Outward Bound

OUTWARDS

Henry Levet (1874-1906)

OUTWARDS
L’Armand Béhic (des Messageries Maritimes) File quatorze nœuds sur l’Océan Indien… Le soleil se couche en des confitures de crimes, Dans cette mer plate comme avec la main. - Miss Roseway, qui se rend à Adélaïde, Vers le Sweet Home au fiancé australien, Miss Roseway, hélas, n’a cure de mon spleen; Sa lorgnette sur les Laquedives, au loin… - Je vais me préparer – sans entrain! – pour la fête De ce soir: sur le pont, lampions, danses, romances (Je dois accompagner miss Roseway qui quête - Fort gentiment – pour les familles des marins Naufragés!) Oh, qu’en une valse lente, ses reins À mon bras droit, je l’entraine sans violence Dans un naufrage où Dieu reconnaîtra ses siens…
Outward Bound
Indian Ocean: Postal Maritime: Steaming at fourteen knots, the Andrew B. The sun sets in its jammy mess of crime Into this flat, seemingly hand-smoothed sea. Miss Roseway, who is bound for Adelaide To her fiancé’s Home Sweet Home of sheep, Can’t cure my spleen’s distemper, I’m afraid, Her lorgnette quizzing at the Lakshadweep. Reluctantly, I shall attend the dance This evening: lanterns on the bridge; romance. (I’m partnering Miss Roseway, who solicits For shipwrecked sailors’ families, in the nicest Possible way!) O, may I, in the waltz, Cradling her kidneys, gently draw her on To shipwreck! God will recognise his own…
Published in The London Magazine 2018 and in Poetry Atlas (online)

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Early Spring

Vorfrühling

Hugo von Hofmannsthal (1874-1929)

Vorfrühling
Es läuft der Frühlingswind Durch kahle Alleen, seltsame Dinge sind In seinem Wehn. Er hat sich gewiegt, Wo Weinen war, Und hat sich geschmiegt In zerrüttetes Haar. Er schüttelte nieder Akazienblüten Und kühlte die Glieder, Die atmend glühten. Lippen im Lachen Hat er berührt, Die weichen und wachen Fluren durchspürt. Er glitt durch die Flöte Als schluchzender Schrei, An dämmernder Röte flog er vorbei. Er flog mit Schweigen Durch flüsternde Zimmer Und löschte im Neigen Der Ampel Schimmer. Es läuft der Frühlingswind Durch kahle Alleen, Seltsame Dinge sind In seinem Wehn. Durch die glatten Kahlen Alleen Treibt sein Wehn Blasse Schatten. Und den Duft, Den er gebracht, Von wo er gekommen Seit gestern nacht.
Early Spring
The wind of spring Runs barren ways: Rare burdening The wind conveys. Where tears are shed, Himself he lulls And makes his bed In unkempt curls. He sprinkles low Acacia blooms And cools the glow Of gasping limbs. Lips in laughter He gently feels, Scouring softer The lively fields. In flutes he slips A sobbing cry: Dawn has pink tips As he flies by. Silent he ranges As rooms murmur, Stoops and expunges Vases’ glimmer. The wind of spring Runs barren ways: Rare burdening The wind conveys. Along the bald Bare avenues Shadows, pallid, Drifting, he blows. And perfume Floods his flight Whence he came Last night.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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British India

British India

Henry Levet (1874-1906)

British India
À Rudyard Kipling Les bureaux ferment à quatre heures à Calcutta; Dans le park du palais s’émeut le tennis ground; Dans Eden Garden grince la musique épicée des Cipayes; Les equipages brillants se saluent sur le Red Road... Sur son trône d’or, étincelant de rubis et d’émeraudes, S.A. le Maharadjah de Kapurthala Regrette Liane de Pougy et Cléo de Mérode Dont les photographies dédicacées sont là... — Bénarès, accroupie, rêve le long du fleuve; La Brahmane, candide, lassé des épreuves, Repose vivant dans l’abstraction parfumée... — A Lahore, par 120 degrés Fahrenheit, Les docteurs Grant et Perry font un match de cricket, — Les railways rampant dans la jungle ensoleillée.
British India
To Rudyard Kipling At four, Calcutta’s offices are shut. Excitement at the Palace tennis-court. In Eden Gardens, spice of sepoy band. On the Red Road, smart landaus meet and greet. Enthroned in rubies, emeralds, and gold, The Maharajah of Kapurthala Thinks ruefully of Pougy and Mérode, Whose inscribed portrait photographs he holds. Benares dreams, crouched at the riverside; The Brahmin, candid, weary of his tests, Lives in his perfumed abstract thoughts, and rests. Lahore is at one-twenty Fahrenheit: There’s cricket, Dr Perry, Dr Grant. Through sun-drenched jungles, railway-trains advance.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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That Road, I Trod It Not

The Road Not Taken

Robert Frost (1874-1963)

He never needed the letter E !
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I — I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
That Road, I Trod It Not
Two roads! At a fork in an autumn wood I was sorry I could not go down both Without bifurcating. Long I stood looking down road X as far as I could till it slank out of sight in that sylvan growth. And I took road Y, which could turn a trick, Alluring, and angling for priority, That is, it was grassy and in good nick, Though I must say footfall and walking-stick Had worn both roads with comparability. And both that morning similarly lay Intact, no taint of any trampling black. I put off Road X for a distant day, Though, knowing how way links up with way, I hardly thought that I would go back. I shall spout this story and I shall sigh, Who knows how soon, or in what locality: Two roads at a fork in a wood, and I – Shunning busy road X, I took road Y! – With what upshot? A thoroughgoing dissimilarity!
The story behind this poem: 'Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken" is both humorous and ironic, reflecting the poet's playful side. In the early 20th century, Frost became close friends with the English writer Edward Thomas. They often took long walks together through the countryside, where Thomas would frequently express regret over not choosing a different path once they had gone a certain way. Frost, amused by Thomas's indecision and tendency to second-guess himself, decided to write a poem as a gentle parody of his friend. 'In 1915, Frost penned "The Road Not Taken," intending it as a playful mockery of Thomas’s indecisiveness. The poem's narrator stands at a fork in the woods, choosing one path over another, only to later claim that the choice made "all the difference," despite the paths being equally worn. Frost sent the poem to Thomas, expecting his friend to catch the humor. However, Thomas did not realize that the poem was meant to be lighthearted and instead interpreted it as a serious reflection on choice and consequence. This misunderstanding disappointed Frost but also deepened the poem’s legacy, as it highlighted how easily people can misconstrue intentions based on their perspectives. 'Interestingly, this poem, which Frost intended as a joke, became one of his most famous and is often quoted as an inspiring message about individualism and the significance of choices in life. Yet, Frost’s original intent was more about poking fun at the human tendency to overthink and attribute deep meaning to decisions that, in hindsight, may not have been as significant as we believe. 'This story not only sheds light on the poem’s true meaning but also adds a layer of irony, as the world continues to interpret the poem in a way that differs from Frost’s original playful intent.'

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Dust of Snow

Dust of Snow

Robert Frost (1874-1963)

Let's see whether he needed the letter E.
Dust of Snow
The way a crow Shook down on me The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart A change of mood And saved some part Of a day I had rued.
Dust of Snow
I'm glad that a crow shook down just now my dusting of snow from a poison-bough: a try-again start transforming my mood, and saving a part of a day not good.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Who was that? By Wally d l M.

Some One

Walter de la Mare (1873-1956)

Let’s see whether he needed the letter E.
Some One
Some one came knocking At my wee, small door; Someone came knocking; I'm sure-sure-sure; I listened, I opened, I looked to left and right, But nought there was a stirring In the still dark night; Only the busy beetle Tap-tapping in the wall, Only from the forest The screech-owl's call, Only the cricket whistling While the dewdrops fall, So I know not who came knocking, At all, at all, at all.
Who was that? By Wally d l M.
Who was that knocking At my dainty door? That was a knocking That I’m vouching for; Hark, hark, unlatch, unlatch, Look this way and that! But nought was a stirring, All was black as your hat; Only a busy bug Tapping in a wall, Only from woodland A shrill owl’s call, And Jiminy’s whistling As dawndrops fall, So I know not who was knocking, At all, at all, at all.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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If all the world’s lasses

Si toutes les filles du monde

Paul Fort (1872-1960)

Si toutes les filles du monde
Si toutes les filles du monde voulaient se donner la main, Tout autour de la mer, elles pourraient faire une ronde. Si tous les gars du monde voulaient bien être marins, Ils feraient avec leurs barques, un joli pont sur l’onde. Alors on pourrait faire une ronde tout autour du monde, Si tous les gens du monde voulaient se donner la main.
If all the world’s lasses
If all the world’s lasses Joined up hand in hand They could dance round the sea In a ring on dry land. If all the world’s lads Would sail out on the sea, A bridge over water Their vessels would be. And so we could make A ring round every land If all of the people Joined up hand in hand.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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My Old Man Said ‘Follow the Van...’

Fred W. Leigh (1871-1924) and Charles Collins (1874-1923)

My Old Man Said ‘Follow the Van...’
‘i, sequere’ inquit erus ‘pantechnicon, impigra cursu.’     plaustrum abiit; veterem constat abisse domum. en sequor, en sequitur passer meus ille canorus,     sed pigra, sed pigro corde soluta vagor, nescio qua. vigili suffecto credere noli!     quae via sit, fallor; fallit adempta domus.
My old man said "Follow the van, And don't dilly dally on the way". Off went the van wiv me 'ome packed in it, I followed on wiv me old cock linnet. But I dillied and dallied, dallied and dillied Lost me way and don't know where to roam. Well you can't trust a special like the old time coppers When you can't find your way 'ome.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Meadows of buttercup yellow

Butterblumengelbe Wiesen

Christian Morgenstern (1871-1914)

Butterblumengelbe Wiesen
Butterblumengelbe Wiesen, sauerampferrot getönt, - o du überreiches Sprießen, wie das Aug dich nie gewöhnt! Wohlgesangdurchschwellte Bäume, wunderblütenschneebereift - Ja, fürwahr, ihr zeigt uns Träume, wie die Brust sie kaum begreift.
Meadows of buttercup yellow
Meadows of buttercup yellow and rust-red sorrel hue, blossoms lavishly mellow such as the eye never knew. Trees with harmony swelling, marvel-snow-flowering too, what are these dreams you are telling? No heart has the measure of you.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Nasobēm

Das Nasobēm

Christian Morgenstern (1871-1914)

Das Nasobēm
Auf seinen Nasen schreitet einher das Nasobēm, von seinem Kind begleitet. Es steht noch nicht im Brehm. Es steht noch nicht im Meyer. Und auch im Brockhaus nicht. Es trat aus meiner Leyer zum ersten Mal ans Licht. Auf seinen Nasen schreitet (wie schon gesagt) seitdem, von seinem Kind begleitet, einher das Nasobēm.
The Nasobēm
Upon its nose advancing here comes the Nasobēm. It’s followed by its offspring, all moving as a team. They’re not yet known to science, They’re not in any zoo. They made their first appearance In pictures that I drew. Upon its nose advancing (returning to my theme) it’s followed by its offspring, here comes the Nasobēm.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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