classic poetry
La sera di fiera / Fair evening / Seara de balci
POSTED IN classic poetry, translated Italian-English, translated Italian-Romanian May 20, 2019
La sera di fiera / Fair evening / Seara de balciIl cuore stasera mi disse: non sai?
La rosabruna incantevole
Dorata da una chioma bionda:
E dagli occhi lucenti e bruni colei che di grazia imperiale
Incantava la rosea
Freschezza dei mattini:
E tu seguivi nell’aria
La fresca incarnazione di un mattutino sogno:
E soleva vagare quando il sogno
E il profumo velavano le stelle
(Che tu amavi guardar dietro i cancelli
Le stelle pallide notturne):
Che soleva passare silenziosa
E bianca come un volo di colombe
Certo è morta: non sai?
Era la notte
Di fiera della perfida Babele
Salente in fasci verso un cielo affastellato un paradiso di fiamma
In lubrici fischi grotteschi
E tintinnare d’angeliche campanelle
E gridi e voci di prostitute
E pantomime d’Ofelia
Stillate dall’umile pianto delle lampade elettriche
……………………………………………………………………
Una canzonetta volgaruccia era morta
E mi aveva lasciato il cuore nel dolore
E me ne andavo errando senz’amore
Lasciando il cuore mio di porta in porta:
Con Lei che non è nata eppure è morta
E mi ha lasciato il cuore senz’amore:
Eppure il cuore porta nel dolore:
Lasciando il cuore mio di porta in porta.DINO CAMPANA
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Fair eveningThe heart said to me tonight: don’t you know?
The lovely dark rose
Golden by a blonde hair:
And she with bright and brown eyes whose imperial grace
Charmed the rosy
Freshness of the morning:
And you followed in the air
The fresh incarnation of a morning dream:
And he used to wander when the dream
And the scent veiled the stars
(That you loved to watch behind the gates
The nightly pale stars):
That used to pass silent
And white as a flight of doves
Surely it’s dead: don’t you know?
It was the fair night
Of the perfidious Babel
A paradise of flames rising in streams towards a bundled sky
In lewd grotesque whistles
And tinkling of angelic bells
And shouts and voices of prostitutes
And pantomimes of Ophelia
Exuding from the humble cries of electric lamps
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A vulgar little song was dead
And left my heart in sorrow
And I was wandering without love
Leaving my heart from door to door:
With her who was not born and yet is dead
And left my heart without love:
Yet the heart brings in sorrow:
Leaving my heart from door to door.
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Seara de balciInima-mi spuse asta seara: nu mai stii?
Minunatul trandafir negru
Aurit de blondul par:
Si ea cu ochii de chihlimbar lucind a caror gratie regala
A fermecat trandafiria
Prospetime a diminetii:
Si tu ai urmarit in aer
Proaspata incarnare a unui vis matinal:
Si obisnuia sa rataceasca pe cand visul
Si parfumul invaluiau stelele
(Pe care iti placea sa le privesti din spatele portilor
Stelele palide nocturne)
Care obisnuiau sa treaca in tacere
Si alb ca un zbor de hulubi
Cu siguranta e moarta: nu mai stii?
Era noaptea
De balci a perfidului Babel
Un paradis de flacari se ridica in fluxuri catre un cer inghesuit
In obscene grotesti fluieraturi
Si zornait de clopote angelice
Si strigate si voci de prostituate
Si pantomime ale Ofeliei
Emanand din umilele tipete ale lampilor electrice.
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Un cantec mic vulgar a murit
Si mi-a lasat inima in amar
Si eu fara dragoste-am ratacit
Din usa-n usa lasandu-mi inima-n zadar:
Cu ea ce nu-i nascuta si totusi a murit
Si mi-a lasat inima fara iubire-amar:
Totusi inima poarta durerea, ratacit
Lasandu-mi inima din usa-n usa-n zadar.Maria Magdalena
Jag / I / Eu
POSTED IN classic poetry May 17, 2019
Jag / I / Eu
Jag är främmande i detta land,
som ligger djupt under det tryckande havet,
solen blickar in med ringlande strålar
och luften flyter mellan mina händer.
Man sade mig att jag är född i fångenskap –
här är intet ansikte som vore mig bekant.
Var jag en sten, den man kastat hit på bottnen?
Var jag en frukt, som var för tung för sin gren?
Här ligger jag på lur vid det susande trädets fot,
hur skall jag komma upp för de hala stammarna?
Däruppe mötas de raglande kronorna,
där vill jag sitta och speja ut
efter röken ur mitt hemlands skorstenar…EDITH SÖDERGRAN
————————————————————I
I am foreign to this country,
which lies deep beneath the oppressive sea,
the sun glances in with swirling rays
and the air flows between my hands.
They told me I was born in captivity –
here is no face that would be familiar to me.
Was I a stone, one which was thrown here to the bottom?
Was I a fruit that was too heavy for its branch?
Here I am lying in wait at the foot of the booming tree,
how could I get up along the slippery trunk?
There, above, the rattling crowns meet,
there I want to sit and keep an eye on
the smoke from my country’s chimneys …
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EuSunt straina in asta tara
ce se intinde adanc sub marea apasatoare,
soarele priveste cu raze rasucite
si aerul curge printre mainile mele.
Mi-au spus c-am fost nascuta in captivitate –
aici nu-i nici o fata care mi-ar fi familiara.
Fost-am o piatra ce fu aruncata aici, in afund?
Fost-am un fruct prea greu pentru creanga-i?
Aici stau culcata asteptand la radacina copacului inflorind,
cum as putea urca de-a lungul trunchiului lunecos?
Acolo sus coroanele vociferand se intalnesc,
acolo as vrea sa stau si sa veghez
asupra fumului din hornurile tarii mele.
Maria Magdalena
Min Själ / My soul / Sufletul meu
POSTED IN classic poetry May 17, 2019
Min Själ / My soul / Sufletul meuMin själ kan icke berätta och veta någon sanning,
min själ kan endast gråta och skratta och vrida sina händer;
min själ kan icke minnas och försvara,
min själ kan icke överväga och bekräfta.
När jag var ett barn såg jag havet: det var blått,
i min ungdom mötte jag en blomma: hon var röd,
nu sitter vid min sida en främling: han är utan färg,
men jag är icke mera rädd för honom än jungfrun var för draken.
När riddaren kom var jungfrun röd och vit,
men jag har mörka ringar under ögonen.EDITH SÖDERGRAN
………………………………………………………
My soulMy soul can tell and know no truth,
my soul can only cry and laugh and twist its hands;
my soul cannot remember and defend,
my soul cannot consider and confirm.
When I was a child I saw the sea: it was blue,
in my youth I met a flower: it was red,
now by my side a stranger is sitting: he has no colour,
but I fear him no more than the maiden fears the dragon
When the knight came, the maiden was red and white,
but I have dark circles under my eyes.
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Sufletul meuSufletul meu nu poate spune nici sti adevarul,
sufletul meu poate doar sa planga si sa rada si sa-si franga mainile;
sufletul nu-si poate aminti nici apara,
sufletul meu nu poate reflecta nici confirma.
Cand am fost copil am vazut marea: era albastra,
in tineretea-mi am intalnt o floare: era rosie,
acum langa mine sta un strain: el n-are culoare,
dar nu ma tem de el mai mult decat fecioara se teme de zmeu
Cand cavalerul veni, fecioara fu rosie si alba,
insa eu am cercuri negre sub ochi.
Maria Magdalena
Livet / Life / Viata
POSTED IN classic poetry May 17, 2019
Livet / Life / ViataJag, min egen fånge, säger så:
livet är icke våren, klädd i ljusgrön sammet,
eller en smekning, den man sällan får,
livet är icke ett beslut att gå
eller två vita armar, som hålla en kvar.
Livet är den trånga ringen som håller oss fången,
den osynliga kretsen, vi aldrig överträda,
livet är den nära lyckan som går oss förbi,
och tusende steg vi icke förmå oss att göra.
Livet är att förakta sig själv
och ligga orörlig på bottnen av en brunn
och veta att solen skiner däruppe
och gyllene fåglar flyga genom luften
och de pilsnabba dagarna skjuta förbi.
Livet är att vinka ett kort farväl och gå hem och sova …
Livet är att vara en främling för sig själv
och en ny mark för varje annan som kommer.
Livet är att handskas vårdslöst med sin egen lycka
och att stöta bort det enda ögonblicket,
livet är att tro sig vara svag och icke våga.EDITH SÖDERGRAN
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LifeI, my own prisoner, say so:
life is not spring, dressed in light green velvet,
or a caress that one rarely gets,
Life is not a decision to go
or two white arms that hold one.
Life is the cramped ring that keeps us captive,
the invisible circuit, we never violate,
life is the close happiness that passes us by,
and a thousand steps we are unable to do.
Life is to despise yourself
and lie motionless on the bottom of a well
and knowing that the sun is shining up there
and golden birds fly through the air
and the quick days pass by.
Life is waving a short farewell and going home and sleeping …
Life is to be a stranger to himself
and a new land for everybody else coming.
Life is to deal carelessly with its own happiness
and to repel the only moment,
Life is believing to be weak and not daring
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ViataEu, propriul meu prizonier, spun astfel:
viata nu-i primavara, imbracata in catifea verde crud,
ori o mangaiere pe care cineva rareori o primeste.
Viata nu-i o hotarare de-a pleca
ori doua brate albe ce imbratiseaza.
Viata este inelul strans ce ne tine captivi,
cercul invisibil pe care niciodata nu-l incalcam,
viata este fericirea apropiata care trece pe langa noi,
si o mie de pasi pe care nu putem sa-i facem.
Viata este dispretuirea sinelui
si statul nemiscat pe fundul unei fantani
stiind ca soarele luceste sus
si pasari aurii zboara prin aer
si zilele repezi trec.
Viata este un semn de adio fluturat cu mana, si mersul acasa, si somnul…
Viata este instrainarea de tine insuti
si un nou pamant fiecaruia care vine.
Viata este nonsalanta cu care-ti tratezi propria fericire
si respingerea unicului moment,
Viata este credinta ca esti slab si neindraznet.Maria Magdalena
Tristesse / Tristete
POSTED IN classic poetry, translated French-Romanian April 30, 2019
Tristesse / TristeteJ’ai perdu ma force et ma vie,
Et mes amis et ma gaieté;
J’ai perdu jusqu’à la fierté
Qui faisait croire à mon génie.Quand j’ai connu la Vérité,
J’ai cru que c’était une amie ;
Quand je l’ai comprise et sentie,
J’en étais déjà dégoûté.Et pourtant elle est éternelle,
Et ceux qui se sont passés d’elle
Ici-bas ont tout ignoré.Dieu parle, il faut qu’on lui réponde.
Le seul bien qui me reste au monde
Est d’avoir quelquefois pleuré.Alfred de Musset
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TristeteImi pierdui forta chiar si viata,
prietenii si veselia;
imi pierdui pana si mandria
ce-n geniul meu credinta-mi da.Cand Adevaru-l cunoscui,
Un prieten a fi l-am crezut;
cand l-am inteles, l-am vazut,
deja dezgustat devenii.Si totusi adevarul vesnic este,
iara cei care-au trecut peste
aici, jos, l-au cam ignorat.Domnul vorbeste, unui raspuns dau glas.
Singurul bun ce-n lume mi-a ramas
e de-a fi plans cateva ori curat.Maria Magdalena
Do not go gentle into that good night / Sa nu treci resemnat spre-ntunecare
POSTED IN classic poetry, translated English-Romanian April 30, 2019
Do not go gentle into that good night / Sa nu treci resemnat spre-ntunecare
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas
———————————-Sa nu treci resemnat spre-ntunecare
Sa nu treci resemnat spre-ntunecare.
Batranetea-ti sa arda-n furie la apus
Urla, urla-mpotriva luminii care moare.Desi-nteleptii stiu ca-n bezna-i luminare
Caci vorba lor fulgerari n-a produs
Ei nu trec resemnati spre-ntunecare.Cei buni, ultimul val, plângând lucirea-n care,
Faptele lor firave ar fi dansat supus
Urla, urla-mpotriva luminii care moare.Cei aprigi, ce-n cantec au prins soare,
si prea tarziu au inteles cu-amar nespus
Ei nu trec resemnati spre-ntunecare.Cei gravi, pe moarte, ce vad prin oftare
ca ochii orbi pot arde ca meteori, transpus,
Urla, urla-mpotriva luminii care moare.Iar tu,-al meu tata, pe culme de-ntristare
Blesteama, mangaie-ma-n lacrimi nesupus
Sa nu treci resemnat spre-ntunecare.
Urla, urla-mpotriva luminii care moare.
Maria Magdalena
Alone / Singur
POSTED IN classic poetry, translated English-Romanian April 30, 2019
Alone / SingurFrom childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view—Edgar Allan Poe
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SingurCopil fiind – n-am fost nicicand
Cum altii sunt – nicicand vazand
cum altii vad – nici dorul dor
nu-l baui din comun izvor-Tristetea-mi nu putui simti
la fel cu altii – nici trezi
in inima-mi un cant silit –
Si singur iubii ce-am iubit.Apoi – copil – in zori de zi,
‘n furtuna vietii – ma zmuci
Din bun si rau credint–adanca
Misterul ce ma leaga inca –Din torent sau din fantana-
Din stanca rosie batrana-
Din a soarelui rotire
In tomnatica aurire-De la fulgerul din cer
Ce trecu prin mine fier
De la tunet si furtuna
De la norul ce se-aduna(Cand e-albastru Cerul tot)
Ca un demon eu socot –Maria Magdalena
Born in April
POSTED IN classic poetry April 24, 2019
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CATALINA FRANCU!Born on 22nd of April, when all flowers are alive and searching for her arms!!!
Catalina filled with flowers and poetry
THE SMILE / ZAMBETUL
POSTED IN classic poetry, translated English-Romanian April 19, 2019
THE SMILE / ZAMBETULThere is a Smile of Love
And there is a Smile of Deceit
And there is a Smile of Smiles
In which these two Smiles meetAnd there is a Frown of Hate
And there is a Frown of disdain
And there is a Frown of Frowns
Which you strive to forget in vainFor it sticks in the Hearts deep Core
And it sticks in the deep Back bone
And no Smile that ever was smild
But only one Smile aloneThat betwixt the Cradle & Grave
It only once Smild can be
But when it once is Smild
Theres an end to all MiseryWILLIAM BLAKE
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Zambetul
Exista un Zambet de Dragoste
Exista un Zambet Minciuna
Exista un Zambet al Zambetelor
In care cele doua se-aduna.
Exist-o-Ncruntare de Ura
Exist-o-Ncruntare Dispret
Exist-o-Ncruntare-a-Ncruntarilor
Ce vrei s-o uiti cu orice pret.
Caci ea se-nfige-n Inim-Adanc
Si se-nfige-n Oase profund
Si nu-i zambet ce fu vreodata zambit
Doar-acel singur zambet bland.
Care intre leagan si mormant
Poate fi zambit doar o data
Insa atunci cand cand este o data zambit
Se sfarseste suferinta toata.
Maria Magdalena
OUR MASTERPIECE IS THE PRIVATE LIFE / CAPODOPERA NOASTRA ESTE VIATA INTIMA
POSTED IN classic poetry, translated English-Romanian April 19, 2019
OUR MASTERPIECE IS THE PRIVATE LIFE / CAPODOPERA NOASTRA-I VIATA INTIMAI
Is there something down by the water keeping itself from us,
Some shy event, some secret of the light that falls upon the deep,
Some source of sorrow that does not wish to be discovered yet?Why should we care? Doesn’t desire cast its rainbows over the coarse porcelain
Of the world’s skin and with its measures fill the air? Why look for more?II
And now, while the advocates of awfulness and sorrow
Push their dripping barge up and down the beach, let’s eat
Our brill, and sip this beautiful white Beaune.True, the light is artificial, and we are not well-dressed.
So what. We like it here. We like the bullocks in the field next door,
We like the sound of wind passing over grass. The way you speak,In that low voice, our late night disclosures . . . why live
For anything else? Our masterpiece is the private life.III
Standing on the quay between the Roving Swan and the Star Immaculate,
Breathing the night air as the moment of pleasure taken
In pleasure vanishing seems to grow, its self-soilingBeauty, which can only be what it was, sustaining itself
A little longer in its going, I think of our own smooth passage
Through the graded partitions, the crises that bleed,Into the ordinary, leaving us a little more tired each time,
A little more distant from the experiences, which, in the old days,
Held us captive for hours. The drive along the winding roadBack to the house, the sea pounding against the cliffs,
The glass of whiskey on the table, the open book, the questions,
All the day’s rewards waiting at the doors of sleep . . .MARK STRAND
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Capodopera noastra este viata intima
IExista ceva in josul apei ce de noi se fereste,
vreo intamplare timida, vreun secret al luminii ce cade peste adanc,
vreun izvor al tristetii ce nu se vrea descoperit inca?De ce ne-ar pasa? Dorinta nu-si arunca curcubeiele peste portelanul brut
al pielii lumii si cu propriile-i masuri umple aerul? De ce-am cauta mai mult?II
Si-acum, pe cand adeptii groazei si durerii
‘S-imping salupa siroind in susul si-n josul plajei, hai sa mancam
Calcanul nostru, si sa luam o gura din frumosul Beaune alb.
Adevarat, lumina e artificiala, si nu suntem bine imbracati.
Si ce. Ne place aici. Ne plac boii de pe campul vecin,
Ne place sunetul vantului peste iarba. Felul in care vorbesti,
Cu vocea soapta, dezvaluirile noastre tarziu in noapte…de ce sa traiesti
Pentru altceva? Capodopera noastra este viata intima.III
Stand pe chei intre constelatii Lebada Calatoare si Steaua Imaculata,
Respirand aerul noptii in timp ce momentul placerii luate
In placere disparand pare sa creasca, propria-i murdaritaFrumusete, care poate fi ceea ce-a fost, doar sustinandu-se
Putin mai mult in plecarea-i, ma gandesc la propria noatra trecere calma
Prin despartirile treptate, crizele ce sangereaza,In cotidian, lasandu-ne putin mai obositi de fiece data,
Putin mai distanti de experientele, care, in zilele de-odinioara,
Ne tineau captivi ore intregi. Calatoria de-a lungul unui drum serpuitInapoi spre casa, marea lovindu-se de stanci,
Paharul cu whiskey pe masa, cartea deschisa, intrebarile,
Toata rasplata zilei astepand la usile somnului…
Maria Magdalena
