ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on May 16, 2017 10:46:13 GMT -5
Three poems from the French. The first two are by Valentine Penrose and the last one by Théophile Gautier.
O dame des pays
Valentine Penrose
O dame des pays Là sous le ciel est ce n’est pas peu dire À regarder sous l’aile Entre l’aile et son ombre À midi quand l’etoile Et moi brûlons la même vie Avec des signes Moi d’avance Elle partois avec sa longue différence
Tout enchanté de longtemps Le couer dans as grotte pend
O lady of countries Beneath the sky and enough is said Seeking under the wing Between the wing and its shadow At midday when the star And my own self burn with a single life With signs I advance She is far behind me now and again
All enchanted since ancient times The heart hanging in its grotto
Il est le feu il brûle et je suis l’eau je noie
Valentine Penrose
Il est le feu il brûle et je suis l’eau je noie Ô froide fille. La terre est mon amie La lune aussi sa servante Ainsit nous visitant au fond de nos cavernes Nos repos nos langeurs loin de tout accoudées Nous passons langue… les nuits à nous connaître Autor de nous trois feux mystérieux et frères
J’ai le plus belles fleurs J’ai le plus beau mirage J’a le plus beau miroir Je suis l’eau qui se chante
I am the fire I burn and I am the water I drown O chilly girl. The earth is my friend Also her servant the moon So we meet at the end of our caves Our sleep our languor far away leaning on our elbows We spent long-drawn out nights getting to know ourselves Around our three mysterious fires of brotherhood
I have the most beautiful flowers I have the most beautiful mirage I have the most beautiful mirror I am water singing what I am
L’Hirondelle
Théophile Gautier
Je suis une hirondelle et non une colombe ; Ma nature me force à voltiger toujours. Le nid où des ramiers s’abritent les amours, S’il y fallait couver, serait bientôt ma tombe.
Pour quelques mois, j’habite un créneau qui surplombe Et vole, quand l’automne a raccourci les jours, Pour les blancs minarets quittant les noires tours, Vers l’immuable azur d’où jamais pleur ne tombe.
Aucun ciel ne m’arrête, aucun lieu ne me tient, Et dans tous les pays je demeure étrangère ; Mais partout de l’absent mon âme se souvient.
Mon amour est constant, si mon aile est légère, Et, sans craindre l’oubli, la folle passagère D’un bout du monde à l’autre au même cœur revient.
The Swallow
I am a swallow, nothing like a dove ; My nature is to fly eternally, The nest in which the pigeons find their love Covered from sight, would be like death to me
I live in battlements and parapets, When autumn falls I fly on the wind’s breath, Leaving black towers for snow-white minarets, Fly to the constant blue: no rain, no death
No sky can hold me, nothing stays my flight, Each land I pass through never less the stranger, My absent friends living within my soul.
My love’s eternal if my wing is light And, unforgotten, this eternal ranger Across the world stays steadfast to my goal.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on May 17, 2017 13:50:55 GMT -5
Two poems by Rilke with the German original and my English translations of them.
Rose
Rainer Maria Rilke
Rose, oh reiner Widerspruch, lust, Niemandes schlaf zu sein unter soviel Lidern -- Rose Rose, oh pure contradiction, joy Nobody’s sleep under so many Eyelids --
Klage
Rainer Maria Rilke
O wie is alles fern Und lange vergangen. Ich glaube, der Sternwon welchem ich glanz empfange, ist siet Jahrtausendten tot ich glaube, im Boot, das Vorüberfuht,
hörte ich etwas Banges sagen. Im hause hat eien Uhr Geschlagen... In welchem Haus? Ich möchte aus meiner Herzen hinaus Unter den grossen Himmel treten.. Ich möchte beten. Und einer von allen Sternen Müsste wirklich noch sein. Ich glaube, ich wüsste, Welcher allein, Gedauert hat, -- Welcher wie eine weisse Stadt Am Ende des Strahlsin den Himmel steht. --
Lament
Everything is so far, Long gone away from me, I believe the star That sparkles above me Has been dead for thousands of years. I think, in the boat That passed me by I heard something dreadful said. The clock in the house Has struck an hour. In which house? I want to get out of my heart, Walk under the vast sky, I want to pray, And surely out of all the stars One is still real. I think – I know – Which one it is – Which stands like a white city At the end of its beam in the sky.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on May 22, 2017 11:24:37 GMT -5
Frage
Nicolaus Lenau
O Menschenherz, was ist dein Glück? Ein Rätselhaft geboren Und kaum gegrüst verloren, Unwiederholen Augenblick!
Question
O spirit of man, what is your destiny? The moment of your birth A riddle, scarcely greeted before You are lost, returned to the source.
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Post by ladylinda on May 22, 2017 11:25:26 GMT -5
‘Ich schau‘ in unsre Nacht’
Karl Leberecht Immerman
Ich schau’ in unsre Nacht, und seh’ den Stern, Nach dem die Zukunft wird ihr Steuer richten, Bessinen werden auf den rechten Herrn.
Einst geht er auf, noch aber ist er fern, es sollen unsers jetz’ gen Tags geschichten, zu fabeln erst sich ganz und gar vernichten, dann wird gefplanz der neuer Zeiten Kern.
Dann wird der König, den ich meine, kommen, und um den Thron, den ich erdliche, wird, wonach gestroht das allgemeine ringen, und was die grössten einzeln unternommen, was wir erknat, worin wir uns geirrt, als leicher Arabeskenkranz sich schlingen!
I gaze into our night
I gaze into our night and see the star By which the future’s course will be steered right; Its gleaming beauty will not let us mar Our future, mistaking duty for mere might.
It will arise, though now seen from afar, The sorry story of our present plight Should first be fabled, then forgotten quite: A new age will be planted in our tar.
Then He will come, the king in whom I believe And round his throne, I dimly glimpse, I see At last an end to all our senseless striving And when the greatest undertook, achieved More than we knew, for all our proud surmising, They should be garlanded eternally.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on May 22, 2017 11:27:16 GMT -5
Letzes licht Wilhelm Jensen
Nun sinkt der Tag, und ferne Glocken hallen; Ach, wie so weit die Abendschatten fallen!
Der Wind summt auf, und Wolken wallen dichter: Ach, wie so weit der Frühtags goldene lichter!
Mit letzten schlag verklingen matt die Glocken, wir eines herzent letzte schläge stocken.
Der du aus nach dereinst ins licht gegangen, es kommt die Nacht, dich wieder zuverlangen,
Last Light
Now the day sinks, and far-off bells are calling: Oh, in the distance shadows are now falling.
The wind is fresher, and the clouds grow thicker: Oh, golden promise of dawn’s early flicker!
With their last chimes the bells are all at rest, Like the last heartbeat pulsed within our breast.
Out of the night once, long ago, you came: Night will return again, to stake his claim.
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Post by ladylinda on May 22, 2017 11:27:45 GMT -5
Die Stadt Essen an der Ruhr
Paul Zech
Umwaldet von den sieben Schornsteinhügeln Der Eisenstadt, wölbt sich ein schwarzer Dom empor Und reisst es aut, das höhenhafte Tor, aus dem die Eisenreiters, die den Erdball zügeln,
den Atem holen und den Donnerhall der Hufe. Um seine Mauernflanken kocht die Ruhr, der Rhein, das Firmament hat keinen Eigenschein, aus Rad und Dampf schrill klirren Stundenrufe.
Verschollener Väter letzte Enkelscharen Erinnern sich nicht mehr, dass einmal Wiesen waren, wo jetzt Turbinen donnern und die Eisenbahn.
Im Feuerofen lullt und lockt die Glüt Zum Tanz der Schlangen um den Gott Vulkan: Breit klafft ein Spalt: der Erde Schoss speit Blut.
The town of Essen on the Ruhr
Wooded with seven thrusting chimney tops The iron town raises its curved black arch And draws it up, held fast as hell’s gates; clop! As the iron riders, unbridled, are on the march, Catching their breath and thundering their hooves. Around the sides of the walls bubble the Ruhr and Rhine, The sky has no light of its own, the grooves Of the wheels and vapour sound the siren’s whine. The absent fathers and assembled offspring No longer remember where the meadow stood Where now the turbines and the railway roar, The glowing furnaces beckon us to play Summoning us to dance on Vulcan’s floor, Then open wide; the earth is spitting blood.
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Post by beth on May 23, 2017 18:34:46 GMT -5
Very nice, Lin. All these translated poems are nice.
I'm sure it was time consuming, but worth it.
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Post by ladylinda on May 26, 2017 7:19:04 GMT -5
Here's one that was difficult for different reasons - Villon wrote in mediaeval French and many words have become obsolete.
I've done my best to do his fine poem justice.
Les regrets de la belle heaulmière
François Villon
Advis m’est que j’oy regretter La belle qui fut heaulmière, Soy jeune fille souhaitter Et parler en ceste manière : « Ha ! vieillesse felonne et fière, Pourquoy m’as si tost abatue ? Qui me tient que je ne me fière, Et qu’à ce coup je ne me tue ?
« Tollu m’as ma haulte franchise Que beauté m’avoit ordonné Sur clercz, marchans et gens d’Eglise : Car alors n’estoit homme né Qui tout le sien ne m’eust donné, Quoy qu’il en fust des repentailles, Mais que luy eusse abandonné Ce que reffusent truandailles.
« A maint homme l’ay reffusé, Qui n’estoit à moy grand saigesse, Pour l’amour d’ung garson rusé, Auquel j’en feiz grande largesse. A qui que je feisse finesse, Par m’ame, je l’amoye bien ! Or ne me faisoit que rudesse, Et ne m’amoyt que pour le mien.
« Jà ne me sceut tant detrayner, Fouller au piedz, que ne l’aymasse, Et m’eust-il faict les rains trayner, S’il m’eust dit que je le baisasse Et que tous mes maux oubliasse ; Le glouton, de mal entaché, M’embrassoit... J’en suis bien plus grasse ! Que m’en reste-il ? Honte et peché.
« Or il est mort, passé trente ans, Et je remains vieille et chenue. Quand je pense, lasse ! au bon temps, Quelle fus, quelle devenue ; Quand me regarde toute nue, Et je me voy si très-changée, Pauvre, seiche, maigre, menue, Je suis presque toute enragée.
« Qu’est devenu ce front poly, Ces cheveulx blonds, sourcilz voultyz, Grand entr’œil, le regard joly, Dont prenoye les plus subtilz ; Ce beau nez droit, grand ne petiz ; Ces petites joinctes oreilles, Menton fourchu, cler vis traictis, Et ces belles lèvres vermeilles ?
« Ces gentes espaules menues, Ces bras longs et ces mains tretisses ; Petitz tetins, hanches charnues, Eslevées, propres, faictisses A tenir amoureuses lysses ; Ces larges reins, ce sadinet, Assis sur grosses fermes cuysses, Dedans son joly jardinet ?
« Le front ridé, les cheveulx gris, Les sourcilz cheuz, les yeulx estainctz, Qui faisoient regars et ris, Dont maintz marchans furent attaincts ; Nez courbé, de beaulté loingtains ; Oreilles pendans et moussues ; Le vis pally, mort et destaincts ; Menton foncé, lèvres peaussues :
« C’est d’humaine beauté l’yssues ! Les bras courts et les mains contraictes, Les espaulles toutes bossues ; Mammelles, quoy ! toutes retraictes ; Telles les hanches que les tettes. Du sadinet, fy ! Quant des cuysses, Cuysses ne sont plus, mais cuyssettes Grivelées comme saulcisses.
« Ainsi le bon temps regretons Entre nous, pauvres vieilles sottes, Assises bas, à croppetons, Tout en ung tas comme pelottes, A petit feu de chenevottes, Tost allumées, tost estainctes ; Et jadis fusmes si mignottes !... Ainsi en prend à maintz et maintes. » Vous avez aimé cette œuvre classique, partagez-la ! -- The Lament of the Fair Helmet-Maker
Within my mind I heard the loud lament Of she, once fair, maker of helmets for soldiers, Weeping for her youth that now lies spent, The weight of the world upon her shoulders. “Ha! Age is cruel; its pitiless fire smoulders. Why has, so early, all my youth departed? Who would blame me if I crushed my head with boulders Or stabbed myself? I am so broken-hearted!
Time cruelly broke the spell I once possessed Through my lost beauty, to obtain the power Over clerks, merchants and priests; my breast Drew them to me: none could resist. I’d devour Their hearts, unless they all bowed down; they’d shower Me with their gifts. Now all that I once sold Is nothing in their eyes. Gone is the gold; Even my freely offered body tramps would now detest.
Many men I scornfully refused, So lacking was in true wisdom’s ways, Loving, as I did, a thief, who used Me, took all I had. I so abased Myself before him, even though I’d blaze In beauty for others, I worshipped and I loved Him, though he never gave me words of praise, Just blows and insults for my treasure trove.
Although he struck and kicked me constantly, Though he laid heavy burdens on my back, Still for all that I loved him faithfully; One kiss from his lips always had the knack Of wiping all my tears and griefs away; All my resistance, doubts, he overcame, But no good came of love so gone astray: He gave me nothing except sin and shame.
He has been dead for over twenty years, But I remain, a withered, old, grey hag; When I remember, through my briny tears, How lovely I once was, now, foul as slag, I gaze in horror at my naked flesh Through my dim eyes, worn out and weary now, Withered and shrunken, skinny, as if threshed In a field by a harrow; I clench my angry brow.
Where now is my smooth forehead, so admired, My golden hair, my eyebrows so adored? Where is that look that made me so desired By even the wises men or richest lord? Where is the wide space between my eyes, My fine straight nose, my tiny ears, My dimpled chin, soft features, red lips, the prize Of kissing, that so many once revered?
My delicate, slim shoulders I recall, My long, soft arms, my pretty, slender hands, Firm luscious hips and tender breasts: though small, They were so high and beautiful, that bands Of men yearned to touch them, eager for love’s games, And in its secret place my jewel lay blithe, Encased in its fair setting, a bright flame Shining on thighs so generous and lithe.
Now see me: how my wrinkled forehead lies, My golden hair (what’s left) has turned to grey; My eyebrows vanished. Dull and cold my eyes, Those eyes that once had power to wound and slay; My nose is hooked and ugly, shrunken ears Hang from my mask-like face, waxen and dead; My smooth and rounded chin furrowed to smears, My once enticing lips coarse as stale bread.
So, it appears, all happiness must end, My plump arms shrivelled, hands withered to stalks, My shoulders, proud and straight, now forced to bend, My dainty breasts, firm hips, shrunken to chalk; As for my jewel, what can I say? And now My once fair thighs now stand all forlorn, Not thighs, just wrinkled flesh and bone, on an old cow Withered, thin, speckled like sausages, utterly shorn.
So in good time we mourn our youthful folly, And grieve our life long, poor and aged fools, Crouching on our bare haunches, melancholy, Consumed, squatting in filthy rags like ghouls, Over our little fire of hemp, slow burning, So quickly lit, how fast the fire dies! We who were once objects of love and yearning Now only wait, longing for our demise.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on May 26, 2017 19:06:59 GMT -5
Very nice, Lin. All these translated poems are nice. I'm sure it was time consuming, but worth it. Thanks for your kind words, Beth. The last four poems I translated show the problems a translator faces. All of them look 'simple' and in one way they are. But each presents real difficulties. In the first poem I had to invert the last line with the second because otherwise it would have been gibberish in English. I also had to abandon all my attempts to make it rhyme (as of course it does in the original German) and instead had to make a rendering in free verse. In the second poem the sentence structure forced me to make slightly artificial rhymes and to paraphrase the ending because otherwise gibberish or doggerel would have resulted. In the third poem everything's plain sailing until the final couplet which is almost impossible to render into English even as free verse and impossible as rhyme. The sense of the couplet is 'you once came out of darkness into light, night will return and claim you back.' I did the best I could to render that and preserve the rhyme. Zech's piece is so full of almost surrealist imagery and classical allusions that a lot of his skill has to be lost when the piece is translated. 'Sieben' - seven - in the first line is clearly referring to the seven hills of Rome; his metaphors include (in one sentence!) a cathedral of smoke which is wooded by slag-heaps and at the same time tearing open the gates of hell from which iron riders draw breath and curb the earth with the thunder of their hooves! A lot of this had to be lost in translation. Even in German you have to read it twice to make sure that the subject of 'reisst' is 'Dom.' The final two lines are very obscure even in the original German! I did the best I could to make sense of them and give them an English rendering!
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Post by ladylinda on May 29, 2017 15:17:07 GMT -5
Lied vom Meer
Rainer Maria Rilke
Uraltes Wehn vom Meer, Meerwind bei Nacht: Du kommst zu keinen her; Wenn einer wacht,
So muss er sein, wie er Dich übersteht
Uraltes Wehn vom Meer, Welches weht Nur wie für Urgestein, Lauter Raum
Reissend von weit herein
O wie fühlt dich ein Treiben der Feigenbaum Oben im Mondschein
Song of the Sea:
Ancient flow of the sea, Seawind by night; You come to no one here, If anyone watches, So must he be, however he Overcomes you, Ancient flow of the sea, Which flutters along Only like the ancient rocks Tearing at the world
O how one feels then Driven fig trees The Moon shining above
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Post by ladylinda on May 29, 2017 15:18:17 GMT -5
Ernste Stunde
Rainer Maria Rilke
wer jetzt weint, irgendwo in der Welt, ohne Grund weint in der Welt weint über mich
wer jetzt lacht irgendwo in der Nacht, ohne Grund lacht in der Nacht, lacht mich aus
wer jetzt geht irgendwo in der Welt, ohne Grund geht in der Welt, geht zu mir
wer jetzt stirbt irgendwo in der Welt, ohne Grund stirbt in der Welt, sieht mich an
Serious Lessons:
Whoever now weeps anywhere in this world, Without a reason weeps in the world, Weeps over me
Whoever now laughs anywhere in the night, Without a reason laughs in the night, Laughs because of me
Whoever now goes anywhere in the world, Without a reason goes anywhere in the world, Goes to me
Whoever now dies anywhere in the world, Without a reason dies anywhere in the world, Looks at me
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Post by ladylinda on May 29, 2017 15:19:25 GMT -5
‘Où est-tu toi qui recommences’
Valentine Penrose
Où est-tu toi qui recommences Tes cheveux comme un bouquet Tenant les boules et les coupes
La fleur de soleil penchait Je te tendis les guides vertes Et tu sautas au seul couer q’il fallait Sans tourner sans hésiter Sans le trompon Sans bouger
Au milieu du sang de la lumiére
‘Where are you now, you who have been reborn?’
Where are you now, you who have been reborn? Your hair a bouquet of flowers Occupying the globes and cups
The sunflower leant I offered you the green reins And you galloped into the only needy heart Without looking behind or hesitating Without deceit Without stirring
Into the world of light’s blood
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Post by ladylinda on May 29, 2017 15:19:58 GMT -5
À Francesca
Valentine Penrose
Mains deux myosotis aux crosses des fusils Je lutte je suis prosternée Aprés les morts dans tes cheveulx comme des faix Toi chanteuse des os profonds des soldasts des matelots
To Francesca:
Hands gentle forget-me-nots on rifle butts I fight I am prostrated After the deaths in your hair which are sickles You singer over the fallen soldiers and sailors
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Post by men an tol on May 29, 2017 17:00:18 GMT -5
From his book “History and Rhymes of the lost Battalion” One of the many writings of Buck Private McCollum A Doughboy of the Lost Battalion – Who dedicated this poem to “My Buddies” who gave their all “Up There.”
Up There
From two short words, “Up There” we glean, All that war can really mean, Sounds perhaps not much to you, Entire volume, what we’ve been thru.
Telling many brave and daring tale, Of Chateau-Thierry and the Vesle, Or Argonne Woods, that deat5h-strewn hell, Where hordes of our brave comrades fell.
Who gave their all, as men have done, Ever since wars first begun, Their blood enriching vale or hill, Patriot’s promise, or God’s will.
They fell for a cause just and true, Undying tribute is their due, “God rest their souls,” our humble prayer, For those who gave their all – “Up There.”
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Post by ladylinda on May 30, 2017 17:44:31 GMT -5
Wer weiß wo
Detlev von Liliencron
Auf Blut und Leichen, Schutt und Qualm, Auf rosszerstampften Sommerhalm Die Sonne schien. Es sank die Nacht. Die Schlacht ist aus, Und mancher kehrte nicht nach Haus Einst von Kolin
Ein Junker auch, ein Knabe noch, Der heut das erste Pulver roch, Er musste dahin. Wie hoch er auch die Fahne schwang, Der Tod in seinen Arm ihn zwang, Er musste dahin.
Ihm nahe lag ein frommes Buch, Das stets der Junker bei sich trug, Am Degenknauf. Ein Grenadier von Bevern fand Den kleinen erdbeschmutzten Band Und hob ihn auf.
Und brachte heim mit schnellem Fuß Dem Vater diesen letzten Gruß, Der klang nicht froh. Dann schrieb hinein die Zitterhand: "Kolin. Mein Sohn verscharrt im Sand. Wer weiß wo."
Und der gesungen dieses Lied, Und der es liest, im Leben zieht Noch frisch und froh. Doch einst bin ich, und bist auch du Verscharrt im Sand, zur ewigen Ruh, Wer weiß wo.
Who knows where?
Over rubble and smoke, blood and corpses, A winter landscape, trodden down by horses, The sun is shining. The night is at an end, And many did not return again From Kolin.
A nobleman, only a lad Smelt his first powder today, and was glad; He had to go. Although he kept the standard raised on high Death took him by the hand, led him to die. He had to go.
A holy book lay by the boy, His constant joy, Lay by his sword-hilt. A grenadier from Bevern found The small, stained volume on the ground Where it lay spilt.
Then swiftly to the father brought This last farewell that silence caught In loud despair, And wrote with trembling hand: 'Kolin. My son, buried in sand. who knows where?'
And he who sang this song And he who reads it, both are strong, Life blooming fair. Soon you and I shall die, At peace within the ground shall lie, And who knows where?
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