January 2015
I am a student at the Vermont College of Fine Arts MFA Program, where I study poetry and translation. My work was selected in a contest hosted by Missouri State University Press to be included in the anthology Proud to Be: Writing by American Warriors,
(volume 3). My poetry and translations have appeared in Cardinal Sins, Boston Thought, Malpais Review and many other journals, both online and print.
(volume 3). My poetry and translations have appeared in Cardinal Sins, Boston Thought, Malpais Review and many other journals, both online and print.
Babi Yar
by Yevgeny Yevtushenko (translated from the Russian by Domenic J. Scopa)
No monument stands over Babi Yar.
Only a cliff craggy as a roughly-carved gravestone.
I am afraid.
Today I am as old in years
As all the Jewish people.
Now it seems--
I am a Jew.
Here I plod through ancient Egypt.
Here I perish, crucified on the cross,
And still I bear—the scars of nails.
It seems that Dreyfus--
Is me.
The Philistine--
Betrayed me and the judge.
I am behind bars.
Confined on every side.
Hunted,
Spat on,
Slandered.
And squealing, dainty ladies dressed in Brussels lace
Poke my face with their parasols.
I seem to be--
A young boy in Byelostok.
Blood flows, pooling on the floors.
The barroom rabble-rousers
Reek of sliced onions and vodka.
A boot kicks me aside, powerless.
In vain I beg these pogrom bullies.
They jeer and shout:
“Beat the Jews and save Russia!”--
Some merchant rapes my mother.
Oh, my Russian people!--
I know--
You
Are international deep down.
But often those with dirty hands
Make a parody of your purest name.
I know the merit of my country.
How wicked,
And without a qualm,
These anti-Semites pompously proclaim
A “Union of Russian People.”
It seems to be--
That I—am Anne Frank,
Transparent
Like the thinnest twig in April.
And I love.
And have no need of phrases.
My need
Is that we look into each other.
How little can we see
Or smell!
We are denied the leaves,
Denied the sky.
But we can still do so much--
Gently
Hug each other in a darkened room.
They’re coming here?
Do not fear—that is the sound
Of spring humming--
Spring is coming.
So come to me.
Give me your lips.
Are they smashing down the door?
No—it’s the ice breaking…
Wild grasses rustle over Babi Yar.
The trees look stern
Like judges.
Here everything silently screams,
And, hat in hand,
I feel myself
Slowly turning gray.
And I myself,
Am one enduring, silent scream
Above the thousand thousand buried here.
I--
Am every old man executed here.
I--
Am every child murdered here.
Nothing in me
Will ever forget.
“The Internationale”
Will forever thunder
When the last anti-Semite
Is buried.
In my blood there is no Jewish blood.
But cruel, venomous anti-Semites
Must hate me now,
As a Jew,
And because of that--
I am a true Russian.
Memorial
Along the coastline shredded
by iron fog,
a man spears
sun-baked seaweed,
litter left by high tide.
Sandy swimmers file
by the marble fountain
to wash their hands,
to brush off their feet--
hunched over,
heads bowed,
weary from the surf.
Like stooped condors,
the memorial statues lined
the walkways dividing
Prague’s Petrin Park--
bronze preserved
the haggard faces,
the physiques metalworkers hammered into shape
The fountain
looks thirsty--
the throats
of the noble, sculpted lions
grow hoarse.
They belong
to a world which remains
by Yevgeny Yevtushenko (translated from the Russian by Domenic J. Scopa)
No monument stands over Babi Yar.
Only a cliff craggy as a roughly-carved gravestone.
I am afraid.
Today I am as old in years
As all the Jewish people.
Now it seems--
I am a Jew.
Here I plod through ancient Egypt.
Here I perish, crucified on the cross,
And still I bear—the scars of nails.
It seems that Dreyfus--
Is me.
The Philistine--
Betrayed me and the judge.
I am behind bars.
Confined on every side.
Hunted,
Spat on,
Slandered.
And squealing, dainty ladies dressed in Brussels lace
Poke my face with their parasols.
I seem to be--
A young boy in Byelostok.
Blood flows, pooling on the floors.
The barroom rabble-rousers
Reek of sliced onions and vodka.
A boot kicks me aside, powerless.
In vain I beg these pogrom bullies.
They jeer and shout:
“Beat the Jews and save Russia!”--
Some merchant rapes my mother.
Oh, my Russian people!--
I know--
You
Are international deep down.
But often those with dirty hands
Make a parody of your purest name.
I know the merit of my country.
How wicked,
And without a qualm,
These anti-Semites pompously proclaim
A “Union of Russian People.”
It seems to be--
That I—am Anne Frank,
Transparent
Like the thinnest twig in April.
And I love.
And have no need of phrases.
My need
Is that we look into each other.
How little can we see
Or smell!
We are denied the leaves,
Denied the sky.
But we can still do so much--
Gently
Hug each other in a darkened room.
They’re coming here?
Do not fear—that is the sound
Of spring humming--
Spring is coming.
So come to me.
Give me your lips.
Are they smashing down the door?
No—it’s the ice breaking…
Wild grasses rustle over Babi Yar.
The trees look stern
Like judges.
Here everything silently screams,
And, hat in hand,
I feel myself
Slowly turning gray.
And I myself,
Am one enduring, silent scream
Above the thousand thousand buried here.
I--
Am every old man executed here.
I--
Am every child murdered here.
Nothing in me
Will ever forget.
“The Internationale”
Will forever thunder
When the last anti-Semite
Is buried.
In my blood there is no Jewish blood.
But cruel, venomous anti-Semites
Must hate me now,
As a Jew,
And because of that--
I am a true Russian.
Memorial
Along the coastline shredded
by iron fog,
a man spears
sun-baked seaweed,
litter left by high tide.
Sandy swimmers file
by the marble fountain
to wash their hands,
to brush off their feet--
hunched over,
heads bowed,
weary from the surf.
Like stooped condors,
the memorial statues lined
the walkways dividing
Prague’s Petrin Park--
bronze preserved
the haggard faces,
the physiques metalworkers hammered into shape
The fountain
looks thirsty--
the throats
of the noble, sculpted lions
grow hoarse.
They belong
to a world which remains
©2015 Domenic J. Scopa