Autumn

Automne

René-Guy Cadou (1920-51)

Automne
Odeur des pluies de mon enfance Derniers soleils de la saison! A sept ans comme il faisait bon, Après d’ennuyeuses vacances, Se retrouver dans sa maison! La vieille classe de mon père, Pleine de guêpes écrasées, Sentait l’encre, le bois, la craie Et ces merveilleuses poussières Amassées par tout un été. O temps charmant des brumes douces, Des gibiers, des longs vols d’oiseaux, Le vent souffle sous le préau, Mais je tiens entre paume et pouce Une rouge pomme à couteau.
Autumn
My childhood: fragrances of rain, The season’s final sunny days, When I was seven years of age After the boring holidays, How pleasant to be home again! Old schoolroom of my dear Papa, The horde of wasps unkindly killed, The ink and chalk and wood I smelled, The wondrous dust, the plethora That all the summer months had piled… O charming time of gentle mist, Long flights of birds that hunters felled, Wind in the courtyard roof that hissed, Yet in my palm and thumb I held A bright red apple to be sliced!
My words have kindly been added to the video.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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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.
A great many folk singers perform this on YouTube. - The United Nations Charter was sihned in San Francisco on 12 June 1945.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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venatorem hilarem vidi

I saw a Jolly Hunter

Charles Causley (1917-2003)

His English, my Latin
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

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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

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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

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Tomorrow

Demain

Jean Cayrol (1911-2005)

Demain
Vous trouverez les pas encore humides dans l’allée vous trouverez le vin séché dans les bouteilles vous trouverez la nuit si jeune aux joues vermeilles vous trouverez le nom que j’avais oublié Vous trouverez la ville toute pâle dans l’ombre le chien aveugle le feu dérobé à nouveau vous trouverez la terre habituée à ses cendres l’ange ébloui du crime assis sur un tombeau Vous trouverez la voix toute rongée par l’amour les morts qui vont venir dans la saison secrète et notre liberté qui détourne la tête et l’aube déchirée par les larmes qui court Vous trouverez l’épée la colère et le jour.
Tomorrow
You’ll find the footmarks tacky in the rents You’ll find the bottles where the wine ran dry The night with cheeks rouged out of innocence You’ll find the name that slipped my memory The sightless watchdog and the stolen fire You’ll find the city leaden in the gloom Earth used to ashes and the angel choir Stunned by the crime and sitting on a tomb You’ll find the voice that love has gnawed away The furtive assignations of the dead You’ll find our freedom hanging down its head And dawn in flight ripped open by dismay You’ll find the sword the anger and the day.
Published in Outposts, 1990

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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A Year Later

Ein Jahr später

Otto Reinhards (1911-?)

Ein Jahr später
Es sind noch immer die gleichen Wellen, die gleichen Muscheln, was immer ich find. Es sind noch immer die gleichen Dünen, die Gräser, die Halme und auch der Wind. Es ist noch immer der Zug in den Wolken. Ein Hauch weht wieder durch mein Haar. Es sind noch immer die gleichen Brücken am Himmelsbogen wie damals es war.
A Year Later
Still the same waves And still the same mussels As ever I find. Still the same dunes And grasses and rushes And also the wind. Still the clouds pass. Again a breeze ruffles, Blows over my hair. Still the same bridges In high-vaulted heaven As ever were there.
Nothing else known of this poet. Painting by Hermann Seeger.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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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

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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

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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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