Spring

Frühling

Frank Wedekind (1864-1918)

Frühling
Willkommen, schöne Schäferin In deinem leichten Kleide, Mit deinem leichten frohen Sinn, Willkommen auf der Weide. Sieh, wie so klar mein Bächlein fließt, Zu tränken deine Herde! Komm setz dich, wenn du müde bist, Zu mir auf die grüne Erde. Und trübt sich der Sonne goldiger Schein, Und fällt ein kühlender Regen, Dann ist mein Mantel nicht zu klein, Wollen beide darunter uns legen.
Spring
Welcome, pretty shepherdess In your simple summer dress! With your easy happiness, Welcome to the meadow. See, my streamlet runs so clear! Your flock can all be drinking. Come if you’re weary, by me here On the green meadow sinking. And if the sun goes off in a huff And we’ve cool fresh rainy weather, Well, then, my coat is wide enough For us to lie under together.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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To have your heart

Ich werde nicht an deinem Herzen satt

Ricarda Huch (1864-1947)

Ich werde nicht an deinem Herzen satt
Ich werde nicht an deinem Herzen satt, Nicht satt an deiner Küsse Glutergießen. Ich will dich, wie der Christ den Heiland hat: Er darf als Mahl den Leib des Herrn genießen. So will ich dich, o meine Gottheit, haben, In meinem Blut dein Fleisch und Blut begraben. So will ich deinen süßen Leib empfangen, Bis du in mir und ich in dir vergangen.
To have your heart
To have your heart I cannot slake my lust: I crave your kisses’ lambent blaze outpoured: I crave as Christian yearns for Saviour Christ To feast upon the body of my Lord. You are my hallowed Godhead: this I crave: Your blood and body in my blood to hide. Yours, the sweet flesh I hunger to receive, Till you in me, and I in you, have died.
(For Ruth Martin, translating a book called JUJA.)

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Old Violin

Το Παλιό Βιολί

John Polémis (1862-1925)

Το Παλιό Βιολί
Άκουσε τ’ απόκοσμο, το παλιό βιολί μέσα στή νυχτερινή σιγαλιά τού Απρίλη· στό παλιό κουφάρι του μιά ψυχή λαλεί μέ τ’ αχνά κι απάρθενα τής αγάπης χείλη. Καί τ’ αηδόνι τ’ άγρυπνο καί το ζηλευτό ζήλεψε κι εσώπασε κι έσκυψε κι εστάθη, γιά νά δή περήφανο τί πουλί είν’ αυτό πού τά λέει γλυκύτερα τής καρδιάς τά πάθη. Ως κι ο γκιώνης τ’ άχαρο, τό δειλό πουλί, μέ λαχταρ´’ απόκρυφη τά φτερά τινάζει καί σωπαίνει ακούοντας τό παλιό βιολί, γιά να μάθη ο δύστυχος, πώς ν’ αναστενάζη. Τί κι άν τρώη τό ξύλο του τό σαράκι; τί κι άν περνούν αγύριστοι χρόνοι κι άλλοι χρόνοι; Πιό γλυκιά καί πιό όμορφη καί πιό δυνατή η φωνή του γίνεται, όσο αυτό παλιώνει. Είμ’ εγώ τ’ απόκοσμο, τό παλιό βιολί μέσα στή νυχτερινή σιγαλιά τού Απρίλη· στό παλιό κουφάρι μου μιά ψυχή λαλεί μέ τής πρώτης νιότης μου τά δροσάτα χείλη. Τί κι άν τρώη τά σπλάχνα μου τό σαράκι; τί κι άν βαδίζω αγύριστα χρόνο μέ τό χρόνο; Πιό γλυκιά καί πιό όμορφη καί πιό δυνατή γίνεται η αγάπη μου, όσο εγώ παλιώνω.
The Old Violin
Hark to the lonely, the old violin, deep in the April night, silent, unmoving: hark to the soul in its old body, speaking with the pale lips and the pure lips of loving. Even the nightingale, wakeful, acclaimed, stopped and fell silent and looked down with wonder, stooping to see which the songbird might be that sang the heart’s sorrows more sweetly than she. Even the screech-owl, the base bird, the graceless, flutters her wings with a deep-hidden yearning, harks to the old violin, mutely learning how to cry woe, so distressful is she. What if its wood be the food of the worm? Still growing older, as years are departing, year after year that shall never return, sweeter, more beautiful, stronger its singing. I am the lonely, the old violin, deep in the April night, silent, unmoving: hark to the soul in my old body, speaking with the fresh lips of my springtime of living. What if my flesh be the food of the worm? year after year on my course I shall move, still growing older, and never return; sweeter, more beautiful, stronger my love.
Published in ‘In Other Words’ magazine and in Morning Star

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Kallipáteira – Greek Olympic Poem

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Greek

Kallipáteira – Greek Olympic Poem

Lórentsos Mavílis (1860-1912)

Kallipateira by Lórentsos Mavílis (1860–1912), translated by Timothy Adès

ΚΑΛΛΙΠÁΤΕΙΡΑ “Αρχόντισσα Ροδίτισσα, πώς μπήκες; Γυναίκες διώχνει μια συνήθεια αρχαία εδώθε.” “ Έχω έν’ ανίψι, τον Ευκλέα, πατέρα, γιο, τρί’ αδέρφι’ Ολυμπιονίκες. Να μ’αφήσετε πρέπει, Ελλανοδίκες, κ’ εγώ να καμαρώσω μές στα ωραία κορμιά, που για τ’ αγρίλι του Ηρακλέα παλεύουν, θιαμαστές ψυχές αντρίκες! Με τες άλλες γυναίκες δεν είμ’ όμοια· στον αιώνα το σόι μου θα φαντάζει με της αντρειάς τ’ αμάραντα προνόμια. με μάλαμα γραμμένος το δοξάζει, σ’ αστραφτερό κατεβατό μαρμάρου ύμνος χρυσός τ’ αθάνατου Πινδάρου!”
Kallipáteira – Greek Olympic Poem
Kallipáteira “O high–born Rhodian lady, how came you to our door? For women are debarred from here by usages of yore.” “My nephew’s name is Eukles; my father and my son, and my three brothers, all of these Olympic glory won. “Judges of Greece, their merits bespeak my right to pass, proud of their splendid bodies, these that clinch for crowns of Herakles, sprigs of wild olive: spirits manly and marvellous. “I am no common woman. My brave men shine in story: they earned what cannot fade. Writ gold on sparkling marble their golden hymn of glory, that deathless Pindar made.”
My translation was beautifully recited by the Shakespearean actress, Lucy Tregear, at the Greek Olympic poetry evening in the British Library, 28 May 2012, staged by Poet in the City. The poem was introduced by Dr Armand d’Angour. Kallipateira’s father Diagoras of Rhodes won the boxing at the 79th Olympic Games in 464 BC. The island’s airport is named after him. He was also Circuit Victor — ‘periodonikês’ — winning at the Pythian, Isthmian and Nemean Games (the Grand Slam of four majors), and triumphed repeatedly at other Games all over Greece. He was regarded as a model of athletic prowess. Pindar’s great poem on his victory, Olympian Ode 7, was inscribed in gold letters on marble at the Temple of Athena at Lindos, Rhodes. His son Damagetos won the Olympic pankration (a ferocious combination of boxing and wrestling) in 452 and 448, and his son Akousilaos won the boxing in 448, when the two young men carried their father shoulder–high: someone told him to expire at the supreme moment, and he took the hint. A third son, Dorieus, won the pankration in 432, 428 and 424, and a total of 22 victories in the Pythian, Isthmian and Nemean Games. At the Pythian, no–one would face him. Later, two grandsons won the Olympic boxing. A painting by James Barry shows the two sons carrying the old man, with Kallipateira beside them. It can be seen at http://www.bbc.co.uk/arts/yourpaintings/paintings/crowning-the-victors-at-olympia-218502. Women were not admitted to the ancient Olympics, except for one, the priestess of Demeter. After Diagoras’ death, Kallipateira became the trainer of her son Peisirrhodos, entering the stadium in disguise. Overjoyed at his victory, she leapt over a barrier into the athletes’ enclosure, and was detected. Any other woman would have been in trouble: she was treated with great respect! Women were not allowed to compete in the first modern Olympics, at Athens in 1896. Mavílis’ poem appeared in 1898. Of the 2,000 competitors at the first London Olympics in 1908, thirty–seven were women. Lórentsos Mavílis, born in Ithaca, was a poet, multilingual translator, soldier, chess–player, and member of parliament. He fell in battle at Mount Driskos, near Ioannina. Thanks are due to the editors of Classical Association News, where this poem first appeared.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Christmas, Resigned

NOËL RÉSIGNÉ

Jules Laforgue (1860-87)

NOËL RÉSIGNÉ
Noël! Noël! toujours, sur mes livres, je rêve. Que de jours ont passé depuis l’autre Noël! Comme toute douleur au cœur de l’homme est brève. Non, je ne pleure plus, cloches, à votre appel. Noël! triste Noël! En vain la bonne chère S’étale sous le gaz! il pleut, le ciel est noir, Et dans les flaques d’eau tremblent les réverbères Que tourmente le vent, un vent de désespoir. Dans la boue et la pluie on palpe des oranges, Restaurants et cafés s’emplissent dans le bruit, Qui songe à l’éternel, à l’histoire, à nos fanges? Chacun veut se gaver et rire cette nuit! Manger, rire, chanter, — pourtant tout est mystère - Dans quel but venons-nous sur ce vieux monde, et d’où? Sommes-nous seuls? Pourquoi le Mal? Pourquoi la Terre? Pourquoi l’éternité stupide? Pourquoi tout? Mais non! mais non, qu’importe à la mêlée humaine? L’illusion nous tient! — et nous mène à son port. Et Paris qui mourra faisant trêve à sa peine Vers les cieux éternels braille un Noël encor.
Christmas, Resigned
Nowell! Nowell! At my books, I am dreaming on! How many days have passed since the last Nowell! How brief is every grief in the heart of man. No, I no longer weep at the tolling bell. Christmas! Sad Christmas! The sky is rainy and black. Good cheer spreads large to no purpose under the gas. Reflected in puddles of water, the street-lamps shake, Abused by the wind, a wind of hopelessness. In the mud and the rain there are oranges to squeeze. Who thinks of our filth, of history and the hereafter? Cafés and restaurants wrap themselves up in the noise. What people want tonight is guzzling and laughter. Eat, laugh, and sing – yet all is in mystery furled… From where, and for what, do we come to this old round ball? Are we alone? Why Evil? Why the world? Why idiotic Eternity? Why all? But no, no! What is all that to the tumult of man? We are gripped by illusion, it brings us safe to its shore, And Paris the moribund, calling a truce with her pain, Shouts into the ageless skies one Christmas more.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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LULLABY

ΝΑΝΟΥΡΙΣΜΑ

Lórentsos Mavílis (1860-1912)

ΝΑΝΟΥΡΙΣΜΑ
Άρρωστε, ιδές, λαμπρά σβύνεται η μέρα, τριανταφυλλί προμήνυμα του Χάρου· τόση γαλήνη στα γεμάτα χάρου, που μοίρα σου χαρίζει ανοιχτοχέρα. Και στο ναό που άσπρος φαντάζει πέρα - σα να ‘γιναν κολώνες του μαρμάρου οι αρμονίες ενός ύμνου του Πινδάρου πήζοντας ξάφνου μες στον άγιο αγέρα - Έμπα κοίμου και ο ύπνος θα σε γιάνει. Θα ονειρευτείς την ομορφιά την ίδια, που με τ’ αρχαίο τραγούδι θα γλυκάνει της καρδιάς σου τα θλιβερά ξεσκλίδια· “Τον αγαπά ο Θεός, πεθνήσκει νέος. Μην ξυπνάς· είμαι ο θάνατος ο ωραίος.”
LULLABY
Sufferer, see: the bright day goes, Portent of passing, like a rose. Pass, full of joy, to the repose That open-handed Fate bestows. In the white temple shining there – A Pindar hymn, whose harmony Turned into marble columnry, Suddenly formed in sacred air – Enter, and rest; and sleep shall heal. Dream then of beauty, set apart, That sweetens with this ancient song The wretched tatters of your heart: ‘Don’t wake. The one God loves, dies young: And I am Death, the beautiful.’

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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LETHE

ΛΗΘΗ

Lórentsos Mavílis (1860-1912)

ΛΗΘΗ
Καλότυχοι οι νεκροί, που λησμονάνε την πίκρια της ζωής. Όντας βυθήσει ο ήλιος και το σούρουπο ακλουθήσει, μήν τους κλαϊς, ο καημός σου όσος και να ‘ναι! Τέτοιαν ώρα οι ψυχές διψούν και πάνε στης Λησμονιάς την κρουσταλλένια βρύση· μα βούρκος το νεράκι θα μαυρίσει, ά στάξει γι’ αυτές δάκρυ, όθε αγαπάνε. Κι άν πιούν θολό νερό, ξαναθυμούνται, διαβαίνοντας λιβάδι’ απ’ ασφοδείλι, πόνους παλιούς, που μέσα τους κοιμούνται. Α δέ μπορείς παρά να κλαϊς το δείλι, τους ζωντανούς τα μάτια σου άς θρηνήσουν· θέλουν, μα δέ βολεί, να λησμονήσουν.
LETHE
The dead are lucky: they forget Life’s bitterness. Weep not for these, However sad your memories, At twilight, when the sun has set, And souls go thirsting to their spring: For if their loved ones shed a tear, Oblivion’s fountains crystal-clear Suffer a horrid blackening. From tainted water, they recall, Who move through fields of asphodel, Sorrows that in them sleeping dwell. If you must weep when shadows fall, Then for the living weep your fill, For they cannot forget at all.
Published in Classical Association News

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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For a Menu

Para un menú

Manuel Gutiérrez Nájera (1859-95)

Para un menú
Las novias pasadas son copas vacías; en ellas pusimos un poco de amor; el néctar tomamos... huyeron los días... ¡Traed otras copas con nuevo licor! Champán son las rubias de cutis de azalia; Borgoña los labios de vivo carmín; los ojos obscuros son vino de Italia, los verdes y claros son vino del Rhin. Las bocas de grana son húmedas fresas; las negras pupilas escancian café; son ojos azules las llamas traviesas, que trémulas corren como almas del té. La copa se apura, la dicha se agota; de un sorbo tomamos mujer y licor... Dejemos las copas... ¡Si queda una gota, que beba el lacayo las heces de amor!
For a Menu
Each lass in our past is one more empty glass: We poured in a measure of love; We drain down the nectar, we let the days pass... Bring on others! New savours we’ll prove. Champagne are the blondes of azalea sheen, Crimson lips are a Burgundy wine; Dark eyes are Italian, grand Hippocrene, Pale green are the taste of the Rhine. Red mouths are fresh strawberries; coffee conspires From eyes black as night to flow free; Blue eyes are the wayward, the frolicsome fires, The shimmering spirit of tea. The goblet runs dry and good fortune runs down. Wine and women! One draught is enough. Farewell to our cups! Should a droplet remain, Leave to lackeys the leavings of love!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B0n0jEhp4JI https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EIW_2Oe6m0Y

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Evensong

Ἑσπερινός

George Drosinis (1859-1951)

Ἑσπερινός
Στὸ ρημαγμένο παρακκλήσι τῆς Ἄνοιξης τὸ θεῖο κοντύλι εἰκόνες ἔχει ζωγραφίσει μὲ τ᾿ ἀγριολούλουδα τ᾿ Ἀπρίλη. Ὁ ἥλιος, γέρνοντας στὴ δύση, μπροστὰ στοῦ ἱεροῦ τὴν πύλη μπαίνει δειλὰ νὰ προσκυνήσῃ κι ἀνάφτει ὑπέρλαμπρο καντήλι. Σκορπάει γλυκειὰ μοσκοβολιὰ δάφνη στὸν τοῖχο ριζωμένη - θυμίαμα ποὺ καίει ἡ Πίστις - καὶ μία χελιδονοφωλιά, ψηλὰ στὸ νάρθηκα χτισμένη, ψάλλει τὸ Δόξα ἐν Ὑψίστοις...
Evensong
Within the ruined chapel’s shade, spring with his holy brush has made icons of April’s meadow-flowers. A laurel rooted in the wall spreads musky fragrance over all, for faith has incense-burning powers. The sun is dipping in the west and shyly enters to adore: lights a bright candle, stands before the altar. Now a swallows’ nest strikes up, above the clerestory: Glory to God; in the highest, glory!
Published in WW Norton anthology, ‘Greek Poetry’

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Skye Boat Song

Sir Harold Boulton, Bt. (1859-1935)

Translated into Latin by Timothy Adès
Skye Boat Song
Speed bonny boat, like a bird on the wing,     Onward! the sailors cry: Carry the lad that’s born to be king     Over the sea to Skye. Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar,     Thunderclaps rend the air, Baffled our foes stand on the shore,     Follow they will not dare. Many’s the lad fought on that day     Well the claymore could wield, When the night came, silently lay     Dead on Culloden’s field. Though the waves leap, soft shall you sleep,     Ocean’s a royal bed: Rocked in the deep, Flora will keep     Watch by your weary head. Burned are their homes, exile and death     Scatter the loyal men: Yet ere the sword cool in the sheath,     Charlie will come again!
i, ratis, i, velut ales avis,     porro cient nautae: per mare fer, qui rex iuvenis     spes Caledoniae. saevit hiems, unda stridet,     fulmine flent caeli: hostis haerens litus habet,     pavidus insequi. plurimus vir, Marte sollers,     nisus erat ferro: venerat nox, iacet iners     mortuus in solo. spuma salit, lassus dormit,     cubat in gurgite: una sedet, fida manet     vigil pro capite. igni suos, exilio,     morte sparsos queror: ense tamen non tepido     reveniet victor!

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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