Na Nivata - The Literary Analysis!
iv5...@tntech.edu
should go directly to the anaysis part. The work is posted again for reference
purposes.
NA NIVATA ON THE FIELD
by Peyo Yavorov
Nedej dochakva i zori Do not be waiting for the dawn,
vqrvi ori, ori, ori... Go out and plough, plough,plough on...
Kato nyama prokopsiya, There is no good to tell,
plyul sqm v taya orisiya So let it go to hell!
Nemignal, stavaj: ej mesec oshte You haven't blinked, the moon's asleep
nasred nebeto, dqlboka nosht e Up in the sky, the night is deep,
glavata tegne, a sqn ochite Your head is heavy, your eyes withclay
zalepya syakash. Kakvo e vreme? Are shut together. No time to sit!
Velikden ide, pak oran, seme, Easter's close, and plaugh and seed
zemyata chaka, nizhat se dnite. The earth is waiting - day after day.
Po-skoro, hajde! che da se styaga C'mon, move on! 'Cause see, the neighbour
sqseda, chuvash, i toj se styaga Is also ready for heavy labour.
Izlezesh, idesh, v zemya korava And out you go, in freezing earth
napqnesh ralo, halosash vola... You push the plough, you hit and hurt
Mqglata noshtna zatqne v dola, The poor cow... A foggy night
ogree slqnce i chak togava Sinks in the valley, and then you might
za otdih spresh, Rest shortly, stop,
a svyast se vij - Head spinning so...
i pak poglezh: You can't just drop.
Dij... Go...
Dij, vole, dij! Go, sucker, go!
S trqnak i plevel se bori If all the thorns and weeds allow,
vesden ori, ori, ori... Go out and plough, plough, plough...
Kato nyama prokopsiya, There is no good to tell
plyul sqm v taya orisiya So let it go to hell!
Nastane utro, gori poleto The morning comes, the sky's in fire
cvetya mirishat, ehti poleto: And flowers make up fields' attire
ovchar zasviril, stada zableli, The shepherd plays, the herd is moving
po vsichki hrasti pilci zapeli. And birds are singin' so fuckin' groovy.
I gledash, slushash, ne znam dosadno You look and listen, you don't know why
zashto ti stane: ih opustyalo! You got the blues: and damn it, God!
V gqrdit neshto taka zayalo, Something inside you just wanna cry
che krqv zastiva v sqrceto stradno... And freezing blood's choking the heart.
Ruchok dohazhda i slqnce-plamqk The noon arives, the cool is gone,
prezhurya, pali dqrvo i kamqk; Sun-fire's burning the trees, the stone.
a v pot vqzvryala gori snagata You sweat like hell - so hot inside,
daa karash veche kqde ti mozhe? Can't go no more - you gotta abort,
I krqst izpravish naj-setne, bozhe,You grab your back and get up - Lord!
pa vzemesh gladen zavchas torbata And in a hurry you take a bite.
I luchec ezh, Just drink a coke
vodica pij - And eat that doe!
I pak poglezh! You spit and choke...
Dij... Go...
Dij, vole, dij... Go, sucker, go.
Do groba slqnce te gori The sun will burn you 'til the grave.
i vse ori, ori, ori... You plough, plough, plough - like slave...
Kato nyama prokopsiya, There is no good to tell,
plyul sqm v taya orisiya! So let it go to hell.
Doma se vrqshtash okapal veche You come back home, call it a day,
po kqsna vecher i otdaleche And some commotion, from far away,
zachuesh v selo i plach, i vryava... You hear then. But what the hell
Kakvo shte bqde? - nedoumyava In your place goes - you could not tell.
kratuna prost; a vizh, izliza And later on, you know and fear,
che birnik carski doshel e dneska 'Cause asshole-taxman has come to clear
i siromasi - trese gi treska Your empty pockets. The folks - in fever
Ne vzema samo ot golo riza, "He'll take it all, that stinkin' evil!"
dete ot majka!" - tqj vseki duma, That's all you hear, that's all the talk,
I shte pomislish, che bie gluma And you're thinking - it's just a joke!
"Da gotvish tolkoz!" O-ho, v glavata "To work like crazy". If you could rub
pocheshesh li se tqj na ednqzhki Your head and turn that falling lice
pari da padat namesto vqshki! Straight into money to pay the price!..
I smyatash, mislish - do mehanata. You think, and think - right to the pub
Tam, kolko shtesh, There get some drinks,
na vyara pij, 'Cause, buddy-Joe,
che to poglezh Life trully stinks!
Dij... Go...
Dij, vole, dij... Go, sucker, go!
* * *
Taka si mresh, That's how we die,
taka sme nij, I'm saying so,
taka - poglezh! And I don't lie!
Dij... Go...
Dij, krasta, dij! Go, fucker, go!
[ Literary Analysis: ]
I remember, ladies and gentlemen, that the first posting of this classic of
Bulgarian literature was greeted with a certain feeling of uneasiness. The
liberal, at times, translation was indeed a factor in that, but there was
something else, much more interesting. A few people have approached
me already to tell me that such works should not be translated, since they
talk about cows, peasants and other low-tech matters which are only an
embarrassment for the technological heaven that Bulgaria is right now. In
times when the complete Shakespeare is on line, when some works get
fist published on Internet, when the electronic highway is a reality and we,
cyberspace speed-racers, happily blow smoke, dust and shit-particles all
over it, it is difficult to imagine writing about cows. And I'm sure that if
Yavorov was alive right now, he'd be posting in scb, chatting with Mina
(todo...@cs.columbia.edu) and Lora (karav...@darthmouth.edu)
on Magdanoz, posting poetry in scb, cussing the hell outa all greeks
because of all the bullshit they write about Macedonia and coding an
operating system in C++ in his spare time. But, this esteemed readership
is aware of the fact that Yavorov is long gone, Mina and Lora are nothing
but fading pictures on someone's desk and the Greeks, bless their hearts,
will continue to write nonsense about Macedonia. And all we can do is
turn to the poetry Yavorov left and see why he wrote about cows and
how it is not cows that he wrote about, but something else.
The poet begins his narration with the fact that the Bulgarian
peasant would get up very early in the morning, something that very few of
us understand and comprehend the consequences of. He says: "Do not be
waiting for the dawn..." but there are good reasons for this. A typical
ploughing shift in Bulgaria starts at 6:30 am. Now, the guy has to take a
shower, drink some coffee while quickly scanning over the Conservative
Peasant's Times, jump on the Cherokee and while on his way to the
particular field he is going to be ploughing that morning, he'd stop by
McDonalds to get his orange juice and an egg-with-ham croissant - a
typical morning routine that all BG peasants go through. So, as you see, it
only makes sense that he gets up early enough and get a head start. Then
the poet continues with a somehow puzzling statement: "There is no good
to tell / So let it go to hell! " and one cannot help it but wonder why the
pessimism, why the feeling of tragic downfall and suppressing the soul
despair. Well, as we all are aware of, there is nothing very cheerful about
getting up 4:30 am, but the reasons are deeper than that. On a typical
morning, one usually finds out that he's run out of cream for the coffee, a
sock is missing and no one seems to know that you even had a sock such
as that one, the delivery man has again forgotten to wrap the newspaper
tight, so your Conservative Peasant's Times is soaked wet again, that
bitch at McDonalds again gave you a cup that leaks, the traffic sucks as
usual and by the time you get to that field of yours, you feel like already
giving up and taking a sick leave. But since you took a sick leave last
week, we can't do it every damn week, so here we go - you gotta work!
That is why the poet says that all should go to hell - including all the
liberals with their taxes and health-care plans, but we shall get to that later
on. Just hold your horses for now and have patience, have a little patience
(as Guns 'N Roses were so fond of singing.)
The next few phrases just describe the morning routine that we
already examined in detail. The only interesting thing that the poet
mentions is that your neighbor goes through exactly the same hell that you
do and that's comforting to know. Actually, he deserves to suffer even
more, 'cause the sonofabitch left again his truck on your side of the yard,
and he has this ugly camper parked right next to your beautiful house and
the asshole knows that it is against zoning regulations and he promised to
get that camper outa there and still hasn't done it, God damn him and his
ugly, big-mouthed wife! You know, it's one of those neighborly things...
Anyhow, let us move on
So, here you are, in the middle of the field ploughing, cussing and
spitting, 'cause that's how one plows. If you've never ploughed in your life,
you wouldn't know what I'm talking about, so just take it on faith! It's like
playing baseball - you cannot be successful at playing it, unless you spit
and scratch your crotch vigorously! Well, with ploughing is the same thing,
but here you spit and cuss (the cow and the damn liberals, typically). The
poet exclaims: "If all the thorns and weeds allow..." The thorns and the
weeds symbolize the liberals, the bums, the communists, the socialists and
the rest of the low life that we are forced to deal with on an everyday
basis.
After that follows what some people consider the most beautiful
nature verses in the history of Bulgarian poetry. The morning, the sky, the
shepherd playing, the herd and them birds singing so fuckin' groovy...
that's a picture deeply embedded in the mind of everyone who considers
himself a Bulgarian. Truly powerful words with a lasting impression.
But, ladies and gentlemen, happiness and sorrow, content and
suffering are intermingled in one impossible to solve puzzle that we call life,
and one never knows which is what and for how long is gonna remain so.
So right in the middle of his high, the lyrical hero suddenly remembers his
ugly wife waiting for him home, the neighbor with his truck, the bitch at
McDonnalds and all the damn liberals (which are source of all out troubles
and suffering) and he is overhelmed with feeling of a different nature. The
poet says: "You got the blues and damn it, God! / Something inside you
just wanna cry...". But don't make no mistake! Bulgarian men are real men
and they would never cry in public. I mean, the cow is there, the herd, all
of 'em birds... how in hell is he going to cry! Damn embarrassing, if you
ask me. But if there was a train passing close by, he'd surely take it. It is
just as Jimmy Rogers sang: "When a woman gets the blues she hangs her
little head and cries / But when a man gets the blues he gets on the train
and rides." But the Chattanooga choochoo had passed an hour ago (as
we are led to presume) and the poor suffering peasant has no choice but
keep ploughing, and it sucks and he knows it, but that's life and there's no
end to the inconvenience that you gotta go through. ....Where were we?
Oh yeah, he's got the blues, and it's getting hot and his back hurts and he
has to stop for a lunch break, open that brown bag and drink a Diet Coke
with a ham sandwich and some of that pale, sickish looking spread that is
not even a real mayonnaise, which is truly pathetic. It's kinda depressing,
so we'll move on.
So, the lyrical hero goes back home only to find that something
fishy is going on. As the poet says: "... some commotion, from far away, /
you hear then." And yes, ladies and gentlemen, you guessed it, the liberals
are up to their old tricks again, the government is sucking blood and the
bums rejoice "...'cause asshole-taxman has come..." And is it Bulgaria, or
the US or the infamous state of Zanzibar, the esteemed readership should
know that taxmen are all the same - arrogant, greedy and big-mouthed
weasels! "It's just a joke", the lyrical hero exclaims, but there is nothing
funny about it, 'cause with the same money they suck off the peasants, the
Government pays to janitors to clean after the gay parades. We are
working, ladies and gentlemen, we're paying taxes in order to feed the
bums downtown, pay for a lawyer to defend some scum-bag ( a pervert,
a series killer and an Antichrist) sentenced to death (and we do it for
some seventeen years), we pay for the food aid in the Third World so that
they have enough energy to shoot at our soldiers and to burn the
American and Bulgarian flags in plain view.. and Yavorov knew it and
wrote about it! Yes, he wrote about that, not about damn cows!
...Anyhow, where were we?
Yeah, the lyrical hero is disgusted by the whole think, so he goes
to the pub and gets drunk as many of us do so on a regular basis. And
one should meditate on that and draw the appropriate conclusions.
Just sharing...
ILYA
-= Ivan =-
---
Humbly remaining in the shadow of Pantelej Zarev.