Pavlo Tychyna

1891–1967pavlo-tychyna.jpeg

Paulo Tychina (1891-1967) was born in the village of Pisky, Chernihiu Region, into the family of a deacon. One of the founders of new Soviet literature, he is the author of many books of verse, long poems, and poetry translations which won him nationwide recognition. His poetry is distinguished for its innovation, its wealth of themes, and profound insights into the inner world of Soviet man, the builder of communist society. His works have been translated into many Soviet and foreign languages. He also wrote a nurriber of scholarly works on Slavic, Oriental, and other literatures. Pavlo Tychina was a member of the Ukrainian SSR Academy of Sciences, corresponding member of the Academy of Sciences of Bulgaria, Hero of Socialist Labour, and a USSR State and Taras Shevchenko prize winner. The best literary works concerning the friendship of nations are annually awarded the Pavlo Tychina Prize.

HARPS RINGING, HARPS RINGING...

Harps ringing, harps ringing —
golden ringing, loud resounding, through the 
            sing out your strings, 
         glad news echoing: 
      The fragrant spring’s 
      on the wing, 
   Flowering, dew-pearling, 
      painting every thing. 
Thoughts flying, thoughts flying —
like a sea with white sails crowding, brim with 
               tender tones of blue, 
         flying thoughts that swirl: 
      Storms will come, 
      lightnings run! 
   Laughter be, weeping be 
   dews of mother-of-pearl... 
I arise, cast my eyes —
rills all round like bells ajingle, larks pour down 
               in notes of gold 
            waterfalls that sing: 
      The fragrant spring’s 
      on the wing, 
   Flowering, dew-pearling, 
      painting every thing. 
Love of mine, heart of mine —
should you wander on the meadows all in sadness caught 
      or with joy awhirl: 
      Spare but one glance, 0 come! 
   Laughter be, weeping be 
      dews of mother-of-pearl.
1914

Pastels

Runs by a bunny.
Stops to see —
The dawnlight!
And plays gleefully.
The daisies open up their eyes. 
Sunrise-perfumes touch the skies. 
Cocks embroider the cloak of night With fiery threads of vocal light. 
Sunrise.
Runs by a bunny.

II

It has supped on hearty wine —
The robust day.
“Meadows, strew your flower blooms!” 
“Coming,” calls the Day.
“0 flocks, feed on pastures!” 
“Seek your love,” calls lusty Day. 
“Sing your lullabies, wheat-ears!” calls Day.
It has supped on hearty wine — The robust day.

III

Trills like flutes rang on horizons 
Where the sun had gone to rest. On tip-toe
Came quiet evening.
Stars came out, twinkling,
The mist crept over the meadows And, finger on lip, lay down to Sleep.
Trills like flutes rang on horizons Where the sun had gone to rest.

IV

Oh, wrap me up well. Oh, wrap me — Fin old, I’m night.
And ailing fast.
To sleep my black road ran
Since time began.
Make a bed of mint for me;
Let poplars rustle, lull with song.
Oh, wrap me up well. Oh, wrap me — I’m old, I’m night.
And ailing fast.