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the question of translatability

think modern American and Western European translators thoroughly lukavlyat when doing a negligent contractors and call them poetic translations. neperekladnist final - this one, but the unwillingness to work towards the translation - is another.

for comparison:



***
Schlaflosigkeit. Homer. The sails, the stretch itself.
I read in the ship list, I read, I did not get far:
The line of cranes, the train of the young hedge
high over Hellas, once, in time, but time.

Like that Crane wedge driven into strangers - on it
The heads of the Imperial God of foam, wet -
You float, it floats - where? Were not over Helena,
Achaeans, such a Troy, I wonder what it would apply to you?

Homer, the seas, both: the love that they moved.
whom I listen and who do I hear? Behold, he is silent, Homer.
The sea, the eloquent black, on this shore, it suggests
zu Häupten hör ichs tosen, es fand den Weg hierher.

* * *
Insomnia. Homer. Taut sails.
I read a list of ships until the middle:
THIS long brood, this train of cranes,
With over Hellas once rose.

as flying geese in other people's lines, -
On heads of kings divine foam, -
Where do you sail? When would not Helen,
that Troy you alone, Achaeans?

And the sea, and Homer - all moving love.
Who do I listen? And Homer is silent,
And the sea is black, vitiystvuya, noise
And with a heavy crash comes to the head.




LENINGRAD

I've come back to my city. These are my own old tears,
my own little veins, the swollen glands of my childhood.
So you're back. Open wide. Swallow
the fish-oil from the river lamps of Leningrad.
*
Open your eyes. Do you know this December day,
the egg-yolk with the deadly tar beaten into it?
Petersburg! I don't want to die yet!
You know my telephone numbers.
Petersburg! I've still got the addresses:
I can look up dead voices.
I live on back stairs, and the bell,
torn out nerves and all, jangles in my temples.
And I wait till morning for guests that I love,
and rattle the door in its chains.


LENINGRAD

I returned to my city, familiar to tears,
veins, baby swollen glands.

You're back here, so swallow at once
Fish fat Leningrad river lamps,

Find out as soon December day,
with ominous tar mixed with egg yolk.

Petersburg! I did not want to die!
You my telephone number.

Petersburg! I still have my address,
Where I voices of the dead.

I live on a back staircase, and the temple
hits me torn s myasom bell,

And all night naprolet guests wait expensive,
Shevel Kandal tsepochek dvernыh.