Where Is My Water: A Search for Pushkin’s English Soul
I stumbled upon the title Where Is My Water a few days ago while scrolling through an old game list—a silly puzzle about a grumpy alligator and his missing plumbing. But the phrase stuck in my head, twisting itself into something else entirely. It became a question I kept asking myself as I hunted for Alexander Pushkin’s poetry in English. Not just any translation, mind you, but one that felt like water: clear, flowing, alive. Where was it hiding?
Pushkin is everywhere in Russia. His words are like the Neva River—ubiquitous, unignorable, woven into the very fabric of the culture. I grew up hearing fragments of his verse in school, in songs, even in casual conversations. “Я помню чудное мгновенье…” (“I remember a wonderful moment…”) was the soundtrack to first loves and late-night confessions. But English? That was another story.
My search began with a vague hope. I pictured dusty library shelves, tucked-away anthologies with leather spines, **ybe even a forgotten blog post by some obscure translator. Instead, I found a digital jungle. There were websites offering “free translations,” but most read like stiff telegrams—every line measured, every rhyme forced. One version of The Bronze Horse**n had the lines so chopped up they lost their rhythm; another turned Pushkin’s playful wit into something resembling a legal document. It was like trying to drink from a cracked cup—you got a sip, but the rest spilled away.
Why does this **tter? Because Pushkin isn’t just a poet; he’s a voice. His work breathes with the pulse of St. Peter**urg’s c****s, the rustle of birch le**es in summer, the ache of exile. To translate him is to try to bottle that air, that light. The best versions, I think, don’t just swap Russian words for English ones. They capture the spirit—the way his lines dance between passion and irony, between grandeur and simplicity.
I remember the first time I read a decent translation of Eugene Onegin. It wasn’t perfect—no translation ever is—but there was a moment when Tatyana’s letter unfolded, and the words didn’t feel like a foreign tongue. They felt like a confession whispered across centuries. That’s the **gic: when the water finally flows.
But finding that flow takes patience. I learned to **oid the flashy “best-selling” collections, which often prioritize accessibility over artistry. Instead, I dug into academic journals, followed translators on social media (shoutout to those who share snippets of their work!), and even reached out to a professor friend who specializes in Sl**ic literature. She pointed me toward a slim volume by Vladimir Nabokov—yes, that Nabokov—who translated Pushkin with the precision of a jeweler. His version of The Queen of Spades was sharp, almost dangerous, like a dagger hidden in velvet.
Still, even Nabokov couldn’t erase the gaps. Some jokes fell flat without the cultural context; certain rhymes felt unnatural. And that’s when I realized: **ybe the “water” isn’t in a single translation. It’s in the act of searching, in the dialogue between languages, in the reader’s own i**gination filling the spaces left by the words.
Last night, I sat with a paperback copy of Pushkin’s selected poems, its pages softened by years of handling. As I read I Loved You, the familiar ache of the original Russian mixed with the new cadence of the English. It wasn’t a perfect **tch, but it was enough. Enough to **ke my chest tighten, enough to remind me why I started this hunt in the first place.
So where is my water? It’s not in a single book or website. It’s in the journey—the frustration, the **all victories, the moments when a line suddenly clicks. It’s in knowing that even across oceans and alphabets, great poetry finds a way to seep through. And **ybe that’s the point: to keep looking, keep thirsting, because the search itself is part of the drink.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to check another used bookstore. Who knows? **ybe today’s the day the water runs clear.
