poetry

One of These Two by Güngör Tekçe

/ zdunno03 / 11 Comments

Running along the seashore you were a child
The way you entered my dreams you were shimmering blond
How could you have fit the sun into your sand-pail
You smiled at me–not really at me but at the mountaintops

You were a child whatever you were you must have been beautiful
Were the heavens really in place before then
Then I saw the flying fish that went sailing through your hair
You were mornings you were evenings most of all the late afternoons

I ran a long way at your side
I ran you passed me by
There is love and there is death–the two for which no words suffice
One of these two must have been you

translated by Jean Carpenter Efe

from Bring Roses and Cardamom by Horace

/ zdunno03 / 8 Comments

Whether we descend from the great houses,
Or drift unprotected under the naked
Sky, it’s all one; we are sacrifices
To Death, not well known for compassion.

We are obliged and herded. The lot is
Inside the urn; the ball with our number
Will roll out. And what we’ll get
Is an everlasting absence from home.

translated by Robert Bly

from The Anger Poem by Horace

/ zdunno03 / 4 Comments

Anger is what broke Thyeste’s life
And many shining cities went down brick
By brick before anger, and aggressive
Battalions ran their ploughs in great

Delight over ground covering those walls.
Calm your mind. Heat tempted
Me in my sweet early days, and sent
Me deeply mad to one-sided poems. Now

I want to replace those sour lines with
Sweet lines; now, having sworn off harsh
Attacks, I want you to become
My friend, and give me back my heart.

translated by Robert Bly

Memories of Horses by Rolf Jacobsen

/ zdunno03 / 6 Comments

The lines in the hands of old people
gradually curve over and will point soon toward earth.
They take with them their secret language,
cloud-words and wind-letters,
all the signs the heart gathers up in the lean year.

Sorrow bleaches out and turns to face the stars
but memories of horses, women’s feet, children
flow from old people’s faces down to the grass kingdom.

In huge trees we can often see
images of the peace in the sides of animals,
and the wind sketches in the grass, if you are happy,
running children and horses.

translated by Robert Bly

The Old Clocks by Rolf Jacobsen

/ zdunno03 / Leave a comment

The old clocks often have encouraging faces.
They are like those farmers in the big woods or in the mountains
Whose whole being contains some calm acceptance
As if they belonged to some other race than ours.
A race that has fought its way through its time down here
And has seen its unhappiness shrink back like grass
During that earlier period when the Earth was earth.

They are guests with us this time and they nod in tune to our distress
Next to our bed with their mild wisdom: it’s OK,
oh yes, oh yes, it’s OK, it’s OK.

translated by Robert Bly

Marco Polo’s Dilemma: for Margaret Randall by Victor Rodriguez Nunez

/ zdunno03 / Leave a comment

I’ve seen something of the world
Managua dust storms
bare snow
covering the pines along the road to Smolyan
and the flags arguing atop a tower
of the University of Puerto Rico

I’ve seen something of the world
Palenque’s bewitched stones
the bay of honey
forgotten by summer at Ponta Delgada
and the Red Square
painted by Kandinsky

I’ve seen something of the world
and it only deepens my sorrow
Nothing belongs to me

translated by Katherine M. Hedeen

Tune: Yü mei-jen Title: The (New) Moon on the Night of the Third of the Month by Chiang Ch’un-lin

/ zdunno03 / Leave a comment

An icy scar in the afterglow sends off the setting sun;
A hook so tiny as to startle fishes from their dreams,
Passionate souls would still say it’s perfect and round;
Just the barest hint of a woman’s brow
And suddenly it’s the Goddess of the Moon!

Enveloping the steps, the night air as thin as mist;
Flowers’ shadows lightly traced on the curtain.
I lean against the railing, no need to sleep late.
Just gazing up into the yellow dusk–
One glimpse of her overwhelms me with longing.

translated by Irving Lo

On the Road to Tang Lake by P’eng Sun-yü

/ zdunno03 / 4 Comments

In the evening I gaze out from atop a high tower;
The sun’s radiance in the forest has been clear all day.
On Lonely Mountain the autumn garrison is cold,
Up the three branches of the Mao River the night tides are born.
Fisherman’s fires appear out in the main current,
Gull-topped waves stay bright all night long.
It’s time for our boat to stop for a moment:
The misty moon is just too filled with feeling.

translated by William H. Nienhauser