fandomhigh | Classics/Foreign Lit, 02/09, Period 2

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Classics/Foreign Lit, 02/09, Period 2

Classics: "You're due for the second of your four quizzes. Please take it, then use the rest of the class period to study or read."

The quiz consists of a brief passage from Theogony in Greek, which students are asked to translate and answer five questions about.

[OOC: Yep, tell me what grade you got.]

Foreign Literature in Translation: We will continue our wortk on Russian literature by studying the modern Russian concept of барды, or bard poetry.

Dream continues to lecture. At the end of his lecture, he gestures to some volumes of modern Russian poetry that are at the front of the class.

"Please find and present the lyrics to one such "bard" poem."

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Janet signed in for Classics, looking slightly less cranky than she has recently.

Nadia signed in for Foreign Lit

Elizabeth was cupping coffee protectively as she entered, trying not to yawn, and signed in

Anders signs in, looking less sleepy today, but a lot more distracted. Hmm . . .

*Hamlet signs in for Foreign Lit.*

John signs in. He's looking a bit haggard, as if he's not sleeping well.

Take the quiz. Then goof off. Or whatever.

Janet had been doing a lot of studying lately. She'd gotten nearly a perfect score on the quiz.

Then she sat and read quietly ~~because she had so damn much RL work today, darn it all~~.

Anders, much to his surprise, does quite well on the quiz. Of course, that may be because he got so intrigued by the damn Theogony after his discussion with Janet in Tuesday's class that he went and read the whole thing yet again in Greek and English yesterday morning.

He then spends the rest of the class period doodling on a blank page in the back of his notebook, trying to come up with gift ideas, because yikes -- Cally's birthday on Saturday, and then Valentine's Day on Tuesday?

[[A-]]

Listen to the lecture and post your poem here.

"Um, I'm going to present Vysotsky's "The Dream"," Elizabeth said, feeling the irony.

She read clearly:

"A morbid dream obsessively weighs on me lately.
I see it only hazily. Why does it hate me?
Within it I betray and lie, fawning and crawling.
I never would have thought that I was so appalling.

I clench my fists, put on a show, cursing and damning,
Although I know, and others know, I'm only shamming.
The dream grows dim and dimmer still, I hope it's vanished.
It reappears, against my will to see it banished.

I do not stride, I mince along, acting, dissembling.
I keep in step, don't get it wrong, in fear and trembling.
I crawl to men more strong than I, I'm weak and shaken.
I loathe myself, but though I try, I can't awaken.

Here madness lies! I hear a groan. Acutely, plainly.
I hear myself, the dream's my own, I argue vainly.
I wake, and hear that groan again, the dream is finished.
I open up my eyes with pain, but fear's diminished.

As I lie prone upon the bed, the dream's before me.
Have dreams come true? This thought like lead hangs grimly o'er me.
I feel a shudder down my spine. I mutter hoarsely.
Did the dream show this soul of mine in truth, or falsely?

But it was just a dream, forsooth! How lucky for me.
Yet could that dream have told the truth in how it saw me?
Do dreams reflect thoughts from the day? It can't be true, though!
And yet, in some distorted way, they seem to do so.

And now, they'd put me to the test? I've no heart for it.
I'm just a coward, like all the rest, though I abhor it.
Conform, they say, and have no fear; they'll be forgiving.
And now I know, the dream is here. It's what I'm living."

Nadia read over the poetry. It seemed very familiar, and it took her a moment to place it.

It was like the songs her American friend had sung.

"This is Dolsky's 'Neglected Youth':

What disappointments and what grief
Our dull lives gave us
Raised in the harsh games of street punks
Inherited our fathers harshness

Hunger displaced us into mad groups
Of wise and angry youths,
We walked the markets and the bars
Stealing cigarettes and cucumbers

All the men left walking deadly roads,
And all of their sins were forgiven by the Holy War.
And the punks as they passed
Threw their spare change
To poor little women and miserable men.

. . . You young people,
living in warmth, becoming smarter every minute,
you passed behind us by a whole class
a class of war, and thank God!

. . . . faraway years, worrisome years . .
ran from the rear towards war these young kids.
Our homeless freedom passed us by quickly.
Four yours . . . No four centuries of war."

*Hamlet flips through the volumes and deicides to just pick one. He hopes that he's not expected to accompany this on the guitar as well.*

This would be "V dorogu zhivo ili v grob lozhis'" or "Condemned to Life" by Vladmir Vysotsky, translated by Navrozov.

Hit the road, be quick ! Or - go to your grave.
Yes, the choice before us is not very rich.
We are doomed to a slow-moving life,
Shackled to it for good measure.

Someone out there decided to believe,
And so he did, without a glance around, senselessly.
But is this really life - when one is chained?
But what choice is this - when one is fettered?

Insidious is the kindness shown to us,
Like the potions of crazy fortune-tellers.
Death from one's kin - is crouched beneath the stone,
Behind - is also death, but from others.

The soul has grown cold, hand and foot we're bound,
And we are mute, pawns about to be taken,
And at us from any dirty pane of glass
Shame bares its teeth in a crooked sneer.

And what if we were now to smash the fetters
And, seizing the villain by the throat, we
Tried to find out who it was who hammered
And chained us to this cruelly belauded life?

Do we not place our hope in something?
And may it be the chains outlast the teeth?
Why do we knock at the door to paradise,
Knuckles against forged iron gates?

They offered us a quick exit from the war,
But somehow managed to jack up the price;
And so we are condemned to a long life
By guilt, by shame, by betrayal.

But is this life worth such a price?
There's still some way to go. Be calm!
And far from that great and dreadful war
It is still possible to die with dignity.

Too early to equate with a marshy slime,
No cushy nest awaits us in the rotting mould.
We will not die of a tormenting life,
We'll come alive with a sure death.

*sniffle* *sniffle* *sniffle* *recommends Rosenbaum as a good bard* *in no way has translations that she made of his songs* *in no way worships the Russian bard movement*

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Classics/Foreign Lit, 02/09, Period 2

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OOC