Hac nocte
Last Night I had the Strangest Dream
Ed McCurdy (1919-2000)
Last Night I had the Strangest Dream
Last night I had the strangest dream
I ever dreamed before
I dreamed the world had all agreed
To put an end to war
I dreamed I saw a mighty room
The room was filled with men
And the paper they were signing said
They'd never fight again
And when the papers all were signed
And a million copies made
They all joined hands and bowed their heads
And grateful prayers were prayed
And the people in the streets below
Were dancing round and round
And guns and swords and uniforms
Were scattered on the ground
Last night I had the strangest dream
I ever dreamed before
I dreamed the world had all agreed
To put an end to war
Hac nocte
hac nocte mirum stat mihi somnium,
quo tale nunquam more notaveram:
omnes omissuros per orbem
horrida bella simul sedebat.
apparet ingens aula, frequentia
turgens virorum: copia gentium,
quae iure iurabant papyris
Martem iterum reparare nunquam.
signant sigillis, milia milium
condunt recondunt vellera : tunc manus
iunguntur et divi coluntur
gratibus et precibus modestis,
infra choreis volvitur in viis
saltatque proles, arcibus ensibus
thorace loricaque et ocreis
undique sub pedibus rejectis.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Ed McCurdy...
venatorem hilarem vidi
I saw a Jolly Hunter
Charles Causley (1917-2003)
I saw a Jolly Hunter
I saw a jolly hunter
With a jolly gun
Walking in the country
In the jolly sun.
In the jolly meadow
Sat a jolly hare.
Saw the jolly hunter.
Took jolly care.
Hunter jolly eager -
Sight of jolly prey.
Forgot gun pointing
Wrong jolly way.
Jolly hunter jolly head
Over heels gone.
Jolly old safety catch
Not jolly on.
Bang went the jolly gun.
Hunter jolly dead.
Jolly hare got clean away.
Jolly good, I said.
venatorem hilarem vidi
venatorem hilarem vidi, hilarissima
armatum pharetra, rus hilare ingredi;
fundit sol hilaris lucem. hilarissimus
in prato lepus est nempe hilarissimo:
venatorem hilarem conspicit anxius.
o quam res hilaris! praedam hilarissimus
urgens ille vagorum immemor arcuum
delapsus subita clade hilarissima,
cui tutela hilari nulla periculo.
arcus prosiluit vis hilarissimi;
venator periit morte hilarissima;
evasit leporis forma hilarissimi;
delectans hilari carmine gaudeo.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Charles Causley...
I saw a Jolly Huntsman
I saw a Jolly Hunter
Charles Causley (1917-2003)
I saw a Jolly Hunter
I saw a jolly hunter
With a jolly gun
Walking in the country
In the jolly sun.
In the jolly meadow
Sat a jolly hare.
Saw the jolly hunter.
Took jolly care.
Hunter jolly eager -
Sight of jolly prey.
Forgot gun pointing
Wrong jolly way.
Jolly hunter jolly head
Over heels gone.
Jolly old safety catch
Not jolly on.
Bang went the jolly gun.
Hunter jolly dead.
Jolly hare got clean away.
Jolly good, I said.
I saw a Jolly Huntsman
I saw a jolly huntsman
With a jolly gun,
Savouring a country
Walk in jolly sun.
On a jolly grassy knoll
Jolly rabbit sat,
Saw your jolly huntsman,
Didn't fancy that.
Huntsman jolly champing,
Marksmanship in play,
Forgot gun was pointing
Wrong jolly way.
Huntsman topsy-turvy,
Hyst'ron-protty-ron,
Jolly ward-lock guard-catch
Not jolly on.
Bang, jolly gunshot!
Huntsman jolly laid
Out for good. Fur got away.
Jolly good, I said.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Charles Causley...
To be a Duck's a Knack, plus Luck
C'EST TOUT UN ART D'ETRE UN CANARD
Claude Roy (1915-97)
C'EST TOUT UN ART D'ETRE UN CANARD
C'est tout un art
D'être un canard
Canard marchant
Canard nageant
Canards au vol vont dandinant
Canards sur l'eau vont naviguant
Etre canard
C'est absorbant
Terre ou étang
C'est différent
Canards au sol s'en vont en rang
Canards sur l'eau s'en vont ramant
Etre canard
Ca prend du temps
C'est tout un art
C'est amusant
Canards au sol cancanants
Canards sur l'eau sont étonnants
Il faut savoir
Marcher, nager
Courir, plonger
Dans l'abreuvoir.
Canards le jour sont claironnants
Canards le soir vont clopinant
Canards aux champs
Ou sur l'étang
C'est tout un art
D'être canard.
To be a Duck's a Knack, plus Luck
To be a Duck's a Knack, plus Luck
a strolling duck
a swimming duck
a soaring duck's
a flip-flap duck
a floating duck’s
a shipshape duck
To be a drake
on land or lake
it’s charms and spells,
it’s something else
On dry land ducks parade, a row
on duckponds, ducks proceed to row
To be a drake
can only take
time, it’s an art
that cheers the heart
A dry-land duck’s a quackle-box
a duckpond duck’s miraculous
A drake can take a walk run swim
in drinking-tank the dunk of him
The ducks of dawn go trumpeting
the ducks of dusk go tottering
To be a drake on lea or lake
to be a duck's a knack plus luck.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Claude Roy...
Time of Man
Tiempo del hombre
Atahualpa Yupanqui (1908-92)
Tiempo del hombre
La partícula cósmica que navega en mi sangre
Es un mundo infinito de fuerzas siderales.
Vino a mí tras un largo camino de milenios
Cuando, tal vez, fui arena para los pies del aire.
Luego fui la madera. raíz desesperada.
Hundida en el silencio de un desierto sin agua.
Después fui caracol quién sabe dónde.
Y los mares me dieron su primera palabra.
Después la forma humana desplegó sobre el mundo
La universal bandera del músculo y la lágrima.
Y creció la blasfemia sobre la vieja tierra.
Y el azafrán, y el tilo, la copla y la plegaria.
Entonces vine a américa para nacer en hombre.
Y en mí junté la pampa, la selva y la montaña.
Si un abuelo llanero galopó hasta mi cuna,
Otro me dijo historias en su flauta de caña.
Yo no estudio las cosas ni pretendo entenderlas.
Las reconozco, es cierto, pues antes viví en ellas.
Converso con las hojas en medio de los montes
Y me dan sus mensajes las raíces secretas.
Time of Man
The cosmic particle voyaging in my blood
Is an infinite world of astral forces.
It reached me by a long trail of millennia
When perhaps I was sand for the air’s footsteps.
Next I was timber, a despairing root
Sunk in the silence of a waterless desert.
Later I was a snail, who knows where,
And the seas gave me their primal word.
Later the human form unfurled over the planet
The universal banner of muscle and tears.
And blasphemy flourished on the ancient earth.
And saffron and the linden, ballads and prayer.
Then I came to America to be born a man.
And in myself I joined pampas, forest and mountain.
If a plainsman grandfather galloped to my cradle,
Another told me tales on his bamboo flute.
I do not study things nor claim to understand them.
I recognise them, certainly, for I lived in them earlier.
I converse with the leaves up in the mountains
And the secret roots give me their messages.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Atahualpa Yupanqui...
One Swallow Doesn’t Make a… What’s that?
Eine Schwalbe macht noch keinen… wie bitte ?
Mascha Kaléko (1907-75)
Eine Schwalbe macht noch keinen… wie bitte ?
Der kahle Lindenbaum vor det Museum,
Ist – haste Worte – wieda jrien belaubt.
Die Amseln üben wieda ihr „Te Deum“,
Der Friehling kommt. Wer hätte det jejlaubt!
Ick laß mia von’ Aprilwind nicht vaschrecken
...Von wejen „Volksmund“, ick bleib fest dabei:
Eene Schwalbe macht eenen Sommer!
Eene Rose macht eenen Mai!
In meinem Blumentopp bliebt schon ein Krokus
...Na, und mein Emil ist so gut wie neu!
Nachts im Park gibts ja wieda Hokuspokus.
Aus eins und eins wird zwei. Und späta drei!
Det een Mal keen Mal sein soll, is een Märchen.
Man hat oft Pech, doch bleib ick fest dabei:
Eene Schwalbe macht eenen Sommer,
Eene Rose macht eenen Mai.
Ei wei!
One Swallow Doesn’t Make a… What’s that?
The lime-tree with no leaves at the Museum
Is, what's the word, in leaf again. It’s green.
The blackbirds are reworking their Te Deum:
Spring’s here. Who knew? You couldn’t have foreseen.
I can’t be scared away by April breezes!
That proverb’s wrong: I confidently say:
One swallow makes a summer
And one rose makes a May
My flower-pot already sports a crocus,
Yes and my Percy’s just as good as new.
The park’s re-opened nights for hocus-pocus -
And one plus one will soon be more than two!
Does once amount to never? No! That’s moonshine.
With any luck I confidently say:
One swallow makes a summer,
And one rose makes a May.
Wa-hey!
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Mascha Kaléko...