The Mighty Dnieper

The poem we were trying to translate was by the one and only Taras Shevchenko, a poet who most recently released his works to the public. The ban of all artful literature in the native tongue of Ukrainian had just been released, so there was an overflow of students and literary minds producing more than any one person could read in their lifetime.

The Professor and I sat at a nicely covered table at Скіпетр будинок, or rather the Blue Scepter House, and poured over a crumpled sheet of poorly printed paper with Shevchenko's poem. The translation wasn't too difficult, but we wanted to make certain to uphold it's artistic value.

The Mighty Dnieper

The mighty Dnieper roars and bellows,
The wind in anger howls and raves,
Down to the ground it bends the willows,
And mountain-high lifts up the waves.

The pale-faced moon picked out this moment
To peek out from behind a cloud,
Like a canoe upon the ocean
It first tips up, and then dips down.

The cocks don't crow to wake the morning,
There's not as yet a sound of man,
The owls in glades call out their warnings,
And ash trees creak and creak again.

"So what do you think our friend Shevchenko is trying to tell us here, Miss von Dietrich?" the Professor asked, always inquiring how I would interpret the pieces we translated.

I pondered a moment, collecting my thoughts and tried to see the poem from the poet's perspective. I started out reluctantly, "We all know the Dnieper is the river that flows from the motherland Russia, through Ukraine and into the Black Sea. One could be certain that this river is also our connection to our new sister country, the link that Ukraine needs to make her whole again."

The smile on his face as he listened reassured my assessment, so I continued. "The first stanza shows us a description, of a swelling river extending its boundaries. Here in Kiev, the Dnieper is calm, and our fishermen and ship merchants are fortunate to sail safely upon her waves. But to the north in the undeveloped areas, the river takes on the face that nature intended. Perhaps what our poet is trying to tell us that what we see commonly may appear to be calm, collected, under control, but beyond the seams rampages something we know can exist but actively avoid. The literary proverb writer, John Heywood said it best with "Out of sight, out of mind," in which something, like say the engorged river, is easily dismissed because it's state is not within our line of sight."

I paused a moment, taking a sip from my freshly refilled tea and looked to see how the Professor was taking my idea. He straightened his posture, smoothed out the tablecloth in front of him, and nodded for me to continue, "And the second stanza?"

Following the printed words with my fingertips, I reread the second stanza and hummed a sigh. "The moon, oh the moon! How artists savour and obsess over the moon!," I mockingly chimed. This provoked a laugh out the Professor, and he had to put his teacup to his face to regain his composure. "I believe the meaning behind this quip can be taken at surface value. The moon exposes that which is in the dark, and with that exposure, whatever we are looking at appears to be troubled... angered like the river."

"And the last stanza?"

"The lack of a cock's crow, of man's presence, the owl's warning, and the creaking of ash trees. Hmmm..." I took another sip of my tea, staring at the words on paper as if boring through them with my eyes would help the meaning come. "Nature is calling out a warning, as nature has more eyes than we can imagine. The flora flails their arms, and the fauna foretells with coos. Blatantly, man is not listening to nature's call."

"So what does all this mean, pray tell?," the Professor inquired, a knowing look upon his face.

I gathered my thoughts, fit the ideas together like a jigsaw puzzle, and then gasped quietly. "Dear Professor, I fear I can't say! Do you truly believe that Shevchenko is a treasonist?" This last word I barely whispered, glancing around the small restaurant to ensure no eavesdroppers. "What is IT and what is this warning? Oh! I truly hope my assessment was just a pipedream, an uneducated guess about words I don't understand!"

Professor Kostomarov leaned over the table toward me and seriously stated, "Don't you ever belittle yourself like that, Miss von Dietrich. Your intuitions and assessments are the same that I have unfortunately concluded. What one can't admit in leaflets and books against the State, they can hide in poetry and art. I knew you would see this, which is why I asked you to join me in the translations. I trust you can keep this between us as we further study his works." He looked down his nose at me with raised eyebrows, expecting my answer.

Pushing my teacup away, I lifted my face slowly to look him in the eye. "I understand Professor. This shall remain between us."

St. Vladimir University

There was just something so alluring about those iced eyes, that large nose with a mustache growing out of the perfectly shaped nostrils, and most especially, the elaborate rants about love, independence, and free thought. St. Vladimir University was my home for the last 4 years, where I studied with the Faculty of Medicine, but I had surpassed my professor's knowledge, so I would traverse my way to Professor Nikolay Kostomarov's History session to hear his lectures about romanticism in the modern world.

It's an exciting time. After the most recent government upheaval, the Russians are releasing the ban on arts. Isn't to create art an innate human ability? With Kostomarov's words ringing true, word spread and his class was always overcrowded with students. Of course, I always positioned myself within his line of sight, and after a few sessions, his gaze rested on me more often than not. It was a matter of time before he signaled to see me after class.

"Miss von Dietrich," he enunciated with a slight Russian accent, "I can't seem to find you on my student roster, yet here you are everyday. I'm most certain Professor Ivanovich would be quite disappointed you haven't been attending his dissection courses."

"Professor, who couldn't resist hearing your dissertations on the influence of the Russian motherland on Ukraine's blossoming architecture, political structure, and the arts? Because of you, there are now three new poets living in my dormitory!" The look upon my face must have been convincing enough for him not to laugh me off like any other male.

He smiled then, his slightly crooked teeth peeking out behind his lips. For a man 20 years my senior, he still gave me the same respect that he would give his male peers. "Come, Miss von Dietrich, I need someone to help translate a Shevchenko poem. Care to join me for tea?"

And that is how we became inseparable. Me, completely smitten by the prospect of free thought, new ideas, and he, fancying the whims of young woman in a time that ideas were still new.