sarcasm always wins out in the end

Marko Vešović, ‘A Deathless Moment’

Na prijelazu uličnom dejstvuje snajperist.
Dvije djevojke, zadihane od pretrčavanja.
Iz njih bije vrelina, mirisna, kao iz rublja
svilenog, koje se pegla. U jedne nije frizura
već naježeno božićno žito. Praska, bjesni i psuje
snajperiste: pričinja mi se da kroz prozor
krasnu oluju gledam!
U druge, riječi prijatne
ko lepet suncobrana, izjutra, na plaži budvanskoj.
Trzajem, povremeno, zabaci kosu. Zbog nas!
Jer zna: kad god je zabaci, duga će kosa da zamiriše.
Ljepotica. Ali od onih koje nikad ne propuste
da ti se nasmiješe. I raskošno i škrto.
Dovoljno raskošno da bi te usrećile. Dovoljno škrto
da njih ne košta ništa. Smiješak njihov ti javlja
da za njih nisi stvar među stvarima.
Možda čak da bi htjele sa tebe skinuti čini
ako te leden pogled ženski već u stvar pretvorio.
U zraku snažno zamirisa na moju davnu mladost
kad je svaka aleja vodila do na kraj svijeta.
Kad je duša umjela, čak i u pustinji,
raspjevati se ko žetelica.
Kad život još ne bješe otrcan ko poslovica.
Odoše, čavrljajući, a u meni ostavile su nježnost
kakva te obuzme kad dugo gledaš nebesa
u kojima se snježne pahulje roje.
Odoše. Ne dvije djevojke,
već dva vjetrića, pirnula iznenadno
kroz žegu opsade.
Ilinsku žegu postojanja.

A Deathless Moment

A sniper is working a street crossing.
Two girls, breathless from running across.
They radiate heat, perfumed, like silk
underwear being ironed. One of them doesn't have a hairdo,
but bristling wheat sprouts on her head. She's fuming, thundering,
and cursing at the sniper: I seem to be watching, like out of a window,
a glorious storm! The other's words are pleasant
like the fluttering of an umbrella, in the morning, at the Budva beach.
She tosses her head from time to time. For our sake!
For she knows: with each toss, her long hair will smell sweetly.
A beauty. But one of those who never
fail to smile at you. Both lavishly and stingily.
Lavishly enough to make you happy. Stingily enough
that it costs them nothing. Their smile
lets you know that for them you are not a thing among things.
They wish perhaps to break the spell put on you
by an icy female look that has turned you into a thing.
The air smelled sweetly of my youth of long ago
when every tree-lined lane led to the end of the world.
When life was not yet worn thin like a proverb.
They left, leaving in me the tenderness
that comes over you when you look long at the skies
swarming with snowflakes.
They went, chattering—not two girls, but two breezes, blowing suddenly
through scorching heat of the siege. Through the dog days of existence.

Today's poem is an angry feminist response to historical Icelandic poetry. You can find the context here: http://wdvalgardsonkaffihus.com/blog/2013/02/11/boys-pretending-to-be-vikings/

Ingibjörg Haraldsdóttir ‘Woman’

Þegar allt hefur verið sagt
þegar vandamál heimsins eru
vegin metin og útkljáð
þegar augu hafa mæst
og hendur verið þrýstar
í alvöru augnabliksins
- kemur alltaf einhver kona
að taka af borðinu
sópa gólfið og opna gluggana
til að hleypa vindlareyknum út.
Það bregst ekki.

When all has been said
When the problems of the world
Have been weighed gauged and settled
When eyes have met
And hands been pressed
In the sobriety of the moment
–some woman always comes
To clear the table
Sweep the floor and open the windows
To let out the cigar smoke.
It never fails.

Sophia de Mello Breyner, 'We Will Rise'

Ressurgiremos ainda sob os muros de Cnossos
E em Delphos centro do mundo
Ressurgiremos ainda na dura luz de Creta

Ressurgiremos ali onde as palavras
São o nome das coisas
E onde são claros e vivos os contornos
Na aguda luz de Creta

Ressurgiremos ali onde pedra estrela e tempo
São o reino do homem
Ressurgiremos para olhar para a terra de frente
Na luz limpa de Creta

Pois convém tornar claro o coração do homem
E erguer a negra exactidão da cruz
Na luz branca de Creta

We will rise again beneath the walls of Knossos
And in Delphi the centre of the world
We will rise again in the harsh light of Crete

We will rise where words
Are the names of things
Where outlines are clear and vivid
There in the sharp light of Crete

We will rise where stone the stars and time
Are the kingdom of man
We will rise to stare straight at the earth
In the clear light of Crete

For it is good to clarify the heart of man
And to lift the black exactness of the cross
In the white light of Crete

Trans. by Richard Zenith

Keeping with minority languages, here is a poem in Frisian, one of the languages spoken in Belgium.


Tsjebbe Hettinga ‘Overseas and Farther’

In brief, in flecht, in kommen ûnder de golfplaten
Fan ús hutte yn in hôf fan oliven ferburgen,
Yn ’e middei op in eilân yn ’e weagen fan
In mediterrane archipel: alve dagen do
Waarm en ryp as de fruchten dêr’tst mei komst. Eagen dêr’tst
In man it swartst ljocht mei ferreagest hasto en eat fan
It Hollânsk fleanen om ’e mûle dat him deljout
As it hite kalkstof fan it paad dat dy brocht hat en
Yn himsels weromgiet mei de blauwe trekker út
It seedoarp wei, trekker, ûnderweis nei de see werom.

A letter, a flight, a getting together again
Under the corrugated roof of our cottage, hidden
In the cool noon of an olive grove on an island
Amid the waves of an Aegean archipelago:
Eleven days of you, warm and ripe as the fruit you
Brought with you; and while your eyes dispel a man’s darkest light,
The trace of urban haste around your mouth comes to rest
Like the hot chalky dust of the path that led you here, which
Keeps bumping into itself as the blue tractor from
The village by the sea winds its way back down to the shore.


You can find the rest of the poem here: http://www.poetryinternationalweb.net/pi/site/poem/item/4582/auto/0/FROM-OVERSEAS-AND-FARTHER

This is what you get when you google Catalan Poetry on St George's day - first result, ad it's wonderful!

Vicent Andrés Estellés, ‘Els Amants’

No hi havia a València dos amants com nosaltres.
Feroçment ens amàvem del matí a la nit.
Tot ho recorde mentre vas estenent la roba.
Han passat anys, molt anys; han passat moltes coses.
De sobte encara em pren aquell vent o l'amor
i rodolem per terra entre abraços i besos.
No comprenem l'amor com un costum amable,
com un costum pacífic de compliment i teles
(i que ens perdone el cast senyor López-Picó).
Es desperta, de sobte, com un vell huracà,
i ens tomba en terra els dos, ens ajunta, ens empeny.
Jo desitjava, a voltes, un amor educat
i en marxa el tocadiscos, negligentment besant-te,
ara un muscle i després el peço d'una orella.
El nostre amor es un amor brusc i salvatge
i tenim l'enyorança amarga dela terra,
d'anar a rebolcons entre besos i arraps.
Què voleu que hi faça! Elemental, ja ho sé.
Ignorem el Petrarca i ignorem moltes coses.
Les Estances de Riba i les Rimas de Bécquer.
Després, tombats en terra de qualsevol manera,
comprenem que som bàrbars, i que aixòno deu ser,
que no estem en l'edat, i tot això i allò.
No hi havia a València dos amants com nosaltres,
car d'amants com nosaltres en son parits ben pocs.

Never were there in València two lovers like us.
We loved ferociously, from morn 'til night.
I recall everything, as you hang out the clothes.
Years have passed, many years: many things have happened.
Suddenly that wind, or love, seizes me still
And we roll on the ground amidst embraces and kisses.
We do not know love as a loving custom,
As a quiet custom of politeness and finery
(and may the chaste López-Picó pardon us).
Love, It awakens suddenly, like an old hurricane,
it throws us to the ground, it joins us together,
squeezing us tightly.
Sometimes I desired a courteous love,
With the gramophone on, kissing you idly,
Now a shoulder, next an ear lobe.
Our love is a brusque and savage love
And we feel a bitter yearning for the earth,
Of rolling upside down amidst kisses and clutches.
I'll say it clear. Primal, ... I know it.
We ignore Petrarch's work, we ignore many things.
The stanzas of Riba, the rhymes of Bécquer.
Afterwards, lying somehow on the ground,
We realise that we are barbarous, that this may not be,
we are not in the right age, and this and that.
Never were there in València two lovers like us,
Lovers like us are just not born !


Trans. by Jack. H. Smith

Here is another one from François Villon, written supposedly in prison where he was tortured and kept in an oubliette. It is very 'supposedly' - the poem is our only evidence - but it is an interesting text regardless of its real-life context.

François Villon, ‘Epistre a ses amis’

Aiez pitié, aiez pitié de moy,
A tout le moins, si vous plaist, mes amis.
En fosse gis, non pas soubz houx ne may,
En cest exil ouquel je suis transmis
Par Fortunre, comme Dieu l’a permis.
Filles, amans, jeunes gens et nouveaulx,
Danceurs, saulteurs faisnas les piez de veaux,
Vifs comme dars, agus comme agillon,
Gousiers tintants cler comme cascaveaux,
Le lesseres la, le povre Villon?

Chantres chantans a plaisance sans loy,
Galans rians, plaisans en fais et dis,
Courens, alans, francs de faulx or, d’aloy,
Gens d’esperit – ung petit estourdis –
Trop demourez car il meurt entandis.
Faiseurs de laiz, de motetz et rondeaux,
Quant mort sera vous lui ferez chaudeaux.
Ou gist, il n’entre escler ne tourbillon.
De murs espoix on lui a fait bandeaux.
Le lesseres la, le povre Villon?

Venez le veoir en ce piteux arroy,
Nobles homes, francs de quart et de dix,
Qui ne tenez d’empereur ne de roy
Mais seulement de Dieu de Paradis.
Jeuner lui fault dimenches et merdis,
Dont les dens a plus longues que ratteaux.
Après pain sec, non pas après gasteaux,
En ses boyaulx verse eaue a gros bouillon.
Bas en terre, table n’a ne tresteaulx.
Le lesseres la, le povre Villon?

Princes nommez, ancïens, jouvenceaux,
Impetrez moy graces et royaulx seaux
Et me montez en quelque crobillon;
Ainsi le font, l’un a l’autre, pourceaux,
Car ou l’un brat ilz fyuent a monceaux.
Le lesseres la, le povre Villon?

Have some pity now, pity on me,
And, of all people, you my muckers – please.
Dungeoned and ditched, no holly, hawthorn tree
For shelter, in this exile where God agrees
In letting Fortune dump me on my knees.
My girls, you lovers, greenhorns, young or grey,
Dancers, tumblers, jigging the Antic Hey,
Quick as a dart and sharp as spurs, the pair,
With gullets clear as bells tinkling away.
Poor Villon, will you leave him lying there?

Singers of songs who choose the melody,
Laughing gallants whose words and doings please,
Love-hounds from alloy and false gold free,
You wits –a little dumbstruck – you seize
Up far too long; he dies by slow degrees.
Makers of motet, rondeau, song and lay,
When he is dead, you’ll bring the tonics tray.
He lies where whirlwind, lightnings never fare.
Thick walls blindfold his eyes from light of day;
Poor Villon, will you leave him lying there?

His dreadful state you ought to come and see,
Spiritual lords, exempt from tithe, tax-fees,
Who pay no heed to emperor or majesty
And but to God of Paradise bend knees,
He fasts now Sundays, Tuesdays too, no sprees,
His teeth are longer than a rake’s for hay.
After dry bread, not after cakes, no way,
He fills his guts with water, gallons, where,
Deep down, is bed nor chair for him today.
Poor Villon, will you leave him lying there?

Princes here addressed, the young and grey,
Make royal seal and pardon come my way.
And raise me in a basket to fresh air.
The swine will do as much, as I’ve heard say,
For, if one squeals, the rest rush for the stray.
Poor Villon, will you leave him lying there?

Trans. by Peter Dale

Today you get my favourite Spaniard, Federico Garcia Lorca, who was piteously murdered by General Franco's men in 1936, apparently for having the wrong family connections, being friends with republicans, and being unashamedly gay.

This is something that continues to make me very angry. He was 38 years old.

Federico Garcia Lorca, Ay voz del amor oscuro

¡Ay voz secreta del amor oscuro!
¡ay balido sin lanas! ¡ay herida!
¡ay aguja de hiel, camellia hundida!
¡ay corrida sin mar, ciudad sin muro!

¡Ay noceh inmensa de perfil seguro,
montaña celestial de angustia erguida!
¡ay perro en corazón, voz perseguida!
¡silencio sin confín, lirio maduro!

Huye de mí, caliente voz de hielo,
no me quieras perder en la maleza
donde sin fruto gimen carne y cielo.

Dejo el duro mafil de mi cabeza,
apiádate de mí, ¡rompe mi duelo!
¡que soy amor, que soy naturaleza!

Eugénio de Andrade, ‘Counterpoint’

Oiço-a ainda longe, a neve.
Vai chegar um dia com a luz de novembro,
antes passará pelos teus lábios.
E serás condescendente,
a ponto de lhe indicares o cominho
mais longo,
o que leva ao bosque onde
te peguei na mão
sem coragem para a levar à boca.
A neve tem esse lado acolhedor
de farol no escuro.
Antes de nos soterrar o coração.

I hear it still far off, the snow.
It will come one day with the light of November,
but first it will have passed through your lips.
And you will be kind enough
to indicate to it
the longest way,
that which leads to the woods where
I took your hand
without the courage to lift it to my mouth.
Snow has that comforting feel
of a lighthouse in the dark.
Before it buries our heart.

Trans. by Alexis Levitin

Today I have for you a different Latin poet; Catullus, best known for some delightfully scurrilous verse. This poem is not one of those, but rather one about the perils of friendship. Specifically, when your friend sends you some truly terrible poetry, and you want to make sure that he never does that again while also not offending your friend. Well, Catullus is not too bothered about the latter, but he is really keen on the former. I do like a good insulter.

Catullus, XIV

Ni te plus oculis meis amarem,
iucundissime Cave, munere isto
odissem te odio Vatiniano.
nam quid feci ego quidue sum locutus
cur me tot male perderes poetis?
isti Di mala multa dent clienti
qui tantum tibi misit impiorum.
quod si, ut suspicor, hoc novum ac repertum
munus dat tibi Sulla litterator,
non est mi male sed bene ac beate
quod non dispereunt tui labores.
di magni, horribilem et sacrum libellum!
quem tu scilicet ad tuum Catullum
misti continue ut die periret
Saturnalibus, optimo dierum!
non, non hoc tibi, salse, sic abibit.
nam si luxerit, ad librariorum
curram scrinia; Caesios, Aquinos,
Suffenum, omnia colligam venena,
ac te his suppliciis remunerabor.
vos hinc interea valete abite
illuc unde malum pedem attulistis,
saecli incommoda, pessimi poetae.

Did I not love you more than my eyes,
Calvus you joker, then for that gift
I’d hate you with Vatinian hatred.
What have I done to you or said
That you should pip me with all these poets?
May Gods bring curses on the client
Who sent you such profanities.
And if, as I suspect, this choice new
Gift to you is from schoolmaster Sulla,
Then I’m not sorry but delighted
That your hard work has not been wasted.
Great Gods, a damned awful little book
For you to send to your Catullus
To kill him outright on that day
Of all days best – the Saturnalia.
No, you won’t get away with it,
Clever dick. When it’s dawn I’ll run
To the bookstalls, pick up all the poison –
Suffenus, Caesius and Aquinus –
And pay you back with pains like them.
Meanwhile goodbye, be off with you,
Back where you brought your faulty feet from,
Curse of our time, appalling poets!

Trans. by Guy Lee

I remember buying this book about ten years ago fter reading a fic where Draco read Rilke to Harry (by sheafrotherdon?), and being exhilarated and confused by the words. Rereading them now produces pretty much the same reaction, but at least I can understand some of the German.

Rainer Maria Rilke, Sonnets to Orpheus 3

Ein Gott vermags. Wie aber, sag mir, soll
ein Mann ihm folgen durch die schmale Leier?
Sein Sinn ist Zwiespalt. An der Kreuzung zweier
Herzwege steht kein Tempel für Apoll.

Gesang, wie du ihn lehrst, ist nicht Begehr,
nicht Werbung um ein endlich noch Erreichtes;
Gesang ist Dasein. Für den Gott ein Leichters.
Wann aber sind wir? Und wann wendet er

an unser Sein die Erde und die Sterne?
Dies ists nicht, Jüngling, dass du libst, wenn auch
die Stimme dann den Mund dir aufstösst, - lerne

vergessen dass du aufsangst. Das verrint.
In Wahrheit singen, ist ein andrer Hauch.
Ein Hauch um nichts. Ein When im Gott. Ein Wind.

A god can do it. But how, tell me, shall
a man follow him through the narrow lyre?
His mind is cleavage. At the crossing of two
heartways stands no temple for Apollo.

Song, as you teach it, is not desire,
not suing for something yet in the end attained;
song is existence. Easy for the god.
But when do we exist? And when does he

spend the earth and stars upon our being?
Youth, this is not it, your loving, even
if then your voice thrusts your mouth open, - learn

to forget your sudden song. That will run out.
Real singing is a different breath,
A breath for nothing. A wafting in the god. A wind.

Trans. by M. D. Herter Norton.