Like a Railway

Das Eisenbahngleichnis

Erich Kästner (1899-1974)

Das Eisenbahngleichnis
Wir sitzen alle im gleichen Zug und reisen quer durch die Zeit. Wir sehen hinaus. Wir sahen genug. Wir fahren alle im gleichen Zug und keiner weiß, wie weit. Ein Nachbar schläft; ein andrer klagt; ein dritter redet viel. Stationen werden angesagt. Der Zug, der durch die Jahre jagt, kommt niemals an sein Ziel. Wir packen aus, wir packen ein. Wir finden keinen Sinn. Wo werden wir wohl morgen sein? Der Schaffner schaut zur Tür herein und lächelt vor sich hin. Auch er weiß nicht, wohin er will. Er schweigt und geht hinaus. Da heult die Zugsirene schrill! Der Zug fährt langsam und hält still. Die Toten steigen aus. Ein Kind steigt aus, die Mutter schreit Die Toten stehen stumm am Bahnsteig der Vergangenheit. Der Zug fährt weiter, er jagt durch die Zeit, und keiner weiß, warum. Die erste Klasse ist fast leer. Ein feister Herr sitzt stolz im roten Plüsch und atmet schwer. Er ist allein und spürt das sehr Die Mehrheit sitzt auf Holz. Wir reisen alle im gleichen Zug zur Gegenwart in spe. Wir sehen hinaus. Wir sahen genug. Wir sitzen alle im gleichen Zug und viele im falschen Coupé.
Like a Railway
We’re all aboard the same chuff-chuff, We travel through existence. We’re peering out, we’ve seen enough, We’re all of us on the same chuff-chuff, None of us knows the distance. One neighbour sleeps, another sneers, A third has thoughts to share. The list of halts assaults our ears, The train goes chasing through the years, Never quite getting there. We spread our gear, we stow our gear, We find it so confusing. Tomorrow we’ll be – where? – not here. Ticket-collector looming near Smiles at us. How amusing! And where’s he bound? Blowed if he knows. He’s gone, he’s told us nowt. The powerful shrill whistle blows, The train puts on the brakes and slows And stops. The dead get out. A child gets out, the mother screams. On platforms of the past The horde of Death, unspeaking, teems. The train, time-traveller, onward steams. Everyone is nonplussed. First class, there’s hardly anyone. Plump gentleman sits proud, Breathes heavily on red plush throne. He’s well aware he is alone. Wood benches for the crowd. We’re all aboard the same chuff-chuff, Quite hopeful, just at present. We’re peering out, we’ve seen enough, We’re sitting in the same chuff-chuff, Some in the wrong compartment.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Drowned Girl

Vom ertrunkenen Mädchen

Bertolt Brecht (1898-1956)

Vom ertrunkenen Mädchen
Als sie ertrunken war und hinunterschwamm Von den Bächen in die großeren Flüsse Schien der Opal des Himmels sehr wundersam Als ob er die Leiche begütigen müsse. Tang und Algen hielten sich an ihr ein So daß sie langsam viel schwerer ward. Kühl die Fische schwammen an ihrem Bein Pflanzen und Tiere beschwerten noch ihre letzte Fahrt. Und der Himmel ward abends dunkel wie Rauch Und hielt nachts mit den Sternen das Licht in Schwebe. Aber früh ward er hell, daß es auch Noch für sie Morgen und Abend gebe. Als ihr bleicher Leib im Wasser verfaulet war Geschah es (sehr langsam), daß Gott sie allmählich vergaß Erst ihr Gesicht, dann die Hände und ganz zuletzt erst ihr Haar. Dann ward sie Aas in Flüssen mit vielem Aas.
The Drowned Girl
When she was drowned she floated on and on Down the streams and brooks and into the great big river The opal light of heaven most splendidly shone As if impelled to do the body a favour. Grappled and held by the water-weeds and the slimes, Slowly and out of proportion her weight increased. Fishes swam coolly along beside her limbs. Last haul! as a ferry for green-stuff and water-beast. In the evenings the sky was as dark as smoke With the stars by night it kept the light in play But the brightness came on early when morning broke So she still had the start and the finish of the day. As her pallid corpse lay foul in the water there By God himself she was little by little forgotten: First her face, then her hands, then finally her hair. She was just more meat in the water, decayed and rotten. Published in Agenda 2014, vol. 48/2
A selection from YouTube...

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Sonnet of the Sweet Complaint

Soneto de la dulce queja

Federico García Lorca (1898-1936)

Soneto de la dulce queja
Tengo miedo a perder la maravilla de tus ojos de estatua y el acento que de noche me pone en la mejilla la solitaria rosa de tu aliento. Tengo pena de ser en esta orilla tronco sin ramas; y lo que más siento es no tener la flor, pulpa o arcilla, para el gusano de mi sufrimiento. Si tú eres el tesoro oculto mío, si eres mi cruz y mi dolor mojado, si soy el perro de tu señorío, no me dejes perder lo que he ganado y decora las aguas de tu río con hojas de mi otoño enajenado.
Sonnet of the Sweet Complaint
Let me not lose your wondrous eyes of marble, nor your voice that blows your breath, a solitary rose, between my teeth at pale moonrise. A stranded trunk without a shoot, dreading and greatly sorrowing, I have not clay nor flower nor fruit to feed my worm of suffering. Are you my secret treasury, my tears of pain, my cross? Am I the lapdog of your mastery? Let me not lose what I have gained: And let your river flow adorned with my sere leaves that fall estranged.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ybZYsUIRuSE https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LAzF9seSQVk - 3'40"

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Epitaph for Isaac Albéniz

Epitafio a Isaac Albéniz

Federico García Lorca (1898-1936)

Recited by Lorca at the dedication of a statue of Albéniz in the cemetery of Montjuic, Barcelona, on December 14th, 1935.
Epitafio a Isaac Albéniz
Esta piedra que vemos levantada sobre hierbas de muerte y barro oscuro guarda lira de sombra, sol maduro, urna de canto sola y derramada. Desde la sal de Cádiz a Granada, que erige en agua su perpetuo muro, en caballo andaluz de acento duro tu sombra gime por la luz dorada. ¡Oh dulce muerto de pequeña mano! ¡Oh música y bondad entretejida! ¡Oh pupila de azor, corazón sano! Duerme cielo sin fin, nieve tendida. Sueña invierno de lumbre, gris verano. ¡Duerme en olvido de tu vieja vida!
Epitaph for Isaac Albéniz
This stone we witness standing tall on grass of death and dismal clay guards shadow-lyre and mellow sun, the spilled and lonely urn of song. Granada rears her water-wall; your shadow moans through gold of day. From salt Cadiz your hoofbeats run, Andalucían, pounding strong. Sweet one, small-handed one, who died! Music and goodness intertwined! The great of heart, the goshawk-eyed! Sleep, skein of snow, sky unconfined, dream, winter-light, dream, summer-grey, sleep as your old life slips away!

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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We'll be sleeping side by side

Nous dormirons ensemble

Louis Aragon (1897-1982)

From: Le fou d'Elsa
Nous dormirons ensemble
Que ce soit dimanche ou lundi Soir ou matin minuit midi Dans l'enfer ou le paradis Les amours aux amours ressemblent C'était hier que je t'ai dit Nous dormirons ensemble C'était hier et c'est demain Je n'ai plus que toi de chemin J'ai mis mon cœur entre tes mains Avec le tien comme il va l'amble Tout ce qu'il a de temps humain Nous dormirons ensemble Mon amour ce qui fut sera Le ciel est sur nous comme un drap J'ai refermé sur toi mes bras Et tant je t'aime que j'en tremble Aussi longtemps que tu voudras Nous dormirons ensemble.
We'll be sleeping side by side
Sunday, Monday, any day Dawn or dusk, midnight, midday, Damned in hell or sanctified, Loves alike and loves allied, As I told you yesterday, We’ll be sleeping side by side. Now, tomorrow, yesterday You alone to be my way, In your hands my heart I lay, Lively, with your heart to guide: Long as human time shall bide We’ll be sleeping side by side. What has been shall be, my sweet: Heaven is on us like a sheet. I embrace you, mortified, Trembling, lovelorn, petrified. For as long as you say yea, We’ll be sleeping side by side.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Sonnet 24

Sonnet 24

Jean Cassou (1897-1986)

Sonnet 24
*Briques et tuiles, etc* - Verlaine Plomb, zinc, et fer, ô les charmants petits enfers pour les amants! Mer et desert: l'événement n'a rien à faire pour le moment. À tous nos coups le néant joue échec et mat. L'histoire close plus jamais n'ose produire un Acte.
Sonnet 24
[Verlaine's Belgian jaunt with Rimbaud] Lead, iron and tin, snug sulphur-mines for Valentines to sizzle in! Ocean and sand: the great event is impotent as matters stand. All that we do the void has checked, checkmated too. The final page has no Effect that it can stage.
In '33 Sonnets of the Resistance', Arc Publications

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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She Loves

L'amoureuse

Paul Eluard (1895-1952)

L'amoureuse
Elle est debout sur mes paupières Et ses cheveux sont dans les miens, Elle a la forme de mes mains, Elle a la couleur de mes yeux, Elle s'engloutit dans mon ombre Comme une pierre sur le ciel. Elle a toujours les yeux ouverts Et ne me laisse pas dormir. Ses rêves en pleine lumière Font s'évaporer les soleils Me font rire, pleurer et rire, Parler sans avoir rien à dire.
She Loves
On my two closed eyes she stands And her hair is in my hair And her shape is of my hands And her shade is of my eyes She is swallowed in my shadow As a stone against the skies Her eyes are ever open She will never leave me sleeping At her dreams in light of day Suns evaporate away I go laughing laughing weeping Speaking nothing can I say

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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A Metaphor

Una Metáfora

Alfonso Reyes (1889-1959)

from 'Homer in Cuernavaca'
Una Metáfora
“Las cigarras de voz de lirio”, dice Homero... Le pesa al preceptista, le duele al traductor. La audacia del poético y voluntario error de escolios y de notas ha juntado un rimero. Algo hay en Apolonio que es del mismo acero, y algo en el viejo Hesíodo que tiene igual sabor. No creo que se pueda decir nada mejor, y juzgue cada uno lo que dicte su fuero. ¿Pues no ha osado un moderno hablarnos del clamor rojo de los clarines, y no es valedero si otro habla del negro redoble del tambor? Transporte sensorial, Vocales de color, Sinestesia - perdónese el terminajo huero -, Suprarrealidad, Cantos de Maldoror ... ¡Se asusta el avispero! Mientras zozobra el crítico, digamos con valor: - ¡Bravo por “las cigarras de voz de lirio”, Homero!
A Metaphor
‘The lily-voiced cicadas’ is a saying found in Homer: it gives the teacher problems, the translator melancholia. The boldness of this lyrical and voluntary bloomer has piled up quite a congeries of glosses and of scholia. There’s a tag of Apollonius that has the selfsame mettle, and something in old Hesiod whose tang might correlate. I don’t believe that any turn of phrase can turn out better, let each of us pass judgement as our conscience may dictate. Didn’t some daring modern type bring up the ‘scarlet clamour of trumpets’? Didn’t someone else, with perfect sense and grammar, go on about the black pounding rhythm of the drummer? The transference of senses and the colours of the vowels - excuse the hollow jargon if I talk of synaesthetics - The Songs of Maldoror; the surreal, the super-real... We’re stirring up the hornets’ nest! Their heart is hardly Dada’s, so let’s say it loud and clear against the fretting of the critics:- Bravissimo, Homer, for the lily-voiced cicadas!

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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German Tale

Cuento Alemán

Alfonso Reyes (1889-1959)

Cuento Alemán
A la hora en que el gato salta sobre el tocino, en las vidrieras arde un rayo de oro fino y el Hombre de la Luna comienza su destino, en todas las botellas se oyó cantar el vino. Cantaba entre el bochorno de las obesas pipas que roncan y que sueñan que les saca las tripas el nocharniego pinche de las regias cocinas, terror de las doncellas y de las golosinas. Cantaba como canta el viento en las veletas, mientras los zafios duermen y velan los poetas. En sueños, la princesa, que lo oye cantar, en sueños se entregaba al gusto de bailar, mientras la dueña, gente de condición vulgar, se emborrachaba en sueños, que así suele pasar. El rey, como discreto, como persona honrada, el rey ... pues nada sueña porque no escucha nada. El rey tiene por barbas dorado vellocino, cual si las empapara en el dorado vino, y es su consuelo único y su mejor consejo tomar a cada rato un trago de lo añejo. Roba el tocino el gato. Ya trepa hacia la luna bebiendo las hebrillas de luz una por una: volar es cosa propia de la raza gatuna, si ayuda el plenilunio y ayuda la fortuna. En tanto, el regio parque se embriagaba de luna, y la luna se daba baños en la laguna. - Ay! viejo duendecito, prenda usía su vela! Diga: aquello que sube ¿es un gato que vuela? - ¡Ay, viejecita duende! ¿Para qué me desvela? ¿No sabe que es el Diablo que nos ronda y nos vela? ¡Bien haya el duendecito que todo lo sabía! A cada primavera, la barba le crecía. Desnuda la mañana su dorado puñal y canta el gallo de oro que hay en la catedral. Despierta la princesa rendida de bailar; la dueña, de beber; la dueña, de roncar. El rey, como discreto, como persona honrada, el rey ... pues nada sabe porque no sabe nada. La gente que a la plaza sale a ver el reló cuenta que el Holandés de las Botas pasó de noche por el pueblo, vaciando las botellas, hundiendo las tinajas y empreñando doncellas, y, como de costumbre, sopeaba su vino con su poco de queso, de lardo y de tocino. La princesa pariera un feísimo gato; la dueña confesara que se distrajo un rato; y el rey, como magnánimo, el rey, como sensato, iba desayunándose hasta limpiar el plato, y sin decir palabra gustaba del guisote, sorbía su cerveza, se chupaba el bigote; si bien no cabe duda que, para su capote, el rey ... nada pensaba, aunque nada se note. j Así tengáis salud y así tengáis fortuna, guardad a vuestras hijas del Hombre de la Luna! * * * * * * Hicieron estos versos cuatro monjes goliardos, de vidas vagabundas si de familias ricas, discípulos de Erígenas y alumnos de Abelardos - aunque no eran mancos, ni tuertos y ni cojos -, que, de beber, tenían volumen de barricas y cuatro caras como cuatro soles muy rojos.
German Tale
It was the hour the cat performs its bacon-grabbing spring, When across every window-pane fine gold is glittering, The hour the Magus of the Moon goes out adventuring: In every bottle, jug and flask, the wine was heard to sing. It sang among the flushes of the ample-bellied butts, That belch, and snore, and dream of being emptied of their guts By the nocturnal Scullion of the kitchens of the king, The dread of every kitchen-maid and dainty little thing. It sang the way the wild wind sings in the banners at the gate, While yokels take their beauty-sleep, and poets watch and wait. All in her dreams the princess heard the wine’s alluring chants; All in her dreams she yielded to the pleasures of the dance. She had a base-born chaperone, of very low degree, Who dreamed – it’s fairly normal – she was on a drunken spree. The king’s a man of honour, a discreet and upright king, The king – he dreams of nothing, for he doesn’t hear a thing. The king had grown a golden fleece that hung beneath his chin: Perhaps he kept a golden wine to marinade it in. This was his wisest counsel, this consoled him last and first: To swig whenever possible a bottle of the worst. The cat has pinched the bacon! and towards the moon it’s gone, Soars up, and drinks the little wisps of moonbeam, one by one: For flying is a special skill of all the feline band, Provided that good fortune and the full moon lend a hand. The royal park was all the while enraptured with the moon, Who took her time, enjoyed herself, and bathed in the lagoon. “Oho, my little pixie-man! Be waking, sir, stand by! Tell me, is that a flying cat that soars across the sky?” “Oho, my little elf, and would you rouse me? Can’t you tell, It’s the Devil haunts and harries us, the Devil come from hell.” “Protect us, little pixie-man!” He knew the whole affair; His beard grew long, and longer still, when spring was in the air. The daybreak from her scabbard drew her golden snickersnee; Loud crowed the golden cockerel in the Minster sacristy. The princess woke and rubbed her eyes, worn out from her contortions; The chaperone, from bibulous and stertorous exertions. The king’s a man of honour, a discreet and upright king, The king – the king knows nothing, for he doesn’t know a thing. The folk who saunter in the Square to view the clock, they say It was the Flying-Dutchman-Puss-in-Boots who passed this way. He went about the town at night, and drained the bottles dry, He emptied all the demijohns, and made the maidens cry; And, following the custom, in the tavern sat a-sipping Of his wine, with modest quantities of bacon, cheese and dripping. The princess was delivered of a very ugly cat; The chaperone was negligent, she took the blame for that; The king, a noble-hearted and sagacious man of state, Continued with his breakfast and completely cleared his plate; He supped his mild and bitter ale, and sucked his whiskered septum, And ate his meal in silence, not a single word escaped him. And there’s no doubt about it, that between himself and he, The king had not one thought at all! No comment – let it be. Here’s wishing you the best of health, the greatest good fortune, And keep your daughters locked away from the Magus of the Moon! * * * * * * * * Four monks composed these verses and they all were Goliards, They lived the life of vagrants, though their families were wealthy, Disciples of John Duns’s, acolytes of Abelard’s (Though none of them was maimed, or squinty-eyed, or that unhealthy); They had a gross of drinking-vats, a cubic chain of tuns, And four tomato faces like a clutch of scarlet suns.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Trojan Genealogy

Genealogías troyanas

Alfonso Reyes (1889-1959)

from 'Homer in Cuernavaca'. 'Alfonso Reyes Miracle of Mexico': Shearsman Books
Genealogías troyanas
Zeus lo engendró, lo hubo alguna de las Pléyades: tal es la dignidad de Dárdano el epónimo. Su vástago, Erictonio, en Dardania fue rey - a - des- ¬pecho de quien lo toma por su ateniense homónimo. Su hijo Tros, el padre de Ilo, impuso ley - a – des ¬perdigadas comarcas de aquel lugar anónimo; y de Tros y de no heredó la epopeya - des- pués los nombres de “iliano” y “troyano” el sinónimo. Ilo tuvo, entre otros, un nieto ilustre: Príamo, viejo rey de la Ilíada, decente aunque polígamo. Crió cincuenta príncipes; mas Paris, mala pécora, le salió mujeriego y vano y sin escrúpulo ... - Puedo seguir; no sigo: me canso del esdrújulo y, cerrando los párpados, dejo caer la péñola.
Trojan Genealogy
Zeus begat Dardanus out of a Pleiad. He’s god-fathered, star-mothered Hero Eponymous. Next Erichthonius inherited Troy, a dis- creet distance off from his Athens homonymus. Tros, before Ilus, a King and a lawyer, dis- pensed honest rule in his broad, yet anonymous, Troad. The Iliad’s vast epopoiia des- cribes Troy, or ‘Ilium’: these are synonymous. Ilus’s grandson, King Priam the glorious, sired fifty princes: not primly uxorious! One, though, was Paris, the vain Alexander, a rotten, unscrupulous heel and philanderer... Stop, superfeminines! Done my full complement... sated and somnolent, sheathe my small implement.
'Esdrújulo' means a word stressed on the antepenultimate!

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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