It may be that a better way
to conquer time and world
is to pass and not to leave a trace—
to pass, and not to leave a shadow

on the walls...To be, but by denial:
to break both mirror and reflection.
To ride the Caucasus like Lermontov
and not to wake the rocks.

It may be that the better art
is with the hand of Bach
to leave the organ undisturbed—
to vanish, not to leave a cinder

for the urn...To be, but by deceit:
to strike yourself from latitudes.
To slip through time as through the sea
and not to break the waves.

Marina Tsvetaeva

Translated by Paul Schmidt

Ewigkeit
Jorge Luis Borges


Torne en mi boca el verso castellano
a decir lo que siempre está diciendo
desde el latin de Séneca: el horrendo
dictamen de que todo es del gusano.
Torne a cantar la pálida ceniza,
los fastos de la muerta y la victoria
de esa reina retórica que pisa
los estandartes de la vanagloria.

No así. Lo que mi barro ha bendecido
no lo voy a negar como un cobarde.
Sé que una cosa no hay. Es el olvido;
sé que en la eternidad perdura y arde
lo mucho y lo precioso que he perdido:
esa fragua, esa luna y esa tarde.

_____________________________________

Ewigkeit
Jorge Luis Borges


Turn on my tongue, O Spanish verse; confirm
Once more what Spanish verse has always said
Since Seneca's black Latin: speak your dread
Sentence that all is fodder for the worm.
Come, celebrate once more pale ash, pale dust,
The pomps of death and the triumphant crown
Of that bombastic queen who tramples down
The petty banners of pride and lust.

Enough of that. What things have blessed my clay
Let me not cravenly deny. The one 
Word of no meaning is Oblivion.
And havened in eternity, I know
My many precious losses burn and stay:
That forge, that night, that risen moon aglow.

Translated by Richard Wilbur

zo meen ik dat ook jij bent
Jan Hanlo


zoals de koelte 's nachts langs lelies
en langs rozen
als wit koraal en parels diep in zee
zoals wat schoon is rustig schuilt
maar straalt wanneer ik schouwen wil
zo meen ik dat ook jij bent

als melk
als leem
en 't bleke rood van vaal gesteent
of porselein
zoals wat ver is en gering
en lang vergeten voor het oud is

zoals een waskaars en een koekoek
en een oud boek en een glimlach
en wat onverwacht en zacht is en het eerste
en wat schuchter en verlangend en vrijgevig 
gaaf maar broos is
zo meen ik dat ook jij bent

Boomgaard
Rutger Kopland


Woorden weten van zichzelf niet waarvoor ze
gemaakt zijn — en zo is het met alles in de wereld
niets weet waarvoor het er is
en ook wij weten het niet

ik kijk door het raam de boomgaard in en zie hoe
woorden voor vogels, bomen, gras, voor wat er is daar
daar niets betekenen en ook de boomgaard zelf
heeft geen betekenis

in mijn hoofd zoekt iemand naar woorden voor
iets dat nog geen gevoel is en nog geen gedachte

en langzaam begin ik te voelen en te denken
dat ook de boomgaard daarnaar zoekt — dat wij
hetzelfde zoeken, de boomgaard en ik

La Lluvia Lente
Gabriela Mistral

Esta agua medrosa y triste,
como un niño que padece,

antes de tocar la tierra

desfallece.

Quieto el árbol, quieto el viento,

¡y en el silencio estupendo,

este fino llanto amargo

cayendo!

El cielo es como inmenso

corazón que se abre, amargo.

No llueve: es un sangrar lento

y largo.

Dento del hogar, los hombres

no sienten esta amargura,

este envío de agua triste

de la altura.

Este largo y fatigante

descender de aguas vencidas,

hacia la Tierra yacente

y transida.

Llueve...y como un chacal trágico

la noche acecha en la sierra.

¿Qué va a surgir, en la sombra,

de la Tierra?

¿Dormiréis, mientras afuera

cae, sufriendo, esta agua inerte,

esta agua letal, hermana

de la Muerte?

____________________________

Slow Rain

Gabriela Mistral

This timorous, sorrowful water

Like a child that suffers,

Before it touches the earth,

             Falls fainting.

The tree and the wind are quiet

And in the stupendous silence,

These clear and bitter tears

             Keep falling.

The sky is like an immense heart

Which opens bitterly.

It does not rain: it is bleeding, slowly,

             Abundantly.

Men indoors at the hearthstone

Feels none of this bitterness,

This gift of sorrowful water

             From above us.

This wide and weary descent

Of conquered waters

Toward the earth, reclining

             And exhausted.

The lifeless water is falling

As quietly as in a dream,

Like the slight creations

             Dreams are full of.

It rains…and like a tragic jackal

Night lies in wait in the mountains.

Out of the earth, in darkness,

             What will rise up?

And shall you sleep while, outside,

This sickly lifeless water of death

             Is falling?

Translated by H. R Hays

Soneta LXIX
Pablo Neruda


Tal vez no ser es ser sin que tú seas,
sin que vayas cortando el mediodía
como una flor azul, sin que camines
más tarde por la niebla y los ladrillos,
sin esa luz que llevas en la mano
que tal vez otros no verán dorada,
que tal vez nadie supo que crecía
como el origen rojo de la rosa,
sin que seas, en fin, sin que vinieras
brusca, incitante, a conocer mi vida,
ráfaga de rosal, trigo del viento,
y desde entonces soy porque tú eres,
y desde entonces eres, soy y somos,
y por amor seré, serás, seremos.

__________________________________

Sonnet LXIX
Pablo Neruda


Perhaps not to be is to be without your being,
without your going, that cuts noon light
like a blue flower, without your passing
later through fog and stones,

without the torch you lift in your hand
that others may not see as golden,
that perhaps no one believed blossomed
the glowing origin of the rose,

without, in the end, your being, your coming
suddenly, inspiringly, to know my life,
blaze of the rose-tree, wheat of the breeze:

and it follows that I am, because you are:
it follows from 'you are', that I am, and we:
and, because of love, you will, I will,
We will, come to be.

Translated by A. S. Kline

_______________________________________

Sonnet 69
Pablo Neruda


Die niet is miskien om sonder jou te wees,
sonder jou skadu wat die middagson keep
soos 'n blou blom, sonder jou tog
later deur mis en rots,
sonder die goue lig in jou hande
straks onsigbaar vir ander,
miskien het niemand geglo
hoe die rooi begin bloei in die roos,
sonder, kortliks, jou wese
skielik, besielend, verken jy my lewe,
die roosboom se gloed, die wind se grein,
en so is ek, want jy bestaan,
jy is en ek is, ons ontstaan,
en deur liefde sal ek, sal jy, sal ons lééf.

Vertaling deur Blue Jay

Loneliness
Matsuo Basho (松尾 芭蕉)

淋しさを
とうてくれぬか
きりひとは

Sabishisa wo
toute kurenu ka
kiri hito ha

Won't you come and see
loneliness? Just one leaf
from the kiri tree.

Alicante
Jacques Prévert


Une orange sur la table
Ta robe sur le tapis
Et toi dans moi lit
Doux présent de la présent
Fraîcheur de la nuit
Chaleur de ma vie

________________________


Alicante
Jacques Prévert


An orange upon the table
Your dress on the rug
And you in my bed
Sweet present of the present
Freshness of the night
Warmth of my life

Serpentina
Delmira Agustini


En mis sueños de amor, iyo soy serpiente!
gliso y ondulo como una corriente;
dos píldoras de insomnio y de hipnotismo
son mis ojos; la punta del encanto
es mi lengua...iy atraigo con mi llanto!
soy un pomo de abismo.

Mi cuerpo es una cinta de delicia,
glisa y ondula como una caricia...

Y en mis sueños de odio isoy serpiente!
mi lengua es una venenosa fuente;
mi testa es la luzbélica diadema,
haz de la muerte, en un fatal soslayo
son mis pupilas; y mi cuerpo en gema
ies la vaina deo rayo!

Si así sueño mi carne, así es mi mente:
un cuerpo largo, largo, de serpiente,
vibrando eterna, ivoluptuosamente!

_____________________________________

Serpentyn
Delmira Agustini


In my drome van liefde is ek 'n slang!
Ek gly en golf soos 'n stroom,
my oë, twee koeëls slapeloosheid
en hipnose; die tip van my tong
'n bekoring...my lokroep 'n versugting!
          Ek dra 'n afgrond in my rond.

My lyf is 'n lint van lus,
glyend en golwend soos 'n kus.

In my drome van haat is ek 'n slang!
My tong, 'n giftige fontein;
Op my kop 'n duiwelse kroon,
'n doodstraal, die sydelingse blik
van my pupille; en my lyf, met juwele behang,
          is die skede van 'n weerligstraal!

Soos ek my vlees droom, so is my gees, kyk:
          'n lang, lang lyf soos 'n slang,
ewig lewendig...wellustig!

Vertaling deur Blue Jay

Melusine
Georg Trakl


An meinen Fenstern weint die Nacht –
Die Nacht ist stumm, es weint wohl der Wind,
Der Wind, wie ein verlornes Kind –
Was ist's, das ihn so weinen macht?
O arme Melusine!

Wie Feuer ihr Haar im Sturme weht,
Wie Feuer an Wolken vorüber und klagt –
Da spricht für dich, du arme Magd,
Mein Herz ein stilles Nachtgebet!
O arme Melusine!

__________________________________________

Melusine
Georg Trakl


At my windows the night weeps –
The night is mute, the wind probably weeps,
The wind, like a lost child -
What is it that makes him weep so?
O poor Melusine!

Like fire her hair blows in the storm,
Like fire passing clouds, and laments –
There for you, you poor maiden,
My heart speaks a still night prayer!
O poor Melusine!

Translated by Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt

Вооруженный зреньем узких ос
Осип Мандельштам


Вооруженный зреньем узких ос,
Сосущих ось земную, ось земную,
Я чую все, с чем свидеться пришлось,
И вспоминаю наизусть и всуе...

И не рисую я, и не пою, И не вожу смычком черноголосым: Я только в жизнь впиваюсь и люблю Завидовать могучим, хитрым осам. О, если б и меня когда-нибудь могло Заставить, сон и смерть минуя, Стрекало воздуха и летнее тепло Услышать ось земную, ось земную...

8 февраля 1937

__________________________________________________


The wasps
Osip Mandelstam


Armed with the vision of the slender wasps
sucking at the axis of the earth, the axis of the earth.
I remember all that I have had to meet
and recall it by heart and in vain.

I neither draw nor sing
nor wield die dark-voiced bow of the violin:
I only pierce life with my sting and love
to envy the powerful, shrewd wasps.

Oh, if only I, too, could someday be
forced past sleep and death
by the air's sting and summer's warmth
to hear the axis of the earth, the axis of the earth...

8 February 1937

Translated by Clarence Brown and David McDuff

__________________________________________________


The wasps
Osip Mandelstam


Armed with the eye of the arrowing wasp,
Plunging to the pith of urge, churn of earth,
I move by feel and smell among the simple given,
Gift by gift reciting now, scar by scar...

Yet here is no lasting image, no heaven coaxed from string,
And do not call this cry a song.
Little cut in life, rut in time, I long
For the sly start, the true inscrutable, mindrhyme, sleepsting.

Oh, to be made, marred, mired deep in time, to grasp,
When like a diver all of summer holds its breath
—Immune to miracles, deflecting death—
The very churn and urge, pith and earth...

8 February 1937

Translated by Clarence Brown and David McDuff

Von: Sonette nach Orpheus
Rainer Maria Rilke


IX
Nur wer die Leier schon hob
auch unter Schatten,
darf das unendliche Lob
ahnend erstatten.

Nur wer mit Toten vom Mohn
ass, von dem ihren,
wird nicht den leisesten Ton
wieder verlieren.

Mag auch die Spieglung im Teich
oft uns verschwimmen:
Wisse das Bild.

Erst in dem Doppelbereich
werden die Stimmen
ewig und mild.

_________________________________________


From: Sonnets to Orpheus
Rainer Maria Rilke


IX
Only the man who has raised his strings
among the dark ghosts also
can sense it and give
the everlasting praise.

Only he who has eaten poppy
with the dead, from their poppy,
will never lose even
his most delicate sound.

Even though images in the pool
seem so blurry:
grasp the main thing.

Only in the double kingdom, there
alone, do voices come
undying and tender.

Translated by Robert Bly

Von: Sonette nach Orpheus
Rainer Maria Rilke


VI
Ist er ein Hiesiger? Nein, aus beiden
Reichen erwuchs seine weite Natur.
Kundiger böge die Zweige der Weiden,
wer die Wurzeln der Weiden erfuhr.

Geht ihr zu Bette, so lasst auf dem Tische
Brot nicht und milch nicht; die Toten ziehts—.
Aber er, der Beschwörende, mische
unter der Milde des Augenlids

ihre Erscheinung in alles Geschaute;
und der Zauber von Erdrauch und Raute
sei ihm so wahr wie der klarste Bezug.

Nichts kann das gültige Bild ihm verschlimmern;
sei es aus Gräbern, sei es aus Zimmern,
rühme er Fingerring, Spange und Krug.

_________________________________________


From: Sonnets to Orpheus
Rainer Maria Rilke


VI
Is he from our world? No, his deep nature
grows out of both of the kingdoms.
He can bend down the branches of the willow best
who has experiences the roots of the willow.

When you go to bed, do not leave bread
behind on the table, or milk; it will entice the dead.
But Orpheus, a shaman, infuses their spirits
into everything that can be seen

beneath the quietness of the closed eyes;
and the magic meaning of rue and smokeherb
is as clear to him as the sharpest logic.

Nothing can blur the real image for him;
whether drawn from tombs or from our houses
he praises the ring, the clasp, and the water jar!

Translated by Robert Bly

Von: Sonette nach Orpheus
Rainer Maria Rilke


III
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 Leichtes.
Wann aber sind wir? Und wann wendet er

an unser Sein die Erde und die Sterne?
Dies ists nicht, Jüngling, das du liebst, wenn auch
die Stimme dann den Mund dir aufstösst,—lerne

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

_________________________________________


From: Sonnets to Orpheus
Rainer Maria Rilke


III
A god can do it. But tell me, how can a man
follow his intricate road through the strings?
A man is split. And where two roads intersect
inside us, no one has built the Singer's Temple.

Writing poetry as we learn from you is not desiring,
not wanting something that can never be achieved. 
To write poetry is to be alive. For a god that's easy.
When, however, are we really alive? And when does he

turn the earth and the stars so they face us?
Yes, you're young, and you love, and the voice
forces your mouth open—that's lovely, but learn

to forget that breaking into song. It doesn't last.
Real singing is a different movement of air.
Air moving around nothing. A breathing in a god. A wind.

Translated by Robert Bly

Von: Sonette nach Orpheus
Rainer Maria Rilke


I
Da stieg ein Baum. O reine Übersteigung!
O Orpheus singt! O hoher Baum im Ohr!
Und alles schwieg. Doch selbst in der Verschweigung
ging neuer Anfang, Wink und Wandlung vor.

Tiere aus Stille drangen aus dem klaren
gelösten Wald von Lager und Genist;
und da ergab sich, dass sie nicht aus List
und nicht aus Angst in sich so leise waren,

sondern aus Hören. Brüllen, Schrei, Geröhr
schien klein in ihren Herzen. Und wo eben
kaum eine Hütte war, dies zu empfangen,

ein Unterschlupf aus dunkelstem Verlangen
mit einem Zugang, dessen Pfosten beben,—
da schufst du ihnen Tempel im Gehör.

_________________________________________


From: Sonnets to Orpheus
Rainer Maria Rilke


I
A tree rising. What a pure growing!
Orpheus is singing! A tree inside the ear!
Silence, silence. Yet new buildings,
signals, and changes went on in the silence.

Animals created by silence came forward from the clear
and relaxed forest where their lairs were,
and it turned out the reason they were so full of silence
was not cunning, and not terror,

it was listening. Growling, yelping, grunting now
seemed all nonsense to them. And where before
there was hardly a shed where this listening could go,

a rough shelter put up out of brushy longings,
with an entrance gate whose poles were wobbly,
you created a temple for them deep inside their ears.

Translated by Robert Bly

Ιθάκη

Κωνσταντίνος Π. Καβάφης

Σα βγεις στον πηγαιμό για την Ιθάκη,

να εύχεσαι νάναι μακρύς ο δρόμος,

γεμάτος περιπέτειες, γεμάτος γνώσεις.

Τους Λαιστρυγόνας και τους Κύκλωπας,

τον θυμωμένο Ποσειδώνα μη φοβάσαι,

τέτοια στον δρόμο σου ποτέ σου δεν θα βρεις,

αν μέν’ η σκέψις σου υψηλή, αν εκλεκτή

συγκίνησις το πνεύμα και το σώμα σου αγγίζει.

Τους Λαιστρυγόνας και τους Κύκλωπας,

τον άγριο Ποσειδώνα δεν θα συναντήσεις,

αν δεν τους κουβανείς μες στην ψυχή σου,

αν η ψυχή σου δεν τους στήνει εμπρός σου.

Να εύχεσαι νάναι μακρύς ο δρόμος.

Πολλά τα καλοκαιρινά πρωιά να είναι

που με τι ευχαρίστησι, με τι χαρά

θα μπαίνεις σε λιμένας πρωτοειδωμένους·

να σταματήσεις σ’ εμπορεία Φοινικικά,

και τες καλές πραγμάτειες ν’ αποκτήσεις,

σεντέφια και κοράλλια, κεχριμπάρια κ’ έβενους,

και ηδονικά μυρωδικά κάθε λογής,

όσο μπορείς πιο άφθονα ηδονικά μυρωδικά·

σε πόλεις Aιγυπτιακές πολλές να πας,

να μάθεις και να μάθεις απ’ τους σπουδασμένους.

Πάντα στον νου σου νάχεις την Ιθάκη.

Το φθάσιμον εκεί είν’ ο προορισμός σου.

Aλλά μη βιάζεις το ταξείδι διόλου.

Καλλίτερα χρόνια πολλά να διαρκέσει·

και γέρος πια ν’ αράξεις στο νησί,

πλούσιος με όσα κέρδισες στον δρόμο,

μη προσδοκώντας πλούτη να σε δώσει η Ιθάκη.

Η Ιθάκη σ’ έδωσε τ’ ωραίο ταξείδι.

Χωρίς αυτήν δεν θάβγαινες στον δρόμο.

Άλλα δεν έχει να σε δώσει πια.

Κι αν πτωχική την βρεις, η Ιθάκη δεν σε γέλασε.

Έτσι σοφός που έγινες, με τόση πείρα,

ήδη θα το κατάλαβες η Ιθάκες τι σημαίνουν.

____________________________________________

Ithaka

C. P. Cafavy


As you set out for Ithaka
hope your road is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
angry Poseidon—don't be afraid of them:
you'll never find things like that on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,

wild Poseidon—you won't encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.

Hope your road is a long one.
May there be many summer mornings when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you enter harbors you're seeing for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfume of every kind—
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to learn and go on learning from their scholars.

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you're destined for.
But don't hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you're old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you've gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you wouldn't have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won't have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you'll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.