3.25.2010
3.11.2010
Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)
The Home
I paced alone on the road across the field while the sunset
was hiding its last gold like a miser.
The daylight sank deeper and deeper into the darkness,
and the widowed land, whose harvest had been reaped, lay silent.
A boy's shrill voice rose into the sky.
He walked the dark unseen, leaving the track of his song
across the hush of the evening.
His village home lay there at the end of the waste land,
beyond the sugar cane field, hidden among the shadows
of the banana and the slender areca palm, the coconut
and the green jack-fruit trees.
I stopped for a moment in my lonely way under the starlight,
and saw spread before me the darkened earth
surrounding with her arms countless homes
furnished with cradles and beds,
mothers' hearts and evening lamps,
and young lives glad with a gladness
that knows nothing of its value for the world.
translated from the Bengalese by the author
I paced alone on the road across the field while the sunset
was hiding its last gold like a miser.
The daylight sank deeper and deeper into the darkness,
and the widowed land, whose harvest had been reaped, lay silent.
A boy's shrill voice rose into the sky.
He walked the dark unseen, leaving the track of his song
across the hush of the evening.
His village home lay there at the end of the waste land,
beyond the sugar cane field, hidden among the shadows
of the banana and the slender areca palm, the coconut
and the green jack-fruit trees.
I stopped for a moment in my lonely way under the starlight,
and saw spread before me the darkened earth
surrounding with her arms countless homes
furnished with cradles and beds,
mothers' hearts and evening lamps,
and young lives glad with a gladness
that knows nothing of its value for the world.
translated from the Bengalese by the author
3.10.2010
3.09.2010
Yehuda Amichai (1924-2000)
To Speak About Changes Was to Speak Love
It's a long time since I have heard from you.
I have not received even a little piece of paper,
even like an official one from offices,
which have forgotten my name and my existence.
The generation machine is still sweet
between my thighs, but for a long time
I haven't felt the sweetness of a letter between my
eyes.
We did not stay long enough together
to put us up as a lovers' monument.
Now time comes in place of time.
Sadness is changing its people like clothes
and your serious face is slicing your life:
each slice with another man on it.
Once we were talking about changes.
To speak about changes was to speak love.
Letter
To sit on the veranda of a hotel in Jerusalem
and to write: sweetly pass the days
from desert to sea.
Time passes-like somebody who, on a telephone,
is laughing or weeping far away from me:
whatever I'm hearing I can't see.
And whatever I see I don't hear.
We were careful when we said "next year"
or "a month ago". These words are like
glass splinters, which you can hurt yourself with,
or cut veins. Those who do things like that.
But you were beautiful, like the interpretation
of ancient books.
Surplus of women in your far country
brought you to me, but
other statistics have taken you
away from me.
To live is to build a ship and a harbor
at the same time. And to complete the harbor
long after the ship was drowned.
And to finish: I remember only
that there was mist. And whoever
remembers only mist-
what does he remember?
Bird
There is a bird in the sky
which, perhaps, is singing now
a sweet song:
If only I were a human being,
a man with feet
on this great and heavy earth,
I would stand and stand and stand
and never move from there.
translated from the Hebrew by the author and Ted Hughes
It's a long time since I have heard from you.
I have not received even a little piece of paper,
even like an official one from offices,
which have forgotten my name and my existence.
The generation machine is still sweet
between my thighs, but for a long time
I haven't felt the sweetness of a letter between my
eyes.
We did not stay long enough together
to put us up as a lovers' monument.
Now time comes in place of time.
Sadness is changing its people like clothes
and your serious face is slicing your life:
each slice with another man on it.
Once we were talking about changes.
To speak about changes was to speak love.
Letter
To sit on the veranda of a hotel in Jerusalem
and to write: sweetly pass the days
from desert to sea.
Time passes-like somebody who, on a telephone,
is laughing or weeping far away from me:
whatever I'm hearing I can't see.
And whatever I see I don't hear.
We were careful when we said "next year"
or "a month ago". These words are like
glass splinters, which you can hurt yourself with,
or cut veins. Those who do things like that.
But you were beautiful, like the interpretation
of ancient books.
Surplus of women in your far country
brought you to me, but
other statistics have taken you
away from me.
To live is to build a ship and a harbor
at the same time. And to complete the harbor
long after the ship was drowned.
And to finish: I remember only
that there was mist. And whoever
remembers only mist-
what does he remember?
Bird
There is a bird in the sky
which, perhaps, is singing now
a sweet song:
If only I were a human being,
a man with feet
on this great and heavy earth,
I would stand and stand and stand
and never move from there.
translated from the Hebrew by the author and Ted Hughes
2.12.2010
Vasko Popa (1922 - 1991)
The Other World
My grandmother puts cupcakes
with lit candles on floating planks
Whispers to them messages
for the dead men and women of our blood
and sends them down the river Karas
The planks slide down the black water
the little candles struggle through the dusk
and disappear around the turn of the river
Grandmother announces
that they have happily reached
the other world
I have already been there once
to set traps for birds
I didn't know of course
it was my ancestors I was hunting
among the blossoming willows
Before the Game
Shut one eye then the other
peek into every corner of yourself
see that there are no nails no thieves
see that there are no cuckoo's eggs
Shut then the other eye
squat and jump
jump high high high
on top of yourself
Fall then with all your weight
fall for days on end deep deep deep
to the bottom of your abyss
Who doesn't break into pieces
who remains whole who gets up whole
plays
Wolf-Ancestry
Under the linden in Sands
my great grandfather
found two wolf-cubs
Sat them both
between a donkey's ears
and brought them to the farm
He fed them sheep's milk
and taught them to play
with lambs their own age
Then he took them back
to the same spot under the lindens
kissed them
and made the sign of the cross over them
Since earliest childhood
I've been waiting
for my years to equal
my great grandfather's
Just to ask him
which of those wolf-cubs
I was
translated from the Yugoslavian by Charles Simic
My grandmother puts cupcakes
with lit candles on floating planks
Whispers to them messages
for the dead men and women of our blood
and sends them down the river Karas
The planks slide down the black water
the little candles struggle through the dusk
and disappear around the turn of the river
Grandmother announces
that they have happily reached
the other world
I have already been there once
to set traps for birds
I didn't know of course
it was my ancestors I was hunting
among the blossoming willows
Before the Game
Shut one eye then the other
peek into every corner of yourself
see that there are no nails no thieves
see that there are no cuckoo's eggs
Shut then the other eye
squat and jump
jump high high high
on top of yourself
Fall then with all your weight
fall for days on end deep deep deep
to the bottom of your abyss
Who doesn't break into pieces
who remains whole who gets up whole
plays
Wolf-Ancestry
Under the linden in Sands
my great grandfather
found two wolf-cubs
Sat them both
between a donkey's ears
and brought them to the farm
He fed them sheep's milk
and taught them to play
with lambs their own age
Then he took them back
to the same spot under the lindens
kissed them
and made the sign of the cross over them
Since earliest childhood
I've been waiting
for my years to equal
my great grandfather's
Just to ask him
which of those wolf-cubs
I was
translated from the Yugoslavian by Charles Simic
2.11.2010
2.10.2010
Anonymous Chippewa (Ojibwe) Native
Sometimes I go about pitying myself,
and all the time
I am being carried on great winds across the sky.
translated from the Chippewa by Frances Densmore
and all the time
I am being carried on great winds across the sky.
translated from the Chippewa by Frances Densmore
2.04.2010
David Ignatow (1914 - 1997)
61
I must train myself to no longer exist
but as a stone lifted and thrown
to wherever I land, a new place,
a new odor to it and new sound
and action surrounding me, all this
without the thought of loss, despair,
or hope, a preparation for loss.
Such a life would be god's, if one
existed. But it is life I can assume
is god's, and I can live it.
A Loose Gown
I wear my life loosely around me,
feeling it at elbows and knees.
Sometimes I'm forced to hurry
and it races along with me,
taking the wind in its hollows.
I get out of breath
and would fall down exhausted
but the wind in these pockets
of my life keep me from falling.
Somehow it does not write itself
Somehow it does not write itself, our life together,
my need expressed by your giving,
my seeking satisfied with your finding.
Truly we fit like bolt and lock,
to keep our house free of childishness and pretension;
love not in rhetoric,
emotion not in eyes.
When I feel your leg thrown over me in sleep
I say, That is the thought.
I must train myself to no longer exist
but as a stone lifted and thrown
to wherever I land, a new place,
a new odor to it and new sound
and action surrounding me, all this
without the thought of loss, despair,
or hope, a preparation for loss.
Such a life would be god's, if one
existed. But it is life I can assume
is god's, and I can live it.
A Loose Gown
I wear my life loosely around me,
feeling it at elbows and knees.
Sometimes I'm forced to hurry
and it races along with me,
taking the wind in its hollows.
I get out of breath
and would fall down exhausted
but the wind in these pockets
of my life keep me from falling.
Somehow it does not write itself
Somehow it does not write itself, our life together,
my need expressed by your giving,
my seeking satisfied with your finding.
Truly we fit like bolt and lock,
to keep our house free of childishness and pretension;
love not in rhetoric,
emotion not in eyes.
When I feel your leg thrown over me in sleep
I say, That is the thought.
2.03.2010
2.02.2010
Friedrich Holderlin (1770 - 1883)
All the fruit is ripe, plunged in fire, cooked,
and they have passed their test on earth, and one law is this:
that everything curls inward, like snakes,
prophetic, dreaming on
the hills of heaven. And many things
have to stay on the shoulders like a load
of failure. However the roads
are bad. For the chained elements,
like horses, are going off to the side,
and the old
laws of the earth. And a longing
for disintegration constantly comes. Many things however
have to stay on the shoulders. Steadiness is essential.
Forwards, however, or backwards we will
not look. Let us learn to live swaying
as in a rocking boat on the sea.
translated from the German by Robert Bly
and they have passed their test on earth, and one law is this:
that everything curls inward, like snakes,
prophetic, dreaming on
the hills of heaven. And many things
have to stay on the shoulders like a load
of failure. However the roads
are bad. For the chained elements,
like horses, are going off to the side,
and the old
laws of the earth. And a longing
for disintegration constantly comes. Many things however
have to stay on the shoulders. Steadiness is essential.
Forwards, however, or backwards we will
not look. Let us learn to live swaying
as in a rocking boat on the sea.
translated from the German by Robert Bly
2.01.2010
Blas de Otero (c.1950)
Walking
For some time now there have been two worlds or ways
for man to walk, behind history or catching up with it:
propping up crippled ideas, laying down new foundations
on which to set life up.
And I saw the world as a sea churning with people, hanging
on to one another as they went down; and the world just
risen among broken tombs and inscriptions that lied.
I went out to the countryside and saw the sun drinking the
blood of millions of people who had been sacrificed brutally;
and I followed the road I found crowded with footsteps that
moved along calmly, sure of what was ahead of them.
Seven
My house, unfortunately, is a house,
a sock hanging from a line,
there I've written the saddest books,
and turned my face toward life, thank god.
This house, my friend, this house
is always sitting there, it just sits,
and in summer it gets chilly, and hot in winter,
(I suppose you believe that),
and I have come back, comrade, for a few days
to pick up my books, my records, my contracts
and I found my mother in the hall
and my sister in the living room
and myself reading in a corner,
friend, you have to understand, long days have gone by
and slow nights, comrade, since then.
What can I do, when I've seen the world from above
and even the clouds from above,
and I walked once around a small boy
in Pinar del Rio,
and he was so different
from Spanish children or the wiseguys of Paris,
something has been going on
in certain spots on this planet,
friend,
unfortunately, comrade, my house is still the same,
its not the same,
it contains more records, my friend,
and more peace and quiet, comrade,
and more love spoken in whispers, and it's seven now.
translated from the Spanish by Hardie St. Martin
For some time now there have been two worlds or ways
for man to walk, behind history or catching up with it:
propping up crippled ideas, laying down new foundations
on which to set life up.
And I saw the world as a sea churning with people, hanging
on to one another as they went down; and the world just
risen among broken tombs and inscriptions that lied.
I went out to the countryside and saw the sun drinking the
blood of millions of people who had been sacrificed brutally;
and I followed the road I found crowded with footsteps that
moved along calmly, sure of what was ahead of them.
Seven
My house, unfortunately, is a house,
a sock hanging from a line,
there I've written the saddest books,
and turned my face toward life, thank god.
This house, my friend, this house
is always sitting there, it just sits,
and in summer it gets chilly, and hot in winter,
(I suppose you believe that),
and I have come back, comrade, for a few days
to pick up my books, my records, my contracts
and I found my mother in the hall
and my sister in the living room
and myself reading in a corner,
friend, you have to understand, long days have gone by
and slow nights, comrade, since then.
What can I do, when I've seen the world from above
and even the clouds from above,
and I walked once around a small boy
in Pinar del Rio,
and he was so different
from Spanish children or the wiseguys of Paris,
something has been going on
in certain spots on this planet,
friend,
unfortunately, comrade, my house is still the same,
its not the same,
it contains more records, my friend,
and more peace and quiet, comrade,
and more love spoken in whispers, and it's seven now.
translated from the Spanish by Hardie St. Martin
1.31.2010
Sappho (c. 630 B.C.)
Fragment
You may forget but
Let me tell you
this: someone in
Some future time
will think of us
Fragment
We Shall enjoy it
As for him who finds
fault, may silliness
and sorrow take him!
Fragment
Some there are who say that the fairest thing seen
on the black earth is an array of horsemen;
some, men marching; some would say ships; but I say
she whom one loves best
is the loveliest. Light were the work to make this
plain to all, since she, who surpassed in beauty
all mortality, Helen, once forsaking
her lordly husband,
fled away to Troy-land across the water.
Not the thought of child nor beloved parents
was remembered, after the Queen of Cyprus
won her at first sight.
Since young brides have hearts that can be persuaded
easily, light things, palpitant to passion
as I am, remembering Anaktoria
who has gone from me
and whose lovely walk and the shining pallor
of her face I would rather see before my
eyes than Lydia's chariots in all their glory
armored for battle.
translated from the Greek by Mary Barnard
You may forget but
Let me tell you
this: someone in
Some future time
will think of us
Fragment
We Shall enjoy it
As for him who finds
fault, may silliness
and sorrow take him!
Fragment
Some there are who say that the fairest thing seen
on the black earth is an array of horsemen;
some, men marching; some would say ships; but I say
she whom one loves best
is the loveliest. Light were the work to make this
plain to all, since she, who surpassed in beauty
all mortality, Helen, once forsaking
her lordly husband,
fled away to Troy-land across the water.
Not the thought of child nor beloved parents
was remembered, after the Queen of Cyprus
won her at first sight.
Since young brides have hearts that can be persuaded
easily, light things, palpitant to passion
as I am, remembering Anaktoria
who has gone from me
and whose lovely walk and the shining pallor
of her face I would rather see before my
eyes than Lydia's chariots in all their glory
armored for battle.
translated from the Greek by Mary Barnard
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