Volume 13, Term Issue II
Czym są korzenie, które trzymają, jakie gałęzie rosną
Z tych kamienistych rupieci? Synu człowieczy,
Nie możesz powiedzieć, ani zgadnąć, bo widzisz tylko
Sterte połamanych odzwierciedleń, w które uderza słońce, I martwe drzewo nie daje schronienia, świerszcz nie przynosi ulgi, I na suchym kamieniu nie szumi woda.
- fragment z ‘Pustkowia’ przez T.S. Eliot przekład Julianny Żarnowskiej
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In the last issue of JoLT’s thirteenth volume, we aim to reach out and embrace mortality as a quiet and certain force that sits in all of us. Translating this theme allows us to seek understanding, meaning, and connection across borders, and it tells us to experience life fully, and relish in every moment.
A big thank you is owed to our amazing contributors and artists. We are so grateful that you continue to dedicate your time and talent to producing such meaningful translations and pieces of art. I urge you to never cease writing, translating, and creating.
As always, I extend my gratitude to the editorial team. You have helped me learn, grow, and I thank you for your dedication and support. Monica, thank you for helping to make the process of creating JoLT so smooth and enjoyable. Ioana, thank you for your patience and encouragement. A huge thank you also to Eve for the creativity and talent you brought to JoLT this year. To those who have the pleasure of curating next year’s issues, I pass on the excitement and privilege that it was to be involved in such a fantastic publication.
It is easy to become afraid of the unknown. Let this issue champion living fully, cherishing and understanding each other; as the bonds we forge are our true legacy.
JuliannaŻarnowska
Editorial Staff 2024/25
Editor-in-Chief
Julianna Żarnowska
Deputy Editor
Ioana Răducu
General Assistant Editors
Ciara Gallagher
Hazel Mulkeen
Art Editor
Eve Smith
Language Editors
Nicole Battù
Meadhbh Ní Cheallacháin
Leila Purcell Collins
Giulia Nati
Elvira Petrovici
Sophie Quinn
Hazel Scott
Layout and Design Editor
Monica Elena Grigoraș
Cover art by Eve Smith
Editorial
Between the Clouds and the Crypt art by Jessica Sharkey
Untitled art by Ellen Coleman
Orphée art by Ciara Gallagher
Frankenstein; or, the Modern Prometheus transl. Christopher O’Regan
InthisextractofShelley’sFrankenstein,theprotagonist’sdownfallfromdivinegod toguiltyhumanisshownthroughhisdescentintomadness.Thisdemonstratesnot onlythefragilenatureofhumanmortality,butthesinistersideofhumanpoweras Frankensteinevadeshisself-cannibalisingguiltbydehumanisinghiscreation.
V. ad Lesbiam transl. Nell Gardiner
CatullussetshisandLesbia’smortalityagainstthefleetingjudgementofothers:the playfulnessofhisdemandsforkisseslightensthesombreundercurrentofdeath.I haveaimedtobesuccinctinmytranslationtohighlighttheurgencyofhispassionateversewithits‘carpediem’spirit.
Landscape with the Fall of Icarus transl. Giulia Nati
ThispoemisstructuredonthecontrastbetweenIcarus’fallandthelifearoundhim thatkeepsgoingon,untouchedbyhistragicdeath.Itcausesthereadertofeeltheir ownmortality:menhaveafixedamountoftime,andtherewillstillbelifeafter their death.
Samarcanda transl. Giulia Nati
RobertoVecchioninarratesofasoldierthatescapedDeathinwar.Afteritisover, Deathfindshimduringthecelebrations.Hetriestoescapeit,runningasfaras hecango-Samarcanda-,butDeathisalreadythere.Itisametaphoronhowone cannotescapeone'smortality.
El reloj de arena transl. Ray Linn
Borgeswatchessandfallthroughthehourglassandobservesthattimeputsanend toeverything,referencingfallenphilosophersandcivilizations,concludingthat thereisnoneedtofightagainstitspassage,andthatevenhewillbeclaimedbyit. Thistranslationfollowshisrhymescheme.
Wanting to Die transl. Rachel Smith
WantingtoDiebyAnneSextonisadeeplypersonalpoemthatdescribeswhatitis liketobehauntedbysuicidalideations.Sexton’srelationshipwithherownmortalityismorecomplexthanmost.
Elu on küll lühike transl. Eduardo Torres
A short meditation on time, life, and death, and their inextricable connection. In thatregard,theverynotionofmortalityhasitsmeaninginrelationtotheinterplay ofthesethreeconcepts.
Kui surmahirm saab nii suureks transl. Eduardo Torres
Adreadfulponderingonthemirroredqualitybetweenourfearandourwishof deaththatisasstrikingasitisshort.Thehauntingyetundeniableclarityofthelast versestayswithyoufordays:atruismofterror.
Untitled art by Naemi Victoria
Kapři pro Wehrmacht transl. Maria McChrystal
Inthisstory,theauthorgoesfishingwithhisfather,whomustafterwardsdepart foraconcentrationcamp.Thisreflectsthethemeofmortalitybyconfrontingthe authorwiththebrevityoflife.Theplayfulfishwillultimatelybekilled;abrevity echoed in the form of his father.
Mirror transl. Nathan Harpur
Shocraighméandánseoaaistriúmargoléiríonnsérudfíorfaoinsaol,níféidir linnéalúóimeachtnahóigenóónseanaoisagustaganneaglalinnfaoi.Labhraíonn andánseofaoibhásarbhealachsuimiúilagusmachnamhach.Trídantóneagla agusmíshuaimhnis,nochtannséanchailliúintama,rudamhothaímgopearsanta.Mariseoldochách,éirímidníossine,agusuaireantabraithimidnachbhfuil smachtagainnarársaol.Tábrónormféinfaoinamad’fhéadfainnabheithagbaint tuilleadhtaitnimhas.Taispeánannanscáthánfírinnechrua,cuireannséiallach orainnglacadhleisanréaltachtgobhfuilant-amagimeachtagusgobhfuilan duineashílimidabheadhionainnagimeachtlinnleis.
transl. Aimilia Varla
ThefollowingisatranslationofanextractfromtheyoungadultnovelPetros’war. Petros,themaincharacter,isa9yearoldboywhoexperiencesWW2withhis familyinGreece.TheextractissetonedaybeforethedeclarationofwarinGreece. HoweverPetrosistooyoungtograspthesignificanceoftheevents,andismore occupiedwiththedeathofhispetcricket.ThroughtheeyesofyoungPetros,you canseehowchildrenareconfrontedwithmortalityandthelossofchildhoodinnocence.
transl. Aimilia Varla
Thepoemreflectsontheephemeralnatureoflife.Itisanexistentialreflectionof thepoetabouthistimeonearth,andanacknowledgementofthepassageoftime andtheinevitabilityofdeath.Yesenincontemplatesthegradualdeparturefrom life,notasasuddenevent,butasaprocess-littlebylittle.Thisreflectsthehuman experienceofagingandbecomingincreasinglyawareofourmortality.
Memória transl. Thais Giammarco
Teia transl. Thais Giammarco
Fontelaisknownforherconciseyetprofoundpoetryandforherpreciseuseof languagetoevokephilosophicalandexistentialthemes.Memoryexplorestheinevitabilityofhumanexperience,markedbyextinction.Cobwebspinsadelicateyet inescapabletraponthepage,ensnaringthereaderinthesamefatesuggestedinthe previouspoem.
Kot w pustym mieszkaniu transl. Jes Paluchowska SzymborskawasarenownedPolishpoetandessayistworkinginthelatterhalfof the20thcentury.Herworkis knowninandoutofthecountry,earningherthe Nobelprizein1996.ShewroteKotwPustymMieszkaniuafterthedeathofher partner,KornelFilipowicz,in1991.
Soneto de la dulce queja transl. Eoghan Conway
Lorcaexaminesthefleetingbeautyoflifeanditsintersectionwithdeath.Thelyrical balladformandhisquintessentialsurrealistimageryaddstotheephemeralnature ofthepoem.Thishighlightsthetrulytranscendentnatureofhumanlife.
Epitafio transl. Eoghan Conway
Gelmanrecallsalifelivedandcontemplateshisowndeath.Thevibrancy,intimacy andvividnessoflifearenoted. Themostenduringaspectfromone’slifeisoftentimesalegacy,it’sthiswhichGelmanponderson.
Untitled art by Eve Smith
Șah transl. Ioana Răducu
Blendingthemorbidwiththewrylyhumorous,MarinSorescu’spoemimaginesa game ofchessagainstdeath,thetwistsandturnsofhumanexistenceasmoveson theboard,craftinganodetohumanresilienceinthefaceofadversity.
In the Event of My Death transl. Ioana Răducu
Farris’smeditationonmortalityassheundergoeschemotherapybeginsinthe cosyspaceofthehomethendescendsintotheunknown.Markedbyafairly-tale eeriness,theimageofthebraidbeingusedasaropetodescendintothelandofthe deadcastsbothgriefandacquiescence.
Object Lessons (V) transl. Katie Moore
ThisfragmentfromEavanBoland’smemoirischargedwithphenomenological significanceasBolandreflectsontheprecariousnessofoversentimentalisationin ponderingtheenigmaticlifeofthemodelonavolcanicbrooch.Thelavacameo servesasmementomori,connectingherwiththisforgottenwoman.
Le tombeau d’Edgar Poe transl. Dr Kevin Kiely
StéphaneMallarmé’sDivigationstrans.,BarbaraJohnson(BelknapPress,2007)has ageneralnoteonEdgarAllanPoewithexaltedhomagetothepoetalsoreflected inLetombeaud’EdgarPoe:‘Imustadmitthatauniquekindofpietyenjoinsmeto representthepurestofpureSpiritsasanaerolite,interstellar,thunderous,projectedfromfinalhumandesigns,veryfarfrombeingourcontemporary,someonewe couldonlyseeburstintoasparklingcloud[…]meantforcenturieshence.Heis indeedthatexception:theabsoluteliterarycase.’
Nuit du Walpurgis Classique transl. Dr Kevin Kiely
SteveMurphy’sMargesdupremierVerlaine(2003)commentsonthepoemNuitdu WalpurgisClassiqueanditscontaining‘extrêmementrythmique[…]apeut-êtrela mêmecibleparodique’extremelyrhythmicinformthatmayreflectthepoet’sparodyinghisownwork‘avecdesadverbesdébordants—Mélancoliquementexcessive’. ThepoemfromVerlaine’sPoèmessaturniens,isrepletewithadverbsanddeliberate excessivemelancholy.
Niebla (Capítulo XXXIII) transl. Helena Gelman
Niebla(astructurallymatroyshka-likenovel)explores'will'andwhetherwecan reallypossessit.Centraltothereader’sunderstandingofthisquestionistheirinterpretationoftheprotagonist’smortalityassubjecttohisownwill.Here,hisghost engages/chastisesDonMiguel,hisauthor,onhispowertogiveandtakelife.
Euch zum Geleit transl. Ilka Demmler
Thissongcapturesthegreatestfearofmortality,thepainwecausetotheoneswe leavebehind.Writtenasalastmessagefromthedead,it´sareminderthatnothing evergoescompletely,forthememorieswesharedwillforeverlivewithinus.Thereby,thesongoffersamorehopefuloutlookondeathasapartoflife.InitsEnglish translation,thelyricshavebeenturnedintoapoem,maintainingtheemotional depthinthewordsalone.
Fim transl. Vicente Velasques
ThethemeofMortalitywasaconstantpresenceinSáCarneiro’swriting,alwayspresentedasjoyfulandevendesirable.Inthispoem,writtenshortlybeforetakinghis own life, Sá Carneiro describes how he wishes his funeral to be celebrated, almost likeacarnivalparade,equalpartsnarcissisticandself-depreciating.
Untitled art by Naemi Victoria
Vanya: Extract from Act 1 transl. Meadhbh Ní Cheallacháin
Thisexcerptfromtheone-manadaptationexploresmortalitythroughMichael’s despairanddisconnectionfromlife.Hisstruggletofindfulfillmentwithoutmeaningfulconnectionshighlightsthedeathofhopeandpurpose.Sonia’squestion,“Are youunhappywithyourlife?”quietlyconfrontsthisemotionaldeath,amplifyingthe tensionbetweenlifeandemptiness.
הטיחשה לע transl. Aden Ezra
ThepiecetranslatedistheHebrew-languagework"OnTheSlaughter"byHaim NahmanBialik.ThepoemwaswritteninresponsetotheKishinyevPogroms,a seriesofbrutalattacksonRussianJews,andonhowthecarelessnessofglobalinstitutionsputsethnicminoritiesinapositionofmortality.
FEATHERS transl. Alannah Purslow
Thepoemisnarratedfromthevoiceoftheauthor’slostlovedone.Fromthefeathersinherpathtorainbowsthatsheseesonherdailycommutes,"Feathers"illustrateshowthesignsourlovedonessendusfrombeyondcanserveasanimmense comfortifweareopenenoughtoreceivingthem.
LOS PETIRROJOS transl. Alannah Purslow
Thesourcetextcreatesanevocativeimageofnatureasametaphorforthestagesof grief.Therobins’songislikethesoul’s‘darknight’andthesungoingdownparallels theendoflifeitself,andourinnernaturereactingtothisstirofemotionswithinus.
Les Fruits Tombent des Arbres (Chapitre 1, « Hiver ») transl. Lauren Shapiro FlorentOiseau’snovellafollowsamiddle-agedParisianmanonanidlemissionto uncoverthemeaningoflife(anddeath).Theprotagonist’sexistentialreflections takealight-hearted,humorous,andoftensarcastictoneashecontemplatesthe connectionbetweenseeminglyrandomeventsandthebanalitiesofexistence.
DAHA transl. Kerem Savaş
“DoestheNightLoveHerChild?”isanexplorationofmortalityunfoldingthrough anunusualdialoguebetweenawomanvisitingherdyingmotheratthehospitaland a nurse.
Inno alla morte transl. Caoimhe Hayes
Initiallypublishedina1933collectionofpoetryentitled"SentimentodelTempo" (Feelingoftime),this"HymntoDeath"isatestimonytoUngaretti’sprofound poeticexplorationoftimeandmortality.Dwellingonthedichotomiesofeternity andfinitude,ofyouthandwizenedage,ofvitalloveandshuttereddeath,Ungaretti apostrophisesbothErosandThanatosinasinkingbattlewhichnonethelessconcludesonacuriouslyambiguousnote…
Incógnitas de arena transl. Bryn Connelly
SergioGasparMosqueda,amulti-genrewriterfromMexico,dedicateshisworkto exploringthesoulanditsconnectiontothebody.Hispoem"Incógnitasdearena”, fromhislargercollectiontitledLascicatricesdelbarro,confrontsthisconnectionof soul,body,andconsciousnesswheneventuallyfacedwithmortality.
art by Sarah McGoldrick
Herbsttag transl. Aodhán Murphy
Thereisperhapsnootherwaybywhichweareremindedofourownmortalityas poignantlyasbythepassingoftime.RilkebeautifullyevokesthepassageofSummerintoAutumnwhilehighlightinghowthistransitionchangesbothourphysical surroundings,aswellasourmind'sinternallandscape.
The Grave transl Dr. Bram Cleaver
Thepoemcalled"TheGrave",thelatestknownOldEnglishpoem,appearsinthe twelfth-centurymanuscriptMS.Bodley343(BodleianLibrary,Oxford).Itispartof anearly-medievalEnglishtraditionofmeditationsondeathalsofoundintheOld EnglishpoemsSoulandBodyIandSoulandBodyII.
The Grave transl. Maja Grzesiak-Jakimiuk
"TheGrave’"offersanunsettling,medievalperspectiveonmortality.Itsterse,morbid,andinexorablespeakerportraysdeathasadiminishedreflectionoflife,andthe graveasanearthlyabode,ratherthanapassagetothehereafter–evokingapeculiar familiarityaswellasaprofoundsenseofbleakness.
D’un cactus transl. Dr Richard Huddleson
Bornintoalandowningfamily,MariaAntòniaSalvàiRipolldevelopedalovefor theCatalanlanguagefromayoungage.Salvà’smotherdiednotlongafterherbirth, andshewassubsequentlyraisedbyherauntsandawetnurseinruralMallorca,a settingwhichwouldserveasinspirationformuchofherpoetry.Attheageoften, shewasbroughttoPalmatolivewithherfather.Atatimewhenliteraryproduction wasdominatedbymen,SalvàwouldcarveoutherownnicheasapoetandtranslatorwithintheculturalworldsoftheCatalanCountries.Despiteherprolificoutput, verylittleofSalvà’sworkhasbeentranslatedintoEnglish.
Untitled transl. Dr Richard Huddleson
Beingawoman,fromaworking-classbackground,andfromtheoppressednation ofCatalonia,MariaMercèMarçaliSerradescribedherselfas‘threetimesarebel’. Bornin1952,MarçalspentmostofherchildhoodintheprovinceofLleidaand laterembarkedonherstudiesandacademiccareerinBarcelona.Aged45,inthe primeofherlife,Marçaldiedofbreastcancer.Inrecentyears,herworkhasbeen translatedintoEnglish.
Knarren eines geknickten Astes (1962) transl. Oscar Rütten KnarreneinesgeknicktenAsteswasHesse’slastpoem,begunonlythreeweeksbeforehisdeath.Hehadbeensufferingfromleukaemiaandabadcaseoftheflu,but foundcomfortandcompanionshipinabrokenbranchnearhishome.Hesseedited thispoemextensivelyuntilhissuddendeathon9thAugust1962.
art by Eve Smith
Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired it with an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of the room and continued a long time traversing my bed-chamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep. At length lassitude succeeded to the tumult I had before endured, and I threw myself on the bed in my clothes, endeavouring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness. But it was in vain; I slept, indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams. I thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in the streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I embraced her, but as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death; her features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the corpse of my dead mother in my arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel. I started from my sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth chattered, and every limb became convulsed; when, by the dim and yellow light of the moon, as it forced its way through the window shutters, I beheld the wretch—the miserable monster whom I had created. He held up the curtain of the bed; and his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were fixed on me. His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken, but I did not hear; one hand was stretched out, seemingly to detain me, but I escaped and rushed downstairs. I took refuge in the courtyard belonging to the house which I inhabited, where I remained during the rest of the night, walking up and down in the greatest agitation, listening attentively, catching and fearing each sound as if it were to announce the approach of the demoniacal corpse to which I had so miserably given life.
Translated by Christopher O’Regan
Níl botúin an tsaoil chomh athraitheach le mothúcháin nádúr daonna. D’oibrigh mé go dian ar feadh nach mór dhá bhliain leis an t-aon sprioc chun anama a chur i gcorp neamhbheo. Ba seo an chúis gur oibrigh mé gan codladh i drochshláinte. Mian mo chroí ba ea é ná mar ba ghnách; ach ó tharla go bhfuil mé chríochnaithe, d’imigh uaim áilleacht na haislinge agus líon mo chroí le huafás na n-uafás agus fearg an domhan. Toisc nach raibh mé in ann radharc an neach cruthaithe agam a sheasamh, d’imigh mé liom gan mhoill agus lean mé orm ar feadh tamall fada ag trasnú mo sheomra leapa ach ní thiocfadh liom mé féin a shocrú chun dul a chodladh. Faoi dheireadh d’éirigh leis an tuirse a bhí á sheasamh agam go dtí sin, agus chaith mé mé féin ar an leaba i mo chuid éadaigh ag iarraidh nóiméad nó dhó chun dearmad a dhéanamh. Ach iarracht in aisce ba ea í; chodail mé, cinnte, ach bhí na brionglóidí is fiáine á mo chéasadh. Cheap mé go bhfaca mé Elizabeth, i mbarr na sláinte, ag siúl trí shráideanna Ingolstadt. Le lúcháir agus ionadh orm, d’fháisc mé le m’ucht í, ach a luaithe a thug mé an chéad phóg di ar a beola, tháinig dath an bháis orthu; is cosúil gur athraigh a gnúiseanna agus cheap mé gur marbhán mo mháthair a bhí i mo lámha agam; bhí taiséadach ag clúdach a corp agus chonaic mé cruimheanna na huaighe ag snámh trí fhillteacha an éadaigh. Gheit mé ón gcodail le huafás; bhí clár m’éadain clúdaithe le drúcht, mo chuid fiacla ag cnagadh, agus chuaigh mo chorp iomlán sna trithí. Le solas lag buí na gealaí, nuair a bhris sé isteach tríd an bhfuinneog, chonaic mé an bhrúid—an t-arracht gránna a bhí cruthaithe agam. D’ardaigh sé cuirtín na leapa; agus bhí a shúile, más súile a bhí iontu, ag stánadh orm. D’oscail sé a ghialla, agus lig sé fuaimeanna dothuigthe as le meangadh gáire, ag crapadh a phluca . B’fhéidir gur labhair sé, ach níor chuala mé; bhí lámh amháin sínte amach aige, déarfainn chun mé a sciobadh, ach d’éalaigh mé agus thug mé na cosa liom thíos staighre. Fuair mé sólás i gclós an tí ina raibh mé i mo chónaí, agus d’fhan mé ansin ar feadh na hoíche, ag siúl anonn is anall le faitíos an domhain orm, ag éisteacht go cúramach, ag machnamh ar chuile fuaim le heagla amhail is go raibh sé chun teacht an mharbháin dhiabhlaí a fhógrú a bhí cruthaithe agam, faraor.
Catullus
Vivamus mea Lesbia, atque amemus, rumoresque senum severiorum omnes unius aestimemus assis! soles occidere et redire possunt: nobis cum semel occidit brevis lux, nox est perpetua una dormienda. da mi basia mille, deinde centum, dein mille altera, dein secunda centum, deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum. dein, cum milia multa fecerimus, conturbabimus illa, ne sciamus, aut ne quis malus invidere possit, cum tantum sciat esse basiorum.
Translated by Nell Gardiner
Let us live, Lesbia, and love.
Value the gossiping of old, harsher men as much as a coin. Suns rise and set, But when our brief light expires, We must sleep an endless night. So now, give me a thousand kisses, Then one hundred, A thousand others, two hundred moreTo that add a thousand, then a hundred. Then, when we have made many thousands, We will confound them all, Lest we know what we have done, Or some pitiful man try to curse us, Counting the times we have kissed.
William Carlos Williams
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field the whole pageantry of the year was awake tingling near the edge of the sea concerned with itself sweating in the sun that melted the wings’ wax unsignificantly off the coast there was a splash quite unnoticed this was Icarus drowning
Translated by Giulia Nati
Roberto Vecchioni
Ridere, ridere, ridere ancora
Ora la guerra paura non fa
Bruciano nel fuoco le divise la sera
Brucia nella gola vino a sazietà
Musica di tamburelli fino all’aurora
Il soldato che tutta la notte ballò
Vide tra la folla quella nera signora
Vide che cercava lui e si spaventò
“Salvami, salvami, grande sovrano
Fammi fuggire, fuggire di qua
Alla parata lei mi stava vicino
E mi guardava con malignità”
“Dategli, dategli un animale
Figlio del lampo, degno di un re
Presto, più presto perché possa scappare
Dategli la bestia più veloce che c’è”
“Corri cavallo, corri ti prego
Fino a Samarcanda io ti guiderò
Non ti fermare, vola ti prego
Corri come il vento che mi salverò”
[...]
Fiumi poi campi, poi l’alba era viola
Bianche le torri che infine toccò
Ma c’era sulla porta quella nera signora
Stanco di fuggire la sua testa chinò
“Eri fra la gente nella capitale
So che mi guardavi con malignità
Son scappato in mezzo ai grilli e alle cicale
Son scappato via ma ti ritrovo qua”
“Sbagli, t’inganni, ti sbagli soldato
Io non ti guardavo con malignità
Era solamente uno sguardo stupito
Cosa ci facevi l’altro ieri là?
T’aspettavo qui per oggi a Samarcanda
Eri lontanissimo due giorni fa
Ho temuto che per ascoltar la banda
Non facessi in tempo ad arrivare qua.”
Laughing, laughing, laughing once again
Now war does not scare any more
Uniforms burn in the fire this evening
Wine burns down the throat to fullness
Tambourine rhythm until dawn
The soldier danced all night long
Saw that black lady in the crowd
Saw her and got scared, it was he she sought
‘Save me, save me, o mighty king
Let me flee, flee from here
At the parade she was next to me
And stared at me with malice’
‘Give him, I say, an animal
Thunder-child, worthy of a sovereign
At once, now, so he can flee away
Give him the fastest beast there is.’
‘Run, horse, please run
Until Samarkand I’ll guide you
Don’t stop, please fly
Run like the wind and I’ll save myself
[...]
Rivers, then fields, the a purple dawn
White the towers he finally touched
But that black lady was at the portal
Tired of fleeing, his head he bowed
‘You were among the crowd in the Capital
I know you were staring at me with malice
I fled through the crickets and the cicadas
I fled away, and I found you again here’
‘You’re wrong, you deceive yourself, soldier
I was not staring at you with malice
Mine was only a surprised look
What were you doing there the other day in there?
I was waiting for you by today in Samarkand
Two days ago you were so far away
I was afraid that listening to the marching band
You would not make it in time to be here.’
Translated
by
Giulia Nati
Spanish
Jorge Luís Borges
Está bien que se mida
Sombra que una columna en el estío
Arroja con el agua de aquel río
En que Heráclito vio nuestra locura
El tiempo, ya que al tiempo y al destino
Se parecen los dos: la imponderable
Sombra diurna y el curso irrevocable
Del agua que prosigue su camino
Está bien, pero el tiempo en los desiertos
Otra substancia halló, suave y pesada,
Que parece haber sido imaginada
Para medir el tiempo de los muertos.
Surge así el alegórico instrumento
De los grabados de los diccionarios,
La pieza que los grises anticuarios
Relegarán al mundo ceniciento
Del alfil desparejo, de la espada
Inerme, del borroso telescopio,
Del sándalo mordido por el opio,
Del polvo, del azar y de la nada.
¿Quién no se ha demorado ante el severo
Y tétrico instrumento que acompaña
En la diestra del dios a la guadaña
Y cuyas líneas repitió Durero?
Por el ápice abierto el cono inverso
Deja caer la cautelosa arena,
Oro gradual que se desprende y llena
El cóncavo cristal de su universo.
Hay un agrado en observar la arcana
It is good that we, as humanity
Measure the shadow cast by the column
Over the river in which Heraclitus, solemn, Looked to find our insanity
Time, in that both time and fate
Are alike to the imponderable daytime shade And the irrevocable course, unswayed, Of the river that does not stagnate
It is good, but in the time of the deserts
Something else has been found, smooth, weighted, That seems to have only been created For the time of the dead to be measured.
So arises the allegorical apparatus
Etched in every record left intact
Gifted by the oldest keepers of artifacts To this world in its ashen status
Of the lone bishop piece, of the telescope, blurred, Of the harmless sword, Of sandalwood, bored, By opium, of chance, of zero incurred.
Who among us has not been delayed
By the dismal instrument sitting inside The right hand of the god of the scythe Through whom Durer’s lines are relayed?
Left to fall through the inverse Cone is the prudent sand, Gradual gold in dispersed strands Into the concave crystal of the universe. There is a pleasure in observing the mystery
by Ray Linn
Arena que resbala y que declina
Y, a punto de caer, se arremolina
Con una prisa que es del todo humana.
La arena de los ciclos es la misma
E infinita es la historia de la arena; Así, bajo tus dichas o tu pena, La invulnerable eternidad de su abisma.
No se detiene nunca la caída.
Yo me desangro, no el cristal. El rito
De decantar la arena es infinito
Y con la arena se no da la vida.
En los minutos de la arena creo
Sentir el tiempo cósmico: la historia
Que encierra en sus espejos la memoria
O que ha disuelto el mágico Leteo.
El pilar de humo y el pilar de fuego, Cartago y Roma y su apretada guerra, Simón Mago, los siete pies de tierra
Que el rey sajón ofrece al rey noruego,
Todo lo arrastra y pierde este incansable
Hilo sutil de arena numerosa.
No he de salvarme yo, fortuita cosa
De tiempo, que es materia deleznable.
Of the sand that filters down
And, about to fall, swirls around With a rush seen through all human history.
Beneath what you say or sorrow exists
The invulnerable eternity of the abyss
Though the sand of each cycle continues as it is Though its history is infinite.
The falling will always come to pass
The ritual of its decanting will never end Though mortality does impend It is I who bleeds out, not the glass.
In the minutes of the sand can be detected
Cosmic time itself
History as it melts
The Lethean magic, holding memory, reflected.
The pillar of fire, the pillar of smoke, Simon Magus and the seven feet of land
Passed from Saxony to Norway in their kings’ hands Carthage and Rome and each war stoked,
Sand in an endless string
And all that’s lost to it, what luck I haven’t to save myself from being struck By time, the despicable thing.
Anne Sexton
Since you ask, most days I cannot remember. I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage. Then the almost unnameable lust returns.
Even then I have nothing against life. I know well the grass blades you mention, the furniture you have placed under the sun.
But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.
In this way, heavy and thoughtful, warmer than oil or water, I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.
I did not think of my body at needle point. Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone. Suicides have already betrayed the body.
Still-born, they don’t always die, but dazzled, they can’t forget a drug so sweet that even children would look on and smile.
Translated by Rachel Smith
Da du fragst – an den meisten Tagen fällt es mir nicht mehr ein. Ich gehe in meinen Kleidern, ohne Spuren von dieser Reise.. Dann kehrt dieses fast namenlose Verlangen zurück.
Aber selbst dann ich hab nichts gegen das Leben. Ich kenne die Grashalme, von denen du sprichst, die Möbel, die du in die Sonne gestellt hast.
Aber Selbstmörder haben ihre eigene Sprache. Wie Zimmerleute suchen sie nach Werkzeugen doch sie fragen nie, warum man baut.
Zweimal habe ich mich so einfach erklärt, habe den Feind besessen, ihn verschlungen, mir seine Kunst einverleibt, seine Magie.
So lag ich da – schwer und voller Gedanken, wärmer als Öl oder Wasser, der Mund offen, die Zunge schwer.
Ich dachte nicht an meinen Körper wie an eine Nadelspitze. Sogar die Hornhaut, der letzte Rest Urin – fort. Der Körper hatte seinen Verrat längst begangen.
Tot geboren – sie sterben nicht immer. Doch geblendet vergessen sie nie diese süße Droge, die selbst Kinder anschauen und lächeln würden.
To thrust all that life under your tongue!— that, all by itself, becomes a passion. Death’s a sad bone; bruised, you’d say, and yet she waits for me, year after year, to so delicately undo an old wound, to empty my breath from its bad prison.
Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet, raging at the fruit a pumped-up moon, leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,
leaving the page of the book carelessly open, something unsaid, the phone off the hook and the love whatever it was, an infection.
Das ganze Leben auf der Zunge tragen! –allein das wird zur Leidenschaft. Der Tod, ein trauriger Knochen – ein geprellter, sagst du. Und doch wartet sie auf mich, Jahr für Jahr, um mit leichten Fingern eine alte Wunde zu öffnen, um meinen Atem aus diesem engen Gefängnis zu lösen.
Dort, wo alles kippt, begegnen sich Selbstmörder manchmal, zornig auf die Frucht eines aufgeblähten Mondes, lassen das Brot zurück, das sie für einen Kuss hielten, lassen die Buchseite achtlos offen, ein Wort bleibt ungesagt, das Telefon liegt daneben, und die Liebe – was auch immer sie war – ein Fieber, das nie heilt.
Jaan Kaplinski
Elu on küll lühike aga aeg on pikk küünal läheb põlema siis kui kustub tikk
küünal läheb põlema kalmul lume sees kalmu ääres seisavad suur ja väike mees
tikk on ammu kustunud küünlad põlevad ühte tulle vaatavad viivu mõlemad
väike annab suurele oma väikse käe ja nad lähvad – kuhu – ma pimedas ei näe.
Life is indeed short yet time is long a candle lights up when a match goes out
A candle lights up in the snow on a grave by the grave stand a big man and a small boy
the match went out long time ago candles are burning, they glance into the flame together for a moment
the small one gives the big one his little hand and they walk away–where to–I cannot see in the dark.
Translated by Eduardo Torres
Doris Kareva
Kui surmahirm saab nii suureks, et pageda enam ei jõua, siis sööstadki talle vastu.
Siis karataksegi kuristikku, peadpidi gaasiahju, läbi peegli. Kuis keegi.
Hirm on hirmsaim gravitatsioon.
Translated by Eduardo Torres
When the fear of death becomes so great that you can’t run away anymore it’s then when you rush at it.
The gorge is then crossed, headfirst into the gas oven, through the mirror. As one does.
Fear is the most dreadful gravity.
Ota Pavel
Potom jsme si udělali předčasně Štědrý večer, ráno měl tatínek odjet. Na stromku plápolaly svíčky, staniol hořel stříbrem a pokoj voněl lesem. Tatínek mi bůhvíkde sehnal staré boty s bruslemi, měl dávný přání, aby byl ze mě slavný hokejový hráč. A já mu zase opatřil od kluků ve škole dvě škatulky cigaret na cestu do koncentráku. Maminka s tatínkem se tvářili vesele, pobrukovali si, ale asi to dělali kvůli mně, abych měl na ten večer hezký vzpomínky. Muselo jim být mizerně, vždyť to mohl být jejich poslední společný večer v celým životě. V noci se mnou někdo ve tmě zatřepal: „Vstávej, kamaráde, vstávej.“ Třásl se mnou tatínek, občas mi říkal kamaráde. Mně se ven nechtělo, v pokoji byla ukrutná zima. Klepaly se mi zuby, třásl jsem se po celým těle. Oblékl jsem se, ve vedlejší místnosti stála maminka, dala mi zimníček a čepici. Něco se dělo, a já neměl tušení co. Maminka mi řekla: „Táta na tebe čeká na dvoře.“ Sešel jsem se schodů, tatínek tam stál a v ruce měl sekyru a balík pytlů. Dostal jsem strach. Kývl na mě. Šlapal jsem za ním po ztvrdlým sněhu, křupal nám pod nohama a dělalo to řachy – řach. Tatínek nemluvil a mířil k rybníku. Za topoly se objevil ten jeho rybník, vypadal jako v pohádce, celý zamrzlý a nad ním rozsvícený měsíc. Všude ticho, náramný ticho. Tatínek začal pod Hudečkovic oťukávat led. Šel kus do rybníka, led mu zněl pod sekyrou jak varhany v kostele. Pak se ke mně otočil: „Kapři se dusí. Nevysekali jim díry.“ Rozkročil se a udeřil do ledu. Zadunělo to nocí a já se zachvěl. Řekl: „Tady to uděláme!“ Stál a sekal do ledu. Ledová sprška mu třísnila šaty a obličej. Vysekal čtverec ledu a vytáhl ho z vody. Obrátil se ke mně: „Musíme počkat, kamaráde. Za pár minut připlavou.“ Díval jsem se jak očarován do průsvitné vody, kde se rýsoval každý záhyb dna a každý kamínek. Voda se chvěla a prostupovaly ji ze vzduchu životadárné bublinky, ten čtverec vody vypadal jak studánka pro kapří pocestné. Tatínek tomu rozuměl, najednou se v tý křišťálový vodě objevil tmavý oválovitý stín a proplul pod námi. Vrátil se. Kapr. A jaký kapr! Vystrčil ven kulatou hubičku a lapal při hladině po vzduchu. Vtom připlul další. Chovali se jak omámení, vůbec jim nevadilo, že tam stojíme a koukáme na ně. V několika vteřinách se jimi hladina zaplnila a stále jich přibývalo. V té chvíli propadl tatínek čemusi hlubokému, neznámému, klekl si na led, vyhrnul rukávy a začal je hladit po hlavách a hřbe-
Translated by Maria McChrystal
We had an early Christmas, then; Dad had to leave in the morning. Candles flickered on the tree, silver tinfoil glistened, and the room had a forest-like fragrance. Dad got me some old shoes with skates; he had long wished for me to become a famous hockey player. In return, I got him two packs of cigarettes from the boys at school for his trip to the concentration camp. Mom and Dad looked cheerful, humming to themselves, but they probably only did it for my sake, so I would have nice memories of that evening. Surely it was miserable for them, since it could well have been their last ever evening together. At night someone shook me in the dark: “Get up, buddy, get up.” It was Dad who was shaking me; he sometimes called me buddy. I didn’t want to get out of bed; the room was bitterly cold. My teeth were chattering, I shivered all over. I got dressed, Mom was in the next room, she gave me a winter coat and a cap. Something was happening, and I had no idea what. Mom told me: “Dad’s waiting for you in the yard.” I went downstairs, Dad was standing there, holding an axe and a bunch of sacks. I felt scared. He beckoned for me. I followed him through the hardened snow, it crunched loudly under our feet. Dad was heading silently towards his pond. His pond appeared behind the poplars, like in a fairy tale, totally frozen in the moonlight. Silence everywhere, great silence. Dad started tapping at the ice when we reached Hudeček’s house. He walked on the frozen pond, quite a long way from shore, the ice resonating like a church organ beneath his axe. Then he turned to me: “The carp are suffocating. The Nazis didn’t cut them any airholes.’’ He stepped forward and struck the ice. The impact rumbled noisily through the night, and I shivered. Dad said: “Here we go!” He stood there, hacking into the ice. His clothes and face were sprayed with icicles. He cut out a square of ice and pulled it from the water. He turned to me: ‘’And now we wait, buddy. They’ll be swimming up to us within a few minutes.” Enchanted, I gazed into the translucent water, where the jagged formation of every stone loomed forth from the depths. The water quivered, and the surface was permeated by life-giving air bubbles; the square opening seemed to be an oasis for the travelling carp. Dad knew what he was doing; suddenly a dark oval shadow appeared in the crystal water and passed below us. The shadow returned;
tech, laskal se s nimi a mumlal: „Kapříci moji. Kapříci.“ Hrál si s nimi a oni se mu sjížděli k rukám jak jeho děti, v tom svitu měsíce zlatí a stříbrní, zářili jako svatí, nikdy později jsem podobné kapry neviděl. Převaloval je na rukou, zdvíhal je a pouštěl a přitom si něco broukal. Pak vstal, měsíc mu zrovna svítil do obličeje, a měl ve tváři takový spokojený výraz. Šel k pytlům a vytáhl schovaný podběrák. Vzal jeden pytel, přistoupil k díře a nabral prvního kapra. Teď teprve jsem pochopil a dostal pořádný strach. Zatahal jsem ho za rukáv: „Tatínku, pojď pryč. Jestli nás chytí, tak nás zabijou.“ Podíval se na mě nepřítomným pohledem a dneska vím, že by mu tenkrát bylo jedno, kdyby ho chytili a na místě ubili. Nemohl odejít a nechat Němcům své kapry. Už se s kapry nemazlil. Nandával je do pytlů, nosili jsme je domů a maminka je rozdělovala do nádob. Náš barák se plnil odshora dolů vodou. Kapři plavali v kbelících, ve vaně, v kádích, ve starých koňských žlabech v maštali. K ránu, když už měsíc přestával svítit a mráz přituhoval, byli jsme promrzlí na kost, a jak jsme nosili na zádech mokré pytle, maminka z nás škrábala led. Ale rybník byl už prázdný, kapři se přestěhovali ke svýmu majiteli, tatínek vlastně ukradl svý vlastní kapry. Ráno jsme doprovodili tatínka na autobus do Prahy. Měl v rukou kufříček a poprvé svěšený ramena. Ale v mých očích vyrostl za tu noc o ohromný kus. Ještě ten den jsme začali s maminkou vyměňovat kapry kupcům a sedlákům za jídlo.
it was a carp, and what a carp it was! It stuck out its round mouth and gasped for air at the surface. Then another one swam up. They were dazed, indifferent to our presence. Within seconds, they had filled the surface, and more kept arriving. At that moment, Dad succumbed to something deep and heartfelt. He knelt on the ice, rolled up his sleeves and started patting their heads and backs, muttering to them lovingly: “Oh, my carp, my dear little carp.’ He played with them, and they swam straight into his hands like his children, gold and silver in the moonlight, shining bright like saints; I have never again seen such carp. He rolled them over with his hands, picked them up and put them down, burbling away to them as he did so. Then he stood up, the moon illuminating the satisfied expression on his face. He went to the sacks and removed a hidden fishnet. He took one sack, approached the hole and scooped up the first carp. Only now did I understand; he was about to defy the Nazis and make off with the carp. I tugged at his sleeve in terror: “Dad, let’s just get out of here. If they catch us, they’ll kill us.’ He looked at me absently and today I know that he couldn’t have cared less if they caught him and killed him on the spot. He couldn’t go off and leave his carp to the Germans. He’d stopped caressing the carp now. He put them in sacks, we carried them home, and Mom divided them into containers. Our house was teeming with water. Carp swam in buckets, in the bath, in tubs, in old horse troughs in the barn. By morning, when the moon had gone down and the frost was hardening, we were almost frozen solid, and Mom scraped the ice off us as we carried in the wet sacks on our backs. But at least the pond was now empty; the carp had been reunited with their owner, Dad had stolen his own property back from the Nazis. In the morning, we joined Dad on his bus to Prague. He carried a briefcase, and his shoulders were sagging for the first time ever. But in my eyes, he had grown that night immensely. That very day, Mom and I began trading carp to customers and smallholding farmers in exchange for food.
Sylvia Plath
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions. Whatever I see I swallow immediately Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel, only truthful‚ The eye of a little god, four-cornered. Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall. It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers. Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me, Searching my reaches for what she really is. Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon. I see her back, and reflect it faithfully. She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands. I am important to her. She comes and goes. Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness. In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
Translated by Nathan Harpur
Airgeadgheal cruinn atáim. Níl claontuairim ar bith a’m.
Cibé ní a fheicim, slogaim é - d’aon ailp amháin.
Díreach mar atá sé, saor ó locht grá, gan smál mídhúile.
Nílim ainiochtach, ach fírinneach de shíor,
Súil dé bhig, ceathairbheannach.
Bunús an ama bím ag meabhrú ar an mballa os mo chomhair.
Dath bándearg atá air, le dúradáin. Táim tar éis breathnú air le fada.
Creidim gur dlúthchuid de mo chroí é. Ach preabann sé.
Le haghaidheanna agus le dorchadas, ag scaradh an bheirt againn ó chéile fiche uair.
Anois is loch mé, cromann bean os mo chionn, Ar a bealach trí mo réimsí a fíorféiniúlacht á lorg aici.
ansin téann sí i muinín na mbréagadóirí sin, na coinnle nó an ghealach.
Feicim a droim, agus frithchaithim é go dílis.
Tugann sí a deora mar chúiteamh dom, a lámha ag crith.
Táim tábhachtach di. Tagann sí imíonn sí.
Gach maidin, tagann a haghaidh in áit an dorchadais.
Ionam a bhá sí cailín óg, ionam a n-éiríonn caillichín, Chun an lá céanna a chaitheamh arís arís, cosúil le hiasc damanta dearóil.
Alki Zei
Translated
by
Aimilia Varla
Petros folded the cartography, the sheet of which was still white with the date only on the top, and put it in his bag. What would he tell Mr. Lukatos, his teacher, tomorrow when it was time to collect the cartographs? If only something could be done about not going to school tomorrow. Not a war, of course, as Uncle Angelo says, but maybe, let’s say, he could come down with the mumps. The whole class got it, and only he was unlucky enough not to get it. He lies down on his bed and snuggles up to keep the light out, until Antigone wraps up her curling rag rolls. If the cricket hadn’t died, he would have sketched Australia first thing in the morning. ... “27 OCTOBER 1940, here lies the GREAT CRICKET”... this is written in big green letters on his map... that’s why Mr. Lukatos doesn’t scold him.
- Why are you in mourning? asks the teacher.
- For my cricket, Peter answers and looks at the black band on his sleeve.
- Let’s all mourn, orders Mr. Lukatos. But the classroom is empty... not a single child... and Uncle Angelos now sits in the chair.
- Why are you sitting there? The children have gone to war, he tells Peter. …There’s noise coming from the street… “The Great Antigone is passing by”, he hears his grandpa say. Peter leans out of the window. In the street Antigone, his sister, is walking dressed in uniform... Her hair is wrapped in blue curling rags, the ends of which look like flags... She carries a baton and behind her there’s a crowd... Petros is now in the crowd... people are screaming... Petros is running... running to escape from the voices... he tries to fit into the crack in the rafters... but the cricket does not creak... it too is screaming loudly and horribly... he squeezes himself into the crack, in an attempt not to hear it... Someone is pushing him... it seems he wants to close the crack with clay... but the cricket is screaming... screaming... a hand is stroking his forehead... He opens his eyes. Above his bed is his mother and Antigone, dressed in her new apron and two blue bows on her head, one on each side, at the same distance from the partition. Peter sits up in a haste. He is late for school. But here the howling continues in his wakefulness, and Mama is frightened.
- Get up, she says, get dressed, the war has started. Can’t you hear the sirens?
Sergei Yesenin
Мы теперь уходим понемногу
В ту страну, где тишь и благодать.
Может быть, и скоро мне в дорогу
Бренные пожитки собирать.
Милые березовые чащи!
Ты, земля! И вы, равнин пески!
Перед этим сонмом уходящих
Я не в силах скрыть моей тоски.
Слишком я любил на этом свете
Все, что душу облекает в плоть.
Мир осинам, что, раскинув ветви,
Загляделись в розовую водь.
Много дум я в тишине продумал,
Много песен про себя сложил, И на этой на земле угрюмой
Счастлив тем, что я дышал и жил.
Счастлив тем, что целовал я женщин,
Мял цветы, валялся на траве
И зверье, как братьев наших меньших, Никогда не бил по голове.
Знаю я, что не цветут там чащи,
We are now leaving little by little....
We are now leaving little by little To the land of peace and grace. It may not be long before I'm on my way I'll be packing up my belongings soon.
Sweet little birch trees! You, earth! And you, sandy plains! Before this host of departing ones I can't hide my longing.
There’s too much in this world that I have loved. Everything that breathes life into the spirit. Peace to the aspens that spread their branches, and gaze into the pink water.
I've thought many thoughts in silence, I've written many songs about myself, And on this dark earth I'm happy that I breathed and lived.
I'm happy that I've kissed women, I've picked flowers, I've lain on the grass. I’ve loved animals as our smaller brothers, I never hit them on the head.
I know that there's no blossom in the forests, that rye doesn’t sway with a swan-like grace. That's why I always tremble I always feel a shiver.
I know that in that land there will be no more These golden fields that glow in the darkness. That's why I love the people who live with me on this earth.
Translated by Aimilia Varla
Orides Fontela
A cicatriz, talvez não indelével o sangue agora estigma. . Nunca amar o que não vibra nunca crer no que não canta. . O espelho dissolve o tempo o espelho aprofunda o enigma o espelho devora a face.
The scar, maybe not indelible the blood now stigma.
. Never to love what does not vibrate never to believe what does not sing. . The mirror dissolves the time the mirror deepens the enigma the mirror devours the face.
Translated by Thais Giammarco
Orides Fontela
A teia, não mágica mas arma, armadilha a teia, não morta mas sensitiva, vivente a teia, não arte mas trabalho, tensa a teia, não virgem mas intensamente prenhe: no centro a aranha espera.
The cobweb, not magic rather arm, ambush the cobweb, not dead rather sentient, living the cobweb, not art rather toil, tense the cobweb, not virgin rather heavily pregnant: mid point the spider awaits.
Translated by Thais Giammarco
Wisława Szymborska
Umrzeć - tego się nie robi kotu.
Bo co ma począć kot w pustym mieszkaniu.
Wdrapywać się na ściany.
Ocierać między meblami.
Nic niby tu nie zmienione, a jednak pozamieniane.
Niby nie przesunięte, a jednak porozsuwane.
I wieczorami lampa już nie świeci.
Słychać kroki na schodach, ale to nie te.
Ręka, co kładzie rybę na talerzyk, także nie ta, co kładła.
Coś sie tu nie zaczyna w swojej zwykłej porze.
Coś się tu nie odbywa jak powinno.
Ktoś tutaj był i był, a potem nagle zniknął i uporczywie go nie ma.
Dying – that’s not something you do to a cat. For what is a cat to do in an empty flat. Climbing the walls. Nuzzling the furniture. Seemingly nothing’s changed, But still changed around. Seemingly unmoved, But still shoved apart. And in the evening no lamp shines anymore.
There are footsteps on the stairs, But the wrong ones. The hand that puts fish on the saucer, Is also wrong.
Something doesn’t start here At its right time. Something does not take place As it should have Someone who was and had been here, Suddenly had disappeared And stubbornly still isn’t.
Translated by Jes Paluchowska
Do wszystkich szaf sie zajrzało.
Przez półki przebiegło. Wcisnęło się pod dywan i sprawdziło. Nawet złamało zakaz i rozrzuciło papiery.
Co więcej jest do zrobienia. Spać i czekać.
Niech no on tylko wróci, niech no się pokaże.
Już on się dowie, że tak z kotem nie można.
Będzie się szło w jego stronę jakby się wcale nie chciało, pomalutku, na bardzo obrażonych łapach.
O żadnych skoków pisków na początek.
All closets had been poked into. All shelves had been walked. One had squeezed under the rug and checked. One even broke the rule And strown the papers around. What more is there to do. But to sleep and to wait.
Let him just come back, Let him show up. Then one will show him, That you can’t do that to a cat. One will stroll up to him, As if one didn’t care, Softly,
On paws that bear a big grudge. Oh and no leaping and chirping at the start.
Federico García Lorca
Tengo miedo a perder la maravilla de tus ojos de estatua y el acento que de noche me pone en la mejilla la solitaria rosa de tu aliento.
Tengo pena de ser en esta orilla tronco sin ramas; y lo que más siento es no tener la flor, pulpa o arcilla, para el gusano de mi sufrimiento.
Si tú eres el tesoro oculto mío, si eres mi cruz y mi dolor mojado, si soy el perro de tu señorío,
no me dejes perder lo que he ganado y decora las aguas de tu río con hojas de mi otoño enajenado
Translated by Eoghan Conway
I fear to lose the marvel of your sculpted eyes and the accent that the solitary rose of your breath places on my cheek at night.
I’m ashamed of being, on this shore, a branchless trunk; and what saddens me most is having no flower, pulp nor clay, for the worm of my suffering.
If you are my hidden treasure, If you are my cross and saturated suffering, If I am the dog of your dominion, don’t let me lose what I have gained and adorn the banks of your river with the leaves of my alienated autumn
Juan Gelman
Un pájaro vivía en mí.
Una flor viajaba en mi sangre. Mi corazón era un violín.
Quise o no quise. Pero a veces me quisieron. También a mí me alegraban: la primavera, las manos juntas, lo feliz.
¡Digo que el hombre debe serlo!
(Aquí yace un pájaro.
Una flor.
Un violín).
English
Translated by Eoghan Conway
A bird lived in me.
A flower travelled in my blood. My heart was a violin. I desired and didn’t. Yet at times, they desired me. Things too made me happy: the spring, the hands joined together, oh how happy. I declare that man must be happy! (Herein lies a bird. A flower. A violin).
Marin Sorescu
Eu mut o zi albă,
El mută o zi neagră.
Eu înaintez un vis, El mi-l ia la război.
El îmi atacă plămânii,
Eu mă gândesc un an la spital, Fac o combinație strălucită
Și-i câstig o zi neagră.
El mută o nenorocire
Și mă amenință cu cancerul
(Care merge deocamdata in forma de cruce)
Dar eu îi pun în față o carte
Și-l silesc să se retragă.
Îi mai câștig câteva piese,
Dar, uite, jumătate din viața mea
E scoasă pe margine.
- O să-ți dau șah și-ți pierzi optimismul, Îmi spune el.
- Nu-i nimic, glumesc eu, Fac rocada sentimentelor.
În spatele meu soția, copiii, Soarele, luna și ceilalți chibiți
Tremură pentru orice mișcare a mea.
Eu îmi aprind o țigară
Și continui partida.
I move a white day, He moves a dark day. I advance a dream, He takes it to war. He goes after my lungs, I, in the hospital, think for a year. I set up a brilliant combination And capture one of his dark days. He moves an affliction And threatens me with cancer (Which, for now, moves in cross-shape) But I advance a book And force him to withdraw. I capture some of his pieces But, look, half of my life Is off the board now.
“I’ll check you, and you’ll lose your spirit,” He says.
“It’s all right,” I joke, “I’ll castle my emotions.”
Behind me, my wife, the kids, The sun, the moon, and other viewers Hold their breath at my every move.
I light another cigarette And go on with the game.
Translated
by
Ioana Răducu
Katie Farris
What used to be a rope descending my vertebrae to the basement of my spine grows thin.
In solidarity with my first chemotherapy, our cat leaves her whiskers on the hardwood floor.
I gather them, each purewhite parenthesis and plant them in the throat of the earth.
In quarantine I learned to trim your barbarian hair. Now it stands always on end: a salute to my superior barbary skills. In the event of my death, promise you will find my heavy braid and bury it—
I will need a rope to let me down into the earth. I’ve hidden others strategically around the globe, a net to catch my body in its weaving. English
Frânghia ce cândva îmi cobora vertebrele către subsolul șirei spinării se subțiază.
În semn de solidaritate cu prima mea chimioterapie pisica noastră își lasă mustățile pe podea.
Adun fiecare paranteză albă și o plantez în grumazul pământului.
În carantină am învățat să-ți tund părul barbar. Acum stă mereu zburlit, onorându-mi abilitățile superioare de barbierie. Dacă va fi să mor, promite că-mi vei găsi cosița împletită și o vei îngropa—
Îmi va trebui o frânghie pe care să cobor în adâncurile pământului. Am ascuns și altele strategic în jurul lumii, o plasă care să-mi prindă corpul în țesătura sa. Romanian
Translated by Ioana Răducu
Eavan Boland
I began this piece to make a record of a woman lost in circumstance, a text ironically erased at a time when and in a country where the text was just beginning to be written. I have accepted that the story of Irish history is not her story. The monster rallies, the oil-lit rooms, the flushed faces of orators and the pale ones of assassins have no place in it. Inasmuch as her adult life had a landscape, it was made of the water her husband sailed on and not the fractured, much-claimed piece of earth she was born to.
What was her story? The worst of it is I am not sure. No matter how poignant the details, the narrative is pieced together by something which may itself be a distortion: my own wish to make something orderly out of these fragments. To transpose them from a text where the names were missing or erased to one where they were clear.
An emblem can be a name. Not an obvious or recognizable one, perhaps. Nevertheless, images, as every poet knows, are themselves a nomenclature. They give identity to something. They provide a short title for the mystery.
I found an emblem for her even before I realized I would find it difficult to name her life. Or my own. It happened one Sunday afternoon when I was married with young children. I went to an antiques fair—really just a collection of different stalls—in a hotel in South Dublin.
I remember the afternoon clearly. Or perhaps, like all such memories, it is a composite of other afternoons like that. In any case, the air seems to have been cold and delicate. I do remember looking with surprise, since it was only the third week in February, at the small debris of blossoms on the paths and in the gutters. The hotel was on the coast and looked out on the strand, where in the distance the water was cold, wrinkled metal. Even the gulls looked cold.
Translated
by
Katie Moore
Thosaigh mé an píosa scríbhneoireachta seo chun taifead a dhéanamh ar bhean chaillte ina cinniúint, téacs ag am agus i dtír inar scriosadh é go híorónta agus é díreach tosaithe. Glacaim leis nach scéal na hÉireann a scéal féin. Ní raibh spás ann do na railithe ollmhóra, na seomraí lasta ag lampa ola, aghaidheanna dearga na n-óráidithe agus aghaidheanna bána na bhfeallmharfóirí. Sa tslí chéanna go raibh tírdhreach ag a saol fásta, bhí sé comhdhéanta den uisce, ar a sheoladh a fear céile ,agus ní an píosa talún scoilte a bhí aici ón chliabhán.
Caidé a bhí scéal s’aici? An rud is measa ná nach bhfuil mé cinnte. Is cuma cé chomh tochtmhar atá na sonraí, tá an scéal curtha le chéile le rud éigin ar nós díchumadh: mo mhian féin na giotaí seo a chur in ord. Chun iad a aistriú ó théacs le hainmneacha in easnamh nó scriosta go ceann ina raibh siad soiléir.
Is féidir le comhartha a bheith ina ainm. Ní ainm soiléir nó inaitheanta é, b’fhéidir. Mar sin féin, is ainmníocht iad na híomhánna mar a thuigeann gach file. Tugann siad féiniúlacht do rud éigin. Tugann siad teideal beag don mhistéir.
Tháinig mé trasna ar chomhartha di, fiú gan tabhairt faoi deara cé chomh deacair agus a bheadh sé dom a saol a ainmniú. Nó fiú mo cheann féin a ainmniú. Tharla sé tráthnóna Dé Domhnaigh nuair a bhí mé pósta le páistí óga. D’fhreastail mé ar aonach seandachtaí - níorbh ann ach bailiúchán stainníní éagsúla leis an fhírinne a rá - in óstán i mBaile Átha Cliath Theas.
Tá cuimhne agam ar an tráthnóna sin go soiléir. Nó b’fhéidir, cosúil le gach cuimhne den chineál sin, is cónascadh é de gach uile thráthnóna cosúil leis a tháinig roimhe. Ar aon nós, bhí an t-aer fuar agus séimh an lá sin. Tá cuimhne agam gur amharc mé thart le hiontas, mar gurbh í an tríú seachtain de mhí
Feabhra a bhí ann, ar na corrbhláthanna ar na cosáin agus sna silteáin. Bhí an t-óstán lonnaithe ar an chósta agus d’fhéach sé ar an chladach, agus i bhfad uaidh ba mhiotal rocach fuar é an t-uisce. Bhí fiú cuma fhuar ar na faoileáin.
I felt the chill and hurried into the hotel. There was a room with long tables and small glass cases. I walked along slowly, staring at lace and frames and cups with cracked rims.
I wish now that I had looked more closely at one item. I remember the dealer pointing and talking. This, she told me, was a lava cameo. An unusual brooch and once fashionable. Unlike the ordinary Victorian cameos, which were carved on shells, this one was cut into volcanic rock. The brooch was a small oval. The face was carved into stone the color of spoiled cream. I looked at it quickly and moved on.
Her name. Her emblem. There was a complexity for me remembering the cameo, and the more I thought about it, the more complex it became. To inscribe a profile in the cold rock. To cut a human face into what had once flowed, fiery and devouring, past farms and villages and livestock. To make a statement of something which was already a statement of random and unsparing destruction. All these acts were very far from being simple. They were ironic and self-conscious. They employed artifice and irony. They put the stamp of human remembrance on the material of natural destruction.
Such acts of irony and artifice were not congenial to me. I could not remember the brooch in detail. Nevertheless, something about it, in memory, had almost the flavor of an elaborate sarcasm. If I remembered her life, if I were to set her down—a half-turned-away face in its context of ill luck and erased circumstance—would I be guilty of sarcastic craftsmanship? Would I too be making a statement of irony and corruption?
The more I thought of it, the more the lava cameo seemed an emblem of something desperate. If it was a witticism in the face of terror, if it made an ornament of it, what else was memory? Yet in the end, in my need to make a construct of that past, it came down to a simple fact. I had no choice.
Bhí mé sioctha go cnámh agus bhrostaigh mé go dtí an t-óstán. Bhí seomra ann le táblaí fada agus cásanna gloine beaga. Shiúil mé thart go mall, ag stánadh ar lása agus frámaí agus cupáin le béal briste.
Ba mhairg nár amharc mé ní ba mhine ar earra áirithe. Tá cuimhne agam ar an díoltóir ag díriú a mhéar is í ag caint. Seo, a dúirt sí liom, caimeo laibhe. Bróiste aisteach a bhí faiseanta fadó ab ea é. Bhí sí éagsúil óna caimeonna Victeoiriacha, a bhí snoite ar shliogáin, ach í siúd, snoíodh í den charraig bholcánach. Bhí an bróiste ina ubhchruth beag. Bhí an aghaidh greanta ar chloch de dhath an uachtair millte. D’fhéach mé uirthi go gasta agus bhog mé chun siúil.
A hainm. A comhartha. Bhí sé dúshlánach dom cuimhneamh ar an chaimeo, agus ní ba mhó gur smaoinigh mé faoi, ní ba dhúshlánaí a d’éirigh sé. Próifíl a ghreanadh ar chloch fhuar. Aghaidh dhaonna a ghearradh isteach sa leithéid a ritheadh trí fheirmeacha agus sráidbhailte agus beostoc fadó. Ráiteas a dhéanamh de rud a bhí ina ráiteas cheana féin den scrios randamach gan trócaire. Bhí na gníomhartha seo i bhfad ón simplíocht. Bhí siad íorónta agus cotúil. Léirigh siad gliceas agus íoróin. Chuir siad stampa an chuimhneacháin dhaonna ar ábhar an scriosta nádúrtha.
Níor thaitin a leithéid de ghníomhartha íorónta agus glice liom. Ní fhéadfainn cuimhneamh ar mhionsonraí an bhróiste. Mar sin féin, bhí beagán searbhais ag baint leis i mo chuimhne. Dá gcuimhneoinn ar a saol, dá mbreacfainn síos — a haghaidh leath-tiontaithe ina comhthéacs mí-ámharach agus ina cúinse scriosta — an mbeinn féin ciontach den cheardaíocht shearbh chéanna? An mbeinn féin ag déanamh ráiteas den íoróin agus den éilliú chomh maith?
Ní ba mhó ar smaoinigh mé uirthi, ní ba shuntasaí an chuma gur chomhartha éadóchasach é an caimeo laibhe. Más dea-chaint i gcoinne an uafáis é, nó a rinneadh ornáid de, cáide eile a bhí i mo chuimhneachán? Ach sa deireadh, ní raibh ann ach an fhíric shimplí go raibh mé ag iarraidh ord a dhéanamh den am atá thart. Ní raibh rogha agam.
Stéphane Mallarmé
Tel qu’en Lui-même enfin l’éternité le change,
Le Poète suscite avec un glaive nu
Son siècle épouvanté de n’avoir pas connu
Que la mort triomphait dans cette voix étrange !
Eux, comme un vil sursaut d’hydre oyant jadis l’ange
Donner un sens plus pur aux mots de la tribu,
Proclamèrent très haut le sortilège bu
Dans le flot sans honneur de quelque noir mélange.
Du sol et de la nue hostiles, ô grief !
Si notre idée avec ne sculpte un bas-relief
Dont la tombe de Poe éblouissante s’orne
Calme bloc ici-bas chu d’un désastre obscur
Que ce granit du moins montre à jamais sa borne
Aux noirs vols du Blasphème épars dans le futur.
Translated by Dr Kevin
Kiely
The poet has finally transformed himself into eternity despite the century not recognising the raised weapon of death, triumphant in his estranged voice
There was torrential attrition against this angelic one who elevated the ordinary language to purity and sentience— he was considered an intoxicated spook, lacking merit concocted from the abyss. O great wrong done in hostility!
Intentionally or not, offering a sculpted ornate tomb with headstone gives the impression of neglect and morbid failure. But this has structure— and in the long run it will staunch the next series of onslaughts that rocket back on you Poe from the future
French
Paul Verlaine
C’est plutôt le sabbat du second Faust que l’autre. Un rhythmique sabbat, rhythmique, extrêmement
Rhythmique. — Imaginez un jardin de Lenôtre, Correct, ridicule et charmant.
Des ronds-points ; au milieu, des jets d’eau ; des allées
Toutes droites ; sylvains de marbre ; dieux marins
De bronze ; çà et là, des Vénus étalées ; Des quinconces, des boulingrins ;
Des châtaigniers ; des plants de fleurs formant la dune ; Ici, des rosiers nains qu’un goût docte effila ; Plus loin, des ifs taillés en triangles. La lune
D’un soir d’été sur tout cela.
Minuit sonne, et réveille au fond du parc aulique
Un air mélancolique, un sourd, lent et doux air
De chasse : tel, doux, lent, sourd et mélancolique, L’air de chasse de Tannhauser.
Des chants voilés de cors lointains où la tendresse
Des sens étreint l’effroi de l’âme en des accords
Harmonieusement dissonnants dans l’ivresse ; Et voici q’à l’appel des cors
S’entrelacent soudain des formes toutes blanches, Diaphanes, et que le clair de lune fait
Opalines parmi l’ombre verte des branches, — Un Watteau rêvé par Raffet ! —
It is very much Sunday and I’m another Faust.
A Sunday in harmony, extremely
Leisurable — imagine a Versailles garden
Laid out perfectly if ridiculous and pleasing
Round flowerbeds with fountains
Pathways measured, marble nymphs, sea gods
Of bronze here and there, Venuses blowing kisses—
Shells and green lawns
Chestnut trees, flowering plants on other lawns
Miniature rose bushes, thinned and wispy;
Over there yew trees in triangles. And the moon
Of a summer evening petulant—
Midnight brings on a mood that glows
With melancholy, hazy mist rises
And as such is gentle, slow, dull and tragic—
It’s Wagner’s Tannhauser moping around
While distant songs to accompanying music
Capture the senses in momentary terror—
The melody in discord makes me feel drunk
And when trumpet-notes startle
Specters in white shapes intertwine
Diaphanous, and the moonlight pours
White gems among the green shadows of branches
Translated
by
Dr Kevin Kiely
— It’s a Watteau landscape re-imagined by Raffet! English
S’entrelacent parmi l’ombre verte des arbres
D’un geste alangui, plein d’un désespoir profond ; Puis, autour des massifs, des bronzes et des marbres
Très lentement dansent en rond.
— Ces spectres agités, sont-ce donc la pensée
Du poète ivre, ou son regret, ou son remords,
Ces spectres agités en tourbe cadencée,
Ou bien tout simplement des morts ?
Sont-ce donc ton remords, ô rêvasseur qu’invite
L’horreur, ou ton regret, ou ta pensée, — hein ? — tous
Ces spectres qu’un vertige irrésistible agite,
Ou bien des morts qui seraient fous ? —
N’importe! ils vont toujours, les fébriles fantômes,
Menant leur ronde vaste et morne et tressautant
Comme dans un rayon de soleil des atomes,
Et s’évaporent à l’instant
Humide et blême où l’aube éteint l’un après l’autre
Les cors, en sorte qu’il ne reste absolument
Plus rien — absolument — qu’un jardin de Lenôtre, Correct, ridicule et charmant.
I’m more drunk among the green shade of the trees
With their exhausted gestures, full of despair It seems that the dim bronze and marble Figures move slowly in a circle
They are agitated ghosts created by the chaotic thought Of this drunken poet; regretting everything, remorseful— What are these ghosts above the trimmed vegetation
Looking like the dead?
Are these your remorse? Dreamer, who seeks Horror and regret, plunging in thoughts—eh? These ghosts with irresistible vertigo vibrate So are the dead also gone crazy?
Damn it all! They never go away when I’m like this Living their spectacle of morbid dancing, gyrating— These atoms in rays of moonlight
Until they suddenly evaporate—
Humid and white is the way dawn dispels All shadows one after the other. There is Nothing more of night except this Versailles garden Laid out perfectly if ridiculous and pleasing
Capítulo XXXIII
Cuando recibí el telegrama comunicándome la muerte del pobre Augusto, y supe luego las circunstancias todas de ella, me quedé pensando en si hice o no bien en decirle lo que le dije la tarde aquella en que vino a visitarme y consultar conmigo su propósito de suicidarse.
Y hasta me arrepentí de haberle matado. Llegué a pensar que tenía la razón y que debí haberle dejado salirse con la suya, suicidándose. Y se me ocurrió si le resucitaría.
‹‹Sí–me dije—, voy a resucitarle y que haga luego lo que se le antoje, que se suicide si es así su capricho.›› Y con esta idea de resucitarle me quedé dormido.
A poco de haberme dormido se me apareció Augusto en sueños. Estaba blanco, como la blancura de una nube, y sus contornos iluminados como por un sol poniente. Me miró fijamente y me dijo:
–¡Aquí estoy otra vez!
–¿A qué vienes?
–A despedirme de usted, don Miguel, a despedirme de usted hasta la eternidad y a mandarle, así, a mandarle, no a rogarle, a mandarle que escriba usted la nivola de mis aventuras…
–¡Está ya escrita!
–Lo sé, todo está escrito. Y vengo también a decirle que eso que usted ha pensado de resucitarme para que luego me quite yo a mí mismo mi vida es un disparate, más aún, es una imposibilidad.
–¿Imposibilidad? –le dije yo; por supuesto, todo esto de sueños.
–¡Sí, es una imposibilidad! Aquella tarde en que nos vimos y hablamos en el despacho de usted ¿recuerda?, estando usted despierto no como ahora, dormido y soñando, le dije a usted que nosotros, los entes de ficción, según usted, tenemos nuestra lógica y que no sirve que quien nos finge pretenda hacer de nosotros lo que le da la gana, ¿recuerda?
–Sí que lo recuerdo.
–Y ahora de seguro que, aunque tan español, no tendrá usted real gana de nada, ¿verdad, don Miguel?
–No, no siento gana de nada.
–No, el que duerme y sueña no tiene reales ganas de nada. Y usted y sus compatriotas duermen y sueñan, y sueñan que tienen ganas, pero no las tienen de veras.
–Da gracias a que estoy durmiendo –le dije–, que si no…
–Es igual. Y respecto a eso de resucitarme he de decirle que no le es hacedero, que no lo
Translated by Helena Gelman
When I received the telegram informing me of the death of poor Augusto, and later learned of all the circumstances surrounding it, I find myself wondering if I had been right to say all I had said to him that afternoon he came to visit me and consult me on his intention to commit suicide.
I went as far as to regret having killed him. I came to think that he was right and I should have let him have his own way and kill himself. And so it occurred to me that I might resurrect him. “Yes,” I said to myself, “I’m going to resurrect him and then he may do whatever he likes, he can commit suicide if that is his whim.” And with that idea of resurrecting him, I fell asleep.
Soon after I had nodded off, Augusto appeared to me in a dream. He was white, like the whiteness of a cloud, and his features were illuminated as though by a setting sun. He looked fixedly at me and said:
“Here I am again!”
“What have you come for?”
“To say goodbye to you, Don Miguel, to say goodbye to you until eternity and to command you, that’s right, to command you, not to beg you, to command you to write the nivola of my adventures…”
“It’s already written!”
“I know, all is written. And I also came to tell you that this idea you have of resurrecting me so that I may then take my own life is nonsense, more than that, it is an impossibility.”
“An impossibility?,” I said– of course, all this in a dream.
“Yes, an impossibility! The afternoon that we met and talked in your study, remember? You were awake then, not sleeping and dreaming like you are now. I told you that, according to you, we the fictional entities have our own logic and it’s not useful for someone to pretend that he can do whatever he wants with us, remember?.”
“Of course I remember.”
“And now surely, although you are so Spanish, you won’t really want to do anything, right, Don Miguel?”
“Yes, I don’t feel like doing anything.”
“No, he who sleeps and dreams doesn’t really want to do anything. And you and your compatriots sleep and dream, and dream that you have desires but you don’t really have them at all.”
puede aunque lo quiera o aunque sueñe que lo quiere…
–Pero, ¡hombre!
–Sí, a un ente de ficción, como a uno de carne y hueso, a lo que llama usted hombre de carne y hueso y no de ficción de carne ni de ficción de hueso, puede uno engendrarlo y lo puede matar; pero una vez que lo mató no puede, ¡no! no puede resucitarlo. Hacer un hombre mortal y carnal, de carne y hueso, que respire aire, es cosa fácil, muy fácil, demasiado fácil por desgracia…; pero, ¿resucitarlo?, ¡resucitarlo es imposible!
–¡En efecto –le dije–, es imposible!
–Pues, lo mismo –me contestó–, exactamente lo mismo sucede con eso que usted llama entes de ficción; es fácil darnos ser, acaso demasiado fácil, y es fácil, facilísimo, matarnos, acaso demasiadamente demasiado fácil; pero, ¿resucitarnos?, no hay quien haya resucitado de veras a un ente de ficción que de veras se hubiese muerto. ¿Cree usted posible de resucitar a Don Quijote? –me preguntó.
–¡Imposible!-- contesté.
–Pues en el mismo caso estamos todos los entes de ficción.
–¿Y si te vuelvo a soñar?
–No se sueña dos veces el mismo sueño. Ese que usted vuelva a soñar y crea soy yo será otro. Y ahora, ahora que está usted dormido y soñando y que reconoce usted estarlo y que soy un sueño y reconozco serlo, ahora vuelvo a decirle a usted lo que tanto le excitó cuando la otra vez se lo dije: mire usted, mi querido don Miguel, no vaya a ser que sea usted el ente de ficción, el que no existe en realidad, ni vivo ni muerto; no vaya a ser que pase usted de un pretexto para que mi historia, y otras historias como la mía corran por el mundo. Y luego, cuando usted se muera de todo, llevemos su alma nosotros. No, no, no se altere usted, que aunque dormido y soñando aún vive. Y ahora, ¡adiós!
Y se disipó en la niebla negra.
Yo soñé luego que me moría, y en el momento mismo en que soñaba dar el último respiro me desperté con cierta opresión en el pecho.
Y aquí está la historia de Augusto Pérez.
“Be grateful I’m sleeping,” I said, “if I wasn’t…”
“It’s the same. And in respect to all this about resurrecting me, I have to tell you that it is not doable, you cannot do it although you might want to or you might dream that you want to…”
“But, my man!”
“Yes, an entity of fiction, like one of flesh and blood, whom you call a man of flesh and blood and not fictional flesh nor fictional blood, one can engender him and one can kill him; but once one has killed him he cannot, no! he cannot resurrect him. To make a mortal, carnal man, of flesh and blood, who breathes air, is an easy thing, very easy, unfortunately too easy…; to kill a mortal, carnal man, who breathes air, is an easy thing, very easy, unfortunately too easy…; but, resurrect him? To resurrect him is impossible!
“Indeed,” I said, “it is impossible!”
“Well, it’s the same,” he told me, “exactly the same thing happens with what you call entities of fiction; it is easy to give us life, perhaps too easy, and it is easy, so easy, to order us around, perhaps much too too easy; but, resurrect us? No one has truly resuscitated a fictional entity who was well and truly dead. Do you think it possible to resurrect Don Quixote?” he asked.
“Impossible!” I answered.
“Well, we entities of fiction are all the same case.”
“And what if I dream of you again?”
“One does not dream the same dream twice. Whoever you’ll dream of and believe to be me will really be someone else. And now, now that you are sleeping and dreaming and you recognize that, and I am a dream and I recognize it, I tell you again what so roused you the last time I said it: look, my dear Don Miguel, do not let yourself become the entity of fiction, which does not exist in reality, neither living nor dead; don’t let yourself become only a pretext for my story and others to be spread throughout the world. For then, when you are dead sick of everything we will carry away your soul. No, no, don’t get upset, though you are sleeping and dreaming you are still living. And now, adieu!
And he vanished into the black fog.
Then I dreamt that I was dying, and in the exact moment that I was dreaming of taking my last breath, I awoke with a certain heaviness in my chest. And that is the story of Augusto Pérez.
Schandmaul
Es ist schön, euch alle hier zu seh’n, Durch dieses Ereignis geeint. Ich weiß, ihr wolltet diesen Weg nicht geh’n, Ich sehe, dass der eine oder andere weint.
Vergießt keine Tränen, erinnert euch heiter An unsere gemeinsame Zeit.
In euren Herzen lebe ich weiter, Hinterließ diese Zeilen euch zum Geleit.
Mir geht’s jetzt gut, ich bin dankbar für alles, Für jeden gemeinsamen Schritt.
Wollt ihr mich seh’n, so schließt die Augen, Wollt ihr mich hör’n, so lauscht dem Wind. Wollt ihr mich seh’n, schaut in die Sterne, Wollt ihr mich hör’n, kommt an den Fluss.
Ich liebte Wälder, die Berge und das Meer, Die Sonne, die durch die Nebelwand dringt, Mit ihrem Schein die Seele wärmt, Alle Ängste und Zweifel bezwingt.
Hab mein Leben gelebt, geliebt und gelitten, bekommen, verloren, genommen, gegeben. Hab gelacht und geweint, mich versöhnt und gestritten. Ich bin am Ziel und es war schön, dieses Leben.
Mir geht’s jetzt gut, ich bin dankbar für alles, Für jeden gemeinsamen Schritt.
Translated by Ilka Demmler
So glad to see you all here today, United by this event. I know, you never wanted to go down this path, I can see some of you crying.
Don’t shed a tear, remember happily the moments we shared. I´ll still be there within your hearts, These lines I leave you, a steadfast guard.
I´m at peace now, thankful for everything, For each and every step we shared.
To see me, just close your eyes, To hear me, just listen to the wind. To see me, just look up to the stars, To hear me, just come to the river.
I loved the trees, the mountains, and the sea; The sun breaking through the foggy wall, Warming the soul with her rays, Defeating all fears and sorrows.
I lived my life, I loved and suffered, I received, I lost, I took, and I gave. I laughed and cried, I fought and forgave, I reached the final destination and it was good, this life.
I´m at peace now, thankful for everything, For each and every step we shared.
Wollt ihr mich seh’n, so schließt die Augen, Wollt ihr mich hör’n, so lauscht dem Wind.
Wollt ihr mich seh’n, schaut in die Sterne, Wollt ihr mich hör’n, kommt an den Fluss.
Wenn Musik erklingt, lasst mich bei euch sein. Wenn ihr die Krüge erhebt und feiert ebenso
Bei helllichtem Tag wie bei Feuerschein.
Gedenkt meiner und dann seid bitte froh.
Wollt ihr mich seh’n, so schließt die Augen, Wollt ihr mich hör’n, so lauscht dem Wind.
Wollt ihr mich seh’n, schaut in die Sterne, Wollt ihr mich hör’n, kommt an den Fluss.
Werd ich ganz nah bei euch sein, Schließt mich in euren Herzen ein.
Besucht mich hier an meinem Stein.
To see me, just close your eyes, To hear me, just listen to the wind. To see me, just look up to the stars, To hear me, just come to the river.
Let me be by your side when the music plays, And when you raise your cups and celebrate, In the brightest sunshine as well as by firelight. Honour my memory, but then be happy.
To see me, just close your eyes, To hear me, just listen to the wind. To see me, just look up to the stars, To hear me, just come to the river.
I will be right next to you, Save me a special place in your hearts.
And you can pay me a visit, here at my stone.
Portuguese
Mário de Sá Carneiro
Quando eu morrer batam em latas, Rompam aos saltos e aos pinotes, Façam estalar no ar chicotes, Chamem palhaços e acrobatas!
Que o meu caixão vá sobre um burro Ajaezado à andaluza: A um morto nada se recusa, E eu quero por força ir de burro!...
Translated by Vicente Velasques
When I die bang on pots and cans, Go forth jumping and somersaulting, Fill the air with the sound of whips cracking, Call in the clowns and acrobats!
May my casket be carried by a donkey, In Andalusian fashion decorated: For nothing is refused to the departed, And I demand to be taken by a donkey!…
Anton Chekhov (Adapted by Simon Stephens)
Michael:
I’m not saying she’s not beautiful. She is. She is the fairest of them all. But all she does is eat, sleep, go for little walks and swan about. Nothing more. She has no responsibilities. She’s idle. Idle people can never be truly beautiful.
Sonia:
Are you unhappy with your life, Michael?
Michael:
No. I mean yes. I mean no. I love life. I love being alive. In terms of my, my, my personal life? I mean Jesus. There is absolutely nothing in it that is in the slightest bit good. You know that feeling, when you walk through the woods at night and you see a light, like a small light shining in the distance and so then you don’t notice your tiredness anymore. Or the darkness. Or the sharp branches when they hit you in the face. I’m sorry. It. Sometimes I do get. I get quite depressed. And the thing is. There’s no light in the trees for me. It’s been a long, long time since I cared for anybody.
Translated by Meadhbh Ní Cheallacháin
Mícheál:
Nílim ag rá nach bean álainn í. Tá sí, cinnte. Is grian na maighdean í fiú. Ach ní bhíonn sí ach ag ithe, ag codladh, ag dul ar shiúlóidí beaga, is ag leadaíocht thart. Dada eile. Níl freagracht ar bith aici. Bíonn sí díomhaoin. Ní féidir le duine díomhaoin a bheith fíorálainn go deo.
Sonia:
An bhfuil tú míshona le do shaol, a Mhícheál?
Mícheál:
Nílim. Muise, táim. Ara, nílim. Is breá liom an saol. Is breá liom a bheith beo. Ó thaobh mo, mo, mo shaol phearsanta? In ainm Dé. Níl rud ar bith inti a bhfuil beagáinín maith fiú. An bhfuil a fhios agat an mothúchán sin, nuair a shiúlann tú tríd na coillte i rith na hoíche agus feiceann tú solas, solas beag ag lonrú i bhfad uait agus ní thugann tú faoi deara cé chomh tuirseach is a bhfuil tú a thuilleadh. Nó an dorchadas. Nó na géaga nuair a bhuaileann siad san aghaidh thú. Mo leithscéal. Uaireanta bím. Uaireanta bím in ísle brí. Is an rud atá ann ná. Níl aon solas ann sna crainn dom. Is fada an lá ó bhí gean agam ar éinne.
Haim Nahman Bialik
Translated by Aden Ezra
Skies - Have mercy on me!
If in you, there is a God, and to that God, in you, a lineAnd I have not yet found itPray you for me!
Me - My heart has died, not a prayer left on my lips
And already with empty hands, there’s not another hope How long? Until when? How long?
The Hangman! There’s the neck - rise, execute!
Behead me like a dog, for your arm is the axe, And the whole world, to me, is the gallow -
And we - we are the few!
My blood is allowed - raise the blade, and out shall flow the blood of murder
The blood of they who still breastfeed and hug their blankie goodnightThat shall not ever be wiped, not ever.
And if there be justice - may it appear now!
But if after I am eradicated from under the sky
Justice shall appearMay it be forever dethroned!
And in the evil of worlds the skies shall perish; But you go, brutes, in your wrath And in blood, you live with clear conscience.
And cursed be he who says: Avenge!
Such revenge, of the blood of children
Satan himself has not yet created -
And the blood will pierce the abyss!
The blood shall pierce until the darkest depths, And shall devour in darkness and bury there
All institutions of the world in their vengefulness.
Donna Ashworth
I left you a little white feather I placed it right there in your way I wrapped it in love with a message to let you know you’ll be okay
I drew you a colourful rainbow It followed your car for a while I made it a beautiful rainbow I hoped it would show me your smile
I flew down a beautiful robin It landed right there on your ledge I prayed he would give you the strength to push yourself back from the edge
I try every day to remind you that I never did go away the feathers, the rainbows, the robins are my way of trying to stay.
Translated by Alannah Purslow
Te dejé unas plumita blancas
Las puse directamente en tu camino las envolví con amor, dejándote saber que estaras bien
Te dibujé un arcoíris brillante y espectacular que siguió tu coche por un rato con la esperanza de que llegara a sonreírte
Hice volar un precioso petirrojo quería que te diera la fortaleza para dejar en tu alféizar la tristeza y ahi justo aterrizó
Cada día te quiero recordar que yo nunca fui las plumitas, los arcoíris, los petirrojos son mi manera de quedarme aquí.
Con la puesta del sol los colorines cantaron: de todos los puntos cardinales convergieron los petirrojos en la almendra.
Paulatinamente llenaron con sus cuerpecitos las ramas duras y secas del otoño.
Las jacarandas en tonos menores y las nubes sonrojadas después del primer acorde ensayaron el arte de la fuga.
Justo cuando el sol desapareció los petirrojos -al unísono- de encendieron.
Imposible saber qué fue mas bello: la intensa parvada y su acuerdo musical o aquellos árboles prendidos en medio de la noche.
Translated by Alannah Purslow
At sunset, the goldfinches sang: from all the cardinal points the robins met on the almond tree.
Little by little, their little bodies filled the autumnal branches and sandbanks.
The Jacaranda trees darkened their hues and after the first chord, the blushing clouds rehearsed the art of the Fugue.
Just as the sun disappeared the robins - in unison - began to stir.
It was impossible to tell what was more beautiful; the flock’s intensity and its musical prowess or those luminous trees in the dead of night.
Florent Oiseau
C’est l’épicier qui me l’a dit. Sous le drap se cachait un voisin. Quelqu’un du quartier, un visage familier. Son cœur s’est arrêté alors qu’il attendait le bus, il est tombé d’un coup en se tenant la poitrine. Sa tête a produit un bruit sourd en heurtant l’asphalte. Je suis descendu acheter des pamplemousses au même moment. Une foule disciplinée se taisait dans le froid glacial des matinées d’hiver, de celles qui giflent, anesthésient les extrémités. En temps normal, dans cette rue, le silence ne s’invite jamais, pourtant, ce matin-là, on n’entendait rien d’autre qu’un vrombissement sourd et collectif. Les postures étaient gauches, personne n’osait déglutir, l’odeur de plastique du bazar se mélangeait à celle des cuisines des brasseries qui commençaient à s’activer. Il était allongé sur le trottoir, devant le restaurant libanais, les pigeons ne s’en souciaient guère, les cuisiniers tamouls, à peine plus. Les urgentistes du Samu essayaient de le réanimer, de relancer son rythme cardiaque. Et puis, après de longues minutes d’efforts, l’un d’eux a fait non de la tête, la raideur de sa nuque s’est effacée, ses épaules se sont affaissées. La vie de cet homme s’est terminée là, en attendant le bus 69, à l’arrêt Popincourt, devant le numéro 112 de la rue de la Roquette. Il avait aimé, pleuré, ri, et maintenant, c’était fini. Les cuisiniers tamouls ont jeté leurs cigarettes dans le caniveau. Le bus 69 est passé quelques minutes plus tard, impassible. Des gens en sont descendus, d’autres sont montés. J’ai même acheté mes pamplemousses.
Avant de payer mes agrumes, j’ai pensé « c’est injuste de mourir à proximité d’une épicerie » – sans plus d’arguments. J’ai repris mon court chemin. Un prospectus dépassait de ma boîte à lettres, la carte d’un restaurant délicatement baptisé : La vie qui file. Devant les escaliers, je me suis trouvé assailli par une problématique philosophique que les événements des quinze dernières minutes venaient de faire apparaître. Est-ce la vie qui crée le hasard, ou l’inverse ?
Translated by Lauren Shapiro
It was the grocer who told me: under the sheet lay hidden a neighbour. Someone from around here, a familiar face. His heart stopped while waiting for the bus. He suddenly dropped to the ground, clutching his chest. His head struck the asphalt with a thud. At that exact moment, I had been heading downstairs to buy some grapefruits. A hush fell over a composed crowd as they gathered in the freezing cold. It was the kind of biting winter morning that leaves the extremities numb. Normally, silence never reigns on this street; yet, on this particular morning, only a collective, muffled hum filled the air. People were standing awkwardly, not even daring to swallow. A plastic odour flowed from the corner store as it mingled with the smells emanating from nearby brasseries, just beginning to open their kitchens. He was lying on the sidewalk in front of the Lebanese restaurant. The pigeons remained unbothered, appearing only slightly less concerned than the Tamil cooks. The paramedics were trying to resuscitate him and restart his heart. Finally, after many long minutes of effort, one of them shook their head; the tension in their neck subsided as their shoulders slumped. The man’s life ended there, waiting for bus 69 at the Popincourt stop in front of 112 Roquette Street. He had loved, cried, and laughed. Now, it was over. The Tamil cooks threw their cigarettes into the gutter. Bus 69 passed by a few minutes later, impartial. Some people got off, and others got on. I even bought my grapefruit.
Before paying for my fruits, I thought, “To die near a grocery store is unfair.” My thoughts ended there, and I resumed my short walk. A leaflet was sticking out of my letterbox. It was a menu for a restaurant, aptly called: La vie qui file, Life Flies By. As I stood at the stairs, a philosophical conundrum sparked by the events of the last fifteen minutes seized my mind. Does life beget chance, or is it the other way around?
Ilgın Yıldız
Gece çocuğunu sever mi?
Hastanenin kafesinde üçüncü kahveni bitiriyorsun ve önündeki kitabın sayfasını çevirmeden önce bu cümleyi birkaç kez okuyorsun. Bir süredir sözcüklere akıl erdiremiyorsun çünkü yukarıda bilinçsiz yatan annenin görüntüsü zihnini istila ediyor.
Dışarıda sigara içen hemşire, camın ardından sana bakıyor. Bunu dün de yapmıştı ama karşılık vermemiştin, şimdi ise gözlerini ondan çekmiyorsun. Sana baktığında muhtemelen sıradan, yaşlı bir kadın görüyor. Kitabı masaya bırakıyorsun, çantandan bir sigara alıp dışarı çıkıyorsun ve hemşireye gidip ateş istiyorsun.
Hemşire bilmiş bir kız çocuğuna benziyor. Yüzü fazlasıyla çocuksu. Oyuncak bebek gibi. Sigaranı içerken çekinmeden inceliyorsun onu. Bu kadar ölüm varken çekinmenin bir anlamı yok, diye düşünüyorsun ama bu düşüncenden hemen utanıyorsun.
“Hangi yazarı okuyorsunuz?” diye soruyor hemşire.
Bir an donakalıyorsun. Çok tuhaf, okuduğun kitabın yazarını bir türlü hatırlayamıyorsun. Hemşireyi beklettiğin için telaşa kapılıp bir isim uydurmaya karar veriyorsun ve bu ismi daha söylemeden bile kendinden utanıyorsun. “Polly Anna.”
Hemşire gözlerini hafifçe kısıyor ve sigarasından derin bir nefes çekiyor.
“Ben roman okuyamıyorum,” diyor kayıtsızca. Dumanını kendi halinde yürüyen bir adamcağıza doğru üflüyor. “Kişisel gelişime sardırdım. Bu aralar Derinlemesine Anlarken Hasar Almamak diye bir şey okuyorum. DAHA tekniği. Belki duymuşsunuzdur.”
Bunu saçma buluyorsun ama onu dinledikten sonra, “Size faydası olsa gerek,” diyorsun.
Translated by Kerem Savaş
Does the night love her child?
You finish your third coffee in the hospital cafeteria and, before turning the book page in front of you, read this sentence several times. For a while now, you haven’t been able to makesense of words because the image of your mother lying unconscious upstairs in her hospital room is invading your mind.
The nurse smoking outside looks at you through the window. She did the same thing yesterday, but you didn’t respond. Now, you don’t take your eyes off her. Looking at you, she probably sees an ordinary, older woman. You put the book on the table, take a cigarette from your bag, go outside, and ask the nurse for a lighter.
She looks like a know-it-all little girl. Her face is overly childish, like a toy doll. As you smoke your cigarette, you scrutinize her without hesitation. In the midst of so much death, you feel there’s no reason to hesitate, yet you immediately feel ashamed for thinking that way.
“What author are you reading?” she asks.
You freeze for a moment. It’s very strange –you just can’t remember the author of the book you’re reading. Panicking for keeping her waiting, you decide to make up a name and feel ashamed even before uttering it. “Polly Anna.”
The nurse slightly squints her eyes and takes a long drag from her cigarette.
“I can’t read novels,” she says indifferently, blowing smoke toward a man nearby. “I’m into self-improvement. These days, I’m reading something called ‘Avoiding Damage While Understanding Deeply.’ The ADWUD technique. You may have heard of it.”
“It must be beneficial for you,” you say, although you find the title a bit absurd.
The nurse stares blankly.
Hemşire boş boş bakıyor.
Bir an kabalık ettiğini düşünerek açıklamaya yelteniyorsun. “Hastanede çalışıyorsunuz ya… Hastalık, ölüm.”
Hemşire sigarasını söndürürken, “Hiç öyle düşünmemiştim,” diyor.
“Yaşam ve ölüme çok yaklaşılan yerlerde hasar almamak mümkün olur mu?” diye soruyorsun. Ama hemşire seni dinlemeyi çoktan bırakmış, gitmeye hazırlanıyor.
“Size iyi günler o zaman…” diyor.
“Doğru,” diye devam ediyorsun, “aslında ikisini de her an yakından hissediyoruz ama bazen bir an oluyor, sanki ikisi aynılaşıyor ve öyle bir ışıyor ki, o ışıkla ne yapacağımızı bilemiyoruz. Gözlerimiz kamaşıyor.”
Hemşire uzaklaşırken arkasını dönüyor ve yüksek sesle, “Olabilir,” diyor.
Ondan bu kibarlığı beklememiştin. Binaya girip gözden kayboluyor.
Yalnız kalınca banka oturuyorsun ve sigaranı bitirirken içinden şöyle geçiriyorsun, Yaşamın şaklabanlığı yüzünden hayal kırıklığı duymanın âlemi yok. O sadece kendisi için var, senin için değil. Gece çocuğunu sever mi? Polly Anna. DAHA.
Sigaranı söndürüyorsun ve hastanenin kafesine dönüyorsun. Yerine otururken belin ve bacakların öyle bir sızlıyor ki kendini yaşlı bir cambaz gibi hissediyorsun.
Bir süre boş boş dışarıya, sigara içen hemşirelere falan bakıyorsun. Sonra sıkılıp yeniden kitaba uzanıyorsun. Anna Kavan’mış.
Suddenly, you realize that you might be coming across as rude and attempt to explain.“You work in a hospital. Witnessing illness, death. Every day.”
“I never thought about it that way,” the nurse says, putting out her cigarette.
“Is it possible not to suffer psychological damage in places where life and death are so intertwined?” you ask. But the nurse has long since stopped listening and is preparing to leave.
“Well then, have a good day,” she says.
“Of course,” you continue mostly to yourself, “in reality, you feel them both closely, every minute. But sometimes, you experience a unique moment when it seems as though life and death merge and shine so bright that you don’t know what to do with that light. Your eyes are overwhelmed by the brilliance.”
As the nurse walks away, she turns back to look. “Maybe,” she says, her voice slightly raised.
You hadn’t expected such courtesy from her. She enters the building and disappears from view.
Once alone, you sit on a bench, and as you finish your cigarette, you think, It would be foolish to feel disappointment because of life’s usual circus. Life exists only for itself, not for you. Does the night love her child? Polly Anna. The ADWUD technique.
You put out your cigarette and return to the hospital cafeteria. Your waist and legs ache so much as you sit down that you feel like an old acrobat.
For a while, you idly watch the smoking nurses outside. Then, feeling bored, you return to your book. The author’s name is not Polly Anna –it is Anna Kavan.
Italian
Giuseppe Ungaretti
Amore, mio giovine emblema, Tornato a dorare la terra, Diffuso entro il giorno rupestre, È l’ultima volta che miro
(Appiè del botro, d’irruenti
Acque sontuoso, d’antri
Funesto) la scia di luce
Che pari alla tortora lamentosa
Sull’erba svagata si turba.
Amore, salute lucente, Mi pesano gli anni venturi.
Abbandonata la mazza fedele, Scivolerò nell’acqua buia
Senza rimpianto.
Morte, arido fiume...
Immemore sorella, morte, L’uguale mi farai del sogno Baciandomi.
Avrò il tuo passo, Andrò senza lasciare impronta.
Mi darai il cuore immobile
D’un iddio, sarò innocente, Non avrò più pensieri né bontà.
Colla mente murata, Cogli occhi caduti in oblio, Farò da guida alla felicità.
Love, my youthful emblem, Returned to set the earth alight, Glowing within the cavernous day, This, the last time I contemplate (stood on sloping mounds, by restless regal waters, in gloomy grottoes) That ray of light which Like a plaintive turtledove Fretfully flits along the grass.
Love, brilliant salvation, I am weighed down by future years.
The fight once conceded, I will slide into the dark waters Without regret.
Death, o arid river…
Death – oblivious sister, You will make me just as a dream When you’ll kiss me.
I will tread as you do, I will leave no footprint.
You will give me the fixed heart Of a God, I will be innocent, Neither kindness nor thoughts will I have.
With a walled-shut mind, With eyes fallen to oblivion, I will serve as happiness’ guide.
Translated by Caoimhe Hayes
Sergio Gaspar Mosqueda
Y cuando muera,
¿Todas estas incógnitas de arena
Se harán un signo fatigado
Que recorra sin raíz y sin razón el universo?
¿Una conciencia casi nada
Que se vuelve?
¿Una agonía calcinada
Que no muere?
Dios lo sabe
Y en su eterna indiferencia
Tuerce el cuello cual la hiena.
(El Sol se estremece
En mi copa de arena.)
Translated by Bryn Connelly
And when death may come, Will all these enigmas of sand make themselves a tired sign that without root nor reason winds the universe?
Does a consciousness revert, return to almost nothing?
A charred agony, that does not die? Only God knows and in His eternal indifference twists His neck like the hyena. (The sun, it trembles in my cup of sand.)
Rainer Maria Rilke
Herr: es ist Zeit. Der Sommer war sehr groß. Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren, und auf den Fluren laß die Winde los.
Befiehl den letzten Früchten voll zu sein; gieb ihnen noch zwei südlichere Tage, dränge sie zur Vollendung hin und jage die letzte Süße in den schweren Wein.
Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr. Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben, wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreiben und wird in den Alleen hin und her unruhig wandern, wenn die Blätter treiben.
Translated by Aodhán Murphy
Lord: it is time. the summer was so vast. Lay your shadows upon the sundial, And the wind amidst the meadows cast.
Command the final fruits towards fullness; Give them yet two southernly days, Press them to completion and hunt The last sweet drops into the heavy wine.
Who has no house now, shall build one no more. Who is now alone, shall remain so for some time, Shall wake, shall read, shall long letters write, And wander restlessly in the boulevards, While leaves are kicked up by the wild wind’s drive.
Ðe wes bold gebyld er þu iboren were
Ðe wes molde imynt er ðu of modor come
Ac hit nes no idiht ne þeo deopnes imeten
Nes gyt iloced hu long hit þe were
Nu me þe bringæð þer ðu beon scealt
Nu me sceæl þe meten and þa mold seoðða
Ne bið no þin hus healice itimbred
Hit bið unheh and lah þone þu list þer inne
Ðe helewages beoð lage sid wages unhege
Þe rof bið ibyld þire broste ful neh
Swa ðu scealt on molde wunien ful calde
Dimme and deorcæ þet den fulæt on honde
Durleas is þæt hus and dearc hit is wiðinnen
Ðær þu bist feste bidytt and dæð hefð þa cæge
laðlic is þæt eorðhus and grim inne to wunien
Ðer þu scealt wunien and wurmes þe todeleð
Ðus ðu bist ilegd and ladæst þine fronden
Nefst ðu nenne freond þe þe wylle faren to
Ðæt æfre wule lokien hu þæt hus þe likie
Ðæt æfre un don ðe wule ða dure and þe æfter lihten
For sone þu bið laðlic and lað to iseonne
For sone bið þin hæfet faxes bireved
Al bið ðes faxes feirnes forsceden
Næle hit nan mit fingres feire stracien1
1 The Grave – Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS. Bodley 343, folio 170r, lines 29-43
Translated by Dr Bram Cleaver
This house was built before you were born. This ground was destined before you came from your mother. But it was not arranged, nor was the deepness measured. Nor was it yet seen how long for it you were. Now you are brought where you must be, Now they must measure you, and the ground after. Nor is your house highly timbered; It is un-high and low when you lie therein. The end-walls are low, the side-walls un-high; The roof is built full near to your breast. Thus, in the ground you shall dwell, fully cold; Dim and dark, that den soon decays. That house is doorless, and it is dark within; There you are firmly enclosed, and death has the key. Loathly is that earth-house and grim in which to dwell; There you shall dwell, and worms will divide you. You are laid thus, and most loathsome to your friends; You have not any friend who wishes to travel to you. Who will ever look to see how that house pleases you? Who will ever wish to undo that door and bring light for you? For soon you will be loathsome and displeasing to see. For soon your head is deprived of its locks. All the hair’s fairness is brought to nothing; No one to stroke it softly with their fingers.
Anonymous/Unknown
ðe wes bold gebyld, er þu iboren were.
ðe wes molde imynt, er ðu of moder come.
Ac hit nes no idiht, ne þeo deopnes imeten; Nes gyt iloced, hu long hit þe were.
Nu me þe bringæð, þer ðu beon scealt.
Nu me sceæl þe meten and þa molde seoðða.
Ne bið no þin hus healice itinbred:
Hit bið unheh and lah, þonne þu list þerinne.
ðe helewages beoð lage, sidwages unhege;
þe rof bið ibyld þire broste ful neh.
Swa ðu scealt on molde wunien ful calde,
Dimme and deorcæ, þet den fulæt on honde.
Dureleas is þet hus and dearc hit is wiðinnen.
ðær þu bist feste bidytt and dæð hefð þa cæge.
Ladlic is þet eorðhus and grim inne to wunien.
ðer þu scealt wunien and wurmes þe todeleð.
ðus ðu bist ilegd and ladæst þine fronden.
Nefst ðu nenne freond, þe þe wylle faren to,
ðæt efre wule lokien, hu þe þet hus þe likie, ðæt æfre undon ðe wule ða dure and þe æfter lihten.
For sone þu bist ladlic and lad to iseonne.
For sone bið þin hæfet faxes bireued;
Al bið ðes faxes feirnes forsceden; Næle hit nan mit fingres feire stracien.1
1 The Grave - A Consolidated Library of Anglo-Saxon Poetry
Translated by Maja Grzesiak-Jakimiuk
There was a house built, long ere you were born, A patch of earth purposed, ere of mother you came –But not yet in effect, nor its deepness marked off. How long it was for you, was not yet to be seen. Now I conduct you – there you shall be. Now take I your measure – after, your dust’s. Your room is raised to no great height: It is unlofty and low, as you lie therein. The end-walls are low, side-walls unlofty, The roof constructed full near your breast. So you shall in earth subsist, sore cold, That gloomy dark den shall turn to decay, in time. Doorless is that cell, lightless within, There are you fixed to abide, and only Death holds the key. Hateful is that earth-house, so dreary to reside in. But there you shall remain, and worms shall fret at you. Thus you must be laid, most loathly to kin –Nor have you a friend who would come up to you, Who would ever take heed how your home pleases you, Ever release you, loosen the gate, Ever let light in upon you again. For soon, you are abhorrent – rather not seen. For soon deprivation is made of your hair, Your locks’ fairness rent; Stroke them shall none, with fingers so gentle.
Catalan
Maria Antònia Salvà i Ripoll
Com rèptil monstruós de pell clapada, d’entranya llefiscosa, era ajocat al seu recó bevent la solellada. De sobte, sa malícia desvetllada, enrevisclant-se va esquerdar el test. Enllà de l’hort, que se’n perdés el quest, dalt una paret seca fou llançat, i al cap de temps, damunt les pedres dures, furgant per les llivanyes i juntures, trobí el vell drac encara aferrissat.
Catalan
Untitled
Maria Mercè i Marçal i Serra
Furgant per les llivanyes i juntures d’aquesta paret seca, entre mac i mac d’oblit, entre les pedres dures de cega desmemòria que endures, et sé. I em sé, en el mirall fidel del teu poema, aferrissadament clivellar pedra de silenci opac, dona rèptil, dona monstre, dona drac, com el cactus, com tu, supervivent.
Translated by Dr Richard Huddleson
Like a gruesome reptile with scaly skin and slimy intestines, it was slouched over in its corner slurping up the sunshine. Suddenly, its spite spewed forth, and its squirms split and shattered the plant pot. Beyond the orchard, out of sight and mind, it was banished to sit atop a drystane wall, but after some time, above the hard rocks, creeping through the cracks and crevices, I came face to face with the savage old dragon. English
English Untitled
Translated by Dr Richard Huddleson
Creeping through the cracks and crevices, of this drystane wall, between pebbles. and cobbles of forgetting, between the hard rocks of blind forgetfulness weighing down on you, I see you. And I see myself, in the faithful mirror, of your poem, savagely smashing the stone of opaque silence, reptile-woman, monster-woman, dragon-woman, like the cactus, like you, a survivor.
Hermann Hesse
Splittrig geknickter Ast, Hangend schon Jahr um Jahr, Trocken knarrt er im Wind sein Lied, Ohne Laub, ohne Rinde, Kahl, fahl, zu langen Lebens, Zu langen Sterbens müd. Hart klingt und zäh sein Gesang, Klingt trotzig, klingt heimlich bang Noch einen Sommer, Noch einen Winter lang.
Translated by Oscar Rütten
Splintery broken branch, Hanging for long years already, Dry, it crackles its song in the wind, No more leaves, no more bark, Bare, plain, tired of living too long, Of dying too long. Its song sounds rough and stiff, Sounds defiant, sounds secretly afraid. One more summer, One more winter.
Dr Bram Cleaver is a Professor of English at University of New Mexico. He completed his PhD in English at Saint Louis University and holds an MPhil in Medieval Languages, Literature, and Cultural Studies from Trinity College, Dublin. His research interests include early medieval insular poetry and medieval paleography.
Bryn Connelly is a 2nd Year student in Linguistics and Spanish from Boston, U.S.A.
Eoghan Conway is a writer and translator who hails from County Meath.
Ilka Demmler is an aspiring literary translator who recently completed her Master’s Degree in Literary Translation at TCD. Passionate about languages and literature, she works with English, Spanish, and German. When not immersed in words, she can be found exploring the outdoors.
Aden Ezra (they/them) was born in Australia to an Israeli mother. At age 14 they moved to Israel. Shortly after, they began to engage in anti-Zionist activism against the Israeli state. Originally studying Linguistics in Israel, they eventually came - for personal and political reasons - to Trinity, to study Irish.
Descending from the spires of Oxford, Nell Gardiner has landed in Trinity to study classics. She enjoys walking, eating and drinking wine.
Helena Gelman is a 3rd year History and Spanish student from New York City who spent last term sampling the many pastry shops of Salamanca, the city that adopted the author of her chosen text as its native son.
Thais Giammarco is a Brazilian translator who has recently completed an MPhil in Literary Translation from Trinity College Dublin. Passionate about words and the worlds they help create, she has a particular interest in translating poetry, children’s literature and short stories.
Maja Grzesiak-Jakimiuk is an English Studies student, with a particular interest in Old English literature and the many intricacies involved in its translation.
Nathan Harpur is a first year Biological and Biomedical Sciences student at Trinity, and is from Skerries, Co. Dublin. Although in a field of STEM, his heart remains intertwined by the beauty and peculiarity of language, especially Gaeilge. He has recently started to gain experience in translation whilst his Irish skills improve day by day. His love for poetry and art has led him to reach for a more creative aspect in translation.
Caoimhe Hayes is a Junior Fresh European Studies Student. She wishes she spoke more languages.
Dr Richard Huddleson is Assistant Professor of Iberian and Latin American Studies at the National University of Ireland, Maynooth, where he specialises in Translation and Catalan Studies.
Dr Kevin Kiely., Poet, Critic, Author; PhD (UCD) in the Patronage of Poetry at the Edward Woodberry Poetry Room, Harvard University; W. J. Fulbright Scholar in Poetry, Washington (DC); M. Phil., in Poetry, Trinity College (Dublin); Hon. Fellow in Writing., University of Iowa; Patrick Kavanagh Fellowship Award in Poetry; Bisto Award Winner.
Ray Linn is a recent graduate from Maynooth University with a Master's in Spanish and Latin American Studies. His thesis explores professional wrestling film and dimensions of identity on the US-Mexico border. He is considered locally to be the Rey Mysterio of translation and research.
Maria McChrystal is a graduate of the MPhil in Literary Translation. Having studied abroad in both Spain and Czechia, she has produced extensive volumes of poetry in both Czech and Spanish. Maria is currently enrolled in her second Master’s program with a view to furthering her literary productions.
Katie Moore is a current student in the MPhil Literary Translation programme at Trinity College Dublin. She is a Gaeilgeoir from Donegal, who has studied Spanish at the University of Edinburgh. A purveyor of creative endeavours, she enjoys sewing, painting and writing.
Aodhán Murphy is somewhat of a casual Germanist.
Giulia Nati - please please please call her Jules - is a second year English Studies student. She has just recently discovered coffee and now roams the Arts Block like an addict.
Meadhbh Ní Cheallacháin is a Gaeilgeoir from North Dublin studying French and Irish. Growing up in a bilingual household and attending Gaelscoils has erased any fear of languages. She enjoys writing bilingual scripts for college theatre productions and is the Irish language editor for JoLT.
Christopher O’Reagan is a recent graduate of German and Italian at Trinity College Dublin. Naturally fascinated by languages, he has been freelance translating from and into Irish since 2018. He is drawn to projects that explore human nature, the politics of history and both individual and cultural memory.
Jes Paluchowska is a third year English Major in a constant struggle against modernism and the ghost of Hegel. They love modern gothic literature and overcomplicating their original writing with references. Look forward to upcoming articles of theirs in the Village Magazine.
Alannah Purslow is a Spanish literary translator based in Wales. She recently completed her M.Phil in Literary Translation at Trinity College, Dublin. She is a storyteller at heart, intrigued by how our relationships and life experiences are interconnected to how we perceive and create art.
Ioana Răducu is the Deputy Editor of Trinity JoLT and a final year student of English Literature and French.
Oscar Rütten is a first year History student at Trinity, originally from Germany.
Kerem Savaş was born in Istanbul. He studied philosophy and worked as a writer, translator, and editor for various literary magazines. He is currently working in finance. He writes short stories in the science fiction and fantasy genres. His first novel will be published in 2025.
Lauren Shapiro is a Canadian translator, currently based in Dublin. She earned her Honours B.A. in French-English-Spanish Translation at the University of Ottawa and recently completed her M.Phil. in Literary Translation at Trinity College.
Rachel Smith studies German and Spanish at Trinity College Dublin and hails from County Cavan.
Eduardo Torres is about to graduate from his doctorate in philosophy. He calls himself a “linguistic phenomenologist” and believes he can read signs in the mists of the Estonian mires in the wee hours of the morning. Alas, he never wakes up early.
Aimilia Varla is a literary translator from Greece, currently based in Dublin, Ireland. She has an undergraduate degree in English Language and Literature and an MPhil in Literary Translation from Trinity College Dublin. She is interested in language learning, translation and adaptation with a focus on cultural awareness.
Vicente Velasques is a Portuguese translator who has recently finished his MPhil in Literary Translation in Trinity College Dublin. He enjoys translating speculative and ergodic fiction.
Ellen Coleman is a fourth year History and Ancient History student. Ellen made this piece at a time where she was questioning her own mortality (exam season).
Ciara Gallagher is a History of Art and French student in her final year at Trinity who loves 19th century art and literature.
Sarah McGoldrick is a fourth year History student who enjoys doing art in her spare time. She loves her green couch and her Sonny angel collection. This piece is a portrait of her late grandparents.
Jessica Sharkey is an Irish PhD student in the History of Art and Architecture at Trinity College Dublin. She is also an illustrator and painter, whose work considers the absurdity of the human experience through ink and wit.
Eve Smith is the art editor of JoLT and currently working on a collection of short stories.
Naemi Victoria is a visual artist, film reviewer, and PhD candidate in Film Studies. She mainly draws digitally, but also works with traditional media, like acrylics on canvas or pencil on paper.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water.
- excerpt from ‘The Waste Land’ by T.S. Eliot
