










































Singable and “Obolenskian” Approaches to 
Translating the Songs of Vladimir Vysotsky

Timothy D. Sergay

Vladimir Semyonovich Vysotsky (1938–1980) was and 
remains a colossally popular and influential Russian singer-
songwriter (or bard, as these poets are known in Russian 

culture), as well as a strictly “literary” poet and beloved actor of 
the screen and stage. He is perhaps the single most iconic figure 
associated with the innovative director Yury Lyubimov’s Taganka 
Theater in Moscow, especially in his role as Hamlet, which 
he premiered in 1971.1 His songs of the occasionally criminal 
underside of Soviet society were only belatedly accepted into 
official Soviet literary life. He performed them at first in small 
circles, where his listeners began taping them, reproducing the 
recordings, and circulating them in huge volumes entirely outside 
the Soviet system of literary censorship—a phenomenon dubbed 
magnitizdat (“magnetic publishing”). The scholar of Russian 
culture Birgit Beumers (Aberystwyth University) has concluded 
that with his signature anthem of defiant anticonformism, “Wolf 
Hunt” (“Okhota na volkov”), written in 1968, Vysotsky “replaced 
[Sergei] Esenin as Russia’s most genuinely popular poet.”2

Recently I attempted a singable, equirhythmic, and rhyming 
English translation of Vladimir Vysotsky’s “Pesnia o druge” (“Song 
about a Friend,” 1966), which belongs to the “mountaineering” 
cycle composed for the film Vertikal’ (Odessa Studios, 1967, dir. 
Stanislav Govorukhin and Boris Durov). My basic lexical and 
stylistic orientation was toward informal, somewhat jockish US 
youth English more or less of the 1960s, an idiom with which I 
grew up in the suburbs of Philadelphia.

This translation came about circuitously, through a friendly 
collaboration with the translator and recording artist Vadim 
Astrakhan. Astrakhan, who emigrated to the United States as
a young man, is a daring, inventive translator of Vysotsky’s 

1 English-speaking readers interested in a comprehensive introduction to 
Vysotsky’s biography and his significance to Russian culture will find a wealth 
of material in English at the official site of the Vysotsky Foundation, authored 
by Mariya Shkolnikova (© 1996–2002), at http://www.kulichki.com/vv/eng/. This 
resource includes many English translations of Vysotsky’s songs by Serge 
Elnitsky, Sergei Roi, and many others—including the songs treated here.
2  Birgit Beumers, “Vladimir Semenovich Vysotskii 1938–1980, Poet and 
Songwriter,” in Neil Cornwell, ed., Reference Guide to Russian Literature 
(London and Chicago: Fitzroy Dearborn, 1998), 896.

http://www.kulichki.com/vv/eng/


Timothy D. Sergay    35

songs into his adopted US English. To date he has recorded 
three audio CDs of his own performances of Vysotsky in English 
with occasional guest musicians and producers (Yuri Naumov, 
Polina Goudieva) and various approaches to instrumentation and 
arrangement.3 After reviewing the first of these CDs in print,4 I 
began corresponding and consulting in detail with Astrakhan on his 
translations of many songs. Our exchanges regarding his draft of 
an English “Pesnia o druge” in the early summer of 2010 resulted, 
unexpectedly for me, in two quite different verse translations of 
the same original, one by each partner, with a number of lines 
in common. Astrakhan graciously gave me co-author credit for 
the version of “Pesnia o druge” that appears on the published 
audio CD by Astrakhan and Naumov, Two Fates: Vysotsky in 
English II (Vadim Astrakhan, 2011), titled “If Your Friend.” The 
lines I contributed to it are 7, 8, 9, 11, and 18. In my own version, 
I adopted the rhyme solutions of my colleague’s lines 13, 19, 
and 20. Readers interested in comparing the two versions should 
seek the audio recording of Astrakhan’s version, which can be 
downloaded on Amazon (see the author’s site vvinenglish.com). 
Astrakhan’s version, which contains many altogether admirable 
and original solutions, is meant to be heard—and deserves to 
be heard—in the context of his overall translatorly stylistics and 
his musical approach, with its lush production values. My own 
translation emerged almost of its own accord as I considered and 
reconsidered new approaches to each line of Astrakhan’s draft, 
especially the characteristic internal masculine rhymes separated 
by a single weak beat. As the character of my own translation 
grew more and more distinct from that of Astrakhan’s, I began 
comparing the process to cell division. The analogy is a rough 
one, of course, and cannot be pressed particularly far. I would 
be content to leave it as “collaboration as meiosis” rather than 
mitosis, in that the result was genetically different “daughter cells” 
(not four of them, to be sure, as happens in biological meiosis, 
but only two).

I should note that the rhyme ice / no dice appears in at least one 
other English translation of this song that I discovered subsequently 
on the Internet. It is indeed a most inviting rhyme solution. “Scale 
the shale” can also be found in other English contexts.

3   For details, see Astrakhan’s “About the Project” page, http://www.vvinenglish.
com/about.php.
4 Timothy D. Sergay, review of Vadim Astrakhan, Singer Sailor Soldier Spirit. 
Translations of Vladimir Vysotsky (self-released, 2008), Slavic and East 
European Journal 54.4 (Winter 2010): 728-30.

http://vvinenglish.com
http://www.vvinenglish.com/about.php
http://www.vvinenglish.com/about.php


36    Translating Vysotsky’s Songs

In line 12, I use the verb “punt” intransitively in the sense 
“cease doing something; give up” (thefreedictionary.com). In that 
line I substitute one of Vysotsky’s rhyme schemes (+ internal 
rhyme, – end rhyme) for another, the one Vysotsky employs 
in the corresponding line (– internal rhyme, + end rhyme with 
preceding line), but this very maneuver has its own precedent 
in the original, where line 3 of stanza 1 (– internal rhyme, + end 
rhyme with line 4) does not fit the pattern of line 3 in stanzas 
2 and 3, which are + internal rhyme, + end rhyme with line 4. 
Likewise, in stanza 3, Vysotsky’s line 4 is a departure from the 
pattern of line 4 in stanzas 1 and 2, which lack the internal rhyme. 
I think the translation can claim a similar degree of freedom and 
yet be recognized as essentially faithful to Vysotsky’s difficult mix 
of end and internal rhymes.

Of course, the practice of recreating meter and rhyme, as 
all verse translators discover, imposes on the translation some 
degree of semantic deformation of the original, just as imposing 
metrical, rhyming, and strophic patterning on the composition 
of original verse “deforms” what we might term the poet’s raw 
“thought,” “intention,” or “content” (this dynamic is richly explored 
in Yuri Tynianov’s classic Problem of Verse Language).5 Imagery, 
like the rhetorical dimension of a text, is not an acoustic feature: 
imagery is strictly a matter of denotation, of “content,” of the 
cinematic, mental picture evoked by the text in a receptive, 
attentive, visualizing reader. My singable English version of 
“Pesnia o druge” conveys quite comparable imagery at key points: 
we see a friend “roped” to the narrator on a strenuous climb, the 
friend’s setting foot cautiously on ice, his stumbling, his being 
excluded from further climbing excursions, the fall suffered or 
potentially suffered by the singer’s “advisee” in line 19. But I must 
note that in pursuing meter and rhyme, I sacrificed (or “omitted”) 
certain secondary elements of imagery, for instance, the friend’s 
abandoning the climb and heading back down the slope in line 
10, and his shouting in line 12. Similarly, I supplied an element 
of imagery of my own devising in line 19: the original makes no 
reference whatever to pitons or any other climbing equipment 
except for rope. I concluded that by concretizing the scenario of 
a fall and rescue given in the original, naming a physical cause 
for it (“that piton was gone!”), I could tell the requisite story and 
reproduce the four identical internal and end rhymes (in Russian, 

5 Yuri Tynianov, The Problem of Verse Language, trans. Michael Sosa and 
Brent Harvery (Ann Arbor, MI: Ardis Press, 1981). Translation of Problema 
stikhotvornogo iazyka (1924).

http://thefreedictionary.com


Timothy D. Sergay    37

on –ál) in lines 19 and 20 in the requisite place: piton / gone / 
wan / on. (In Russian translation studies, this would be termed 
an instance of otsebiátina, the insertion into the target text of 
material of any sort that is literally “from oneself,” devised by the 
translator rather than the author.) One looks to conformity with 
the overall rhetorical or narrative arc of the original to justify such 
local maneuvers.

***
Where singability or recreation of sound patterns is not included 

(or does not figure prominently) in the translator’s brief (or skopos), 
translators naturally find it possible to hew considerably closer to 
the sense of the original in prose. The precedent and model for 
this practice in Russian verse translation into English are the “plain 
prose” renderings by Prince Dimitri Obolensky in his Heritage of 
Russian Verse (1962), which he set in continuous, nonlineated 
blocks directly below each Russian poem. This exact format was 
consciously adopted by Donald Rayfield and his co-editors for 
The Garnett Book of Russian Verse (2000). Compared to lineated 
texts on facing pages (the format adopted here), “Obolenskian” 
translations save considerable space, especially when the English 
is set in a smaller point size (as it is in both the Obolensky and 
Rayfield anthologies). For my purposes here, we may refer to 
nonrhyming and nonmetrical translations of Russian verse as 
either “prose,” as Obolensky and Rayfield do, or “free verse.” I do 
not sense that setting such translations in nonlineated or lineated 
format of itself determines whether to regard them as prose or 
free verse. We should look primarily, I would argue, to stylistic, 
linguistic, and acoustic properties of a text rather than modes of 
its graphic presentation when considering whether and how far to 
distinguish the categories of prose and free verse—a theoretical 
matter that lies outside the scope of these remarks. My point here is 
that satisfactory Obolenskian renderings are by no means as easy 
and straightforward to produce as might be presumed given the 
liberation of the translator from the requirements of rhyme and meter. 
They do not all but compose themselves through the conscientious 
calquing of syntax and substituting for each foreign lexeme one 
of the standard solutions offered in bilingual dictionaries. Nor are 
they devoid of expressiveness and invention. In my own practice I 
have written several such translations of Vysotsky. The translations 
accompanying this article include my Obolenskian rendering of 
Vysotsky’s “Spasite nashi dushi” (“Save Our Souls,” 1967).



38    Translating Vysotsky’s Songs

In my translation of “Spasite nashi dushi,” liberation from 
meter and rhyme certainly simplified the task of reflecting fairly 
technical nautical and even medical terminology. Even so, I 
found myself resorting again to such maneuvers as concretizing 
an image in the interests of narrative coherence: I interpreted 
“rogataia smert’,” “horned death,” as referring clearly enough to 
a World War II-era underwater horned mine, and substituted the 
concrete term mine for Vysotsky’s semantic generalization death: 
“A deadly horned mine!” This may well have been a failure of nerve 
on my part, or a lack of faith in my audience’s readerly acumen, 
since the parallel terms “rogataia mina” and “horned mine,” may 
well be comparably frequent in their respective languages (c. 543 
Google hits for the Russian term, c. 776 for the English).

Although I am inclined to defend the dignity, the difficulty, and 
the artistic respectability of Obolenskian renderings of Russian 
verse, I must certainly concede that “formal,” metrical and 
rhyming translations—the only ones whose worth is recognized 
by Boris Pasternak and many Russian literary traditionalists—
take incomparably longer to produce. Many “formal” English 
translations of Pushkin’s thirty-line masterpiece “Prorok” (“The 
Prophet,” 1826) have been published, for example, the one by 
Avrahm Yarmolinsky (1921). Producing one of my own took me 
several months.6 Producing my formal translation of Vysotsky’s 
“Pesnia o druge” took far longer than producing an Obolenskian 
translation of his “Spasite nashi dushi.” One’s linguistic 
imagination lives and grapples day and night with the problems of 
representing the original imagery, style, rhetorical and narrative 
arcs, lexical registry, and prosody in the target text. Prosodic 
solutions crystallize out of the unconscious at odd times, while 
drifting to sleep, while driving. One scribbles them down in haste, 
with a momentary thrill, and proceeds to analyze and reject them 
over subsequent days, regretting them at leisure, always recalling 
T. S. Eliot’s “time yet for a hundred indecisions…. For decisions 
and revisions which a minute will reverse.” My confidence that 
these famous lines from “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” 
reflect at least in part Eliot’s personal experience of composing 
verse underscores the enduring attractiveness of the “singable” 

6  See Timothy D. Sergay, “‘Prorok’ Sevenfold: Some Recent and Not-
So-Recent Translations of Pushkin’s ‘The Prophet,’” SlavFile, Newsletter 
of the Slavic Languages Division of the American Translators Association 
11.3 (Summer 2001): 11–13, http://atasld.org/sites/atasld.org/files/slavfile/
summer-2001.pdf.

http://atasld.org/sites/atasld.org/files/slavfile/summer-2001.pdf
http://atasld.org/sites/atasld.org/files/slavfile/summer-2001.pdf


Timothy D. Sergay    39

approach to verse translation: precisely because of its inherent 
difficulty, it allows us to live for a time, in our imaginations, as the 
“secret sharers” of our favorite poets.


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