Troths to Ghosts
To read a poem in translation is to pledge troth to a ghost,
a wispy, intangible presence residing in another world
you can never touch without crossing over to it.
♋︎
A Motley Selection of Poems Translated from Catalan, Danish, French,
German, Italian, Portuguese and Swedish
by
Gabriel Ferrater
Henrik Nordbrandt
Ivan Goll, Anne Hébert, Albert Lozeau, Jean-Aubert Loranger, Anonymous, Rainer Maria Rilke
Bertolt Brecht, Jean Gebser, Heinrich Heine, Günter Kunert, Christine Lavant, Christian Morgenstern, Rainer Maria Rilke, Hans Dieter Zimmermann
Salvatore Quasimodo
Fernando Pessoa
Tomas Tranströmer
♋︎
George Lang
♋︎
Contents
Icons, Gabriel Ferrater
Distraught Dream, Henrik Nordbrandt
Not Nonsense Verse, But Verse about Nonsense, Henrik Nordbrandt
Real Danish Summer, Henrik Nordbrandt
Headstone, Ivan Goll
Strange Seizure, Anne Hébert
Maple Leaf, Albert Lozeau
Azure, Albert Lozeau
Ode, Jean-Aubert Loranger
Moments, Jean-Aubert Loranger
Cadieux’s Lament at Calumet Falls, Anonymous
In the Eyes of a Dumb Beast, Rainer Maria Rilke
Haï Kaï, Rainer Maria Rilke
Jealous over Pasternak, Rainer Maria Rilke
Sweet Song, Rainer Maria Rilke
Afterwards, Bertolt Brecht
Everything Blooming, Jean Gebser
Underneath, Günter Kunert
A Lamb of the Lord, Christine Lavant
Soft Yellow Buttercup, Christian Morgenstern
Night Is the Seamstress of Stars, Hans Dieter Zimmermann
Blessed Bruce, Salvatore Quasimodo
Dying Ray of Sun, Salvatore Quasimodo
Sensei, the Serene, Fernando Pessoa
A Shepherd of Thoughts, Fernando Pessoa
Strangest of All Strangeness, Fernando Pessoa
Beheld, Tomas Tranströmer
Tracks, Tomas Tranströmer
♋︎
Notes
♋︎ Catalan ♋︎
Icons
As we lay enlaced before
a window which gave to a grove
of olives (two bare seeds
within a fruit summer burst open,
infused with heat), we had no
memories. We were the memory
we now have. We were icons
of ourselves to be revered
by true believers of afterwards.
After Gabriel Ferrater
Aleshores, quan jèiem
abraçats davant la finestra
oberta al pendís d’oliveres (dues
llavors nues dins un fruit que l’estiu
ha badat violent, i que s’omple
d’aire) no teníem records. Érem
el record que tenim ara. Érem
aquesta imatge. Els ídols de nosaltres,
per la submisa fe de després.
♋︎ Danish ♋︎
Disraught Dream
A burst of dust obscured the sun,
spilled down the mountain slopes
to my love
and her lover’s
winter lair.
A footbridge swayed under
my steps as I stumbled
on without direction.
Just as far over that span
have I come as since childhood,
so death will be met in its place
somewhere between me now
and those gray shafts on the opposite shore.
(This all lasted less than an instant
– what remains of being.)
After Henrik Nordbrandt, Drøm om fortvivlelse
En støvet sky gik for solen
og lagde bjergsiden ned
til et vinterleje
for min elskede
og hendes elsker.
En bro gungrede under mine fødder
men mine skridt
havde ingen retning.
Der var lige så langt over broen
som jeg var kommet fra min barndom.
Så døden måtte findes
et sted mellem mig og de grå pile
på den modsatte bred.
Det hele varede mindre end et minut
men resten af verden.
Not Nonsense Verse But Verse about Nonsense.
Danishness is beautiful
& so much fun.
Since it’s typically Danish
Danishness is all the more fun.
Not to mention Danish seriousness,
which is serious
in a typical Danish way
that makes it so serious
& o so Danish.
Seriousness & fun
are themselves typical.
But not as typical as Danishness.
Danishness
is the height of typicality.
–such a beauteous thing!
After Henrik Nordbrandt Danskhed
Danskheden er skøn
Og så sjov!
Det er så typisk dansk ved danskheden
at den er så sjov.
For ikke at tale om den danske alvor.
Den er så alvorlig
på den typisk danske måde
der gør den så typisk alvorlig
så typisk dansk.
Alvor og sjov
er typisk nok hver for sig
men ikke så typiske som danskheden.
Danskheden
er det mest typiske af alt.
Danskheden er sådan en skøn ting.
Real Danish Summer
Real Danish summer will be what this sonnet
is about, since whatever surrounds us should fit
into not thirteen or fifteen but fourteen lines,
everything in its proper place, form and content fused,
just as I am myself at one with this summer day,
itself at one with Danishness. Well and perfectly true,
except this poem wouldn’t be itself if it didn’t
point out that nothing can be one with anything else.
There must be spaces between. Still Danish summer
is when and where I could best do without myself.
I would have let nature speak in simile on my behalf
had not that mown lawn’s likely words made it risky.
There is a tall, red chimney, the crematorium’s.
What solace to be at long last free of oneself!
After Henrik Nordbrandt, Den rigtige dansk sommer
En rigtig dansk sommer skal være temaet for denne sonnet:
For det må da være rigtigt at det, som omgiver en, ikke skal siges
i tretten eller femten linier, men i fjorten: Sådan vil jeg mene
alting kommer på sin plads, så form og indhold bliver ét
sådan som jeg selv er ét med sommeren
som er ét med danskheden
der er det helt rigtige: Men det ville ikke være dette digt
hvis det ikke påpegede, at ingen kan være ét med noget andet.
Plads skal der være: En rigtig dansk sommer
er nok der hvor jeg bedst kunne undvære mig selv.
Og jeg lod gerne naturen tale på mine vegne, om ikke det vulgære
grønne havde gjort det for pinligt:
Midt i det står en høj rød skorsten: Den hører til krematoriet.
Hvilken trøst langt om længe at blive fri for sig selv!
♋︎ French ♋︎
Headstone
l lasted only as long as spume
the lips of waves spew onto a beach.
Born under no star into moonless gloom,
my name was but a sputter, a screech.
From Ivan Goll’s Epitaph in Père Lachaise:
Je n’aurai pas duré plus que l’écume
Aux lèvres de la vague sur le sable
Né sous aucune étoile un soir sans lune
Mon nom ne fut qu’un sanglot périssable.
Strange Seizure
To trap the polar sun
fields of snow were set
as far as the eye could see.
Snares of frost laid out
blocks of indigo ice dislodged
pristine millennia of snow upturned
to arrange the end of the world.
One dusk before it swung
beneath the snow-bound brink
at the quick of the Arctic rim
the sun was captured and cast
into limpid glacial freeze.
For a long spell its yellow heart
throbbed in that gel
like a magnificent moon
in a pitch-black sky
emitting eerie frigid rays
while frozen hordes implored
the inhuman saffron orb
forthwith to quit the globe.
After Anne Hébert Étrange capture
Du côté du pôle arctique
On a remué le champ de neige
À parte de vue, désirant prendre au piège le soleil.
On a tendu des filets de givre
Roulé des blocs de glace indigo
Brassé des millénaires de neige vierge
Tout un appareillage de fin du monde.
À l’heure du couchant
Avant qu’il ne bascule
Derrière l’horizon neigeux
Le soleil fut appréhendé
Au plus vif du cercle polaire
Mis en cage dans un glacier transparent.
Longtemps on a pu voir son coeur jaune
Battre à travers le gel
Émettre d’étrange rayons froids
Comme une lune maléfique
Dans la nuit noire
Tandis que tout un peuple transi
Suppliait l’inhumaine boule safran
De quitter tout-le-champ la carte du monde.
Maple Leaf
As they thrash in the breeze the maples moan.
One that I know stands not quite alone
on a slope where gloom and silence cloak
a footpath running beside an ancient oak.
From its broad boughs splashes of scarlet flow
to the fresh sound of water burbling below.
An open slash in the limbs makes a frame
through which a beam pierces, igniting a flame
The fabric of its swaying summit seems spun
from the dying fires of the crimson sun.
Among golden leaves below in a bed
there is one which flashes bright blood-red.
Twilight then mutes the luster of things, throws
ambient shadows shading to rose.
The blue-white moon heaves into sight,
spills trickles of silver into vast, pure night,
transparent splendor nothing can rival:
after setting sun, night autumnal.
After Albert Lozeau (Érable rouge)
Dans le vent qui les tord les érables se plaignent,
Et j’en sais un, là-bas, dont tous les rameaux saignent !
Il est dans la montagne, auprès d’un chêne vieux,
Sur le bord d’un chemin sombre et silencieux.
L’écarlate s’épand et le rubis s’écoule
De sa large ramure au bruit frais d’eau qui coule.
Il n’est qu’une blessure où, magnifiquement,
Le rayon qui pénètre allume un flamboiement !
Le bel arbre ! On dirait que sa cime qui bouge
A trempé dans les feux mourants du soleil rouge !
Sur le feuillage d’or au sol brun s’amassant,
Par instant, il échappe une feuille de sang.
Et quand le soir éteint l’éclat de chaque chose,
L’ombre qui l’enveloppe en devient toute rose !
La lune bleue et blanche au lointain émergeant,
Dans la nuit vaste et pure y verse une eau d’argent.
Et c’est une splendeur claire que rien n’égale,
Sous le soleil penchant ou la nuit automnale !
Azure
I stare and fill my eyes with your light,
O sky devoid of trace of cloud,
pleasure unutterable, unavowed,
as azure beams converge in my sight.
This blue swells like a river inside,
a freshet rising up to the brim.
Immensity, without boundary or rim,
floods my humble soul, bearing it pride,
opening within, by sheer vibration,
a space made mine through contemplation,
who am a mere atom in vacuous space.
This deep blue, this torrent of eternity,
rolls on and spills into inner infinity,
as, dazzled, I watch myself evanesce.
After Albert Lozeau (Lumière)
Je regarde, et j’emplie mes yeux de ta lumière,
Beau ciel où pas un seul nuage n’apparaît,
Et j’éprouve un plaisir indicible et secret
À sentir converger l’azur sous ma paupière.
Le bleu me glisse au coeur, frais comme une rivière
Qui, sans me déborder, toujours s’élargirait,
Et l’immense infini que rien ne contiendrait,
Vague à vague, s’étale en mon âme humble et fière.
Tout l’espace est en moi, qui vibre clairement;
Je l’ai bu du regard de moment en moment,
Et pourtant je ne suis qu’un atome en l’espace.
Le ciel bleu descendu dans mon infinité
Roule comme un profond torrent d’éternité,
Dans lequel, ébloui, je me mire et je passe!Ode
For a sail that haze
wipes from the slate of blue,
a vaulting cloud aloft,
its clouds washing down to sea,
a beacon, a distant sprit of shore,
why such a sad song.
Much more thna space, silence
weighs heavy on the horizzon.
And if the ebbing tide
leaves in port a sail or two,
why yearn for the open seas,
why lament you cannot soar?
Inconsolate, you always
recall departures,
yet off the stern ever swell
distance and despair.
Night, which cloaks your soul,
slowly slips across the sky.
In the west the last hopes of day
dim out and disappear.
In vain you trace
on dusk dissolving
relentlessly into night
renuniciation of your acts.
Beyond the garden the sea
soughs like a grove in a forest.
The old port lights up afar
twinkling strings of beads.
Hiding over the horizon
the day stands sentinel.
Who knows what its light will bring
or dreams dark now allows.
For if, when lamp turns off
even darker lips slide
across your eyes,
if shadow brings
like a searchlight beam
deeper knowledge
of loneliness than before,
what hope can dawn hold out?
Can morning keep
within the beacon’s sweeps
some hint of beams etched
forever into blue?
After barren sleepless nights
why should daybreak bring surcease:
all that locked in nght
emerging gloriously into day.
Moments. In the Manner of Old Chinese Poems
I
Dawn frames a landscape
through a window sash.
Light dissolves the solid
volumes of the room,
soaks up shadows.
Smooth and steady
as a potter throwing clay
the pemdulum taps out
the still nebulous
coming shape of day.
This pervading silence
is a hot-house in which
my woe will ripen.
Can I have awaited dawn
so long to no avail?
O let there loom
for me a theshold
toward something other.
V
This little booth is round,
lit from within,
and surrounding night
sticks like soot
smudging its panes.
I wrtie within this booth,
a giant lantern
with a smouldering wick.
Penned into my dream
I am tucked in by silence.
After Jean-Aubert Loranger
I
L’aube encadre un paysage
Au châssis de la fenêtre.
La lumière absorbe l’ombre,
Elle désolidifie
Le volume de la chambre.
Je suis au petit début
Imprécis d’une journée
Que la pemndule tapote,
Doucement, commeune glaise
Pour lui faire un avenir.
Le grand silence m’enclot
Comme une serre chaude
Où ma peine doit mûrir.
Il ne se peut pas, que j’aie
Attendu l’aurore en vain.
Il faut qu’il ait, pour moi,
Le commencement, aussi,
De quelque chose.
V
Le petit kiosque est rond,
il est allumé
par le milieu, et la nuit
d’autour colle aux vitres
comme une noirceur de suie.
Et j’écris dans dans le kiosque,
lanterne géant
qui aurait beaucoup fumé.
Parqué en mon rêve,
je suis bordé de silence.
Lament of the Voyageur Jean Cadieux at Calumet Falls, ca. 1709
By this boulder near Calumet Falls
I languish alone as Death calls.
Dear Echos, but you hear my sigh
on this last portage I ply.
Frail birds, your sweet melodies
are music at my obsequies.
Had I wings like yours I would fly,
not in my grave putrefy.
Alone through the woods I’d hurried.
For the fate of my friends I’d worried.
Had they drowned in the chute?
Did the Iroquois catch them on route?
One day coming back from a jaunt,
I saw smoke coming up from my haunt.
My first thought: something’s amock.
Once again the Iroquois’ve struck.
In an instant I hit the dirt
and crept through the bushes alert.
But the faces I spied at my hearth
were French. Joy flooded my heart.
[….]
Now I expire alone. My knees quake,
my voice falters. My friends break
camp, while that great Voyageur,
Death, stays on for my massacre.
A wolf sneaks up to my home.
The jerky he scents is my own.
Scat from here, beast, away by God,
else your hide feel the blast of a wad.
A raven comes to perch on my eaves.
He preys on whatever grieves.
Carnivore, I cry, though I lie supine,
there is much better meat than mine.
In the swampy woods he made his redoubt
there lies at least one Iroquois scout
with much more succulent flesh and bone.
My stinking cadaver, pray leave it alone.
Nightingale, fly to my loyal mate.
Let her break to the children my fate.
They have my love. I’ve kept my faith.
Forget poor Jean, this wraith.
So now as I give up the ghost
I count on the Saviour uttermost.
O Holy Virgin, I implore your charms.q
Allow that I die in Your arms.
After Anonymous (La complainte de Cadieux, Coureur de bois, ca. 1709)
Petit Rocher de la Haute Montagne,
Je viens finir ici cette campagne!
Ah! doux échos, entendez mes soupirs,
En languissant je vais bientôt mourir.
Peits oiseaux, vos douces harmonies
Quand vous chantez, me rattach’ à la vie :
Ah! si j’avais des ailes comme vous,
Je s’rais heureux avant qu’il ne fut deux jours!
Seul en ces bois, que j’ai eu de soucis,
Pensant toujours à mes si chers amis.
Je demandais : Hélas! sont-ils noyés ?
Les Iroquois les auraient-ils tués ?
Un de ces jours que, m’état éloigné,
En revenant je vis une fumée.
Je me suis dit : Ah! Grand Dieu qu’est ceci ?
Les Iroquois m’ont-il pris mon logis ?
Je me suis mis un peu à l’ambassade,
Afin de voir si c’était embuscade.
Alors je vis trois visages français,
M’ont mis le coeur d’une trop grande joie !
[….]
Mes genoux plient, ma faible voix s’arrête.
Je tombe … Hélas, à partir qu’il s’apprêtent :
Je reste seul … Pas un qui me console,
Quand la mort vient par un si grand désole !
Un loup hurlant vient près de ma cabane
Voir si mon feu n’avait plus de boucane.
Je lui ai dit : Retire-toi d’ici,
Car, par ma foi, je perc’rai ton habit !
Un noir corbeau, volant à l’aventure,
Vient de percher tout près de ma toiture.
Je lui ai dit : Mangeur de chair humaine,
Va-t’en chercher autre viande que mienne.
Va-t’en là bas, dans ces bois et marais,
Tu trouveras plusieurs corps iroquois.
Tu trouveras des chair, aussi des os.
Va-t’en plus loin, laisse-moi en repos !
Rossignolet, va dire à ma maîtresse,
À mes enfants qu’un adieu je leur laisse,
Que j’ai garde mon amour et ma foi,
Et désormais faut renoncer à moi !
C’et donc ici que le mond’ m’abandonne
Mais j’ai secours en vous Sauveur des hommes !
Très Sainte Vierge, ah! m’abandonnez pas.
Permettez-moi d’mourir entre vos bras !
In the Eyes of a Dumb Beast
In the eyes of a dumb beast
I glimpsed deep peace
nature’s impartial feast
offered without surcease.
To fear all creatures respond.
Yet animals know how
on the hunt to browse
on the here and now
which tastes of nothing beyond.
After Rainer Maria Rilke (Vergers n° 54)
J’ai vu dans l’œil animal
la vie paisible qui dure,
le calme impartial
de l’imperturbable nature.
La bête connaît la peur ;
mais aussitôt elle avance
et sur son champ d’abondance
broute une présence,
qui n’a pas le goût d’ailleurs.
Haï-Kaï
No tree says flowers
are lighter to bear than fruit
—only a lover.
After Rilke
C’est pourtant plus lourd de porter des fruits que des fleurs
Mais ce n’est pas un arbre qui parle
—c’est un amoureux.
♋︎ German ♋︎
Jealous over Pasternak
We touch from afar. But how? With airborne
brushes our beating wings stir each other.
A poet lives alone. Sometimes there comes another
who also bears that which he has borne.
After Rainer Maria Rilke
Wir rühren uns, womit? Mit Flügel-Schlägen,
mit Fernen selber rühren wir uns an.
Ein Dichter einzig lebt, und dann und wann
kommt, der ihm trägt, dem, der ihn trug, entgegen.
Sweet Song
How should I hold my Self so it
not brush against yours? How should
I lift myself over you on to other things?
If only I could press myself down
into some lost dark place,
a strange, still abode where
your own depths do not resound.
Everything that touches us, you and me,
draws us together like the stroke of a bow
which makes two strings sing one voice.
What instrument are we strung upon?
Who holds it in his hands?
Such sweet song!
After Rainier Maria Rilke
Wie soll ich meine Seele halten, daß
sie nicht an deine rührt? Wie soll ich sie
hinheben über dich zu andren Dingen?
Ach gerne möcht ich sie bei irgendwas
Verlorenem im Dunkel unterbringen,
an einer fremden stillen Stelle, die
nicht weiterschwingt, wenn deine Tiefen schwingen.
Doch alles, was uns anrührt, dich und mich,
nimmt uns zusammen wie ein Bogenstrich,
der aux zwei Saiten eine Stimme zieht.
Auf welches Intrument sind wir gespannt?
Und welcher Geiger hat uns in der Hand?
O süßes Lied
Afterwards
Afterwards, I strode alone
into the full light of day
and saw, with eyes of my own,
the sheer joy of those at play.
About that secret hour,
know only that within
I feel a new-born power,
beauty in lip and limb.
Greener, the trees and meadows,
more fragrant the flower,
fresher the water which flows
down my skin as I shower.
After Bertolt Brecht
Als ich nachher von dir ging
An dem großen Heute
Sah ich, als ich sehn anfing
Lauter lustige Leute.
Und seit jener Abendstund
Weißt schon, die ich meine
Hab ich einen schönern Mund.
Und geschicktere Beine.
Grüner ist, seit ich so fühl
Baum und Strauch und Wiese
Und das Wasser schöner kühl
Wenn ich’s auf mich gieße.
Everything Blooming
Everything blooming
is destined to die.
Who sees it coming
knows that it’s nigh.
The tree feels still
in the breezy air.
We rarely conceive
who we actually are.
Flowers think flower.
creatures, creature.
A clod in the fields
should be our teacher.
After Jean Gebser
Alles Blühen
meint schon den Tod.
Nur die sich mühen,
sind wirklich bedroht.
Still fühlt der Baum
den zitternden Wind.
Wir denken kaum
was wir eigentlich sind.
Blume denkt Blume,
und Tier denkt Tier.
Des Ackers Krume
ist gewisser als wir.
Underneath
The sun shone down, falling hot upon her.
On me too it fell, who lay beside her.
Waves broke, crept up to where we were,
aroused by our naked splendor.
Flesh exposed upon such expanse of sand.
A moment seized from what is endless.
Two threads crossing upon a single strand.
The sun above. Underneath, but darkness.
After Günter Kunert (Frist)
Und Sonne war und fiel heiß auf sie nieder
Und fiel auf mich der ich doch bei ihr war.
Die Wellen gingen fort und kamen immer wieder
Zurück voll Neugier zu dem nackten Paar.
Ein wenig Fleisch auf soviel Sandgehäufe
Ein wenig Frist in ziemlich viel Unendlichkeit
Ein wenig Leben und zwei Lebensläufe
Darüber Sonne und darunter Dunkelheit.
A Lamb of the Lord
From now on and forever
I know Earth is truly warm.
I give fire back to the nettle,
to the hedgehog his thorn.
From now on the whole world
is my protector, a pasture
where breezes cradle, lull us,
weave our breath’s texture.
After Christine Lavant
Seit heute, aber für immer,
weiß ich: Die Erde ist wirklich warm-;
ich gebe der Nessel den Brand zurück
und dem Igel die Stacheln.
Seit heute ist alles mein Schutzpatron
und die ganze Welt eine Weidenwiege,
darin uns der Windstoß zusammenschaukelt
und unsren Atem verknotet.
Soft Yellow Buttercup
O soft yellow buttercup field
tinged green with red sorrel leaf,
not even your copious yield
affords full-blown relief.
O swelling boughs whose song
blossoms like snow in the Spring,
our hearts, alas, are strung along
by dreams of you to which we cling.
After Christian Morgenstern
Butterblumengelbe Wiesen,
sauerampferrot getönt,
– O du überreiches Sprießen,
wie das Aug dich nie gewöhnt!
Wohlgesangdurchschwellte Bäume,
wunderblütenschneebereift –
ja, fürwahr, ihr zeigt uns Träume,
wie die Brust sie kaum begreift.
Night is the Seamstress of Stars
Night is the seamstress of stars
whose sparkles she sews together
without thread or needle or knot
in a glittering stichless seam
tucking us in nearer to space.
After Hans Dieter Zimmermann (indirectly quoting Martin Heidegger)
Die Nacht ist die Näherin der Sterne, wie die Kinder sagen; sie fügt zusammen ohne Naht und Saum und Zwirn; sie ist die Näherin, weil sie nur mit der Nähe arbeitet.
♋︎ Italian ♋︎
Blessed Brume
Blessed brume rises off the ponds.
So too will the air on fire close
in on the unmoving heart.
Beloved youth, it is late.
I still cherish all things on earth
under the skies’ light
in the shadow of the wind,
the aura and every aspect of
she who came to me not long ago,
whose smile mirrors mine yet who
took unripened vigor for love.
Thus alone, I look back on
that lost bounty, whole days,
the water of grasses and woods
splendid in distant breeze.
On this lifeless island,
abandonned by every heart
which once heard my voice,
I now remain immured.
After Salvatore Quasimodo “In luce di cieli”
Dagli stagni salgono nuvole beate;
finirà anche il fuoco dell’aria
nel fermo cuore.
Cara giovinezza; è tardi.
Ma posso amare tutto della terra
in luce di cieli in tenebra di vento;
e, su ogni parvenza, la donna
che mi venne non è gran tempo,
al cui riso mi speccio,
che amore chiamava, sua verde salute.
Cosí solo, numeri di perduto bene
mi narravo, e giorni,
e, splendenti in remote aure,
acque di selve ed erbe.
Nell’isola morta,
lasciato da ogni cuore
che udiva la mia voce,
posso restare murato.
Dying Ray of Sun
Each of us stands alone on a plot of earth
caught in a dying ray of sun:
till day is suddenly done.
After Salvatore Quasimodo
Ognuno sta solo sul cuor della terra
traffito da un raggio di sole:
ed è subito sera.
♋︎ Portuguese ♋︎
Sensei, the Serene
Sensei, the serene
hours we spend are
not lost if we lose them
like we lose the flowers
we choose and cut
to put in a vase.
After Ricardo Reis (Fernando Pessoa)
Mestre, são plácidas
Todas as horas
Que nós perdemos,
Se no perdê-las,
Qual numa jarra,
Nós pomos flores.
A Shepherd of Thoughts
I am a shepherd of flocks, which are thoughts,
themselves sensations. I think with sights
and sounds, hands and feet, nose, palate.
Thinking of a flower is to see and smell it.
To eat a piece of fruit is to learn its meaning.
Which is why, sweltering in the heat of midday,
so fully tasting fleeting things makes me sad.
I stretch out tired on the grass, shut
my burning eyes, my body weighing down on
what is there. I know some truth. I’m happy.
After Alberto Caeiro (Fernando Pessoa)
Sou um guardador de rebanhos.
O rebanho é os meus pensamentos
E os meus pensamentos são todos sensações.
Penso com os olhos e com os ouvidos
E com as mãos e os pés
E com o nariz e a boca.
Pensar numa flor é vê-la e cheirá-la
E comer um fruto é saber-lhe o sentido.
Por isso quando num dia de calor
Me sinto triste de gozá-lo tanto,
E me deito ao comprido na erva,
E fecho os olhos quentes,
Sinto todo o meu corpo deitado na realidade,
Sei da verdade e sou feliz.
The Strangest of All Strangeness
The strangest of all strangeness,
more then dreamed by any poet,
by any thinker thought up,
is that things are just what they seem.
Nothing to understand about them.
After Alberto Caeiro (Fernando Pessoa)
É mais estranho do que todas as estranhezas
E do que os sonhos de todos os poetas
E os pensamentos de todos os filósofos,
Que as cousas sejam realmente o que parecem ser
E não haja nada que compreender.
♋︎ Swedish ♋︎
Beheld
It was a funeral.
I sensed the deceased
read my thoughts
better than myself.
The organ fell silent. Birds sang.
A grave open to the sun.
My friend’s voice rang as far
as the minutes’ darkside.
I drove home transfixed
by the glare of summer day,
by rain and stillness,
transfixed by the moon.
From Tomas Tranströmer, Från juli 90
Det var en begravning
och jag kände att den döde
läste mina tankar
bättre än jag själv.
Orgeln teg, fåglarna sjöng.
Gropen ute i solgasset.
Min väns röst höll till
på minuternas baksida.
Jag körde hem genomskådad
av sommardagens glans
av regn och stillhet
genomskådad av månen.
Tracks
2 am. Moonlight. Train stopped
in the middle of a field, cold city lights
flickering on the far brink of sight.
As if someone has sunk so deep into dream
she’ll never remember she was there
once she gets back to her room.
Or somewhere someone has slipped so deep
into sickness that his days all become a flickering
swarm of points scattered thin on the brink of sight.
The train stands utterly still.
2 am. Stark moonlight. Few stars.
From Tomas Tranströmer, Spår
På natten klockan två: månsken. Tåget har stannat
mitt ute på slätten. Långt borta ljuspunkter i en stad,
flimrande kallt vid synranden.
Som när en människa gått in i en dröm så djupt
att hon aldrig ska minnas att hon var där
när hon återvänder till sitt rum.
Och som när någon gått in i en sjukdom så djupt
att allt som var hans dagar blir några flimrande punkter,
en svärm, kall och ringa vid synranden.
Tåget står fullkomligt stilla,
Klockan två: starkt månsken, få stjärnor.
Notes
Gabriel Ferrater was a major Catalan poet amd scholar. He committed suicide in 1972. I have a second degree relationship with him, since his brother, Juan Ferraté, was my Doktorvater.
Henrik Nordbrand spent much of his life outside of Denmark, notoriously complaining that the weather there had sixteen months: “November, December, January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, November, November, November.”.
Anne Hébert. Published in Ellipse 50 (1993), pp. 36-37, where I noted, “However elemental and starkly beautiful it may be, political allegory is easily read into Hébert’s poem, though the poet herself has criticized this proclivity among Québec critics. I did try to keep the Promethean oveetones of Étrange capture alive, but I know that some readers will insist that a people is not a horde.”
Albert Lozeau. Émile Nelligan is usually taken to be Québec’s Rimbaud, but Lozeau, who suffered from Pott’s Diseae, also deserves the epithet poète maudit. From Ellipse 38 (1987), pp 32-37.
Jean-Aubert Loranger. II had forgotten these old translations, which I only recently ran across again. I was struck by how both in terms of content and in wording my own poems have been subconciously modeled on Loranger’s work.. Originally published in Ellipse 20 (1977), pp 22-29
Anonymous. I have drawn the source text from Sister Jeanne d’Arc Lortie’s Les Textes poétiques du Canada français, which suggests much of it stems from François Villon’s Ballade des pendus, further evidence that this was not composed by the voyageur Cadieux himself, rather by someone with literary tastes. Ellipse 40 (1988), pp 24-27. For the song itself, see https://thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/petit-rocher-de-la-haute-montagne-emc.
Rainer Maria Rilke as a French poet? In Ellipse 50 (2001, pp 82-93). with which journal I had collaborated since 1976, I made the following observation: “Alas, neither in Canada nor in Québec have there been many poets who produced an interesting body of work in two languages, at least not to my taste. So to help close this chapter of Ellipse (the final North Hatley/Shebrooke issue) let me adduce two poems, composed directly in French by Rilke himself. Those who know his poetry in German, especially the Duino Elegies, will recognize a strangely familiar voice.” The poem to Marina Tsvetaeva is his dedication of a copy of the Duino Elegies to her. Correspondance à trois: Rilke, Pasterak, Tsvetaeva (Gallimard 1983), p 9.
Bertolt Brecht is usually thought of as an archetyical proletarian writer. Here he reveals a tender side.
Jean Gebser was a German-born philosopher who fed to Switzerland amid the carnage of WW2. Lama Anagarika Govinda described him as “one of the most creative and stimulating thinkers of modern Europe”.
Günter Kunert was expelled from the DDR in 1979 after protesting the loss of citizenship of Wolf Biermann.
Christine Lavant was an Austrian poet whose life was a vale of tears. Fortunately for us, she discovered poetry after a mentor passed her a volume of Rilke. Christian mystics are these days few and far between. In her poetry it appears she was one.
Christian Morgenstern was a beloved albeit eccentric poet influenced by English nonsense verse, which facilitates the task of the translator into English, where his oddities may find an affinity.
Hans Dieter Zimmermann drew upon a well-known passage from Heidegger. I versified it.
Salvatore Quasimodo was a Sicilian poet who was associated with the Hermeticism movement.
Fernando Pessoa wrote under a number of heteronyms, of which two are Alberto Caiero and Ricardo Reis.
Tomas Tranströmer won the Nobel Prize in 2011. He collaborated with both Robert Bly and with Adonis (Ali Ahmad Said Esber).