Give me Roses!

Gebt Rosen her!

Johanna Wolff (1858-1943)

Gebt Rosen her!
Rosensüchtig war mein Herz, Rosen wollte ich umfangen, empfing von Dornen nur Schmerz. Blüten raffte ich an mein Gewand, füllte mit Knospen die sehnende Hand, Rosen, purpurne Rosen! Weiß nicht, was gestern geschehn; mein Kleid, meine Hände sind leer. Sah meine Rosen bei Anderen stehn und mußte lächelnd vorüber gehn, das Herz zum Sterben schwer. Gebt Rosen her!
Give me Roses!
Roses you craved, my heart! roses I fast embraced: from thorns came pain and smart. Blooms at my breast I placed, buds filled my yearning hand, roses, crimson-red roses! What happened yesterday? Empty of roses my dress, my hand: culled by others my roses stand. No, I must with a smile pass by: my heavy heart weighs down to die. Give me Roses!

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Un Deuil / Mourning (1916)

Categories
French

Un Deuil / Mourning (1916)

Émile Verhaeren (1855-1916)

Elle eut trois fils; tous trois sont tombés à Boncelle. Le soir se fait. J’entends parler sa tendre voix. Un trop rouge soleil joue encor dans les bois, Mais la douceur de l’ombre est flottante autour d’elle. Bien que toute heure, hélas! lui soit une heure triste; Elle ne prétend pas renoncer au malheur Dont est lasse sa chair, mais dont est fier son cœur Et dont la clarté belle, en ses larmes, persiste. Et je la vois là–bas qui de sa lente main Cueille, pour ses trois morts, trois fleurs dans le chemin Et mon âme s’emplit de joie involontaire À voir marcher ce deuil bienfaisant sur la terre. From Les Ailes Rouges de la Guerre
Un Deuil / Mourning (1916)
She had three sons. Boncelle undid them all. I hear her soft voice speak, as shadows fall. Long the red sunset in the woods has played, Yet round her floats the mildness of the shade. Though all her hours are hours of wretchedness, She guards, for all her flesh’s weariness, A heart that treasures up this tragedy, And tears that shine with its nobility. I see her slowly plucking in the lane Three flowers for her three dear fallen men: My soul rejoices, as it surely would, To see this grief go forth, a force for good.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Premieres Aéroplanes

From Les Ailes Rouges de la Guerre

Émile Verhaeren (1855-1916)

From Les Ailes Rouges de la Guerre
Les roses de l’été — couleur, parfum et miel — Peuplent l’air diaphane; Mais la guerre parsème effrayamment le ciel De grands aéroplanes. Ils s’envolent si haut qu’on ne les entend pas Vrombir dans la lumière Et que l’ombre qu’ils allongent de haut en bas S’arrête avant la terre. L’aile courbe et rigide et le châssis tendu, Ils vont, passent et rôdent, Et promènent partout le danger suspendu De leur brusque maraude. Ceux des villes les regardant virer et fuir Ne distinguent pas même Sur leur avant d’acier ou sur leur flanc de cuir Leur marque ou leur emblème. On crie, — et nul ne sait quelle âme habite en eux, Ni vers quel but de guerre Leur vol tout à la fois sinistre et lumineux Dirige son mystère. Ils s’éloignent soudain dans la pleine clarté, Dieu sait par quelle voie, En emportant l’affre et la peur de la cité Pour butin et pour proie.
Premieres Aéroplanes
Honey, colours, aromas of roses of summer: Bright breeze’s refrains. But war sows the sky with the fearsome yammer Of great aeroplanes. They fly up so high and they thrum in the light Yet we hear no sound And their shadow stretching down from a height Never reaches the ground. With chassis outstretched, with curved rigid wing They circle and prowl, And wherever they go they hang threatening With their evil patrol. City people watching them scamper and wheel Cannot even descry On their leather flank or their nose of steel An identity. Though we shout, no–one knows who is riding unseen, Or to what warlike ends The luminous flight of the hellish machine Inscrutably tends. And all at once in broad daylight they’ve fled, God knows by which way, Making off with the city’s terror and dread, Their booty, their prey. Published in Agenda 2014.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Wisdom

Sapienza

Giovanni Pascoli (1855-1912)

Sapienza
Salì pensoso la romita altura ove ha il suo nido l’aquila e il torrente, e centro delle lontananza oscura sta, sapїente. Oh! scruta intorno gl’ignorati abissi: più ti va lungi l’occhio del pensiero, più presso viene quello che tu fissi: ombra e mistero.
Wisdom
Climb pensive up the lonely height, nest of the eagle and the spate, and in remoteness like the night stand, contemplate. Oh, cast your gaze on depths unknown : the further strays your mental eye, the nearer come these things you settle on: shade, mystery.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Les Rois

The Kings

Émile Verhaeren (1855-1916)

The Kings
C’est une troupe de gamins Qui porte la virevoltante étoile De toile Au bout d’un baton vain. Le vieux maître d’école Leur a donné congé; L’hiver est blanc, la neige vole, Le bord du toit en est frangé. Et par les cours, et par les rues, Et deux par deux, et trois par trois, Ils vont chantant avec des voix Qui muent, Tantôt grêles, tantôt fortes, De porte en porte, La complainte du jour des Rois. « Avec leurs cœurs, avec leurs vœux, Toquets de vair, souliers de plumes, Collets de soie et longs cheveux, Et blancs comme est blanche l’écume, Faldera, falderie, Vierge Marie, Voici venir, sur leurs grands palefrois, Les bons mages qui sont des rois. » « Avec leurs cœurs, avec leurs vœux, Jambes rêches, tignasses rousses, Vêtement lâche en peaux de bœufs, Mais doux comme est douce la mousse Faldera, falderie, Vierge Marie, Voici venir, avec troupeaux et chiens Les vieux bergers qui ne sont rien. » « Avec leurs cœurs, avec leurs vœux, Sabots rouges, casquettes brunes, Mentons gercés et nez morveux Et froids comme est froide la lune Faldera, falderie, Vierge Marie, Voici venir, au sortir de l’école Ceux qui demandent une obole. » Et sur le seuil des torpides maisons, Non pas à flots, ni à foisons, Mais revêches et rarissimes, Comme si le cuivre craignait le froid, Sont égrenés, du bout des doigts, Les minimes centimes. Les gamins crient, Et remercient, Happent l’argent qui leur échoit; Et chacun d’eux, à tour de role, Et sur le front, et sur le torse, et les épaules Se trace, avec le sou, le signe de la croix.
Les Rois
An urchin troupe Waves the twirling star Of cloth at the top Of a lofty prop. Old schoolmaster grants A half-day off. Winter’s white, flakes dance, Snow fringes the roof. In courts and streets By twos and threes From door to door they sing With breaking voices hoarse or strong This day’s own ballad of the Kings. “With heartfelt goodwill-vows, Topknots of ermine, plumes on shoes, Silk collars, tresses, here we come, As pale as foam, Fal-lal, fal-lairy, Virgin Mary, On our high palfreys journeying, We kindly Wise Men, each a king.” “With heartfelt goodwill-vows And shaggy legs and russet wigs And shabby garb of hides of cows As soft as moss, Fal-lal, fal-lairy, Virgin Mary, Here we come with flocks and dogs, We the old shepherds, merest dross.” “With heartfelt goodwill-vows, Chins chapped, snot-nosed, Brown-capped, red clogs, Cold as the moon, Fal-lal, fal-lairy, Virgin Mary, Here we come from schoolroom door, For an obol, only a coin, no more.” And on the thresholds Of torpid households Not streaming, teeming But crabbed and sparse, – Perhaps the brass Shrinks from the cold? – Cold hands dispense Mean sous and cents. Urchins cry thanks, Snatch the sum thrown, And each in turn On brow, breast, shoulders with the coin Traces the cross.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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How Grim!

Si morne!

Émile Verhaeren (1855-1916)

Si morne!
Se replier toujours sur soi-même, si morne ! Comme un drap lourd, qu'aucun dessin de fleur n'adorne. Se replier, s'appesantir et se tasser Et se toujours, en angles noirs et mats, casser. Si morne ! et se toujours interdire l'envie De tailler en drapeaux l'étoffe de sa vie. Tapir entre les plis ses mauvaises fureurs Et ses rancœurs et ses douleurs et ses erreurs. Ni les frissons soyeux, ni les moires fondantes Mais les pointes en soi des épingles ardentes. Oh ! le paquet qu'on pousse ou qu'on jette à l'écart, Si morne et lourd, sur un rayon, dans un bazar. Déjà sentir la bouche âcre des moisissures Gluer, et les taches s'étendre en leurs morsures. Pourrir, immensément emmaillotté d'ennui ; Être l'ennui qui se replie en de la nuit. Tandis que lentement, dans les laines ourdies, De part en part, mordent les vers des maladies.
How Grim!
Always enfolding on oneself, how grim! Like unadorned non-floral heavy bedding, Enfolding, being weighted down, subsiding, Fragmenting into sharp points, black and dim. How grim! And to inhibit one’s desire Of cutting up life’s cloth in strips for banners, To hide within the folds one’s evil fires, One’s sorrows and one’s errors and one’s rancours. No silken shivers and no melting moire: The points of red-hot pins within one’s core, The packet pushed or shovelled to the floor, Grim, heavy, on a shelf in a bazaar. To sense the mould now acrid in the mouth, The sticky stains that spread from tooth to tooth, To rot, immensely swaddled in ennui, To be the ennui enfolded in the night, While slowly in the wool-warp’s devilry, Through everywhere, the worms of sickness bite.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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from The Importance of Being Earnest

Categories
Latin

from The Importance of Being Earnest

Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)

A: tristia fata iubent: similis fit femina matri:     non fit vir similis (tristia fata!) suae. J: nonne sapis? A: pulchro modulor! sat vera loquela est:     haud nimium veram suavibus esse decet. J: quippe salis taedet. coepit iam quisque lepores:     occurrit lepidus, quicquid inibis iter.     laeditur immenso lepidorum publica damno     res. date, di, stultis posse manere! A: manent. J: nosse velim certe. quo more loquuntur? A: inepti?     de lepidis. J: o mens stulta et inepta gregis!
from The Importance of Being Earnest
Algernon: All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That’s his. Jack: Is that clever? Algernon: It is perfectly phrased! And quite as true as any observation in civilised life should be. Jack: I am sick to death of cleverness. Everybody is clever nowadays. You can’t go anywhere without meeting clever people. The thing has become an absolute public nuisance. I wish to goodness we had a few fools left. Algernon: We have. Jack: I should extremely like to meet them. What do they talk about? Algernon: The fools? Oh, about the clever people, of course. Jack: What fools.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Crows

LES CORBEAUX

Arthur Rimbaud (1854-91)

LES CORBEAUX
Seigneur, quand froide est la prairie, Quand dans les hameaux abattus Les longs angelus se sont tus… Sur la nature défleurie Faites s’abattre des grands cieux Les chers corbeaux délicieux! Armée étrange aux cris sévères, Les vents froids attaquent vos nids! Vous, le long des fleuves jaunis, Sur les routes des vieux calvaires, Sur les fossés et sur les trous Dispersez-vous, ralliez-vous! Par milliers, sur les champs de France, Où dorment les morts d’avant-hier, Tournoyez, n’est-ce pas, l’hiver, Pour que chaque passant repense? Sois donc le crieur du devoir, Ô notre funèbre oiseau noir! Mais, saints du ciel, en haut du chêne, Mât perdu dans le soir charmé, Laissez les fauvettes de mai Pour ceux qu’au fond du bois enchaîne, Dans l’herbe d’où l’on ne peut fuir, La défaite sans avenir.
Crows
Lord, when the countryside is cold, And nature naked and unflowered, When in the hamlets overpowered The last long angelus has tolled, Bring down from your wide heavens those Adorable, delicious crows! Strange armies of the cheerless cries, The icy winds assault your homes! Along the banks of yellowed streams, On roads of ancient calvaries, Over the ditches and the delves Scatter yourselves, unite yourselves! In thousands, on the fields of France, Where sleep the dead of yesteryear, Will you not whirl with winter here, Bring second thoughts to transients? Give voice, our black sepulchral bird, Cry duty as your battle-word! Come, saints above, on oaken steep, Where twilight charms great masts away: Turn from the warbling birds of May To those enchained in forest deep, In thickets where no wings are fleet, By ineluctable defeat.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Vocalisations

Voyelles

Arthur Rimbaud (1854-91)

Voyelles
A noir, E blanc, I rouge, U vert, O bleu: voyelles, Je dirai quelque jour vos naissances latentes: A, noir corset velu des mouches éclatantes Qui bombinent autour des puanteurs cruelles, Golfes d'ombre; E, candeurs des vapeurs et des tentes, Lances des glaciers fiers, rois blancs, frissons d'ombelles; I, pourpres, sang craché, rire des lèvres belles Dans la colère ou les ivresses pénitentes; U, cycles, vibrements divins des mers virides, Paix des pâtis semés d'animaux, paix des rides Que l'alchimie imprime aux grands fronts studieux; O, suprême clairon plein des strideurs étranges, Silences traversés des Mondes et des Anges: - O l'Oméga, rayon violet de Ses Yeux!
Vocalisations
A black, (a blank), I blood, U grass, O sky: I'll bring to light your backgrounds. Wait a bit. A, smooth black armour of a flashing fly Buzzing around a horrid stinking pit, Dark gulfs; (who?), fair camp-canvas, vapour-drips, Alp-cusps, snow-kings and shaking fumitory; I, crimsons, spat blood, luscious laughing lips, Furious, or only drunk with saying sorry: U, holy rhythms of a Gaian main, Calm grazing-grounds of cows, calm brows and brain That witchcraft furrows, mind-span that absorbs; O, mighty trump, full-blown with wondrous chords, Still voids for flights of worlds and spirit-birds. O, big round O, viola-ray, O Orbs!

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Rimbaud perceives the vowels as having colours! Some people perceive musical notes, or musical instruments, in that way: the technical term is synesthesia. These variations were added in 2020 in a blog written for the Rimbaud & Verlaine Society.

A
written by the meteoric young genius

X nights, E gulls, I blood, U green, O blue:
I’ll tell your origins in just one jiffy.
First, sleek jet corset of some flies which flew
Like buzz-bombs over sink-holes fiercely whiffy,

Dim depths; E, tents, or white condensing drips,
proud snow-crests, virgin kings, the trembling umbel;
I, crimsons, blood-gouts, luscious chortling lips,
Once furious, or drunk, but now quite humble:

U, holy rhythms of the snot-green brine,
Furrows incised on brows, whose chemistries
Conjure gold spells; quiet greenbelt strewn with kine;

O, mighty trump, full-blown with wondrous chords,
Still voids for flights of worlds or spirit-birds:
O, big round O, lobbed violet of those Eyes!

I
by the ne’er-do-well wonder-boy who stole La Mauté’s husband,

A black, E snow, J blood, U green, O blue:
My task: your backgrounds have to be revealed.
A, sleek black corset of a fly that flew
around a swamp malodorous, concealed,

Buzzy; E, canvas tents and puffs of steam,
Proud snowy crests, proud monarchs, trembly umbel;
J, purples, blood-gouts, lovely mouths that stream
Laughter of rage, once drunk perhaps, now humble;

U, holy groundhog throb of snot-green seas,
The peace of beast-strewn pastures, peace of ruts
Dug by dark spells on brows of PhD’s;

O, the last trump, full of strange brazen brays,
Mute tracts traversed by worlds’ and angels’ routes,
O Omega, those eyeballs’ purple rays!

U
by the whippersnapper from Charleville-Mézières,

A black, E white, I blood, X grass, O sky:
Here’s how the whole gang started. Wait a bit.
A, smooth black corset of a flashing fly
prancing atop a horrid stinking pit,

black holes; E, canvas tents, condensing drips,
white kings, fierce glacier-spears, the cowslip’s shiver;
I, crimson, spat blood, mirth of lovely lips
Enraged, or tipsy, off to see the shriver;

X, cycles, holy throb of snot-green seas,
The peace of beast-strewn meadows, peace of grooves
That witchcraft scored on brows of PhD’s;

O, the last blast, blown with weird brazen brays,
Still voids traversed by worlds’ and angels’ hooves,
O Orbs, great Omega, viola-rays!

UE
Thank that blatant makar, a faraway castaway at Harar

A night, X snow, I blood, Y grass, O sky:
How did that gang start off, now? Wait a bit.
A, smooth black thorax of a flashing fly
prancing atop a horrid stinking pit,

black voids; X, canvas camps and foggy drips,
snow-kings, high glacial swords, a cowslip’s frisson;
I, crimson, spat blood, mirth of tasty lips
Angry, or tipsy, off to find a parson;

Y, holy rhythmic throb of briny snots,
Calm grazing-grass of moo-cows, calm of spraints
That magic’s drawn on brows of toiling swots;

O, mighty blast, blown hard with odd brass brays,
Still voids, tram-tracks of worlds and flying saints:
O Orbs, big Royal Orbs, viola-rays!

O
Arthur Rimbaud scripsit, scalpsit, slurpsit

A black, E white, I red, U green, Z sky:
What lies behind these items? Wait a bit.
A, shiny hull that guards a flashing fly
Buzzing beside an evil stinking pit,

Dark gulfs; E, fair camp-canvas, misty drips,
Alp-cusps, pale kings and lilies vacillating;
I, scarlet, spat red cells, sweet laughing lips,
Irate, unless half-cut with exculpating:

U, cycles, drums that grace a Gaian main,
Calm heifers’ pastures ; tranquil temples, brain
Adept at study, wrinkled by witchcraft;

Z, mighty trumpet-blast, replete with genius,
Vacuums where angels flit and planets waft:
Z, zigzag Z-ray, plump and purple Zinnias!

EEEEE
Extreme verses! We’ve kept the E, we’ve eschewed the rest,
we never needed them. We persevered!

E jet, E sleet, E red, E green, E… See
Whence these emerged! We’re exegetes: we’ll tell.
E, welded vestments the resplendent bee
Needs, when she seeks the sewer’s repellent smell,

Grey depths; E, wet sheens, essences, speedwells,
Ellesmere’s deep-freezes, Re per neve, tents;
E, belched red cells, the glee des lèvres belles:
She’s vexed… let’s see! She’s legless, she repents!

E, wheels, celestes, green meres where petrels breed,
Self-seeded beeves well-rested where they feed,
Experts’ meek temples, trenches hexes pressed;

E, endless sennets, revellers’ blended cheers,
The ether’s messengers, the seven seers;
E, EVEREST, E’S EYES, THE LEVEL BEST!!!

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

Setting a Jewel

Engarce

Salvador Díaz Mirón (1853-1928)

Engarce
El misterio nocturno era divino. Eudora estaba como nunca bella, y tenía en los ojos la centella, la luz de un gozo conquistado al vino. De alto balcón apostrofóme a tino; y rostro al cielo departí con ella tierno y audaz, como con una estrella... ¡Oh qué timbre de voz trémulo y fino! ¡Y aquel fruto vedado e indiscreto se puso el manto, se quitó el decoro, y fue conmigo a responder a un reto! ¡Aventura feliz! - La rememoro con inútil afán; y en un soneto monto un suspiro como perla de oro.
Setting a Jewel
The evening was mysterious, divine; Eudora, yet more lovely than before: and in her eyes there was a spark of fire, a fierce exultant joy, achieved by wine. From the high tier, the name she called was mine! Thanking my stars, I left the place with her, gentle and bold, as one who leads a star. Oh, but her voice was tremulous and fine. And that forbidden fruit unprincipled wrapped herself in her mantle, and, forgetting decorum, coaxed me to the field of honour! A fine adventure, lovingly recalled. Rather than dream, I write a sonnet on her, to catch my sigh, a pearl in a golden setting.
Díaz Mirón, a Mexican, is buried in the Rotonda de los Hombres Ilustres. His life ‘abounded with revolutionary plots, political quarrels, duels and vigorous journalistic debates.’ In 1892 he killed a man in self-defence; in 1910 he was imprisoned for trying to kill a fellow-Deputy, but the Revolution freed him.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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