Buddha I

Rainer Maria Rilke

Als ob er horchte. Stille: eine Ferne …
Wir halten ein und hören sie nicht mehr.
Und er ist Stern. Und andre große Sterne,
die wir nicht sehen, stehen um ihn her.

O er ist Alles. Wirklich, warten wir,
daß er uns sähe? Sollte er bedürfen?
Und wenn wir hier uns vor ihm niederwürfen,
er bliebe tief und träge wie ein Tier.

Denn das, was uns zu seinen Füßen reißt,
das kreist in ihm seit Millionen Jahren.
Er, der vergißt was wir erfahren
und der erfährt was uns verweist.

_________________________________

Buddha I

Rainer Maria Rilke

As if he were listening. Silence: far away …
We hush and no longer hear it.
And he is a star. And surrounding him
are other giant stars that we can’t see.

O he is everything. Really, are we waiting
that he might see us? Should he have need?
And were we to prostrate ourselves before him
he would remain deep and idle like a beast. 

For that which tears us to his feet
has revolved in him for millions of years.
What we undergo he has forgotten
and that which excludes us, he knows.

Translated by Luke Fischer

_________________________________ 

Poema XVII
Pablo Nerada


Pensando, enredando sombras en la profunda soledad.
     Tú también estás lejos, ah más lejos que nadie.
Pensando, soltando pájaros, desvaneciendo imágenes,
                    enterrando lámparas.
     Campanario de brumas, qué lejos, allá arriba!
 Ahogando lamentos, moliendo esperanzas sombrías,
                      molinero taciturno,
  se te viene de bruces la noche, lejos de la ciudad.

Tu presencia es ajena, extraña a mí como una cosa.
  Pienso, camino largamente, mi vida antes de ti.
        Mi vida antes de nadie, mi áspera vida.
       El grito frente al mar, entre las piedras,
      corriendo libre, loco, en el vaho del mar.
     La furia triste, el grito, la soledad del mar.
    Desbocado, violento, estirado hacie el cielo.

     Tú, mujer, qué eras allí, qué raya, qué varilla
de ese abanico inmenso? Estabas lejos como ahora.
     Incendio en el bosque! Arde en cruces azules.
     Arde, arde, llamea, chispea en árboles de luz.
        Se derrumba, crepita. Incendio. Incendio. 
       Y mi alma baila herida de virutas de fuego.
       Quien llama? Qué silencio poblado de ecos?
Hora de la nostalgia, hora de la alegría, hora de la soledad,
                         hora mía entre todas!

             Bocina en que el viento pasa cantado.
         Tanta pasión de llanto anudada a mi cuerpo.
                    Sacudida de todas las raíces,
                        asalto de todas las olas!
          Rodaba, alegre, triste, interminable, mi alma.

Pensando, enterrando lámparas en la profunda soledad.
                         Quién eres tú, quién eres?


_______________________________

Poem XVII: Thinking, Tangling Shadows
Pablo Neruda


Thinking, tangling shadows in the deep solitude.

You are far away too, oh farther than anyone.

Thinking, freeing birds, dissolving images,
burying lamps.

Belfry of fogs, how far away, up there!

Stifling laments, milling shadowy hopes,
taciturn miller,

night falls on your face downward, far from the city.

Your presence is foreign, as strange as a thing.

I think, I explore great tracts of my life before you.
My life before anyone, my harsh life.

The shout facing the sea, among the rocks,
running free, mad, in the sea-spray.

The sad rage, the shout, the solitude of the sea.
Headlong, violent, stretched towards the sky.

You, woman, what were you there, what ray, what vane
of that immense fan? You were as far as you are now.
Fire in the forest! Burn in blue crosses.

Burn, burn, flame up, sparkle in trees of light.

It collapses, crackling. Fire. Fire.

And my soul dances, seared with curls of fire.

Who calls? What is silence peopled with echoes?

Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude,
hour that is mine from among them all!

Hurting horn through which the wind passes singing.

Such a passion of weeping tied to my body.

Shaking of all the roots,
attack of all the waves!

My soul wandered, happy, sad, unending.

Thinking, burying lamps in the deep solitude.

Who are you, who are you?

Translated by W. S. Merwin

_______________________________

Peinsende...
Pablo Neruda


Peinsende, terwyl ek skaduwees saamvleg in diepe eensaamheid.
Ook jy is ver weg, helaas, verder as wie ook al,
peinsende, terwyl jy voëls vrylaat, beelde laat verdwyn,
lampe begrawe.

Kloktoring van mis, hoe ver tog, daarbo!
Terwyl jy treursange versmoor, donker verwagtinge fyn maal,
swygsame meulenaar,
stort die nags blindelings op jou af, ver van die stad.

Jou teenwoordigheid is aan my vreemd, vir my sonderling soos 'n 
voorwerp.
Ek peins, terwyl ek 'n lang ent stap, oor my lewe voor jou.
My lewe voor enigiemand, my bitter lewe.
Die kreet voor die see, tussen die klippe,
soos jy vlug, vry, kranksinnig, in die newels van die see.
Toomloos, gewelddadig, uitgereik na die hemel.

Jy, vrou, wat was jy daar, watter speek, watter balein
van hierdie reusagtige waaier? Jy was ver soos nou.
Brand in die bos? Dit brand in blou kruise.
Dit brand, dit brand, dit vlam, dit vonk in die bome van lig.
Dit stort neer, dit knetter, brand. Brand.
En my siel dans gewond deur spaanders van vuur.
Wie roep? Watter stilte, bevolk deur watter eggo's?
Uur van heimwee, uur van vreugde, uur van eensaamheid,
uur wat myne was, onder al die ander!

Trompet deur wie die wind vaar singende.
So 'n passie vir trane vasgeknoop aan my liggaam.
Losgeskud van alle wortels,
aanval van al die golwe!
En my siel dwaal rond, droewig, eindeloos.
Peinsende, terwyl jy lampe begrawe in diep eensaamheid.
Wie is jy tog? Wie is jy?

Vertaal deur Uys Krige

________________________________

Die Kunst Der Fuge 

Rutger Kopland 

I

Zo dwalen gedachten, dwalen ze zich herhalend

als beken door bergwei, altijd een beetje anders,

altijd een beetje hetzelfde, allemaal naar iets

verlangend, een ergens, elders een herinnering

zoekend daar naartoe. En hun verlangen is niets

dan de kracht van water, hun herinnering niets

dan oevers, ergens, elders zijn ze de zee.

II

De ruimte van een winters woud van hoge beuken,

en uit de kruinen daalt het, opnieuw en opnieuw,

herhaalt zich deze beweging van ooit eens naar later,

voor de duur van dat dalen, blad na blad na

Hun herinnering is niets dan deze ruimte, en niets

hun verlangen dan dit vallen, dit zich neerleggen

tussen de anderen, dit onvindbaar voorbij zijn.

III

De zwermen vogels boven het dal, die vluchtige

momenten van bij elkaar horen en uiteen vallen.

al die herhalingen waarin wordt gezocht naar die

ene beweging, waarin herinnering en verlangen

verdwijnen in elkaar, het vinden van die momenten,

en het verliezen. Wat hen bindt en uiteen drijft

zijn kou, wind, grijze daken in de diepte.

IV

En hoog in de winterse ijlte voetsporen in de sneeuw,

een man en een vrouw die hierheen kwamen lopen, hier

—stappen het enige wat van hen bleef, een paar lijnen

dunne, door elkaar heen dwalende lijnen, herinnering

en verlangen, die beide, maar waaraan en waarnaar—

hier waar wij zijn, niets dan wij, en sneeuw,

sneeuw waarin nog geen stap is gezet.

V

Het dwaalt, vloeit samen, valt uiteen, verdwijnt,

en het herhaalt zich, alsof er steeds weer iets

moet worden gezocht, gevonden, verloren, gezocht,

alsof er steeds weer iets moet, iets moet zijn

voor het verdwijnt en daarna.

_________________________________

Die Kunst der Fuge

Rutger Kopland

I

So do thoughts roam, in their roaming repeating

like mountain-meadow streams, always somehow different,

always somehow the same, all of them longing 

for something, a somewhere, elsewhere a memory

searching towards. And their longing is only

the force of water, their memory only

banks of rivers, somewhere, elsewhere they are the sea.

II

The space of a wood of tall beeches in winter,

from whose tops there is falling, again and again,

repeating this movement from this once to later,

as long as that falling continues, leaf after leaf after

Their memory is only this space, and only

this falling their longing, this merging amongst

all the others, this unretrievably being all over.

III

The swarms of birds above the valley, the fleeting

moments of belonging together and falling apart.

all that repeating, where there is searching for that

one movement where memory and longing

disappear into each other, the finding of those moments,

and the losing. What binds them and drives them apart

are the cold, wind, grey roofs in the depths.

  

IV

And high in the rare winter air footprints in the snow,

a man and a woman who came this way, here

- prints were the only thing left of them, a pair of tracks

thin, twining tracks on the roam, memory

and longing, both of them, but of what and to where -

here where we are, only us, and the snow,

snow where no print has been set.

V

There is roaming, merging, falling apart, disappearing

and all this repeated, as if time and again there is something

that has to be sought, found, lost, sought,

as if time and again something must, must be something

before disappearing and after.

Translated by John Irons

The Silence Afterwards 

Rolf Jacobsen

Try to be done now
with the provocations and sales statistics,

the Sunday breakfasts and incinerators,

the military parades, the architecture competitions

and the triple rows of traffic lights.

Get through it and be done

with the party preparations and marketing analyses

for it’s too late,

it’s far too late,

be done with it and come home

to the silence afterwards

that meets you like a hot spurt of blood against your forehead

and like the thunder on the way

and the chimes of mighty bells

that make your eardrums quiver

for words are no more,

there are no more words,

from now on everything will speak

with the voices of stones and trees.

-

The silence that lives in the grass

on the underside of each blade

and in the blue intervals between the stones.

The silence

that follows after the shots and the bird-song.

The silence

that lays a blanket over the one who is dead

and that waits on the stairs until everyone is gone.

The silence

that nestles like a fledgling between your hands,

your only friend.

Translated by John Irons

Winternag
Eugène N. Marais

O koud is die windjie

            en skraal.

En blink in die dof-lig

            en kaal,

so wyd as die Heer se genade,

lê die velde in sterlig en skade.

            En hoog in die rande,

            versprei in die brande,

is die grassaad aan roere

            soos winkende hande.

O treurig die wysie

            op die ooswind se maat,

soos die lied van ’n meisie

in haar liefde verlaat.

In elk grashalm se vou

blink ’n druppel van dou,

en vinnig verbleik dit

            tot ryp in die kou!

___________________________

Winter Night

Eugène N. Marais

So cold now the wind is

            and spare.

And bleak in the dim light

            and bare,

as wide as God’s mercy is boundless,

the scorched veldt lies starlit and soundless.

            And on the high lands

            through burnt soil lone strands

of seed-grass are stirring

            like beckoning hands.

So sad now the song is

            on the east wind full-borne,

like a girl’s song of longing

when love is forlorn.

In the fold of each blade

a clear dewdrop is made

that swiftly the cold turns

            to rime as it fades!

Translated by John Irons

___________________________

Winter Night

Eugène N. Marais

O Cold is the slight wind
        and sere.
And gleaming in dim light
        and bare,
as vast as the mercy of God,
lie the plains in starlight and shade.
        And high on the ridges,
        among the burnt patches,
the seed grass is stirring
        like beckoning fingers.

O tune grief-laden
        on the east wind's pulse,
like the song of a maiden
whose lover proves false.
In each grass blade's fold
a dew drop gleams bold,
but quickly it bleaches
        to frost in the cold!

Translated by Guy Butler

____________________

A Music Sentence
Mahmoud Darwish


A poet now, instead of me,
writes a poem
on the willow of distant wind.
So why does a rose in the wall
wear new petals?

A boy now, instead of us,
sets a dove flying
high toward the cloud ceiling.
So why does the forest shed all
this snow around a smile?

A bird now, instead of us,
carries a letter
from the land of the gazelle to the blue.
So why does the hunter enter the scene
and fling his arrow?

A man now, instead of us,
washes the moon
and walks over the river's crystal.
So why does color fall on the earth
and we are naked like trees?

A lover now, instead of me,
sweeps his love
into the mire of bottomless springs.
So why does the cypress stand here
like a watchman at the garden gate?

A horseman now, instead of me,
stops his horse
and dozes under the shadow of a holm oak.
So why do the dead flock
to us out of wall and closet?

Translated by Fady Joudah

Waiting for the Barbarians
C. F. Cavafy


What are we waiting for, assembled in the forum?

   The barbarians are due here today.

Why isn't anything going on in the senate?
Why are the senators sitting there without legislating?

   Because the barbarians are coming today.
   What's the point of senators making laws now?
   Once the barbarians are here, they'll do the legislating.

Why did our emperor get up so early,
and why is he sitting enthroned at the city's main gate,
in state, wearing the crown?

   Because the barbarians are coming today
   and the emperor's waiting to receive their leader.
   He's even got a scroll to give him,
   loaded with titles, with imposing names.

Why have our two consuls and praetors come out today
wearing their embroidered, their scarlet togas?
Why have they put on bracelets with so many amethysts,
rings sparkling with magnificent emeralds?
Why are they carrying elegant canes
beautifully worked in silver and gold?

   Because the barbarians are coming today
   and things like that dazzle the barbarians.

Why don't our distinguished orators turn up as usual
to make their speeches, say what they have to say?

   Because the barbarians are coming today
   and they're bored by rhetoric and public speaking.

Why this sudden bewilderment, this confusion?
(How serious people's faces have become.)
Why are the streets and squares emptying so rapidly,
everyone going home lost in thought?

   Because night has fallen and the barbarians haven't come.
   And some of our men just in from the border say
   there are no barbarians any longer.

Now what's going to happen to us without barbarians?
They were, those people, a kind of solution.

Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard