classic poetry

Beatus

POSTED IN classic poetry January 15, 2019

Emin

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At tu, Natalis, multos celebrande per annos, candidior semper candidiorque veni! BEATUS, MIHAI EMINESCU!

Stelele-n cer
Deasupra marilor
Ard departarilor
Pana ce pier.

Dupa un semn
Clatind catargele
Tremura largele
Vase de lemn;

Niste cetati
Plutind pe marile
Si miscatoarele
Pustietati.

stol de cocori
Apuca-ntinsele
Si necuprinsele
Drumuri de nori.

Zboara ce pot
Si-a lor intrecere
Vecinica trecere:
Asta e tot…

floare de crang:
Astfel vietile
Si tineretile
Trec si se sting.

Orice noroc
Si-ntinde-aripile,
Gonit de clipele
Starii de loc.

Pana nu mor
Pleaca-te, ingere,
La trista-mi plangere
Plina de-amor.

Nu e pacat
Ca sa se lepede
Clipa cea repede
Ce ni s-a dat?

 

Mihai Eminescu

Dona, d’aquí a un temps / Femeie, dupa o vreme

POSTED IN classic poetry January 5, 2019

w

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dona, d’aquí a un temps

Dona, d’aquí a un temps,
després de tu i de mi
i de les flors marcides,
¿què en serà, d’aquest dormitori
on ens hem estimat?

¿I què en serà, del mirall,
del penja-robes, del balancí,
del retrat de nuvis que tira a magenta,
de les fines esberles
del guix, que han absorbit
el nostre alè, la mortal malaltia?
Ah, no ho sé!

En canvi sé una cosa
més gran i més antiga: passaran milers d’anys
i, no ho dubtis, tornaré a escriure
en aquest paper
per primer cop com ara
les mateixes preguntes.

Màrius Sampere

…………………………………………………………………….

Femeie, dupa o vreme
după tine si dupa mine
și dupa blestematele flori,
ce va ramane din dormitorul ăsta
unde ne-am iubit unul pe altul?

Și ce va ramane din oglindă,
din hainele agățate, din scaunul balansoar,
din portretul de mireasa cu nuante magenta,
praful fin de ghips
din tencuială, care ne-au absorbit
respirația, boala mortală?
Oh, nu știu!

În schimb, știu un lucru
mult prea adanc și mult prea vechi : vor trece mii de ani
si nu te indoi, o să scriu din nou
pe aceasta hartie
de parca ar fi pentru prima data
aceleași întrebări.

 

Maria Magdalena

Dona, d’aquí a un temps / Woman, after a while

POSTED IN classic poetry, translated Spanish-English January 5, 2019

w

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dona, d’aquí a un temps

 

Dona, d’aquí a un temps,
després de tu i de mi
i de les flors marcides,
¿què en serà, d’aquest dormitori
on ens hem estimat?

¿I què en serà, del mirall,
del penja-robes, del balancí,
del retrat de nuvis que tira a magenta,
de les fines esberles
del guix, que han absorbit
el nostre alè, la mortal malaltia?
Ah, no ho sé!

En canvi sé una cosa
més gran i més antiga: passaran milers d’anys
i, no ho dubtis, tornaré a escriure
en aquest paper
per primer cop com ara
les mateixes preguntes.

Màrius Sampere
…………………………………………………………..
Woman, after a while,
after you and me
and the cursed flowers,
what will become of this bedroom
where we’ve loved one another?

And what will become of the mirror,
of the hanged clothes, of the rocking chair,
of the bridal portrait with magenta shades,
the fine gypsum dust
from the plaster,
for they have absorbed
our breath, the deadly illness?
Oh, I do not know!

Instead I know one thing
greater and older: thousands of years will pass
and, have no doubts, I will write again
on this paper
as if for the first time
the same questions.

Maria Magdalena

All hushed and still within the house / Totu-i mut, nemiscat in casa

POSTED IN classic poetry, translated English-Romanian January 4, 2019

snow

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All hushed and still within the house / Totu-i mut, nemiscat in casa

All hushed and still within the house;
Without – all wind and driving rain;
But something whispers to my mind,
Through rain and through the wailing wind,
Never again.
Never again? Why not again?
Memory has power as real as thine.

Emily Brontë
………………………………………………

Totu-i mut, nemiscat in casa

Totu-i mut, nemiscat in casa;
Fara de vant si ploaia grea;
Insa ceva–mi sopteste-n gand,
Prin ploaie si vantul plangand,
Din nou nicicand.
Din nou nicicand? De ce nicicand ?
Memoria egala-n tarie cu tine fiind.

Maria Magdalena

Poi che per mia ventura / Then for my fortune

POSTED IN classic poetry December 28, 2018

 

1

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poi che per mia ventura / Then for my fortune

Poi che per mia ventura a veder torno
voi dolci colli, e voi, chiare e fresch’acque,
e tu, che tanto alla natura piacque
farti, sito gentil, vago ed adorno,
ben posso dire avventuroso il giorno,
e lodar sempre quel desio che nacque
in me di rivedervi, che pria giacque
morto nel cor di dolor cinto intorno.
Vi veggi’ or dunque, e tal dolcezza sento,
che quante mai dalla fortuna offese
ricevute ho finor, pongo in oblio.
Così sempre vi sia largo e cortese,
lochi beati, il ciel, come in me spento
è, se non di voi soli, ogni desio.

VERONICA GAMBARA
……………………………………………………………………..
Then for my fortune

Then for my fortune to see I return,
you, sweet hills, and you, waters so fresh and clear
and you, who always held the nature so dear
I make you a place, gentle, vague, to adorn.

Well, I can say adventurous the morn,
and always praise the desire that’s born
in me, again to see you, which first lay
dead in the heart surrounded by mourn.

So we saw each other, and such sweetness I felt,
that more than ever by my offended fate
I’ve got punished, I place myself in oblivion.
So always there are wide and great,
blessed places, the sky, like those in me melt
there is, every desire, if not you alone.

English version, Maria Magdalena

Hyvää Itsenäisyyspäivää!

POSTED IN classic poetry December 6, 2018

gj

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hyvää Itsenäisyyspäivää!

Jos on suurta tehty missä,
sit’ on tehty sydämissä,
kautta tarmon, kautta kunnon,
hyvän kautta omantunnon;
siell’ on Suomen juuret meillä,
jotka kestää elon teillä,
kestää, vaikk’ on vaara vakaa,
kuuluu vuosisatain takaa.

Terve teille, Suomen suuret,
joill’ on synnyinmaassa juuret,
syvät niinkuin Suomen puilla,
syvemmät kuin meillä muilla;
kuka enin kärsi, vasta
häll’ on tieto maailmasta,
tunto isänmaankin oman,
armahan ja onnettoman.

Vapaus, sana meille soipa,
Väinön virsi kaikkivoipa,
kauas kuulu, kauas kaiu,
Suomen rantamilla raiu!
Vapaus, teille vankilasta,
muille kerran koituu vasta,
mutta elää vapaa henki
halki Suomen surujenki.

Eino Leino

 

How happy is the little stone

POSTED IN classic poetry November 29, 2018

 

b

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How happy is the little stone

 

How happy is the little Stone
That rambles in the Road alone,
And doesn’t care about Careers
And Exigencies never fears —
Whose Coat of elemental Brown
A passing Universe put on,
And independent as the Sun
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute Decree
In casual simplicity —

Emily Dickinson

Alexis Kiven päivä

POSTED IN AUTUMN, classic poetry October 10, 2018

s

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Suomenmaa

Maa kunnasten ja laaksojen,
Mi on tuo kaunoinen?
Tuo hohteess’ kesäpäivien,
Tuo loisteess’ pohjan tulien,
Tuo talven, suven ihana,
Mi ompi soma maa?

Siell’ tuhansissa järvissä
Yön tähdet kimmeltää
Ja Kanteleitten pauhina
Siell’ kaikuu ympär’ kallioi’
Ja kultanummen hongat soi:
Se ompi Suomenmaa.

En milloinkaan mä unohtais
Sun lempeet’ taivastas,
En tulta heljän aurinkos,
En kirkast’ kuuta kuusistos,
En kaskiesi savua
Päin pilviin nousevaa.

Ol’ monta näissä laaksoissa
Tok’ aikaa ankaraa,
kun yöseen halla hyyrteinen
Vei vainiomme viljasen;
Mut toivon aamu, toivon työ
Taas poisti hallayön.

Viel’ monta näissä laaksoissa
on käynyt kauhua,
Kun sota surman, kuolon toi
Ja tanner miesten verta joi:
Mut sankarien kunnian
Sai Suomi loistavan.

Nyt ihanainen, kallis maa
On meidän ainiaan;
Tuoss’ aaltoileva peltomme,
Tuoss’ viherjäinen niittymme,
Tuoss’ metsiemme jylhä yö
Ja meriemme vyö!

Tuon lehtimetsän kaikunaa
Mi autuus kuullella,
kun valjetessa aamusen
Siell’ pauhaa torvi paimenen,
Tai koska laulain laaksossa
Käy impi illalla!

Mi autuus helmaas nukkua,
Sä uniemme maa,
Sä kehtomme, sä hautamme,
Sä aina uusi toivomme,
Oi Suomenniemi kaunoinen,
Sä iänkaikkinen!

Aleksis Kivi

……………………………….

TARA FINLANDEI

Ce-ntruchipari de idealuri
e-acest taram cu vai si dealuri?
Cu zori de vara ireala,
cu stralucirea boreala,
cu ierni albastre, veri arzand,
ce nume porti, pamant?

Acolo, in oglinzi de lacuri
stelele stralucesc de veacuri,
acolo, printre stanci, cu jale
rasuna Kantele, pe cale,
si-n camp de aur pini rasuna:
e Finlanda strabuna.

Nicicand sa uit nu as putea
albastru-ti cer, privirea ta,
a soarelui lumina blanda,
sau luna prin molizi lucinda,
sau focul viu, innoitor
‘naltandu-se la nor.

Caci fost-au in acest tinut
vremuri prea grele de trecut,
cand gerul noptii Nordului
furat-a mana campului,
dar truda si credinta-n cer
ucid al noptii ger.

Si multe, groaznice nevoi
s-au abatut in aste vai,
razboiul crud si sangeros
a adapat pamant setos
cu sange de eroi, dar ei
sunt gloria Finlandei.

Acum, taram, minune vie
e-a noastra tara pe vecie,
unde campia unduieste
si lunca verde straluceste,
si noaptea de paduri adanci,
si marile cu stanci.

Rasuna frunza codrului,
ferice-asculti chemarea lui,
cand zori de ziua se destrama,
buciumul de pastor te cheama,
sau cand pe vale vine seara,
cantand merge fecioara.

Sa dorm la tine-n poala iara,
a visurilor noastra tara,
al nostru leagan si mormant,
speranta noua, nou cuvant,
peninsula in cer, ofranda!
Tu, vesnica Finlanda!

in romaneste, Maria Magdalena Biela

Fall, leaves, fall

POSTED IN classic poetry October 8, 2018

magda

maggie

Fall, leaves, fall

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night’s decay
Ushers in a drearier day.

Emily Bronté

La Rosa

POSTED IN classic poetry, Summer August 1, 2018

rose

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

La Rosa

la inmarcesible rosa que no canto,
la que es peso y fragancia,
la del negro jardín en la alta noche,
la de cualquier jardín y cualquier tarde,
la rosa que resurge de la tenue
ceniza por el arte de la alquimia,
la rosa de los persas y de Ariosto,
la que siempre está sola,
la que siempre es la rosa de las rosas,
la joven flor platónica,
la ardiente y ciega rosa que no canto,
la rosa inalcanzable.

Jorge Luis Borges

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