Foggy weaving
Nebelweben
Christian Morgenstern (1871-1914)
Nebelweben
Der Nebelweber webt im Wald
ein weisses Hemd für sein Gemahl.
Die steht wie eine Birke schmal
in einem grauen Felsenspalt.
Im Winde schauert leis und bebt
ihr dämmergrünes Lockenlaub.
Sie lässt ihr Zittern ihm als Raub.
Der Nebelweber webt und webt ...
Foggy weaving
The foggy weaver in the wood
Weaves a white nightgown for his wife.
Slim as a birch, she tucks her foot
Into a grey cleft on the cliff.
What stirs and shivers in the breeze?
Her tresses, that are dim green leaves.
She yields her tremblings for his prize.
The foggy weaver weaves and weaves…
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Christian Morgenstern...
The Three Sparrows
Die drei Spatzen
Christian Morgenstern (1871-1914)
Die drei Spatzen
In einem leeren Haselstrauch
da sitzen drei Spatzen,
Bauch an Bauch.
Der Erich rechts und links der Franz
und mittendrin
der freche Hans.
Sie haben die Augen zu,
ganz zu,
und obendrüber, da schneit es, hu!
Sie rücken zusammen, dicht an dicht.
So warm wie der Hans
hat's niemand nicht.
Sie hören alle drei ihrer Herzlein Gepoch
und wenn sie nicht weg sind,
so sitzen sie noch.
The Three Sparrows
Deep in a hazel-bush
tight as a nut
belly to belly three sparrows squat.
Lucky on the left
Ricky on the right
cheeky Dicky in the central slot.
Six eyes shut,
all shut tight,
upside topside snowing a lot.
Huddle up snuggle up
tight as tight
as warm as Dicky is nobody not.
Tick tack tock
each tiny heart
if they didn’t depart
they’re still on the spot.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
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Evening
Der Abend
Christian Morgenstern (1871-1914)
Der Abend
Auf braunen Sammetschuhen geht
der Abend durch das müde Land,
sein weiter Mantel wallt und weht,
und Schlummer fällt von seiner Hand.
Mit stiller Fackel steckt er nun
der Sterne treue Kerzen an.
Sei ruhig, Herz! Das Dunkel kann
dir nun kein Leid mehr tun.
Evening
In his brown velvet shoes he blows
across the weary land:
his mantle billows as he goes,
and sleep falls from his hand.
With noiseless torch he lights the stars,
those candles good and true.
Be still, my heart: fear not the dark:
it cannot injure you.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
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Morning
Morgen
Christian Morgenstern (1871-1914)
Morgen
Nun sind die Sterne wieder
von blaßblauer Seide verhüllt,
nun Näh′ und Ferne wieder
von junger Sonne erfüllt.
Ihr weißen Wasser, die ihr
hinab zur Ebne springt,
oh sagt den Freunden, wie mir
das Herz heut singt und klingt!
Morning
Again the stars are shrouded
in silk of palest blue;
both near and far are flooded
with sunshine young and new.
White waters, oh white waters,
who down to the plain go springing,
oh tell my friends my heart is
a-ringing and a-singing!
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
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Little house beside the rails
Das Häuschen an der Bahn
Christian Morgenstern (1871-1914)
Das Häuschen an der Bahn
Steht ein Häuschen an der Bahn,
hoch auf grünem Hügelplan.
Tag und Nacht, in schnellem Flug,
braust vorüber Zug um Zug.
Jedes Mal bei dem Gebraus
zittert leis das kleine Haus-:
"Wen verlässt, wen sucht auf
euer nimmermüder Lauf?"
"Oh nehmt mit, oh bestellt
Grüße an die weite Welt!"
Rauch, Gestampf, Geroll, Geschrill...
Alles wieder totenstill.
Tag und Nacht dröhnt das Gleis.
Einsam Häuschen zittert leis.
Little house beside the rails
Little house beside the rails
On the meadow in the hills.
Train on train by day and night
Thunders past in rapid flight.
Every time the little house
Hears the roar, it’s tremulous.
‘Whom do you forsake? And who,
Tireless one, entices you?
Take my greetings to bestow
On the wide world, as you go!’
Shriek, stamp, rumble, stinky breath,
All again soon mute as death.
Lonely by the iron way
Cottage trembles night and day.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
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Tarantula - by Hilarious Blloc
Tarantella
Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953)
Tarantella
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the spreading
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
(Under the vine of the dark verandah)?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteeers
Who hadn't got a penny,
And who weren't paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the Din?
And the Hip! Hop! Hap!
Of the clap
Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl
Of the girl gone chancing,
Glancing,
Dancing,
Backing and advancing,
Snapping of a clapper to the spin
Out and in --
And the Ting, Tong, Tang, of the Guitar.
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
Never more;
Miranda,
Never more.
Only the high peaks hoar:
And Aragon a torrent at the door.
No sound
In the walls of the Halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground
No sound:
But the boom
Of the far Waterfall like Doom.
Tarantula - by Hilarious Blloc
So you forgot that inn, did you,
Miranda?
So you forgot that inn? Probably not!
And a smoothing-down of a lot
Of straw for a cot
And a scrat
Of a gnat
On Mount Ararat
And a Bacchic jar with a flavour of tar?
And callow mahouts
Laughing and scoffing with mirthful shouts
On a plum–drunk balcony, far
Away from old Karaganda?
So you forgot that inn, did you,
Miranda?
So you forgot that inn? Probably not!
And callow mahouts with mirthful shouts
Who hadn’t a sou
And who would not pay, not a button or two
And that dunning on doors, what a din!
And a Hip! Hop! Hap!
Of a clap
Of hands to a twirl and swirl
Of a girl spun chancing,
Glancing,
Dancing,
Backing and advancing,
Snap clap clapping to a spin
Out and in —
And a Ting, Tong, Tang, of a Guitar.
So you forgot that inn, did you,
Miranda?
So you forgot that inn? Probably not!
Not again, Miranda, nor
A Jamaican station on Bodmin Moor!
Only Hyrcanian high crags hoar,
Cascading of Aragon at my door.
No sound
Within walls
Of halls! It falls,
That fatal footfall clocks cold ground:
No sound
But a boom,
A Niagara Falls
Of doom.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Hilaire Belloc...
Nochebuena
Christmas Night
Amado Nervo (1870-1919)
Christmas Night
Pastores y pastoras,
abierto está el edén.
¿No oís voces sonoras?
Jesús nació en Belén.
La luz del cielo baja,
el Cristo nació ya,
y en un nido de paja
cual pajarillo está.
El niño está friolento.
¡Oh noble buey,
arropa con tu aliento
al Niño Rey!
Los cantos y los vuelos
invaden la extensión,
y están de fiesta cielos
y tierra... y corazón.
Resuenan voces puras
que cantan en tropel:
Hosanna en las alturas
al Justo de Israel!
¡Pastores, en bandada
venid, venid,
a ver la anunciada
Flor de David!...
Nochebuena
Shepherds, shepherdesses,
Eden is unbarred.
Hear the sounding voices!
Born today Our Lord.
Born today is Christ:
radiant are the skies.
Straw is all the nest
where the birdling lies.
Noble ox, behold
baby shivering.
Warm breath in the cold,
robe the infant king!
Angel-wings and voices
fill the furthest part:
heaven’s host rejoices,
heaven, earth… and heart.
Hear the sounding chorus,
all the troop of them,
loud extol His glories,
born in Bethlehem!
Come, you band of shepherds,
flocking from the fold:
see the son of David
long ago foretold!
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
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Bons Mots
Hilariores Nugae
Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953)
Hilariores Nugae
When I am dead, I hope it may be said:
“His sins were scarlet, but his books were read.”
The accursed power which stands on privilege
(and goes with women, champagne and bridge)
Broke - and democracy resumed her reign
(which goes with bridge and women and champagne.
Good morning, Algernon: Good morning, Percy.
Good morning, Mrs Roebeck. Christ have mercy!
I'm tired of love; I'm still more tired of rhyme;
but money gives me pleasure all the time.
Bons Mots
umbra, rubens peccator, amer modo versificator.
perdidit imperium fatale superbior ordo:
tres aderant comites alea, Bacchus, amor.
reddita iam plebis florebat Roma tribunis:
tres aderant comites tessera, vina, Venus.
salve, Marce. Mari, salve. Curiatia, salve.
o di immortales, parcite supplicibus !
lassat Amor ; plus Musa ; manet iucundius Aurum.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
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Androgyne
Andrógino
Amado Nervo (1870-1919)
Andrógino
Por ti, por ti, clamaba cuando surgiste,
infernal arquetipo, del hondo Erebo,
con tus neutros encantos, tu faz de efebo,
tus senos pectorales, y a mí viniste.
Sombra y luz, yema y polen a un tiempo fuiste,
despertando en las almas el crimen nuevo,
ya con virilidades de dios mancebo,
ya con mustios halagos de mujer triste.
Yo te amé porque, a trueque de ingenuas gracias,
tenías las supremas aristocracias:
sangre azul, alma huraña, vientre infecundo;
porque sabías mucho y amabas poco,
y eras síntesis rara de un siglo loco
y floración malsana de un viejo mundo.
Androgyne
Infernal archetype! I cried
to you… From Hades’ lowest place,
your neuter charms, ephebic face,
light-muscled breasts, rose to my side.
You, bud and pollen, light and shade,
roused souls to novel infamy:
a callow god’s virility,
the stale endearments of a jade.
No grace, no goodness: none of that.
I loved the arch-aristocrat,
blue blood, wild spirit, barren womb:
you knew the more, you loved the less,
adding a Zeitgeist’s recklessness
to an old world’s unwholesome bloom.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
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For the Fallen
For the Fallen
Laurence Binyon
For the Fallen
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day–time;
They sleep beyond England’s foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well–spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
Poem by Robert Laurence Binyon (1869–1943), published in The Times newspaper on 21st September 1914.
For the Fallen
mater agit grates et honores Anglia reddit,
dum gemit occisos trans maris alta suos.
hoc genus, hic genius patriae: male passa tyrannos
mater, et his eadem causa suprema fuit.
funere ab augusto cantatur in aetheris arces
nenia; sollemni tympana voce sonant;
audimus medio coelestia carmina luctu,
et mira in lacrimis gloria luce nitet.
ad pugnam egreditur iuvenum cum cantibus agmen;
stat robur membris, lucet in ore fides;
intrepidique ultro, veniant si milia contra,
hostibus adverso comminus ore cadunt.
non illos poterit ceu nos vexare senectus,
non anni fessis imposuisse notam.
illorum memores cernemus condere solem
lumen, item prima luce rubere polum.
quos nec ridentes cari comitantur amici,
nec iamiam retinent mensa, cubile, domus:
nec datur his operis nostri pars ulla diurni,
sed procul a patriae litore, grata quies.
at qua surgit amor nobis, quibus orta profundis
spes similis caecae condita fontis aquae,
noverit hos penitusque fovens in pectore condet
patria, ceu nocti sidera nota, suos.
hi, cum nos erimus pulvis, velut astra nitebunt,
quae carpent caeli per loca rite vias;
sidera uti splendent, ubi nos premit hora tenebris,
perpetua haec durat luce corusca cohors.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
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