Of What the Wind Sings

Alexander Blok

I

Thou art afar, and I have laid me

In scorching desert sands' caress.

But from now on none shall persuade me

To breathe one word of haughtiness.

Past failings I have known, condoned them

—I understood thy lofty heights.

Aye. Thou art Galilee, dear homeland,

To me—unresurrected Christ.

Let others fawn on thee—thy wonders

Let others multiply and spread:

Behold, the Son of man still wanders

And knows not where to lay his head.

                    

                        May 30th, 1907

II

Loved so kindly, swore so blindly

True love, said, farewell ...

Shared Communion, paired so kindly,

Head the nightingale ...

Played her guitar, with passion

Plucked from out the strings

Each confession, wild profession,

Soul-enchanted things ...

Longing lingered, sad, persistent—

Snap! The string has gone ...

Had there never been some distant

Land that lured her on!

Pray remember—as you pledge your

True love, don't forget

When the gray mist climbs the hedgerow

From the river-bed ...

                    

                        September 5th, 1909

III

    It sings, it sings ...

It sings, runs round the house ... And grieving,

Fatigue, and tenderness come thieving

The heart once more, on whispering wings ...

    

    The load wears lighter,

The heavy load of days gone by,

And with a simple lullaby

Time rocks us gently, quieter, quieter ...

So old, life's way, 

So old, too, ours

    Grows,

    And lyres

Sing of the snows

    Of winter gray,

Sing of the snows of winter gray ...

    And far, so far

Upon the snowswept breast

Of final night ...

The eyes close tight

    For evermore

    To rest,

To rest in arms of night ...

    Desires and dreams

    Beyond recalling ...

    But see: A sigh

    Of wind comes calling

At midnight from the crimson sky ...

    The final gleam

    Has faded. Die.

The final gleam of crimson sky.

                    

                        October 19th, 1913

IV

There's an old tale I remember.

Hear me, fair friend, if you will.

Kindly and old, the narrator

Sat by the fireside, quite still.

Howl of the wind down the chimney,

Splash of the raindrops outside ...

—Some night for those without shelter,

Eh?—the old gentleman cried.

Someone knocked gently. The old man

Went out and opened the door.

In whirled the wind, cold and icy,

Raindrops swept over the floor ...

Frozen he stood there—a small boy,

Naked, and nowhere to go,

Quiver slung over his shoulder,

Clasping a tightly-strung bow.

Soon the old man made him comfy,

Cuddled him down by the hearth.

Silent and trusting, the young boy

Nestled in close to his heart.

—What sort of toys have you got there?

—My mother gave them to me.

—And with that fine bow and arrow:

    Can you shoot truly?—said he.

Laughing, the young boy, for answer,

Jumped to the floor, crying—True?—

Back went the bowstring—Just watch me!

    You shall see what I can do!—

Straight to his heart flew the arrow,

All the old heart lay in blood ...

Who would believe they could wound so?

Ah, the sharp arrows of love ...

    Bear well, then, keep

    On to the end,

    Old man. My friend,

    Bear well, too—sleep,

        Sleep, sleep,

You will not forget again

        That old man,

You will recall the ages then,

You will recall the years' long span,

Through gathering darkness you'll look back

    On this and that

        As you recall

    All that once was,

    That entranced us,

    Had its day,

    Passes away,—

        All, all.

                    

                        October, 1913

Translated by Robin Kemball

______________________________________________

Prayers
Kadya Molodowsky

I
Don't let me fall
Like a stone that drops on the hard ground.
And don't let my hands become dry
As the twigs of a tree
When the wind beats down the last leaves.
And when the storm rips dust from the earth
Angry and howling,
Don't let me become the last fly
Trembling terrified on a windowpane.
Don't let me fall.
I have so much prayer,
But, as a blade of Your grass in a distant, wild field
Loses a seed in the lap of the earth
And dies away,
Sow in me Your living breath,
As You sow a seed in the earth.

II
I still don't know whom,
I still don't know why I ask.
A prayer lies bound in me
And implores a god,
And implores a name.
I pray
In the field
In the noise of the street,
Together with the wind, when it runs before my lips,
A prayer lies bound in me,
And implores a god
And implores a name.

III
I lie on the earth,
I kneel
In the ring of my horizons,
And stretch my hands
With a prayer
To the west, when the sun sets,
To the east, when it rises there,
To each spark
That it show me the light
And make my eyes bright,
To each worm that glows in the darkness at night,
That it shall bring its wonder before my heart
And redeem the darkness that is enclosed in me.

__________________________________________

Mother Earth, Well-Worn, Sun-Washed

Anna Margolin

Mother earth, well-worn, sun-washed,

dusky slave and mistress

am I, beloved.

From me, humble and dejected

you arise—a mighty trunk.

Like the eternal stars, like the sun's flame,

I circle in long blind silence round

your roots, your boughs.

Half awake and half drowsing,

I search through you for heaven on high.

_________________________________

 

Odessa

Anna Margolin

Do you remember, handsome knight,

that happy flitter-flutter

of veils, eyes and braids?

When you passed by the courtyard

unknown, slim and perfect,

young girls would lean trembling

over the edges of the balconies.

Oh, sad knight, do you remember

a bright slender oval

in the dazzling, golden hall?

And a nostalgic, caressing,

half-forgotten waltz

at the youthful ball?

And spinning on the boulevards

into the gleam of electric suns

half-gliding, half-floating

completely locked into ourselves.

And from the band there lilted

the dreamy potpourri

demanding: "Flower!"

And can you remember

everything that has no name

is only a fragrance, a mystery?

and a breath of the steppe,

of sun and of tar?

The city lowered,

as if by a silken cord,

down a thousand marble steps

into the singing sea.

____________________________

Le Secret du Bleu
Jean Cocteau

     Le secret du bleu est bien gardé. Le bleu arrive de là-bas. En route, il durcit et se change en montagne. Le cigale y travaille. Les oiseaux y travaillent. En réalité, on ne sait rien. On parle du bleu de Prusse. A Naples, la Sainte-Vierge reste dans les trous des murs quand le ciel se retire. 

     Mais ici tout est mystère. Mystère le saphir, mystère la Sainte-Vierge, mystère le col du matelot mystère les rayons blues qui rendent aveugle en ton œil blue qui traverse mon cœur.

____________________________________________________________________________

The Secret of Blue

Jean Cocteau

     The secret of blue is well kept. Blue comes from far away. On its way, it hardens and changes into a mountain. The cicada works at it. The birds assist. In reality, one doesn't know. One speaks of Prussian blue. In Naples, the virgin stays in the cracks of walls when the sky recedes.

     But it's all a mystery. The mystery of sapphire, the mystery of Sainte Vierge, mystery of the siphon, mystery of the sailor's collar, mystery of the blue rays that blind and your blue eye which goes through my heart.

Translated by Jeremy Reed

Leurs Yeux Toujours Purs
Paul Éluard


Jours de lenteur, jours de pluie,
Jours de miroirs brisés et d'aiguilles perdues,
Jours de paupières closes à l'horison des mers,
D'heures toutes semblables, jours de captivité,

Mon esprit qui brillait encore sur les feuilles
Et les fleurs, mon esprit est nu comme l'amour,
L'aurore qu'il oublie lui fait baisser la tête
Et contempler son corps obéissant et vain.

Pourtant, j'ai vu les plus beaux yeux du monde,
Dieux d'argent qui tenaient des saphirs dans leurs mains,
De véritables dieux, des oiseaux dans la terre
Et dans l'eau, je les ai vus.

Leurs ailes sont les miennes, rien n'existe
Que leur vol qui secoue ma misère,
Leur vol d'étoile et de lumière,
Fleuve, plaine, rocher, leur vol,
Les flots clairs de leurs ailes,

Ma pensée soutenue par la vie et la mort.

_____________________________________

Hul oë altyd rein
Paul Éluard


Dae was so traag is, dae van reën,
Dae van gebroke spieëls en verlore naalde,
Dae van ooglede geslote vir die seë se einders,
Van ure wat almal eners is, dae van gevangenis,

My gees wat nog geglans het op blare
En blomme, my gees is nakend soos die liefde,
Die daeraad wat hy vergeet laat hom sy kop sak
En sy liggaam aanskou gehoorsaam en vergeefs.

Tog, die mooiste oë in die wêreld het ek gesien,
Gode van silwer met saffiere in hul hande,
Ware gode, voëls in die aarde
En in die water, ek het hulle gesien.

Hul vlerke is myne, niks bestaan nie,
As net hul vlug wat my ellende skud,
Hul sterrevlug, hul vlug van lig,
Rivier, vlakte, rots, hul vlug,
Die helder golwe van hul vlerke,

My gedagtes geskraag deur die lewe en die dood.

Vertaling deur Uys Krige

Het zingen van de wereld
Marc Tritsmans


laat deze aarde na onze verdwijning
lanzaam weer op adem komen
haar vele diepe wonden likken

slechts zal worden gemist
dat wij de enigen waren die haar
en alle zichtbare, denkbare dingen

bedachten met een naam zodat
na ons alles naamloos en zonder
te worden erkend verder zal moeten

bestaan en hoewel al onze wanklanken
al ons zinloos en doelloos kabaal
in het niets zullen sijn opgelost

zanglijster, nachtegaal en kleine karekiet
opnieuw hun hoge lied zullen aanheffen
zal ook voor eeuwig blijven ontbreken

wat tovenaars als Bach en Beethoven
ooit zo wonderbaarlijk aan het zingen
van deze wereld hadden toegevoegd

________________________________

Die singende wêreld
Marc Tritsmans


laat hierde wêreld ná ons verdwyning
stadig haar asem terugkry
haar talle diep wonde lek

al wat gemis sal word is dat ons
die enigstes was wat haar
en alle sigbare, denkbare dinge

'n naam kon gee sodat ná
ons alles naamloos en sonder
erkenning verder sal moet bestaan

en hoewel al ons wanklanke
ak ins sinlose en doellose kabaal
in die niet opgelos sal wees

sanglyster, nagtegaal en klein karekiet
opnuut hul hoë lied sal aanhef
sal ook vir ewig bly ontbreek

wat towenaars soos Bach en Beethoven
eens so wonderbaarlik aan hierdie 
singende wêreld toegevoeg het

Vertaling deur Daniel Hugo