;
intoxicating every pore for hours,
with murmurings he over-stays his visit.
  Will this knight's strong embrace protect his mate?
  Or'll Death's divertimento suffocate?


The Original #2 - "Songs and Dances of Death: Serenade"
     Arseny Golenishchev-Kutuzov - Translation by Harlow Robinson

Magical bliss, the blue night, 
the rustling twilight of spring …… 
The sick girl listens, bowing her head …… 
to the whispering of the nocturnal silence. 
Sleep doesn’’t cover her shining eyes, 
life summons her to pleasure; 
but under the window in the silence of midnight 
death sings a serenade: 
““In the gloom of captivity, harsh and oppressive, 
Your youth will fade; 
an unknown knight 
with miraculous powers, 
I will free you. 
Arise and look at yourself: 
your transparent visage 
shines with beauty, 
your cheeks are rosy, 
by a long wavy braid 
is your figure, as if by a cloud, 
surrounded. 
The blue glow of your intense eyes 
is brighter than the heavens and fire. 
Your breath is full of noonday heat …… 
You have enchanted me. 
Your ears have been captivated by my serenade, 
your whispering voice called out for the knight. 
The knight has come for his final reward 
the hour of rapture has arrived. 
Your figure is sweet, your trembling intoxicating. 
Oh, I will suffocate you in my strong embraces; 
hear my murmurings of love …… 
Be still …… 
You are mine!
 
#3 Dancing to the Wind

Through black of night a blizzard, careless, blew 
its snow and, reckless, blanketed the earth; 
a peasant danced, though he, when sober knew 
this storm could blur his vision with such mirth. 
Bewitching winds embraced this lonely man. 
To trepaks, he now twirled through wind and flakes; 
the stupor, cold and mesmerizing dance 
intoxicates him so he then mistakes 
the season. Thinking summer, he finds sleep 
in unexpected warmth - the snow his shroud. 
His numbing, frostbit senses may not keep 
the howling wind or revelries so loud 
   from waking him. Yet, winter won't consume 
   a man whose soul is warm. Awake and bloom.

           
The Original #3 - "Songs and Dances of Death: Trepak" 
  Arseny Golenishchev-Kutuzov - Translation by Harlow Robinson

Fields and meadows, desolate all around. 
The blizzard does howl and moan; 
     
it seems almost as if in the black of night 
the evil blizzard is burying someone. 
Look, that’s what’s happening! 
     
In the darkness death is embracing a peasant, 
hugging him; 
with the drunk peasant it’s dancing a trepak. 
And it sings this song in his ear: 
“Oh, little peasant, poor old man, 
you drank till you got drunk and lost your way 
on the road; but the storm, that witch, came up,
it seethed from the fields into the deep forest, 
it drove everything before it. 
     
Hounded by grief, sadness, and poverty, 
lie down, nestle down, and fall asleep, dear friend! 
     
I will warm you up with snow, my friend, 
I’ll play a great game all around you. 
     
Fluff up the bed, you storm, my pretty! 
     
Hey, start in and sing, now, weather! 
Sing a tale that will last the whole night long, 
so that this drunkard will fall sound asleep to it. 
     
Oh, you, forests, skies, and clouds, 
darkness, wind, and flying snow, 
Weave a shroud, a snowy, downy shroud; 
and wrap the old man in it like a child. 
     
Sleep, my dear friend, happy little peasant, 
the summer has come, everything’s in bloom! 
     
The sun is smiling over the cornfield, 
and the scythes are flashing; 
a little song is heard, 
and the doves are flying…
 

#4 The Dirge

Field Marshal looks upon his battlefields
and celebrates the groans and rivers red;
the night now filled with war no longer yields
the shrieks or prayers… now silent, all are dead.
"I have conquered all," he proudly boasts;
he knows that they are born to nurture hate.
Inspecting now, he chants a dirge to ghosts
whose prejudice so warped did seal their fate.
He brags about their offspring never sired;
full well he understands this humankind.
Religions, politics and greed all fire
their history. Instilled they still may find
  the way to slay the hellish hate, inside;
  and then proclaim all Field Marshalls have died.

The Original #4 - "Songs and Dances of Death:   The Dirge" 
  Arseny Golenishchev-Kutuzov - Translation by Harlow Robinson

The battle thunders, the armor flashes, 
the bronze weapons roar, 
the troops run, the horses gallop, and red rivers flow. 

Noon blazes, people are fighting! 

The sun is declining, and the battle is stronger!                        

The sunset pales, but the enemies engage 
ever more fiercely and cruelly! 
And night fell on the field of battle. 
The legions parted in the darkness… 

All grew quiet, and in the nighttime fog groans
raised to the sky. 
Then, lit up by the moon, on his battle steed, 
shining with the whiteness of bones, death appeared. 

And in the silence, hearing the shrieks and prayers, 
full of proud satisfaction, 
like a captain, 
he rode around the 
field of battle. 

Having climbed a hill, he looked around, he
stopped, he smiled… 

And over the battle plain that fateful voice sounded: 
“The battle is over! 
I have conquered all! 

Before me you have all submitted, O warriors! 

Life made you enemies, but I have reconciled you! 

Arise like comrades for inspection, corpses! 
Pass by in a solemn march, 
I wish to count my forces. 
Put your future offspring and your bones in the earth,
it’s sweet to rest from life in the ground!                                                                                                (continued)
                             
The years pass by so quickly, 

and people will no longer remember you. 

But I won’t forget! 
And I will lead a 
feast in your honor 
at midnight! 

With a heavy dance 
I’ll stomp on the damp earth, 
so that your bones 
can never abandon the canopy of the grave, 
so that you’ll never rise from the earth!”