Evil

Das Böse

Eugen Roth (1895-1976)

Das Böse
Ein Mensch pflückt, denn man merkt es kaum, Ein Blütenreis von einem Baum. Ein andrer Mensch, nach altem Brauch, Denkt sich, was der tut, tu ich auch. Ein dritter, weils schon gleich ist, faßt Jetzt ohne Scham den vollen Ast Und sieh, nun folgt ein Heer von Sündern, Den armen Baum ganz leer zu plündern. Von den Verbrechern war der erste, Wie wenig er auch tat, der schwerste. Er nämlich übersprang die Hürde Der unantastbar reinen Würde.
Evil
A man plucks, as you’d hardly see, A sprig of blossom from a tree. Another man, by long-preceded Custom, thinks: I shall do as he did. A third man, since it’s all the same, Takes the full branch, and feels no shame. And look, a whole rogues’ gallery Joins in to strip the wretched tree. Of all these miscreants, the first, Though he did little, was the worst: He was the one who jumped the fence, Encroached on moral innocence.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Because Deep Down I Glorified…

Γιατί βαθιά μου δόξασα και πίστεψα τη γη

Ángelos Sikelianós (1884-1951)

Γιατί βαθιά μου δόξασα και πίστεψα τη γη
Γιατί βαθιά μου δόξασα και πίστεψα τη γη και στη φυγή δεν άπλωσα τα μυστικά φτερά μου, μα ολάκερον ερίζωσα το νου μου στη σιγή, να που και πάλι αναπηδά στη δίψα μου η πηγή, πηγή ζωής, χορευτική πηγή, πηγή χαρά μου… Γιατί ποτέ δε λόγιασα το πότε και το πώς, μα εβύθισα τη σκέψη μου μέσα στην πάσαν ώρα, σα μέσα της να κρύβονταν ο αμέτρητος σκοπός, να τώρα που, ή καλοκαιριά τριγύρα μου είτε μπόρα, λάμπ' η στιγμή ολοστρόγγυλη στο νου μου σαν οπώρα, βρέχει απ' τα βάθη τ' ουρανού και μέσα μου ο καρπός!… Γιατί δεν είπα: «Εδώ η ζωή αρχίζει, εδώ τελειώνει…» μα «Αν είν' η μέρα βροχερή, σέρνει πιο πλούσιο φως… μα κι ο σεισμός βαθύτερη τη χτίση θεμελιώνει, τι ο ζωντανός παλμός της γης που πλάθει είναι κρυφός…» να που, ό,τι στάθη εφήμερο, σα σύγνεφο αναλιώνει, να που κι ο μέγας Θάνατος μου γίνηκε αδερφός!…
Because Deep Down I Glorified…
Because deep down I glorified and gave the earth my trust, And never spread my secret wings to flee, But rooted deep in silence my soul unstintingly, Till the fresh waters once again came surging for my thirst, A spring of life, a dancing spring, my spring of ecstasy; Because I never gave a thought to When and How at all, But steeped in each last hour my thoughtfulness, As if it held within it the immeasurable goal – No matter then, if summer smiles, or round me roars the gale: The moment dreams inside me like an apple round and full, And heights of heaven shower me with fruitfulness. Because I never said: - Here life begins and here it ceases, But: - If there comes a rainy day, the light will be the richer, Even the earthquake roots the house more firm and deep than ever, For hidden deep in earth it drives the life-creating tremor, - Behold! how the ephemeral dissolves among the breezes, And Death himself, the mighty one, Death has become my brother.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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In dubiis

In dubiis

Hermann Hesse (1877-1962)

In dubiis
I Es dringt kein Laut bis her zu mir von der Nationen wildem Streite, ich stehe ja auf keiner Seite; denn Recht ist weder dort noch hier. Und weil ich nie Horaz vergaß bleib gut ich aller Welt und halte mich unverbrüchlich an die alte aurea mediocritas. II Der erscheint mir als der Größte, der zu keiner Fahne schwört, und, weil er vom Teil sich löste, nun der ganzen Welt gehört. Ist sein Heim die Welt; es misst ihm doch nicht klein der Heimat Hort; denn das Vaterland, es ist ihm dann sein Haus im Heimatsort.
In dubiis
I No sound till now assails my ear Of nations who in strife collide; I do not stand on either side; Justice is neither there nor here. Mindful of Q. Horatius, I’m friends with all the world, and hold Irrevocably to the old Aurea Mediocritas. II He stands out as most great-hearted, Loyal to no flag unfurled, Who, from one small fragment parted, Now belongs to all the world. If his home’s the world, his homeland Measures to no little space: For his fatherland’s his cottage, In his own familiar place.

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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The Cabbie’s Nag

Der Droschkengaul

Christian Morgenstern (1871-1914)

Der Droschkengaul
Ich bin zwar nur ein Droschkengaul, – doch philosophisch regsam; der Freß-Sack hängt mir kaum ums Maul, so werd ich überlegsam. Ich schwenk ihn her, ich schwenk ihn hin, und bei dem trauten Schwenken geht mir so manches durch den Sinn, woran nur Weise denken. Ich bin zwar nur ein Droschkengaul, – doch sann ich oft voll Sorgen, wie ich den Hafer brächt ins Maul, der tief im Grund verborgen. Ich schwenkte hoch, ich schwenkte tief, bis mir die Ohren klangen. Was dort in Nacht verschleiert schlief, ich konnt es nicht erlangen. Ich bin zwar nur ein Droschkengaul, – doch mag ich Trost nicht missen und sage mir: So steht es faul mit allem Erdenwissen; es frisst im Weisheitsfuttersack wohl jeglich Maul ein Weilchen, doch nie erreicht's – o Schabernack – die letzten Bodenteilchen.
The Cabbie’s Nag
I may be just a cabbie’s nag: I’m busy with a puzzle. Philosophy! My dinner-bag hangs almost off my muzzle. I swing it here, I swing it there, swing back and forth for ages: I think my thoughts, and they compare with thoughts of saints and sages. I may be just a cabbie’s nag. I think about the bottom, the last oats in my dinner-bag: it’s ages since I got ’em. I’ve swung it high, I’ve swung it low, I’ve set my eardrums humming: what’s veiled in darkness down below is never, ever, coming. I may be just a cabbie’s nag, and yet I seek for solace. I tell myself: here is the snag about all earthly knowledge. In wisdom’s nosebag, eager lips go seeking wholesome fare, but never, as the muzzle dips, get to the lowest layer.  

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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In Peace

En Paz ~ Artifex vitae, artifex sui

Amado Nervo (1870-1919)

Craftsman of Life, Craftsman of the Self
En Paz ~ Artifex vitae, artifex sui
Muy cerca de mi ocaso, yo te bendigo, Vida, porque nunca me diste ni esperanza fallida, ni trabajos injustos, ni pena inmerecida; porque veo al final de mi rudo camino que yo fui el arquitecto de mi propio destino; que si extraje la miel o la hiel de las cosas, fue porque en ellas puse hiel o mieles sabrosas: cuando planté rosales coseché siempre rosas. Cierto, a mis lozanías va a seguir el invierno: ¡mas tú no me dijiste que mayo fuese eterno! Hallé sin duda largas las noches de mis penas; mas no me prometiste tan sólo noches buenas; y en cambio tuve algunas santamente serenas… Amé, fui amado, el sol acarició mi faz. ¡Vida, nada me debes! ¡Vida, estamos en paz!
In Peace
Very near my sunset My blessings on you, Life, Because you never told me Of hopes that would deceive Nor of unjust labours Nor undeserving grief. For I see at the finish Of my uneven journey That I was the designer Deviser of my destiny; I drew out gall or honey As much as I inserted: If rosebushes I planted, Then roses were my harvest. For sure my horn of plenty Will soon give way to winter, But then you never told me That May would last for ever! Certainly I encountered Long nights, my nights of sorrow: But then you never promised My nights would all be good ones; Some were a benediction… I loved and I was loved, The sun caressed my face. Life, you owe me nothing! Life, we are at peace!

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Making the Life, Making the Self

Artifex vitae, artifex sui

Amado Nervo (1870-1919)

Mexican poet
Artifex vitae, artifex sui
Muy cerca de mi ocaso, yo te bendigo, Vida, porque nunca me diste ni esperanza fallida, ni trabajos injustos, ni pena inmerecida; porque veo al final de mi rudo camino que yo fui el arquitecto de mi propio destino; que si extraje la miel o la hiel de las cosas, fue porque en ellas puse hiel o mieles sabrosas: cuando planté rosales coseché siempre rosas. Cierto, a mis lozanías va a seguir el invierno: ¡mas tú no me dijiste que mayo fuese eterno! Hallé sin duda largas las noches de mis penas; mas no me prometiste tan sólo noches buenas; y en cambio tuve algunas santamente serenas… Amé, fui amado, el sol acarició mi faz. ¡Vida, nada me debes! ¡Vida, estamos en paz!
Making the Life, Making the Self
As I come near my setting, I give you, Life, my blessing, Because you never gave me disappointed expectation, Nor labours of injustice nor unmerited vexation; For being at the finish of my rocky road I see That I myself was architect of all my destiny: That if I wrested out of things the honey or the gall, ’Twas I who put the sourness or the sweetness in them all. Each time I plant a rose-bush, rose-blooms galore I gather; ’Tis certain my resplendence must yield to wintry weather, But no, you never said to me that May would last for ever! For sure I found them lengthy, my nights of misery, But nights of constant comfort you never promised me; And some indeed were blessings of pure serenity… I loved and I was loved: the mighty sun caressed my face. O Life, you owe me nothing! O Life, we are at peace!

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Wisdom

Sapienza

Giovanni Pascoli (1855-1912)

Sapienza
Salì pensoso la romita altura ove ha il suo nido l’aquila e il torrente, e centro delle lontananza oscura sta, sapїente. Oh! scruta intorno gl’ignorati abissi: più ti va lungi l’occhio del pensiero, più presso viene quello che tu fissi: ombra e mistero.
Wisdom
Climb pensive up the lonely height, nest of the eagle and the spate, and in remoteness like the night stand, contemplate. Oh, cast your gaze on depths unknown : the further strays your mental eye, the nearer come these things you settle on: shade, mystery.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Solitudo - my Latin

Solitude

Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850-1919)

Solitude
Laugh, and the world laughs with you; Weep, and you weep alone; For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth, But has trouble enough of its own. Sing, and the hills will answer; Sigh, it is lost on the air; The echoes bound to a joyful sound, But shrink from voicing care. Rejoice, and men will seek you; Grieve, and they turn and go; They want full measure of all your pleasure, But they do not need your woe. Be glad, and your friends are many; Be sad, and you lose them all,— There are none to decline your nectared wine, But alone you must drink life’s gall. Feast, and your halls are crowded; Fast, and the world goes by. Succeed and give, and it helps you live, But no man can help you die. There is room in the halls of pleasure For a large and lordly train, But one by one we must all file on Through the narrow aisles of pain.
Solitudo - my Latin
si rides, rident omnes: flens unicus ibis. gaudia Terra cupit: tristia plena tenet. quod canis, en colles reboant, sed in aere marcet quod gemis; ars resonat, mutus inersque dolor. gratus ovas cunctis, refugit te turba dolentem: ad gaudenda ruunt: commiseranda negant. stant hilari plures, tristi perduntur amici; Massica das cunctis, fel modo solus habes. turba dapes celebrat, vitant jejunia cuncti; da felix, vives; fratris egenus obis. aede voluptatis stat turba superba; doloris omnibus angustas sors dabit ire vias.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Wisdom

Sagesse

Paul Verlaine (1844-96)

Verlaine is in prison for wounding and nearly murdering Rimbaud. He will repent.
Sagesse
Le ciel est, par-dessus le toit, Si bleu, si calme ! Un arbre, par-dessus le toit, Berce sa palme. La cloche, dans le ciel qu’on voit, Doucement tinte. Un oiseau sur l’arbre qu’on voit Chante sa plainte. Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, la vie est là, Simple et tranquille. Cette paisible rumeur-là Vient de la ville. – Qu’as-tu fait, ô toi que voilà Pleurant sans cesse, Dis, qu’as-tu fait, toi que voilà, De ta jeunesse ?
Wisdom
There is the sky above the tiles, Blue and at rest. There is a tree above the tiles, Rocking its crest. The belfry in the sky we see Pleasantly rings. A bird upon the branch we see Tunefully sings. Dear God, dear God, life’s easy here, Winds gently down. The quiet murmur that we hear Comes from the town. How did you use them, you who now Shed ceaseless tears, How did you use them, tell me now, Those youthful years?

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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