6.19.2011
6.06.2011
Stephen Crane (1871 - 1900) from his collection The Black Riders and Other Lines
VIII
I looked here.
I looked there.
Nowhere could I see my love.
And - this time -
She was in my heart.
Truly, then, I have no complaint,
For though she be fair and fairer,
She is none so fair as she
In my heart.
XXIII
Places among the stars,
Soft gardens near the sun,
Keep your distant beauty;
Shed no beams upon my weak heart.
Since she is here
In a place of blackness,
Not your golden days
Nor your silver nights
Can call me to you.
Since she is here
In a place of blackness,
Here I stay and wait.
XXVI
There was set before me a mighty hill,
And long days I climbed
Through regions of snow.
When I had before me the summit-view,
It seemed that my labour
Had been to see gardens
Lying at impossible distances.
I looked here.
I looked there.
Nowhere could I see my love.
And - this time -
She was in my heart.
Truly, then, I have no complaint,
For though she be fair and fairer,
She is none so fair as she
In my heart.
XXIII
Places among the stars,
Soft gardens near the sun,
Keep your distant beauty;
Shed no beams upon my weak heart.
Since she is here
In a place of blackness,
Not your golden days
Nor your silver nights
Can call me to you.
Since she is here
In a place of blackness,
Here I stay and wait.
XXVI
There was set before me a mighty hill,
And long days I climbed
Through regions of snow.
When I had before me the summit-view,
It seemed that my labour
Had been to see gardens
Lying at impossible distances.
5.11.2011
Rolf Jacobsen (1907 - 1994)
Memories of Horses
The lines in the hands of old people
gradually curve over and will point soon toward earth.
They take with them their secret language,
cloud words and wind letters,
all the signs the heart gathers up in the lean year.
Sorrow bleaches out and turns to face the stars
but memories of horses, women's feet, children
flow from their faces down to the grass kingdom.
In huge trees we can often see
images of the peace in the sides of animals,
and the wind sketches in the grass, if you are happy,
running children and horses.
The Fireflies
It was that evening with the fireflies
while we were waiting for the bus to Velletri
that we saw two old people kissing
under the plane tree. It was then
you said, half to the air
half to me:
Whoever loves for years
hasn't lived in vain.
And it was then I caught sight of the first
fireflies in the darkness, sparkling
with flashes of light around your head.
It was then.
Some People
Some people
ascend out of our life, some people
enter our life,
uninvited and sit down,
some people
calmly walk by, some people
give you a rose,
or buy you a new car,
some people
stand so close to you, some people
you've entirely forgotten,
some people, some people
are actually you,
some people
you've never seen at all, some people
eat asparagus, some people
are children,
some people climb up on the roof,
sit down at table,
lie around in hammocks, take walks with their red
umbrella,
some people look at you,
some people have never noticed you at all, some people
want to take your hand, some people
die during the night,
some people are other people, some people are you, some people
don't exist,
some people do.
translated from the Norwegian by Robert Bly and Roger Greenwald
The lines in the hands of old people
gradually curve over and will point soon toward earth.
They take with them their secret language,
cloud words and wind letters,
all the signs the heart gathers up in the lean year.
Sorrow bleaches out and turns to face the stars
but memories of horses, women's feet, children
flow from their faces down to the grass kingdom.
In huge trees we can often see
images of the peace in the sides of animals,
and the wind sketches in the grass, if you are happy,
running children and horses.
The Fireflies
It was that evening with the fireflies
while we were waiting for the bus to Velletri
that we saw two old people kissing
under the plane tree. It was then
you said, half to the air
half to me:
Whoever loves for years
hasn't lived in vain.
And it was then I caught sight of the first
fireflies in the darkness, sparkling
with flashes of light around your head.
It was then.
Some People
Some people
ascend out of our life, some people
enter our life,
uninvited and sit down,
some people
calmly walk by, some people
give you a rose,
or buy you a new car,
some people
stand so close to you, some people
you've entirely forgotten,
some people, some people
are actually you,
some people
you've never seen at all, some people
eat asparagus, some people
are children,
some people climb up on the roof,
sit down at table,
lie around in hammocks, take walks with their red
umbrella,
some people look at you,
some people have never noticed you at all, some people
want to take your hand, some people
die during the night,
some people are other people, some people are you, some people
don't exist,
some people do.
translated from the Norwegian by Robert Bly and Roger Greenwald
4.28.2011
Constantine P. Cavafy (1863 - 1933)
Addition
I do not question whether I am happy or not.
But one thing I always keep gladly in mind;
that in the great addition- their addition that I abhor-
that has so many numbers, I am not one
of the many units there. I was not counted
in the total sum. And this joy suffices me.
Melancholy of Jason, son of Cleander; poet in Commagene; A.D. 595
The growing old of my body and my face
is a wound from a hideous knife.
I no longer have any endurance.
I take refuge in you, Art of Poetry,
who know a little something about drugs,
and attempts to numb suffering, in Imagination and Word.
It is a wound from a hideous knife.-
Fetch your drugs, Art of Poetry,
that make one unaware- for a while- of the wound.-
translated from the Greek by Rae Dalven
I do not question whether I am happy or not.
But one thing I always keep gladly in mind;
that in the great addition- their addition that I abhor-
that has so many numbers, I am not one
of the many units there. I was not counted
in the total sum. And this joy suffices me.
Melancholy of Jason, son of Cleander; poet in Commagene; A.D. 595
The growing old of my body and my face
is a wound from a hideous knife.
I no longer have any endurance.
I take refuge in you, Art of Poetry,
who know a little something about drugs,
and attempts to numb suffering, in Imagination and Word.
It is a wound from a hideous knife.-
Fetch your drugs, Art of Poetry,
that make one unaware- for a while- of the wound.-
translated from the Greek by Rae Dalven
4.24.2011
4.23.2011
Adam Zagajewski (1945 - present)
Another Beauty
We find comfort only in
another beauty, in others'
music, in the poetry of others.
Salvation lies with others,
though solitude may taste like
opium. Other people aren't hell
if you glimpse them at dawn, when
their brows are clean, rinsed by dreams.
This is why I pause: which word
to use, you or he. Each he
betrays some you, but
calm conversation bides its time
in others' poems.
translated from the Polish by Clare Cavanagh
We find comfort only in
another beauty, in others'
music, in the poetry of others.
Salvation lies with others,
though solitude may taste like
opium. Other people aren't hell
if you glimpse them at dawn, when
their brows are clean, rinsed by dreams.
This is why I pause: which word
to use, you or he. Each he
betrays some you, but
calm conversation bides its time
in others' poems.
translated from the Polish by Clare Cavanagh
4.17.2011
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