Written by
Alexander Pushkin |
In lakeside leafy groves, a friar
Escaped all worries; there he passed
His summer days in constant prayer,
Deep studies and eternal fast.
Already with a humble shovel
The elder dug himself a grave -
As, calling saints to bless his hovel,
Death - nothing other - did he crave.
So once, upon a falling night, he
Was bowing by his wilted shack
With meekest prayer to the Almighty.
The grove was turning slowly black;
Above the lake a mist was lifting;
Through milky clouds across the sky
The ruddy moon was softly drifting,
When water drew the friar's eye.
.
.
He's looking puzzled, full of trouble,
Of fear he cannot quite explain,
He sees the waves begin to bubble
And suddenly grow calm again.
Then -- white as first snow in the highlands,
Light-footed as nocturnal shade,
There comes ashore, and sits in silence
Upon the bank, a naked maid.
She eyes the monk and brushes gently
Her hair, and water off her arms.
He shakes with fear and looks intently
At her, and at her lovely charms.
With eager hand she waves and beckons,
Nods quickly, smiles as from afar
And shoots, within two flashing seconds,
Into still water like a star.
The glum old man slept not an instant;
All day, not even once he prayed:
Before his eyes still hung and glistened
The wondrous, the relentless shade.
.
.
The grove puts on its gown of nightfall;
The moon walks on the cloudy floor;
And there's the maiden - pale, delightful,
Reclining on the spellbound shore.
She looks at him, her hair she brushes,
Blows airy kisses, gestures wild,
Plays with the waves - caresses, splashes -
Now laughs, now whimpers like a child,
Moans tenderly, calls louder, louder.
.
.
"Come, monk, come, monk! To me, to me!.
.
"
Then - disappears in limpid water,
And all is silent instantly.
.
.
On the third day the zealous hermit
Was sitting by the shore, in love,
Awaiting the delightful mermaid,
As shade was covering the grove.
.
.
Dark ceded to the sun's emergence;
Our monk had wholly disappeared -
Before a crowd of local urchins,
While fishing, found his hoary beard.
Translated by: Genia Gurarie, summer of 1995
Copyright retained by Genia Gurarie.
email: egurarie@princeton.
edu
http://www.
princeton.
edu/~egurarie/
For permission to reproduce, write personally to the translator.
|
Written by
Charles Baudelaire |
Down the street as I was drifting with the city's human tide,
Came a ghost, and for a moment walked in silence by my side --
Now my heart was hard and bitter, and a bitter spirit he,
So I felt no great aversion to his ghostly company.
Said the Shade: `At finer feelings let your lip in scorn be curled,
`Self and Pelf', my friend, has ever been the motto for the world.
'
And he said: `If you'd be happy, you must clip your fancy's wings,
Stretch your conscience at the edges to the size of earthly things;
Never fight another's battle, for a friend can never know
When he'll gladly fly for succour to the bosom of the foe.
At the power of truth and friendship let your lip in scorn be curled --
`Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, is the motto of the world.
`Where Society is mighty, always truckle to her rule;
Never send an `i' undotted to the teacher of a school;
Only fight a wrong or falsehood when the crowd is at your back,
And, till Charity repay you, shut the purse, and let her pack;
At the fools who would do other let your lip in scorn be curled,
`Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, that's the motto of the world.
`Ne'er assail the shaky ladders Fame has from her niches hung,
Lest unfriendly heels above you grind your fingers from the rung;
Or the fools who idle under, envious of your fair renown,
Heedless of the pain you suffer, do their worst to shake you down.
At the praise of men, or censure, let your lip in scorn be curled,
`Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, is the motto of the world.
`Flowing founts of inspiration leave their sources parched and dry,
Scalding tears of indignation sear the hearts that beat too high;
Chilly waters thrown upon it drown the fire that's in the bard;
And the banter of the critic hurts his heart till it grows hard.
At the fame your muse may offer let your lip in scorn be curled,
`Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, that's the motto of the world.
`Shun the fields of love, where lightly, to a low and mocking tune,
Strong and useful lives are ruined, and the broken hearts are strewn.
Not a farthing is the value of the honest love you hold;
Call it lust, and make it serve you! Set your heart on nought but gold.
At the bliss of purer passions let your lip in scorn be curled --
`Self and Pelf', my friend, shall ever be the motto of the world.
'
Then he ceased and looked intently in my face, and nearer drew;
But a sudden deep repugnance to his presence thrilled me through;
Then I saw his face was cruel, by the look that o'er it stole,
Then I felt his breath was poison, by the shuddering of my soul,
Then I guessed his purpose evil, by his lip in sneering curled,
And I knew he slandered mankind, by my knowledge of the world.
But he vanished as a purer brighter presence gained my side --
`Heed him not! there's truth and friendship
in this wondrous world,' she cried,
And of those who cleave to virtue in their climbing for renown,
Only they who faint or falter from the height are shaken down.
At a cynic's baneful teaching let your lip in scorn be curled!
`Brotherhood and Love and Honour!' is the motto for the world.
'
|
Written by
Alexander Pushkin |
The chain of golden days and nights
Is still your heritage from Deity,
And, still, the languid maidens’ eyes
Are turned to you as well intently.
So, play and sing, friends of my years!
Lose very quickly passing evening,
And, at your heedless joy and singing,
I will be smiling through my tears.
|
Written by
Belinda Subraman |
past the hippies
past Ravi Shankar
eons before
when the first Asian snake
came alive
stiffened with sound
through some empty shell
some hollow wood
some emptiness
the snake
was not so much charmed
as listening intently
to the accidental flute
to that which he knew
must be female
its empty insides
calling him
with breath music
and he joined in
for awhile
finding a rang of sounds
he’d never heard
then peace
and a new religion
practiced in places
where snakes are holy
and music
is written in his tongue
|
Written by
Rg Gregory |
(a) orihuela-time
the sun in orihuela calms the dust
and people glide about the streets at ease
(problems left indoors to cool themselves)
time has grown fat and no one cares
to pin each minute to its proper place
the day is long tomorrow's not yet real
doves and old men occupy the squares
nattering to each other in such tongues
that take the clock away from what is time
i could be moorish strolling in this heat
past tiled seats paved stones and dusty plants
a town that knows the desert's not far off
only the traffic fusses about like now
fuming and farting worse than any horse
desperate to catch up centuries of drift
and get the people moving like machines
a modern bustle seeps up through the drains
where buildings fall to caterpillar tracks
that night we're in a garden roofed in glass
a hothouse cafe where candles play at stars
sipping iced drinks and talking casually
a silence green and golden threads our bones
and tapestries contain us - time's come unstuck
each gesture shall be / was - the present glows
(b) spanish day
all i hear at first are sparrows
i come to the window - they are foraging
across the grassless ground their chirps
are business voices grunts of satisfaction
a comment on the nature of their find
the morning's cool - some fifteen trees
in rows with broad-splayed leaves are caught
by breeze and flutter like the hands
of pale young ladies gathered half-undressed
a car glides past the hedge with muted sound
a lorry chugs uphill - the sky is trembling
out of grey with that first flat blue that says
the sun is indirectly on its way
the breeze is cool but being spain i stand
in short shirt-sleeves - my forearmed hairs
accept the ruffling breeze and wait for warmth
i follow a car's noise down the hill
it fades - a silence stands with arms outspread
catching all breath - i listen more intently
from my cell-like room where cubby holes
of dark have not yet given into morning
a sharper breeze now roughs it through the trees
and every leaf would run away but can't
so stays and rattles off complaints metallically
the sparrows beat their beaks more urgently
and i am thrust at by a stab of sun
the rooftop opposite has a golden cowl
rays slide down and leap into the trees
the breeze desists the leaves play mute
in no time sun has occupied the square
my room's invaded - dark stains are blanched
coolness abandoned for the next few hours
the heat-to-come has come - the spanish day
has no fancy way to sell its onions
you take it or you leave it – sweatingly
|
Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET LXXIX.
L' aura mia sacra al mio stanco riposo.
HE TELLS HER IN SLEEP OF HIS SUFFERINGS, AND, OVERCOME BY HER SYMPATHY, AWAKES.
On my oft-troubled sleep my sacred air
So softly breathes, at last I courage take,
To tell her of my past and present ache,
Which never in her life my heart did dare.
I first that glance so full of love declare
Which served my lifelong torment to awake,
Next, how, content and wretched for her sake,
Love day by day my tost heart knew to tear.
She speaks not, but, with pity's dewy trace,
Intently looks on me, and gently sighs,
While pure and lustrous tears begem her face;
My spirit, which her sorrow fiercely tries,
So to behold her weep with anger burns,
And freed from slumber to itself returns.
Macgregor.
|