Autumn
L'automne
Maurice Carême (1899-1978)
L'automne
L’automne au coin du bois
Joue de l’harmonica.
Quelle joie chez les feuilles!
Elles valsent au bras du vent qui les emporte.
On dit qu’elles sont mortes,
Mais personne n’y croit.
L’automne au coin du bois
Joue de l’harmonica.
Quelle joie chez les feuilles!
Autumn
Autumn plays
on his mouth-organ
in woodland ways.
They love it, the leaves!
Away they waltz
on the arm of the breeze.
Someone said they are dead
which no-one believes.
Autumn plays
on his mouth-organ
in woodland ways.
They love it, the leaves!
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Maurice Carême...
To Draw a Little Man
Pour dessiner un bonhomme
Maurice Carême (1899-1978)
Pour dessiner un bonhomme
Deux petits ronds dans un rond
Pour le nez, un trait droit et long
Une courbe dessous, la bouche
Et pour chaque oreille, une boucle
Sous le beau rond, un autre rond
Plus grand encore et plus oblong
On peut y mettre des boutons :
Quelques gros points y suffiront
Deux traits vers le haut pour les bras
Grands ouverts en signe de joie
Et puis deux jambes dans le bas
Qu’il puisse aller où il voudra
Et voici un joli bonhomme
Rond et dodu comme une pomme
Qui rit d’être si vite né
Et de danser sur mon papier
To Draw a Little Man
ROUND. Insert two more of those,
smaller. Long straight line, the nose.
Curve, the mouth, just under here
and a buckle for each ear
At the base, another ring,
oblong, sturdy, strengthening:
You can put some buttons too
Three or four big spots will do
Two more lines for arms, up high
opened wide, a happy guy
Then a pair of legs below
going where he wants to go
There he is! Your cheeky chap’ll
Twinkle, tubby as an apple,
Quickly born and truly glad
Dancing on my drawing-pad
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Maurice Carême...
Frost
Le givre
Maurice Carême (1899-1978)
Le givre
Mon Dieu ! Comme ils sont beaux
Les tremblants animaux
Que le givre a fait naître
La nuit sur ma fenêtre
Ils broutent des fougères
Dans un bois plein d’étoiles,
Et l’on voit la lumière
A travers leurs corps pâles.
Il y a un chevreuil
Qui me connaît déjà ;
Il soulève pour moi
Son front d’entre les feuilles.
Et quand il me regarde,
Ses grands yeux sont si doux
Que je sens mon cœur battre
Et trembler mes genoux.
Laissez moi, ô décembre !
Ce chevreuil merveilleux.
Je resterai sans feu
Dans ma petite chambre.
Frost
Dear God, the splendours
That frost engenders
On my pane, the features
Of trembling creatures!
They’re feeding on ferns
In forests of stars;
Through their pale forms
The daylight appears.
A young roe deer knows me
He knows me, now,
He raises his brow
In the leaves, and shows me.
He sees me, he sees
With his great soft eyes!
My heart’s hackles rise,
I shake at the knees.
Leave me, December,
This wonderful deer!
I’ll light no fire
In my little chamber.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Maurice Carême...
The Beautiful Word
Le beau mot
Maurice Carême (1899-1978)
Le beau mot
"Je reviens de l'école,
Crie le petit garçon
Aux hirondelles folles
Qui l'accueillent en rond.
Regardez, je sais lire.
Voici le mot lumière,
Là, tout près de l'image
De la rose trémière."
Et vrai les hirondelles
Descendues du village
Voient le beau mot briller
Sur le clair de la page.
The Beautiful Word
"School’s over, I’m home, "
The little boy hollers.
To greet him they’ve come,
The scatterbrain swallows.
"I can read! won’t you look?
It says Light, very clear,
Quite close in the book
To the hollyhock here."
And it’s true! Every bird,
Village swallows in flight,
Sees the beautiful word
On the page shining bright.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Maurice Carême...
Sonnet of homage to Manuel de Falla offering him flowers
Soneto de homenaje a Manuel de Falla ofreciéndole unas flores
Federico García Lorca (1898-1936)
Soneto de homenaje a Manuel de Falla ofreciéndole unas flores
Lira cordial de plata refulgente
de duro acento y nervio desatado,
voces y frondas de la España ardiente
con tus manos de amor has dibujado.
En nuestra propia sangre está la fuente
que tu razón y sueños ha brotado.
Álgebra limpia de serena frente.
Disciplina y pasión de lo soñado.
Ocho provincias de la Andalucía,
olivo al aire y a la mar los remos,
cantan, Manuel de Falla, tu alegría.
Con el laurel y flores que ponemos,
amigos de tu casa, en este día,
pura amistad sencilla te ofrecemos.
Sonnet of homage to Manuel de Falla offering him flowers
Warm-hearted shining silver lyre
of steady beat and supple nerve,
you conjure with your hands of love
voices and fronds of Spanish fire.
In our own blood the wellsprings flow
from which your thoughts and visions stream:
clean algebra of tranquil brow,
passion and discipline of dream.
Sing, eight lands of Andalucía,
wind in the olives, oars on sea,
Manuel de Falla’s alegría.
Friends of your house, now, offering
our pure and simple amity,
these flowers and sprigs of bay we bring.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Federico García Lorca...
Epitaph for Isaac Albéniz
Epitafio a Isaac Albéniz
Federico García Lorca (1898-1936)
Epitafio a Isaac Albéniz
"Esta piedra que vemos levantada
sobre hierbas de muerte y barro oscuro
guarda lira de sombra, sol maduro,
urna de canto sola y derramada.
Desde la sal de Cádiz a Granada,
que erige en agua su perpetuo muro,
en caballo andaluz de acento duro
tu sombra gime por la luz dorada.
¡Oh dulce muerto de pequeña mano!
¡Oh música y bondad entretejida!
¡Oh pupila de azor, corazón sano!
Duerme cielo sin fin, nieve tendida.
Sueña invierno de lumbre, gris verano.
¡Duerme en olvido de tu vieja vida!"
Epitaph for Isaac Albéniz
This stone we witness standing tall
on grass of death and dismal clay
guards shadow-lyre and mellow sun,
the spilled and lonely urn of song.
By streams Granada rears her wall;
your shadow moans through gold of day.
From salt Cadiz your hoofbeats run,
Andalucían, pounding strong.
Sweet one, small-handed one, who died!
Music and goodness intertwined!
The great of heart, the goshawk-eyed!
Sleep, skein of snow, sky unconfined,
dream, winter-light, dream, summer-grey,
sleep as your old life slips away!
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Federico García Lorca...
Murder Ballad Of The Reichstag Fire
DIE MORITAT VOM REICHSTAGSBRAND
Bertolt Brecht (1898-1956)
DIE MORITAT VOM REICHSTAGSBRAND
Als der Trommler dreizehn Jahre
aller Welt verkündet hat
die Verbrechen der Kommune,
fand noch immer keines statt.
Und die kleinen Trommler grollen
es muss endlich was geschehn,
die Verbrecher, seht, sie wollen
die Verbrechen nicht begehn.
Eines Tags, es war noch Winter,
blieb man an der Panke Strand,
denn der Führer sagte in der
Luft liegt heut ein Reichstagsbrand.
Und an diesem Montagabend
stand ein hohes Haus in Brand.
Fürchterlich war das Verbrechen
und der Täter unbekannt.
Zwar ein Knabe ward gefunden,
der nur eine Hose trug
Und in Leinwand eingebunden
der Kommune Mitgliedsbuch.
Wer hat ihm dies Buch gegeben,
warum stand er hier herum?
Die SA, sie stand daneben
und die fragt man nicht, warum.
Das Gebäude anzustecken
mussten zwölf gewesen sein,
denn es brannte an zwölf Ecken
und war hauptsächlich aus Stein.
Mittendrin in den zwölf Bränden
standen zwölf von der SA
wiesen mit geschwärzten Händen
auf den schwachen Knaben da.
Und so war denn durch den Führer
die Verschwörung aufgedeckt:
freilich, was noch alles aufkam
hat so manchen doch erschreckt.
In dem Haus, wo die Verschwörung
unbedingt hindurch gemusst,
wohnte ein gewisser Görung,
der von allem nichts gewusst.
Er gab allen Wächtern Urlaub,
war des Reichstags Präsident
und war grade nicht zuhause,
als er hört: der Reichstag brennt!
Warum gabst du deinen Wächtern
heute Urlaub, Präsident?
Heute ist doch grad der Montag,
wo dein ganzer Reichstag brennt!
Könnte man ihn so verhören,
fiel ihm wohl die Antwort schwer.
doch man kann ihn nicht verhören,
denn verhören, das tut er.
Er verhört nicht Hermann Göring,
so erfährt er nicht, was wahr
und was unwahr ist und schließt draus:
der Kommune Schuld sei klar.
Und noch eh die Nacht vergangen
diesem blutgen Februar
war zerschossen und gefangen,
was ein Feind des Hitler war.
Als zu Rom der Kaiser Nero
dürstete nach Christenblut,
setzte er sein Rom in Flammen
und es sank in Asch und Glut.
So bewies der Kaiser Nero,
dass die Christen Schurken sind.
Ein gewisser Hermann Göro
lernte das als kleines Kind.
Zu Berlin im Jahre neunzehn-
hundreddrei und dreissig stand
dann an einem Montagabend
des letzten Reichstag Haus in Brand.
Der dies sang hieß Oberfohren
und der wurde nicht mehr alt
als der Welt es kam zu Ohren,
hat man schnell ihn abgeknallt!
Murder Ballad Of The Reichstag Fire
Thirteen years on end the Drummer
warned the world of coming crime
perpetrated by the Commune:
hasn’t happened all this time.
And the little drummers grumble:
something, happen soon – it’s time!
Trouble is, you see, the criminal
types will not commit the crime.
On the towpath - it was winter -
people gathered, lingered there:
for today, remarked the Führer,
Reichstag Fire is in the air.
On that very Monday evening
stood a lofty house in flame
such a dreadful crime, and no-one
knew the perpetrator’s name.
But a youngster was discovered
he was naked to the hip
from his lining they recovered
book of Commune membership.
Ask by whom this book was given
why the dolt was standing by
all those Brownshirts in the offing
nobody to ask them why.
How to set alight the building
with twelve men it could be done
it was burning at twelve corners
and was mostly made of stone.
Twelve fires burning: in amongst them
stood twelve Brownshirts, quite a squad
pointed with their blackened fingers
at the feeble-minded lad.
So it happened that the Führer
cracked the whole conspiracy
and the whole ensuing story
shocked the great majority.
In the house where the conspiring
was unarguably planned
lived a person, name of Goering
unaware and ignorant.
He was Chairman of the Reichstag
he dismissed the sentinels
when he heard ‘The Reichstag’s burning’
he of course was somewhere else.
Kindly tell us Mr Chairman
why you sent the guards away
after all, that very Monday
was the Reichstag’s burning-day.
If he could be cross-examined
he would struggle, to be sure
but he can’t be cross-examined
he’s a cross-examiner.
He won’t cross-examine Goering
truth and lies he will not hear
takes no evidence, averring
that the Commune’s guilt is clear.
Long before the sun had risen
February night of blood:
shot to pieces or in prison
all the anti-Hitler brood.
Likewise Roman Caesar Nero
Christian blood was to his taste
so he set his Rome a-blazing
soon in ash and fire effaced.
Thus he proved it, Caesar Nero
Christians, villains one and all
and a certain Hermann Goero
learnt of this when he was small.
1933 one evening
Monday night in Berlin town
Reichstag had no further meetings
for its house had been burnt down.
This was sung by Oberfohren
short his life, the man who sang
when the world was told the story
he was nobbled with a bang!
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Bertolt Brecht...
Telephone
Federico García Lorca (1898-1936)
El poeta habla por teléfono con el amor
Tu voz regó la duna de mi pecho
en la dulce cabina de madera.
Por el sur de mis pies fue primavera
y al norte de mi frente flor de helecho.
Pino de luz por el espacio estrecho
cantó sin alborada y sementera
y mi llanto prendió por vez primera
coronas de esperanza por el techo.
Dulce y lejana voz por mí vertida.
Dulce y lejana voz por mí gustada.
Lejana y dulce voz amortecida.
Lejana como oscura corza herida.
Dulce como un sollozo en la nevada.
¡Lejana y dulce en tuétano metida!
Telephone
The poet speaks with his love on the telephone
Your voice in that sweet wooden booth
brought water to my heart’s dry dune.
My feet had springtime to the south,
north of my brow was flower of fern.
In the scant space, a pine of light
sang with no seed-time and no dawn,
and through the roof my weeping caught
the crowns of hope it had not known.
Distant sweet voice revealed for me!
Distant sweet voice regaling me!
Sweet distant voice that sank in swoon.
Distant as hunted deer laid low,
Sweet as a whimper in the snow,
Distant sweet marrow in the bone!
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Federico García Lorca...
To Mercedes on the wing
A Mercedes en su vuelo
Federico García Lorca (1898-1936)
A Mercedes en su vuelo
Una viola de luz yerta y helada
eres ya por las rocas y la altura.
Una voz sin garganta, voz oscura
que suena en todo sin sonar en nada.
Tu pensamiento es nieve resbalada
en la gloria sin fin de la blancura.
Tu perfil es perenne quemadura.
Tu corazón paloma desatada.
Canta ya por el aire sin cadena
la matinal fragante melodía,
monte de luz y llaga de azucena.
Que nosotros aquí de noche y día
haremos en la esquina de la pena
una guirnalda de la melancolía.
To Mercedes on the wing
A violet of icy light
tensed on the rocky pinnacle,
your voice that has no throat but night
is heard in nothing and in all.
Your thoughts are snows, that drift to be
in endless radiance of white:
your face a flame for ever bright,
your heart a turtle-dove set free.
Sing through the unchained air, and sound
the morning song, the fragrant-tuned,
mountain of light and lily-wound.
By day and night all we beneath
shall walk on sorrow's crooked path
and weave a melancholy wreath.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Federico García Lorca...
Sonnet of the Sweet Complaint
Soneto de la dulce queja
Federico García Lorca (1898-1936)
Soneto de la dulce queja
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.
Sonnet of the Sweet Complaint
Let me not lose your wondrous eyes
of marble, nor your voice that blows
your breath, a solitary rose,
between my teeth at pale moonrise.
A stranded trunk without a shoot,
dreading and greatly sorrowing,
I have not clay nor flower nor fruit
to feed my worm of suffering.
Are you my secret treasury,
my tears of pain, my cross? Am I
the lapdog of your mastery?
Let me not lose what I have gained:
And let your river flow adorned
with my sere leaves that fall estranged.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Federico García Lorca...