Nadja Runde

Nadja-Portret-4Рунде Надежда (Nadeschda Runde) – поэт, критик, журналист, автор произведений для детей. Родилась 8 февраля 1971 года в Казахстане, её предки – кавказские немцы. В 1993 году закончила факультет русской филологии Кустанайского государственного университета. С этого же года и до выезда в 2001 году в Германию преподавала русский язык и литературу. Живёт в городе Дингольфинг, Бавария. Публикуется в многочисленных литературных сборниках и журналах Казахстана, России и Германии. Постоянный корреспондент журнала „Контакт-Шанс“ (Кёльн), русскоязычной части „Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung“ (Алматы) и "Московской немецкой газеты". Автор книг для детей, издававшихся на русском, и в переводах мастеров слова на немецком и английском языках, составитель альманаха для семейного чтения „Летучие слоники“ и множества публицистических статей. Пишет сюжетные сказки в стихах на руском языке. Лауреат различных литературных премий.


Märchen "Hasty Pastry-Dough, Translated from Russian by Klara Kobzeva"

Отрывок

A hot-tempered pastry, Angry and hasty, Darted down the floor, Bumped and got a sore. Slowly he began to rise — What a terrible surprise! “Look at this!” the dough puffed sickly. “My bump is swelling very quickly! I should go to see my doc, After such a nasty knock!”

Bidding nobody goodbye, By the kitchen, with a cry— Fretting, bubbling, but still spry, He was gone, both brave and sly. Thoughscared people on the street Used to know him as a sweet, They’d never ever seen before Such a hastening Mr. Dough.

Having had a rapid ride, he came in, at last, and cried, “Dear Doctor, it’s so tough, Please cut off this freaky stuff!” Stunned, the doctor answered him, “Ah, you want to be more slim, But you know, my sharpened knife Will not save your precious life. So, to get you off the hook You must go to see the cook!”

Mr. Dough turned back. Alas, Worse things yet would come to pass. Growing bit by bit, he rolled Through the European world— Poland, Riga, Berlin chattered, “What’s the matter with that batter?” To the bakery, with wrath, By a tricky round’ bout path, Past the bridge along the beach— Loudly letting out a screech, Mr. Dough, all day and night, Ran and ran with all his might.

Mr. Dough turned back. Alas, Worse things yet would come to pass. Growing bit by bit, he rolled Through the European world— Poland, Riga, Berlin chattered, “What’s the matter with that batter?” To the bakery, with wrath, By a tricky round’ bout path, Past the bridge along the beach— Loudly letting out a screech, Mr. Dough, all day and night, Ran and ran with all his might.

Thus, at last, he got so tired, Relaxation was required. But the swelling didn’t wait— Every minute put on weight; By that time, it got around Hundred pounds, pound by pound. What a miserable old show, Poor, fatty Mr. Dough! Trying fast his speed to double, He again got into trouble – Couldn’t move and felt ashamed, Almost soured, almost lamed. Suddennoise came from the sky. What was that, in big supply? Was that real? What a wonder: Helicopters, like wild thunder, Sounds of dishes falling down, Many bakers all around. Using cutting boards and knives, They carved strips of different types For the pastries, cheesecakes, tarts From the dough’s big swollen parts, And for the kids French twists, like straws, Which they met with loud applause.

Three and thirty days the cooks Had spent using baking books. And the city ate its fill, Gobbling down with a thrill: Cheesecakes, muffins, pretzels, pies— Gingerbreads of every size. Even Riga lent a hand Eating pancakes in the end, And Berlin received a baked, Decorated honey-cake.

Lots of pizzas there were ordered For the soldiers on the border. So, the dough stopped being sour, Got his former shape and power, Jumped inside the oven hastily— “Now, let’s bake me as a pastry!”

Очень плохоПлохоУдовлетворительноХорошоОтлично (2 голосов, средний бал: 2,50 из 5)

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