Poetry Corner: Do you have any favourite poems? If so, share them here!
Mihaela Buruiana Romania Local time: 19:56 Member (2011) English to Romanian + ...
Marin Sorescu
May 4, 2011
It's been silence around here for a while, so I'm posting a poem by another favourite Romanian poet. First, the English version, then the Romanian original.
Enjoy!
Asking Too Much?
BY MARIN SORESCU
Translated by MICHAEL HAMBURGER
‘Suppose that, to give a few lectures,
daily you had to commute
between Heaven and Hell:
what would you take with you?’
‘A book, a bottle of wine and a woman, Lord.
Is that asking too much?’
‘Too much. We’ll cross out the woman,
she would involve you in conversations,
put ideas into your head,
and your preparation would suffer.’
‘I beseech you, cross out the book,
I’ll write it myself, Lord, if only
I have the bottle of wine and the woman.
That’s my wish and my need. Is it too much?’
‘You’re asking too much.
What, supposing that daily,
to give a few lectures, you had
to commute between Heaven and Hell, would
you take with you?’
‘A bottle of wine and a woman,
if I may make so free.’
‘That’s what you wanted before, don’t be obstinate,
it’s too much, as you know. We’ll cross out the woman.’
‘What do you have against her, why do you persecute her?
Cross out the bottle rather,
wine weakens me, almost leaves me unable
to draw from my loved one’s eyes
inspiration for those lectures.’
Silence, for minutes
or an eternity.
Respite. In which to forget.
‘Well, suppose that to give
a few lectures you had to commute
daily between Heaven and Hell:
what would you take with you?’
‘A woman, Lord, if I may make so free.’
‘You’re asking too much, we’ll cross out the woman.’
‘In that case cross out the lectures rather,
cross out Hell and Heaven for me,
it’s either all or nothing.
Useless and vain my commuting would be between Heaven
and Hell.
How could I even begin to frighten and awe
those poor creatures in Hell -
without teaching aid, the woman?
How strengthen the faith of the righteous in Heaven -
without the book’s exegesis?
How endure all the differences
in temperature, light and pressure
between Heaven and Hell
if I have no wine
on the way
to give me a bit of courage?’
Dacă nu cer prea mult
de Marin Sorescu
- Ce-ai lua cu tine,
Daca s-ar pune problema
Să faci zilnic naveta între rai şi iad,
Ca să ţii nişte cursuri?
- O carte, o sticlă cu vin şi-o femeie, Doamne,
Dacă nu-ţi cer prea mult.
- Ceri prea mult, îţi tăiem femeia,
Te-ar ţine de vorbă,
Ţi-ar împuia capul cu fleacuri
Şi n-ai avea timp să-ţi pregăteşti cursul.
- Te implor, taie-mi cartea,
O scriu eu, Doamne, dacă am lângă mine
O sticlă de vin şi-o femeie.
Asta aş dori, dacă nu cer prea mult.
- Ceri prea mult.
Ce-ai dori să iei cu tine,
Dacă s-ar pune problema
Să faci zilnic naveta între rai şi iad,
Ca să ţii nişte cursuri?
- O sticlă de vin şi-o femeie,
Dacă nu cer prea mult.
- Ai mai cerut asta o dată, de ce te încăpăţânezi,
E prea mult, ti-am spus, îţi tăiem femeia.
- Ce tot ai cu ea, ce atâta prigoană?
Mai bine tăiaţi-mi vinul,
Mă moleşeşte şi n-aş mai putea să-mi pregătesc cursul,
Inspirându-mă din ochii iubitei.
Tăcere, minute lungi,
Poate chiar veşnicii,
Lăsându-mi-se timp pentru uitare.
- Ce-ai dori să iei cu tine,
Dacă s-ar pune problema
Să faci zilnic naveta între rai şi iad,
Ca să ţii nişte cursuri?
- O femeie, Doamne, dacă nu cer prea mult.
- Ceri prea mult, îţi tăiem femeia.
- Atunci taie-mi mai bine cursurile,
Taie-mi iadul şi raiul,
Ori totul, ori nimic.
Aş face drumul dintre rai şi iad degeaba.
Cum să-i sperii şi să-i înfricoşez pe păcătoşii din iad,
Dacă n-am femeia, material didactic, să le-o arat?
Cum să-i înalţ pe drepţii din rai,
Dacă n-am cartea să le-o tălmăcesc?
Cum să suport eu drumul şi diferenţele
De temperatură, luminozitate şi presiune
Dintre rai şi iad,
Dacă n-am vinul să-mi dea curaj?
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Mihaela Buruiana Romania Local time: 19:56 Member (2011) English to Romanian + ...
Not So Friendly
Aug 19, 2011
Not so friendly today,
are you, darling?
I, too, find myself
in a distant mood.
Maybe it's time
to take the long way home,
the back streets
where we will be assaulted
by thugs
because we are rich,
and spit on by old women
who don't like
your bare arms.
Then how about
caramel custard
In that place they know us?
Yes, I'm feeling better
about you, already.
I'm looking forward
to our white hotel room
where the two puppets
can be naked at last,
and in each other's arms,
surrender to the strings.
Leonard Cohen
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Late at night, when I was reading Homer,
A little creature visited my book.
And so,
Harmless and small,
She suddenly appeared - among the gods.
My little creature, what you're doing here
(That was my thought) - while she was strolling between
Hexameters -
You're no god, nor a titan, nor a hero -
You're just a gentle smile of Mother Nature
Which ceases even before it appears.
But it came to my mind: she's a piece
Of a life that is real -
And she's more lively
Than the whole Olympus!
And all of the sudden, little creature becomes significant
And gods - unimportant.
And strolling along with gods
She slowly entered into my poem.
My little creature, these verses will keep you
Like amber saves all other creatures
Which are found in it by chance
While it still was resin...
(Note. The poem is written without rhymes and translated without rhymes.)
[Edited at 2011-09-14 13:33 GMT]
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missdutch Netherlands Local time: 18:56 Member (2010) English to Italian + ...
Czesław Miłosz - Veni Creator
Feb 7
Przyjdź, Duchu Święty,
zginając (albo nie zginając) trawy,
ukazując się (albo nie) nad głową językiem płomienia,
kiedy sianokosy albo kiedy na podorywkę wychodzi traktor
w dolinie orzechowych gajów, albo kiedy śniegi
przywalą jodły kalekie w Sierra Nevada.
Jestem człowiek tylko, więc potrzebuję widzialnych znaków,
nużę się prędko budowaniem schodów abstrakcji.
Prosiłem nieraz, wiesz sam, żeby figura w kościele
podniosła dla mnie rękę, raz jeden, jedyny.
Ale rozumiem że znaki mogą być tylko ludzkie.
Zbudź więc jednego człowieka, gdziekolwiek na ziemi
(nie mnie, bo jednak znam co przyzwoitość)
i pozwól, abym patrząc na niego podziwiać mogł Ciebie.
TRANSLATED BY CZESŁAW MIŁOSZ AND ROBERT PINSKY
Come, Holy Spirit,
bending or not bending the grasses,
appearing or not above our heads in a tongue of flame,
at hay harvest or when they plough in the orchards or when snow
covers crippled firs in the Sierra Nevada.
I am only a man: I need visible signs.
I tire easily, building the stairway of abstraction.
Many a time I asked, you know it well, that the statue in church
lifts its hand, only once, just once, for me.
But I understand that signs must be human,
therefore call one man, anywhere on earth,
not me—after all I have some decency—
and allow me, when I look at him, to marvel at you.
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missdutch Netherlands Local time: 18:56 Member (2010) English to Italian + ...
Boris Pasternak - ЗИМНЯЯ НОЧЬ (Winter Night)
Feb 8
Мело, мело по всей земле
Во все пределы.
Свеча горела на столе,
Свеча горела.
Как летом роем мошкара
Летит на пламя,
Слетались хлопья со двора
К оконной раме.
Метель лепила на стекле
Кружки и стрелы.
Свеча горела на столе,
Свеча горела.
И падали два башмачка
Со стуком на пол.
И воск слезами с ночника
На платье капал.
И все терялось в снежной мгле
Седой и белой.
Свеча горела на столе,
Свеча горела.
На свечку дуло из угла,
И жар соблазна
Вздымал, как ангел, два крыла
Крестообразно.
Мело весь месяц в феврале,
И то и дело
Свеча горела на столе,
Свеча горела.
Winter Night
And far and near blizzards raced,
To every endland.
A burning candle lit the place,
A burning candle.
As to a swarm of summer moth
Are flame and glow,
The window attractive was
To flakes of snow.
Grew on the pane frost-molded quilt
Of arcs and angles.
A candle lit the desk and quill,
A burning candle.
On the enlightened ceiling easel
Fell shapes retracing
Entangled arms, entangled knees,
Fates interlacing.
And thuddingly two little shoes
Were dropping down,
And wax in tears, heat-melted lose,
Dripped on the gown.
And melted all in silver gloom,
Obscure and swirling.
A burning candle lit the room,
A candle burning.
The light would swing in draft, and change,
And passions stormy
Spread their wings, like an archangel,
Cruciformly.
That winter, blizzards held the pace,
And calls returning,
A burning candle lit the place,
A candle burning.
Translation by Alexander Givental
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missdutch Netherlands Local time: 18:56 Member (2010) English to Italian + ...
Guillaume Colletet - Contre la traduction
Feb 8
Unfortunately, I couldn't find an English version of this "invective" against translation.
C'est trop m'assujettir, je suis las d'imiter,
La version déplaît à qui peut inventer,
Je suis plus amoureux d'un Vers que je compose,
Que des Livres entiers que j'ay traduites en Prose.
Suivre comme un esclave un Autheur pas à pas,
Chercher de la raison où l'on n'en trouve pas,
Distiller son Esprit sur chaque période,
Faire d'un vieux Latin du François à la mode,
Eplucher chaque mot comme un Grammairien,
Voir ce qui le rend mal, ou ce qui le rend bien;
Faire d'un sens confus une raison subtile,
Joindre au discours qui sert un langage inutile,
Parler asseurement de ce qu'on sait le moins,
Rendre de ses erreurs tous les Doctes témoins,
Et vouloir bien souvent par un caprice extrême
Entendre qui jamais ne s'entendit soi-même;
Certes, c'est un travail dont je suis si lassé,
Que j'en ay le corps foible, & l'esprit émoussé.
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Come, come, whoever you are.
Wanderer, worshipper, lover of living, it doesn't matter
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come even if you have broken your vow a thousand times,
Come, yet again, come, come.
Come, come again, whoever you are, come!
Heathen, fire worshipper or idolatrous, come!
Come even if you broke your penitence a hundred times,
Ours is the portal of hope, come as you are.
-------------------------------------------------------
Not Christian or Jew or
Muslim, not Hindu,
Buddhist, Sufi, or Zen.
Not any religion
or cultural system. I am
not from the east
or the west, not
out of the ocean or up
from the ground, not
natural or ethereal, not
composed of elements at all.
I do not exist,
am not an entity in this
world or the next,
did not descend from
Adam and Eve or any
origin story. My place is
the placeless, a trace
of the traceless.
Neither body or soul.
I belong to the beloved,
have seen the two
worlds as one and
that one
call to and know,
first, last, outer, inner,
only that breath breathing
human being.
------------------------------------------------------------------
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Paul Dixon Brazil Local time: 13:56 Member (2009) Portuguese to English + ...
TOPIC STARTER
Something from Brazil
Feb 9
I would now like to post a famous Brazilian poem, as I have just noticed I haven't posted anything in Portuguese. The translation (supplied by Wikipedia) follows:
CANÇÃO DO EXÍLIO
By Gonçalves Dias (1823 - 1864)
Minha terra tem palmeiras,
Onde canta o sabiá.
As aves que aqui gorjeiam
Não gorjeiam como lá.
Nosso céu tem mais estrelas,
Nossas várzeas têm mais flores.
Nossos bosques têm mais vida,
Nossa vida mais amores.
Em cismar, sozinho, à noite,
Mais prazer encontro eu lá.
Minha terra tem palmeiras,
Onde canta o sabiá.
Minha terra tem primores
Que tais não encontro eu cá;
Em cismar — sozinho, à noite —
Mais prazer encontro eu lá.
Minha terra tem palmeiras,
Onde canta o sabiá.
Não permita Deus que eu morra
Sem que eu volte para lá;
Sem que desfrute os primores
Que não encontro por cá;
Sem qu'inda aviste as palmeiras
Onde canta o sabiá.
English translation as supplied by Wikipedia:
SONG OF EXILE
My land has palm trees,
Where the thrush sings.
The birds that sing in here
Do not sing as they do there.
Our skies have more stars,
Our valleys have more flowers.
Our forests have more life,
Our lives have more loves.
In dreaming, alone, at night,
I find more pleasure there.
My land has palm trees
Where the thrush sings.
My land has beauties
Who cannot be found in here;
In dreaming — alone, at night —
I find more pleasure there.
My land has palm trees,
Where the thrush sings.
May God never allow
That I die before I return;
That I do not see the beauties
That I cannot find in here;
That I do not see the palm trees
Where the thrush sings.
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missdutch Netherlands Local time: 18:56 Member (2010) English to Italian + ...
Great job, Jack, thank you!
Feb 9
Jack Doughty wrote:
(...)
Following George Hopkins' example, here is a favourite Russian poem and my translation of it.
ОН НЕ ВЕРНУЛСЯ ИЗ БОЯ
Владимир Высоцкий
Почему всё не так? Вроде всё как всегда:
То же небо, опять голубое,
тот же лес, тот же воздух и та же вода,
только он не вернулся из боя.
Мне теперь не понять, кто же прав был из нас,
в наших спорах без сна и покоя.
Мне не стало хватать его только сейчас,
когда он не вернулся из боя.
Он молчал невпопад и не в такт подпевал,
он всегда говорил про другое,
Он мне спать не давал, он с восходом вставал,
а вчера не вернулся из боя.
То, что пусто теперь, не про то разговор:
Вдруг заметил я – нас было двое...
Для меня словно ветром задуло костёр,
когда он не вернулся из боя.
Нынче вырвалась, будьто из плена, весна,
по ошибке окликнул его я:
«Друг, оставь покурить», - а в ответ – тишина...
Он вчера не вернулся из боя.
Наши мёртвые нас не оставят в беде.
Наши павшие – как часовые...
Отражается небо в лесу, как в воде,
И деревья стоят голубые.
Нам и места в землянке хватало вполне,
Нам и время текло для обоих...
Всё теперь одному, только кажется мне,
это я не вернулся из боя.
HE DIDN’T RETURN FROM THE BATTLE
Why is everything wrong? Yet it seems just as fine:
The same sky, just as blue as before;
The same air, the same water, same forest of pine -
But he didn't come back from the war.
Who was right, who was wrong, I have no idea now,
In our ongoing quarrels and faction.
They wearied me then, now I long for a row,
Since he's been posted missing in action.
He'd go suddenly quiet. He would sing out of tune,
And his voice had a harsh kind of rattle.
He would keep me awake, then he'd get up too soon -
But he didn't return from the battle.
The loneliness isn't just all it's about.
I've just realised, we two made a pair.
It's as if the wind suddenly blew the fire out,
Now I know that he's no longer there.
With the spring blooming out now, in colourful riot,
I called him this morning, forgetting.
"Hey, leave me a dog-end!" No answer. Dead quiet -
For he didn't come back from the fighting.
Our dead will not leave us behind in the lurch.
The fallen still guard us forever.
The trees reach aloft like the nave of a church -
But my friend will return to me never.
There is plenty of room in the dugout below,
But it's time for us both now to yield.
I've the place to myself, yet I feel that I know
It is I who was killed in that field.
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