The Man in the Moon

Der Mann im Mond

Mascha Kaléko (1907-75)

Der Mann im Mond
Der Mann im Mond hängt bunte Träume, Die seine Mondfrau spinnt aus Licht, Allnächtlich in die Abendbäume, Mit einem Lächeln im Gesicht. Da gibt es gelbe, rote, grüne Und Träume ganz in Himmelblau. Mit Gold durchwirkte, zarte, kühne, Für Bub und Mädel, Mann und Frau. Auch Träume, die auf Reisen führen In Fernen, abenteuerlich. Da hängen sie an Silberschnüren! Und einer davon ist für dich.
The Man in the Moon
The Man in the Moon, he hangs bright dreams On evening-trees the livelong night. His happy Moonface grins. He beams! His Moonwife spins them, out of light, And some are gentle, some are bold And some are dreams of heaven’s blue Green yellow red and laced with gold For girls and boys and grown-ups too, And dreams that lead to voyaging, Adventures in the far unknown. Each hangs upon a silver string And there’s one dream that’s all your own.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Doggerel by a Senior Citizen

Categories
Latin

From: Doggerel by a Senior Citizen

W.H. Auden (1907-73)

Dare any call Permissiveness An educational success? Saner those class-rooms which I sat in, Compelled to study Greek and Latin.
Doggerel by a Senior Citizen
Latin by Timothy Adès: profuit, heu! puero discenda licentia nulli: sanius, heu! linguae, Graece, Latine, tuae.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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‘What spot do you aim at?’ by Wystan Hugh

Oh where are you going

W.H. Auden (1907-73)

Oh where are you going
"O where are you going?" said reader to rider, "That valley is fatal where furnaces burn, Yonder's the midden whose odours will madden, That gap is the grave where the tall return." "O do you imagine," said fearer to farer, "That dusk will delay on your path to the pass, Your diligent looking discover the lacking, Your footsteps feel from granite to grass?" "O what was that bird," said horror to hearer, "Did you see that shape in the twisted trees? Behind you swiftly the figure comes softly, The spot on your skin is a shocking disease." "Out of this house"---said rider to reader, "Yours never will"---said farer to fearer "They're looking for you"---said hearer to horror, As he left them there, as he left them there.
‘What spot do you aim at?’ by Wystan Hugh
‘What spot do you aim at?’ said bookworm to backload: That low strip is fatal as kilns hotly burn, It’s got a big dunghill, its odour’s a lungful, That gap is a tomb from which lofty folk turn.’ ‘O is it your notion’ said pallid to payload, ‘That dusk will hold back on your path to yon pass, Your small-tooth-comb looking track down what is lacking, Your footfall go groping from gabbro to grass?’ ‘O what was that bird’ said to auditor awful, ‘Did you spot that form amid twigs twisting thick? At your back swiftly that thing’s coming softly, That spot on your skin dubs you horribly sick.’ ‘Out of this building’ said backload to bookworm, ‘Yours will not do it’ said payload to pallid, ‘You got you a manhunt,’ said auditor, 'awful.' Your man didn’t stay, your man didn’t stay.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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A Subaltern’s Love Song

A Subaltern’s Love Song

Sir John Betjeman (1906-84)

A Subaltern’s Love Song
Miss J Hunter Dunn, Miss J Hunter Dunn, Furnish'd and burnish'd by Aldershot sun, What strenuous singles we played after tea, We in the tournament - you against me! Love-thirty, love-forty, oh! weakness of joy, The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy, With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won, I am weak from your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn. Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, How mad I am, sad I am, glad that you won. The warm-handled racket is back in its press, But my shock-headed victor, she loves me no less. Her father's euonymus shines as we walk, And swing past the summer-house, buried in talk, And cool the verandah that welcomes us in To the six-o'clock news and a lime-juice and gin. The scent of the conifers, sound of the bath, The view from my bedroom of moss-dappled path, As I struggle with double-end evening tie, For we dance at the Golf Club, my victor and I. On the floor of her bedroom lie blazer and shorts And the cream-coloured walls are be-trophied with     sports, And westering, questioning settles the sun On your low-leaded window, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn. The Hillman is waiting, the light's in the hall, The pictures of Egypt are bright on the wall, My sweet, I am standing beside the oak stair And there on the landing's the light on your hair. By roads 'not adopted', by woodlanded ways, She drove to the club in the late summer haze, Into nine-o'clock Camberley, heavy with bells And mushroomy, pine-woody, evergreen smells. Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, I can hear from the car-park the dance has begun. Oh! full Surrey twilight! importunate band! Oh! strongly adorable tennis-girl's hand! Around us are Rovers and Austins afar, Above us, the intimate roof of the car, And here on my right is the girl of my choice, With the tilt of her nose and the chime of her voice, And the scent of her wrap, and the words never said, And the ominous, ominous dancing ahead. We sat in the car park till twenty to one And now I'm engaged to Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.
A Subaltern’s Love Song
Filia Venanti, castris te finxit Apollo,     tinxit et aere artus, pinxit et arte genas. strinximus undecima clavas (pila pellitur!) hora,     altera tu vehemens, strenuus alter ego! tu superas pueros motu, cita qualis hirundo:     laetor, inops puncti; ter, quater ipsa notas. risisti, pariter secura ac sedula victrix:     conficior forma, pulchra Atalanta, tua. filia Venanti, Venanti filia nostri,     palma tua est: uror, laetor, amore feror! conditur in prelum capulo modo clava tepente,     sed mea me victrix (stat coma!) semper amat. tendimus ad patrem. Venanti euonymus albet;     fundimus incepta, qua casa, verba via; porticus excepit zephyris; nova nuntiat aether;     iuniperus citro tingitur, apta bibi. sub thalamo lucet maculoso semita musco;     calda aqua mi resonat; conifer hortus olet. papilione agitor duplici: fas cingere collum!     haud aequi petimus, qua pila parva, choros. at tua braca chlamysque iacent, thalamique renidet     pariete lacteola plurima palma pilae. sol tetigitque trabem tingitque, Atalanta, fenestram:     occidit, exquirens quid tibi fata parent. Niliacae splendent species in pariete pictae:     aula micat taedis: nos rota parva manet. quernus ubi gradus est, ibi sum; laqueata supersunt,     crine refulgenti qua, mea vita, nites. autumno petimus - lora ipsa dat - aere turbam,     quo nemore, aedilis, non tua cura via est! venimus in vicum sero multum aere sonantem;     boleti et viridi germine pinus olent. filia Venanti, Venanti filia nostri,     sistimus: ingeminat coeptus in aure chorus. tibia nil cessans! perfecta crepuscula campi!     laetor, Amazoniam me tetigisse manum. undique circumstant bigae, procul undique currus;     clam nos sub grato culmine noster habet: naribus incurvis capior vocisque canore:     unica mi laevo dextra puella sedet. ecquid haruspicii vetat adfectare choreos?     fragrat odor pallae: conscia lingua tacet! quattuor in curru sub nocte remansimus horas,     tempore et ex illo sponsa Atalanta mihist.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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LITERACY CAMPAIGN of the minister [and poet] J. Torres Bodet

LA CAMPAÑA DE ALFABETISACIÓN del ministro Jaime Torres Bodet

Salvador Novo (1904-74)

LA CAMPAÑA DE ALFABETISACIÓN del ministro Jaime Torres Bodet
Exclamó la comunidat al escuchar la novedat: ¿Dejar de ser analfabet para leer a Torres Bodet? ¡Qué atrocidat!
LITERACY CAMPAIGN of the minister [and poet] J. Torres Bodet
Said the community Hearing the news of it – Mayn’t we be quaintly illiterate yet? What a calamity Learning the alphabet All for the poems of Torres Bodet!

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Gurs

Gurs is a prison-camp in France

Adolf Unger (1904-42)

Gurs is a prison-camp in France
Sie liegen wie Klötze aus Schlamm, Auf Säcken mit Stroh gefüllt. Gegen ihr Leid ist kein Damm Gebaut, Not wird nicht gestillt. Sie hoffen und beten nicht mehr. So liegen und warten sie auch. Ihr Leben ist schal und leer, Ein Nichts, ein Hauch, Manchmal schrecken sie auf, Gedrückt vom Alp der Nacht. So liegen sie da zu Hauf. Was hat man aus ihnen gemacht.
Gurs
Like mud-clots they are lain On sacking, with straw filled. No dam holds back their pain, Their hardship is unstilled. They have no hope, no prayer, They lie there, waiting. Their life is empty, bare, A shell, breath, nothing. They wake in dread from sleep, Pressed by an evil dream, Lying there in a heap. What has been done to them?

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Rebozo de mi Madrecita

Rebozo de mi Madrecita

Ricardo López Méndez (1903-89)

Rebozo de mi Madrecita
Madrecita chula, guardo tu rebozo como santo cariño, con mi devoción, Madrecita linda, ¡qué maravilloso si yo me lo oprimo sobre el corazón! Cuando fuiste niña cubrió tu cabeza y entrabas al templo con él a rezar; cuando fuiste novia, cubrió tu belleza y enjugó tu llanto si te vio llorar. Tu rebozo madre, me sirvió de cuna, se inició en tus hombros, como en un trigal, con él me cubriste del sol a la luna, él era mi cielo y era mi jacal … El fue tu mortaja, madrecita mía; La muerte en la noche del ancho llegó: te arropó en su sombra, miró tu agonía y el viejo rebozo también te lloró.
Rebozo de mi Madrecita
Your dear shawl, I keep it, sweetest darling mother, keep it with devotion, by its warmth caressed. Darling lovely mother, what a thing of wonder, when I hold it tightly, hug it to my breast! When you yet were growing, it concealed your tresses, graced you in the chapel when you went to pray; when you came to marry, hid your charming blushes, if it saw you weeping, wiped your tears away. Mother, your rebozo served me as a cradle, first about your shoulders, snug as a cob of corn. with your shawl you covered me from sun and moonbeam, it was all my heaven and my humble home … At the last you wore it, O my darling mother; death came down from heaven, dark night covered all. In its shade enfolding, watchful at your dying, sharing in our sorrow mourned the dear old shawl.
Beautifully recited by Lucy Tregear at the Mexican evening of Poet in the City, British Museum, February 2010.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Poem for a Doll bought in a Russian Bazaar

Poème pour une poupée achetée dans un bazar russe

MARGUERITE YOURCENAR (1903-87)

Poème pour une poupée achetée dans un bazar russe
Moi je suis bleu des rois et noir de suie Je suis le grand Maure (rival de Pétrouchka). La nuit me sert de troïka; J’ai le soleil pour ballon d’or. Presqu’aussi vaste que les ténèbres, Mais tout aussi fragile qu’un vivant, Le moindre souffle émeut mon corps sans vertèbres. Je suis très résigné, car je suis très savant: Ne raillez pas mon teint noir, ni mes lèvres béantes, Je suis, comme vous, un pantin entre des mains géantes.
Poem for a Doll bought in a Russian Bazaar
I’m true royal blue black as grime. I’m the mighty Maroon (I challenge Petrushka). I’ve night for my troika, the sun for my golden balloon. If darkness is big, I’m almost bigger, but have any living being’s weakness: the lightest puff disturbs my boneless figure. I’m primed with knowledge, hence my meekness: Don’t laugh at my sooty-faced grin: you might forget: I’m held in a giant’s hands, like you, just a marionette.
Copyright: Editions Gallimard

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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PALINURUS SLEEPLESS

PALINURO INSOMNE

Silvina Ocampo (1903-93)

PALINURO INSOMNE
nudus in ignota, Palinure, iacebis harena Las olas y las algas y las alas, los caracoles rotos y sonoros, la sal y el yodo, las tormentas malas, los delfines inciertos y los coros de sirenas cansadas de cantar, no te reemplazarán las tierras suaves donde vagabas con el quieto andar que aleja siempre a las profundas naves. Palinuro: tu rostro clausurado y marítimo ofrece a la serena noche insomnios. Desnudo y acostado perpetuarás tus muertes en la arena, y crecerán con distracción de piedra tus uñas y tu pelo entre la hiedra.
PALINURUS SLEEPLESS
nudus in ignota, Palinure, iacebis harena Seawaves seaweeds and seawings snailwhorls seawrecked and sounding salt iodine and stormwind sparse dolphins and the chorus of sirens tired of singing: no match for lands of pleasure you roamed with silent footfall to keep the deep ships from you. Night sleeps not Palinurus to see you beached and seachanged: your face is sealed. Lie naked and die and die, and mindless as stone your nails and hair still shall grow among the ivy.
Publ in CA News, Dec 1992

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Recognising the Hero

Παναγιώτης Κανελλόπουλος

Panayiotis Kanellopoulos (1902-86)

Παναγιώτης Κανελλόπουλος
Τον ήρωα τον γνωρίζεις απ΄ την πτώση και τον δειλό απ΄τ΄ανεβάσματα που δεν τού αξίζει. Του πρώτου τ΄όνομα το ψιθυρίζει στ΄αφτιά του λαού ένας άγνωστος με πλούσια γνώση. Τ΄όνομα του άλλου το σαλπίζει και με τα τύμπανα το διαφημίζει στην αγορά ο εσμός των εργολάβων.
Recognising the Hero
The hero from his fall you recognise; The coward, though, from his unworthy rise. The former’s name Is whispered in the people’s ear, by one Who’s rich in knowledge, but himself unknown. The latter’s name Is drummed and trumpeted to public fame By myrmidons of enterprise.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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