Poems Found in Translation

Pushkin: The Talisman (From Russian)

2013-04-02T14:52:00.003-05:00

This poem is hard for me to fully appreciate because of the racism. In the most blatantly fetishistic manner imaginable, Pushkin employs the stereotype of the (Ottoman/Muslim) Oriental man as an effete lust-driven satyr and of the Oriental woman as a mysterious, alluring odalisque who is just waiting for some EuRomeo to come by and rescue her with his white dick. It is good as a poem, but unfortunately I have to struggle to remind myself of that, faced as I am with the fact that its author was a racist, and a misogynist. Though, given his upbringing and the times and place in which he lived, it would almost be surprising if he were otherwise. Then again, even by the standards of his own time, Pushkin was pretty much a tool.

The Talisman
By Alexander Pushkin
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Russian

Where the sea forever splashes
On a desolate rock face,
Where the moon more warmly sparkles
In sweet hours of evening haze,
Where the harems do their service
To the lax Mohammedan,
An enchantress, with caresses,
Handed me a Talisman.

With caresses there she bade me:
“Guard this Talisman aright.
Secret power it possesses.
Love Himself has deemed it yours tonight.
Neither plague nor grave nor aging
My beloved, will it ban,
Nor shall you survive the blizzard
Aided by my Talisman,

Neither will it help you gather
Pearls from Oriental seas,
Nor persuade the Prophet's faithful
To pledge you their loyalties,
Nor to arms of love and friendship
From this sad and foreign land
Shall you journey north and homeward
Driven by my Talisman.

But, should traitor eyes entrap you,
Darling, in a sudden spell,
Or if lips in dark of evening
Love you not but kiss too well,
Then, my love, from every evil
Wound that would your heart unman,
From oblivion, from betrayal,
Be your shield my Talisman."

The Original

Талисман
Александр Пушкин

Там, где море вечно плещет
На пустынные скалы,
Где луна теплее блещет
В сладкий час вечерней мглы,
Где, в гаремах наслаждаясь,
Дни проводит мусульман,
Там волшебница, ласкаясь,
Мне вручила талисман.

И, ласкаясь, говорила:
"Сохрани мой талисман:
В нем таинственная сила!
Он тебе любовью дан.
От недуга, от могилы,
В бурю, в грозный ураган,
Головы твоей, мой милый,
Не спасет мой талисман.

И богатствами Востока
Он тебя не одарит,
И поклонников пророка
Он тебе не покорит;
И тебя на лоно друга,
От печальных чуждых стран,
В край родной на север с юга
Не умчит мой талисман...

Но когда коварны очи
Очаруют вдруг тебя,
Иль уста во мраке ночи
Поцелуют не любя -
Милый друг! от преступленья,
От сердечных новых paн,
От измены, от забвенья
Сохранит мои талисман!"

Jean-Yves Masson: The Angel (From French)

2013-04-02T14:09:00.000-05:00

The Angel
By Jean-Yves Masson
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original French

The angel was saying “Now to the terrace where the wind turns,
Come. Draw near my mystery.
I am the moment reuniting all the dead.
You must struggle against me. No greatness
Is given him who would keep his word if he does not throw
Down a shadow gauntlet to time that binds him by its law.”
Approaching angel, I know you as the sea,
As the gravity of temples and the youth of doves.
I shall stand against you. I shall be strong.
And how small my defeat if I come to the future garden
Bearing in my hands a load of burgeoning fruits

The Original:

L'Ange Disait

L'ange disait :"Sur la terrasse où le vent tourne,
viens maintenant, approche-toi de mon mystère,
je suis l'instant qui réunit tous les morts.
Tu devras lutter contre moi. Nulle grandeur
n'est donnée à qui veut tenir parole, s'il ne lance
un défi d'ombre au temps qui le tient sous sa loi. "
Ange qui viens, je te connais comme la mer,
comme la gravité des temples et la jeunesse des colombes,
je me dresserai contre toi. Je serai fort.
Et peu m'importe ma défaite si je viens
au jardin d'avenir, les bras chargés de fruits naissants.

Ronsard: "When you are old" (From Middle French)

2013-04-01T14:33:00.000-05:00

There is an abundance of information about how Middle French was pronounced, but as far as I can determine there are no audio samples of it anywhere on the internet. Included is my small way of fixing that.

Sonnet to Helen
By Pierre de Ronsard (mid 16th cent)
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original in reconstructed late Middle French pronunciation
Click to hear me recite it in Modern French

When you sit aging under evening's star
By hearth and candle, spinning yarns and wool,
You'll sing my verse in awe and say "Ronsard
Wrought song of me when I was beautiful"

Hearing such words, your serving-maid that night,
Though half-asleep from drudging, all the same
Will wake at my name's sound and stand upright
Hailing the deathless praises of your name.

I'll be a fleshless phantom, resting sound
Amid the shadowy myrtle¹ underground.
You, by the hearth, a crone bent low in sorrow
For your proud scorn that willed my love away.
Live now, I beg of you. Wait not the morrow.
Gather the roses of your life today.

Note
¹-Resting with the shady myrtle tree often denotes peace, and its greenness suggests immortality. That myrtle leaves were an emblem of Venus also implies that Ronsard has that goddess on his side in his poetic headspace. (c.f. Horace 1.25.) Note, however, that this is not the only classical connotation of myrtle. See for example Virgil (Aeneid VI 440-4):

Not far from here, splayed all about, there lie
The Plains of Weeping. That is the name they bear
For here those whom brutal love has drained and ravaged
Hide on clandestine paths and under cover
Of myrtle bowers. Even here in death
Their yearnings have no mercy.

Nec procul hinc partem fusi monstrantur in omnem
Lugentes campi; sic illos nomine dicunt.
hic quos durus amor crudeli tabe peredit
secreti celant calles et myrtea circum
silva tegit; curae non ipsa in morte relinquunt.

The Original:

Sonnet à Hélène

Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir à la chandelle,
Assise aupres du feu, devidant et filant,
Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous esmerveillant:
« Ronsard me celebroit du temps que j'estois belle ! »

Lors vous n'aurez servante oyant telle nouvelle,
Desja sous le labeur à demy sommeillant,
Qui au bruit de mon nom ne s'aille resveillant,
Benissant¹ vostre nom de louange immortelle.

Je seroy sous la terre, et fantaume sans os ;
Par les ombres Myrtheux je prendray mon repos.
Vous serez au fouyer une vieille accroupie,
Regrettant mon amour, et vostre fier desdain.
Vivez, si m'en croyez², n'attendez à demain :
Cueillez dés aujourd'huy les roses de la vie.

Notes on the French text:
¹- Benir qqn. de qqch. in Middle French meant "congratulate/commend" (someone for something), which makes more sense contextually here than the more commonly presumed "bless with."
²- si m'en croyez in Middle French meant something more like "I implore you."

John Milton: Sur Sa Cécité

2013-04-01T14:32:00.000-05:00

Sur sa Cécité
Par John Milton
Traduit par A.Z. Foreman

À mesurer que ma lumière est épuisée
Dans ce monde assombri bien avant mon midi,
Et qu'un talent qui meurt en demeurant enfoui
S'enlise en moi, alors que l'âme s'est penchée

Pour servir mieux mon Maître, et présenter d'emblée
Mon compte, de peur qu'Il ne me tienne en mépris
"Dieu veut-Il du labeur quotidien dans ma nuit?"
Dis-je. Mais pieusement la Patience zélée

Répond pour prévenir cette tourmente: "Dieu
N'exige ni le fait ni l'obole. Qui mieux
Le sert ne croule pas sous Son aimable joug.

Il règne. Sans répit, des milliers pour Lui plaire
Franchissent l'océan et se hâtent sur terre.
Bons serviteurs aussi qui attendent, debout."

The Original:

On His Blindness

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he, returning, chide:
Doth God exact day labour, light denied?
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent

That murmur, soon replies: God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state

Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.

Rexa Zoelfman: Waking (From Laisaluga)

2013-04-01T07:52:00.001-05:00

Here's a sonnet I have loved for years, translated from a language whose poets so rarely employ the sonnet form, unfortunately.

Waking

By Rexa Zoelfman

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Click to hear me recite the original in Laisaluga

Hearing a sound that ought to be your sleep

I reach and set my heart on your left hand

But find the window: winter, ankle-deep

In autumn, hates the pathways of the land.

But snow is slowly stepping down the tree

Where morning tried to speak, but mused in rain.

I lie back, wondering if you also see

What dreams we are begetting in my brain:

Years roll along our faces and we cling

To bedsheets and each other. In cold light

Snow melts between our bodies. Everything

We do shall stake our claim to all the night.

I turn against your ceiling with our cry

As if to look for kinship with the sky.

The Original:

Meréxo

Rexa Zoelfman

Xomé takai talonti vitrok sün

Momú kai latri mik kor vitrok sin

Ma trewu qo ferfatai: Herazün

Pedlunge xi qibranai doro xin.

Ma nolge newu peto dendriné

Txa motro paulet pürka txü plük fal.

El rebaskú kai pregu hek vit vé

Mai rezui est txü nitrok tetmonal.

Hai hokorú figaiper kai txelú

En nitrakón, en loqfarín, en pai.

Ex lumper kaxnu newu. Heimarú

Ie vitrok maka tolu honter lai.

Vitrok metonper kansu kailaséq

Kehapesú kedrán xo kuxmonéq.

Paul Van Ostaijen: Mythos (From Dutch)

2013-04-01T07:31:00.001-05:00

Mythos
By Paul Van Ostaijen
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the Dutch

A tall hand juts in the night
And it juts before the night
for the night alone is yonder blueness
at the endpoint of my eyes
and before the blue night there slides the dive of one white dove
If a white hare should slide before your eyes
Over the street, beware
It takes your life on over
From the one scale to the other
And you do not know
What this all signifies.

The Original:

Mythos
Paul Van Ostaijen

Een hoge hand steekt in de nacht
en zij steekt vóór de nacht
omdat de nacht alleen is gene blauwheid
aan 't einde van mijn ogen
en vóór de blauwe nacht schuift éen witte duif
zo een witte haas schuift voor uw ogen
over de straat neem u in acht
hij draagt uw leven over
van d'ene schaal naar d'andere
en gij weet niet
wat dit beduidt

Pushkin: Remembrance (From Russian)

2013-04-01T07:00:00.003-05:00

This poem, describing a somewhat remorseful white night in St. Petersburg, reflects the poet's state of mind after his exile and before his marriage. It was a turbulent period. Nicholas I had brought him back from exile but was making demands on the poet that he could not fulfill with a clear conscience. Though far too cowardly to actually be a Decembrist, he felt he was betraying his Decembrist friends. Despair drove him to dissipation: he lost huge sums at cards, had three affairs with married women, and contracted an STD from a prostitute a month before he wrote this poem. The first 16 lines are the ones that were printed, and are the "canonical" version of the poem that is usually quoted. The rest of the poem exists only in Pushkin's draft manuscript and has not, as far as I know, ever been translated into English as verse. (The poem in its published form has been translated numerous times, almost all of which suffer from several misreadings of the original, often in the last line. The original leaves it ambiguous whether the poet is merely unable or actually unwilling to erase the past. Most translators presume that it is the former, whereas the latter not only seems more likely but also makes the poem much richer.) Pushkin probably omitted the ending either because he believed the ending was incriminating, or because he felt that the shorter version was a stronger work artistically. The end, though, seems worth reading. One interesting point of comparison for English-speakers is Shakespeare's Sonnet 30 (Pushkin had just enough English to be able to parse Shakespeare with the help of a French crib.)

Remembrance
By A.S. Pushkin
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Russian

When din of day for mortals softly ends
And onto the mute city squares
The thin penumbra of the night descends
With slumber, balm of daylong cares,
Then, in the still for me the hours wring
Exhausting wakeful pains anew.
Searing in blank of night, the serpent's sting
Venoms my heart with acid rue.
Black fancies seethe. An overflow of thought
Aghast, builds in the angst-strained soul;
Remembrance wordlessly and out of naught
Unwinds its long unholy scroll.
Then reading with disgust the writ of years
I tremble, damn my every day,
Bawl bitter plaints, and bitterly shed tears
But wipe not one sad line away.
* * *
In raucous revelry, in idleness,
In deadly liberty, in tears
In chains, in exile, in chill wilderness,
I see my many squandered years
And have no comfort. Slow and silently
Two youthful phantoms in the cold
Arise, two dear shades, angels given me
By fate itself in days of old.
These two with wings, these two with swords ablaze
Shall guard me, shall avenge my doom
These two speak, with dead tongues, the secret ways
Of happiness, and of the tomb.

The Original:

Воспоминание
А.С. Пушкин

Когда для смертного умолкнет шумный день,
И на немые стогны града
Полупрозрачная наляжет ночи тень
И сон, дневных трудов награда,
В то время для меня влачатся в тишине
Часы томительного бденья:
В бесдействии ночном живей горят во мне
Змеи сердечной угрызенья;
Мечты кипят, в уме подавленном тоской,
Теснится тяжких дум избыток;
Воспоминание безмолвно предо мной
Свой длинный развивает свиток;
И с отвращением читая жизнь мою,
Я трепещу и проклинаю,
И горько жалуюсь, и горько слезы лью,
Но строк печальных не смываю.
* * *
Я вижу в праздности, в неистовых пирах,
В безумстве гибельной свободы,
В неволе, бедности, изгнании, в степях
Мои утраченные годы.
И нет отрады мне — и тихо предо мной
Встают два призрака младые,
Две тени милые,— два данные судьбой
Мне ангела во дни былые;
Но оба с крыльями и с пламенным мечом.
И стерегут… и мстят мне оба.
И оба говорят мне мёртвым языком
О тайнах счастия и гроба.

Mihai Eminescu: For The Star (From Romanian)

2013-04-01T05:07:00.000-05:00

“Poets say science takes away from the beauty of the stars - mere globs of gas atoms. I too can see the stars on a desert night, and feel them. But do I see less or more? The vastness of the heavens stretches my imagination - stuck on this carousel my little eye can catch one - million - year - old light. A vast pattern - of which I am a part... What is the pattern, or the meaning, or the why? It does not do harm to the mystery to know a little about it. For far more marvelous is the truth than any artists of the past imagined it. Why do the poets of the present not speak of it? What men are poets who can speak of Jupiter if he were a man, but if he is an immense spinning sphere of methane and ammonia must be silent?”
― Richard P. Feynman

Well, Richard Feynman, meet Mihai Eminescu who meditates on love in terms of some light that has travelled for thousands of years at a speed of 186,000 miles per second from a distant star to the Earth. You two will get along well. Science, no less than religion, can make for good poetry.

For the Star
By Mihai Eminescu
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Romanian

It's been a long way for that star
Now rising in our skies:
Its light has trekked a thousand years
To reach our earthborn eyes.

It may have long ago burned out
Amid the blue of space
Yet only now its ray has come
To set our sights ablaze.

That icon of a perished star
Climbs heaven's canopy:
We who saw not the light that was
Now see what's ceased to be.

It's ever thus when our desires
Go, spent, into the night.
Our love still follows after us
With an extinguished light.

The Original:

La Steaua

La steaua care-a răsărit
E-o cale-atât de lungă,
Că mii de ani i-au trebuit
Luminii să ne-ajungă.

Poate de mult s-a stins în drum
În depărtări albastre,
Iar raza ei abia acum
Luci vederii noastre,

Icoana stelei ce-a murit
Încet pe cer se suie:
Era pe când nu s-a zărit,
Azi o vedem, şi nu e.

Tot astfel când al nostru dor
Pieri în noapte-adâncă,
Lumina stinsului amor
Ne urmăreşte încă.

Pouchkine: Je vous aimais (Du Russe)

2013-03-04T08:44:00.000-06:00

Je Vous Aimais
Par A.S. Pouchkine
Traduit du Russe par A.Z. Foreman
Cliquez ici pour m'entendre lire le texte d'origine à haute voix

Je vous aimais: et mon amour, peut-être,
N'est point au fond de l'âme encore éteint
Mais plus sa peine en vous ne doit renaître.
Je ne voudrais vous faire aucun chagrin.
Je vous aimais sans bruit, sans rien attendre
Jaloux et puis farouche en mon tourment,
Je vous aimais d'un coeur si pur, si tendre.
Qu'un autre, priez Dieu, vous aime autant.

Texte D'Origine:

Я Вас Любил

Я вас любил: любовь еще, быть может,
В душе моей угасла не совсем;
Но пусть она вас больше не тревожит;
Я не хочу печалить вас ничем.
Я вас любил безмолвно, безнадежно,
То робостью, то ревностью томим;
Я вас любил так искренно, так нежно,
Как дай вам бог любимой быть другим.

Shakespeare: Le Soliloque d'Hamlet (De l'Anglais)

2013-03-04T08:31:00.000-06:00

Le Soliloque d'Hamlet
Par William Shakespeare
Traduit par A.Z. Foreman

Voici la question: d'être ou de ne pas être.
Dans l’âme serait-il noble de me soumettre
A la fronde et les dards d’un destin altier
Ou contre tout un flot de misères m’armer
Dans une insurrection, afin de les détruire?
Mourir et donc dormir....rien davantage, et dire
Que ce sommeil met terme aux angoisses du cœur,
Et ce legs corporel d'un terrestre douleur...
Telle terminaison tenterait l’âme avide:
Dormir...et puis rêver. Mais le rêve intimide.
Car le rêve qui vienne en ce sommeil des morts
Aux esprits dépouillés de la coque du corps
Nous donne à reflechir. Voilà la réticence
Dont naît l’adversité d’une longue existence.
Car qui supporterait le fouet, le dédain
D’un monde médisant, la haine du hautain,
L’oppression du tyran, de l’amour la souffrance,
Les lenteurs de la loi, l’altière inexpérience
De chaque grand en place, et l’avilissement
Que l’indigne refile au mérite patient
Alors que de ce monde il pourrait bien s’absoudre
Avec un poignard nu qui devrait tout résoudre?
Qui en effet pourrait porter un poids pesant,
Sous la vie accablante en geignant, en suant,
Sans être épouvanté par l’au-délà, la terre
Dont nul n’a jamais pu repasser la frontière,
Qui trouble le dessein en nous faisant souffrir
Les maux que nous avons plutôt que de les fuir
Vers un mal inconnu? Ainsi la conscience
Fait de nous des poltrons. Ainsi l’homme qui pense
Change les teints natifs de la résolution
En malade pâleur avec sa reflexion,
Et ainsi des projets d’une haute volée
Se détournent toujours du cours à cette idée,
Perdant le nom d’"action".

To be, or not to be--that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep--
No more--and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep--
To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.

Cassia of Constantinople: Mary Magdalene (From Greek)

2013-02-11T13:24:00.000-06:00

While the early Byzantine Greek hymn was indeed the vehicle of some poetry of indisputably high quality, such as the anonymous Akathistos Hymn of the 5th century and that of the hymnodic genius Romanos, the liturgy has not been kind to most such work. The outbreak of the iconoclastic controversy resulted in a new fervor of hymn-writing, much of it bad poets who wrote more to fill out the music than to exploit language. These hymns seem to have been the ones that mainly found their way into the Orthodox liturgy, replacing much of the old school's work with cheap knockoffs. It is a testament to the sad state of affairs that the mediocre verse of St. John the Damascene is among the most admired of this period.
But it's not all bleak. Coming upon the work of Cassia of Constantinople (also known as Abbess Kassiani) I discovered an actual poet rather than a mere versifier. Her best (and best-known) poem, a penitential troparion (whose subject is traditionally considered to be Mary Magdalene), is here translated.
Cassia composed music to go along with the words, and I was originally going to sing it in the recording, redubbing my own voice for four parts, before I realized that to do justice to the music she composed requires at least one singer with a gargantuan vocal range, which I do not have. (Most church choirs probably don't have anyone who could pull this off either come to think of it.) And I wasn't going to stoop to using music from one of the many later kiddy-versions written for this hymn. So instead, you get what you always get: a recording of me reading the original text in a reconstruction of what it might have sounded like in the author's time and place: in this case, the formal register of educated early 9th century Constantinopolitan Greek.
I've also included the best specimen I could find of the hymn being sung to Cassia's original melody (in modern Greek pronunciation, obviously), by the Byzantine choir group Οι Καλοφωνάρηδες I Kalofonarides meaning roughly "The Benevocalists," lead by George Remoundos.

For my thoughts on the poem, see my note after the original Greek

Mary Magdalene: A Troparion
By Abbess Kassiani
Translated from Byzantine Greek by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original in a reconstruction of 9th century Constantinopolitan literary pronunciation
Click to hear the hymn chanted by Οι Καλοφωνάρηδες

O Lord, this woman fallen away into manifold sins,
Perceiving at last the God within Thee,
Turned Thy way to bring Thee ointment
In tears she brings Thee myrrh　　on this eve of Thine unworlding.
"Oh" she cries "what a night!　　What a night has fallen upon me,
Such dark extravagance, such moonless mania
Of flesh athirst for sin!
Receive now this spring of my tears,
Thou who wringest the seawater　 out of the clouds.
Bend down to me, 　 to the bewailment in my heart.
Thou who madest the heavens 　　bow when Thou beyond words
Didst empty Thyself into flesh.
Long shall I kiss Thine immaculate feet,
Wash them, and dry them with the hair of my head;
Those selfsame feet whose steps Eve heard
In the dusk of Eden,　　and hid in her dread.
Savior of souls and me!　　Who can fathom
The surfeit of my sins, 　　the abyss of Thy judgment?
Forsake not me, Thy rightful slave,
In all Thy measureless mercy."

The Original:

Το Τροπάριο της Κασσιανής

Κύριε, ἡ ἐν πολλαῖς ἁμαρτίαις περιπεσοῦσα γυνή,
τὴν σὴν αἰσθομένη θεότητα,
μυροφόρου ἀναλαβοῦσα τάξιν,
ὀδυρομένη, μύρα σοι, 　　πρὸ τοῦ ἐνταφιασμοῦ κομίζει.
Οἴμοι! λέγουσα, 　　ὅτι νύξ μοι ὑπάρχει,
οἶστρος ἀκολασίας, 　　ζοφώδης τε καὶ ἀσέληνος
ἔρως τῆς ἁμαρτίας.
Δέξαι μου τὰς πηγὰς τῶν δακρύων,
ὁ νεφέλαις διεξάγων 　　 τῆς θαλάσσης τὸ ὕδωρ
κάμφθητί μοι　　 πρὸς τοὺς στεναγμοὺς τῆς καρδίας,
ὁ κλίνας τοὺς οὐρανοὺς 　　τῇ ἀφάτῳ σου κενώσει.
Καταφιλήσω τοὺς ἀχράντους σου πόδας,
ἀποσμήξω τούτους δὲ πάλιν
τοῖς τῆς κεφαλῆς μου βοστρύχοις
ὧν ἐν τῷ παραδείσῳ Εὔα τὸ δειλινόν,
κρότον τοῖς ὠσὶν ἠχηθεῖσα, 　　τῷ φόβῳ ἐκρύβη.
Ἁμαρτιῶν μου τὰ πλήθη 　　καὶ κριμάτων σου ἀβύσσους
τίς ἐξιχνιάσει, ψυχοσῶστα Σωτήρ μου;
Μή με τὴν σὴν δούλην παρίδῃς,
ὁ ἀμέτρητον ἔχων τὸ ἔλεος.

Thoughts on the Poem

Cassia is the only female poet Byzantium has to its name, and is thrice-blessed: (1) that the texts she produced survived somehow under her own name, even though she was a woman writing in a heavily patriarchal milieu, (2) that she was writing at a time when her work could find its way safely into Eastern Orthodox services undisturbed rather than having to wait for some bibliolatrous researcher to happen upon it in some monastery and (3) that, of her work, her best poem -a penetential troparion- would be fortunate enough to be accorded prominence in Orthodox services.

That is why it is a singularly depressing fact that this poem, the best surviving bit of verse from the only known female poet of Byzantium, is in the voice of a harlot pouring scorn on herself and on sexuality.

The implications get ugly on close reading.

When she refers to herself as being in the throes of a debauched οἶστρος oîstros "frenzy, maddness, desire", she also calls to mind the word's meaning of "being in heat, lust, the urge to procreate".

Then, she uses the word στεναγμα τῆς καρδίας "the sighing/groaning of the heart" to describe her state. στεναγμα (and its variant στεναγμός) is a word especially typical of Greek tragedy, most often applied to the grief one feels at the death of a loved one. It is also found in the New Testament, in Romans and in Acts. Interestingly enough, in the latter, it is the word used by Stephen, when recounting the Exodus myth to the High Priest in a debate, to characterize the tribulation from which God delivered the Jews:

ἰδὼν εἶδον τὴν κάκωσιν τοῦ λαοῦ μου τοῦ ἐν Αἰγύπτῳ, καὶ τοῦ στεναγμοῦ αὐτοῦ ἤκουσα,
I have seen the affliction of my people which is in Egypt, and I have heard their groaning, and am come down to deliver them.
(Acts 7:34)

Now, after this, Cassia has the speaker kissing Christ's feet and wiping them with her hair. This image, and the words used in it, are lifted from the gospel of Luke:

Καὶ ἰδοὺ γυνὴ ἥτις ἦν ἐν τῇ πόλει ἁμαρτωλός, καὶ ἐπιγνοῦσα ὅτι κατάκειται ἐν τῇ οἰκίᾳ τοῦ Φαρισαίου; κομίσασα ἀλάβαστρον μύρου καὶ στᾶσα ὀπίσω παρὰ τοὺς πόδας αὐτοῦ κλαίουσα, τοῖς δάκρυσιν ἤρξατο βρέχειν τοὺς πόδας αὐτοῦ καὶ ταῖς θριξὶν τῆς κεφαλῆς αὐτῆς ἐξέμασσεν, καὶ κατεφίλει τοὺς πόδας αὐτοῦ καὶ ἤλειφεν τῷ μύρῳ.
And, behold , a woman in the city, which was a sinner, when she knew that Jesus sat at meat in the Pharisee's house, brought an alabaster box of ointment, and stood at his feet behind him weeping , and began to wash his feet with tears, and did wipe them with the hairs of her head, and kissed his feet, and anointed them with the ointment
Luke (7:27-38)

The word μύρον at the time could mean any kind of ointment, (but usually that produced by the myrrh tree.) Use of the word in Cassia's poem (among the Byzantine erudite elite readership) would not only invoke this passage from the Gospel overtly, but covertly suggest the legend of the origin of the myrrh-tree. In that legend, the woman Myrrha falls in love with her father Cinyras and tricks him into having sex with her. After discovering that he has been tricked into incest, Cinyras draws his sword and pursues Myrrha. She flees and, after nine months, turns to the gods for help. They take pity on her and transform her into a myrrh-tree. The perfume exuded myrrh tree was, according to Hellenistic folklore, Myrrha's wept tears.

Cassia brings it all together in an allusive web. ὀδυρομένη, μύρα σοι ...κομίζει Weeping I bring you Myrrh evokes the Myrrha myth and the tree's tears early on. The myth and this poem also share the theme of a woman suffering the consequences of sexual indulgence and the act of crying out to the divine for deliverance from that suffering.

This is all hammered home by Eve hiding from God in dread. The contextual implication is that Eve's reason for fearing God had something to do with sexual impropriety. And so we end with the misogynist cliché of Eve bearing responsibility for Adam's sin. Moreover, the situation between Christ and the woman, with the woman turning from her many lovers to Christ alone, is just reminiscent enough of monogamy to make the whole thing reek of the kind of erotic Christ-worship found in the works of pious female mystics such as Ann Griffiths and St. Teresa of Avila, though neither of them goes as far as Cassia does in vilifying female sexual indulgence.

It's a sad illustration of the pious yoke by which Christianity enslaved Byzantine poetic expression. That such masterful manipulation of language and allusion to legend is used in the service of such a deplorable portrayal of female sexuality gives me ineffable grief. Only in a culture where sexuality is held hostage by piety could a poet make sexual repression seem touching and passionate.

For the sake of completeness I should mention that, according to a popular Byzantine legend (which has since been granted legitimacy by Orthodox hagiographic mythology) Cassia argued against the notion of female responsibility for sin in a debate with Emperor Theophilus. The legend goes on to claim that Theophilus actually authored the portion about Eve (the details of how this is to have happened need not detain us here.) I leave it to the reader to decide on whether to buy the tale or not.

Pouchkine: Nuit (Du Russe)

2013-02-08T20:19:00.000-06:00

Nuit
Alexandre Pouchkine
Traduit par A.Z. Foreman

Ma voix en ta présence est tendre et languissante.
Tarde, elle rompt la paix de la nuit noire. Lente,
Une triste chandelle éclaire mon chevet.
Mes vers et leur rumeur se versent en un jet
Coulant...ruisseaux d'amour qui de toi ruissellent.
Et dans l'ombre tes yeux devant moi étincellent
Et je vois leur sourire et discerne une voix:
Ami, ami je t'aime et je suis toute à toi.

Original:

Ночь

Мой голос для тебя и ласковый и томный
Тревожит поздное молчанье ночи темной.
Близ ложа моего печальная свеча
Горит; мои стихи, сливаясь и журча,
Текут, ручьи любви, текут, полны тобою.
Во тьме твои глаза блистают предо мною,
Мне улыбаются, и звуки слышу я:
Мой друг, мой нежный друг... люблю... твоя... твоя!..

Hafiz: Gazal 152 "Epiphany" (From Persian)

2013-01-18T22:08:00.002-06:00

Ghazal 152: Epiphany
By Hafiz
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click here to hear me recite the Persian

The eve of time, a ray of your
beauty breathed epiphany forth,
Then Love revealed itself, and cast
  down flame that razed all things of earth.
Your face revealed itself, saw Angels
  did not have love,¹ then lost control
With smitten honor and became
  a raging fire that struck Man's soul.
From that love's flame did Reason wish
  to light its lamp. A lightening bolt
Of jealous wrath flashed forth and left
  the world in havoc and revolt.
The poseur² tried to see the scene
  of mystery unveiled. The long
Hand of the Unseen lashed and smashed
  him back to where that sort belong.
Others in fortune's lottery
  won luxuries that satiate,
My grief-spent heart alone got more
  grief for its love by lots of fate.
The higher soul that thirsted for
  the well in your dimple's recess
Reached down to lay a hand amid
  those tangled locks with a caress.
The day that Hafiz wrote his book
  "The Joy of Love" for you, his pen
Crossed out each way by which a heart
  could ever know delight again.

Notes:

¹Angels lacked the capacity for love which was given to Adam. C.f. also Qur'an [33:72] where God offers his trust to the mountains and the earth, but they refuse it, and Man is foolish enough to accept it and all the burdens it entails.

²"Poseur" : i.e. Satan. C.f. Najm Rāzī's Mirsād al-Ibād where the Angels are surprised that God gave Adam, a lowly clay-creature, greater respect than he had given them. In response to this, Satan enters Adam's body in search of the secret of love (in the heart) which God had tucked into Adam in a manner hidden from angels. Satan could find no way into Adam's heart and left disappointed.

The Original:

در ازل پرتو حسنت ز تجلی دم زد عشق پيدا شد و آتش به همه عالم زد
جلوه‌ای کرد رخت ديد ملک عشق نداشت عين آتش شد از اين غيرت و بر آدم زد
عقل می‌خواست کز آن شعله چراغ افروزد برق غيرت بدرخشيد و جهان برهم زد
مدعی خواست که آيد به تماشاگه راز دست غيب آمد و بر سينه نامحرم زد
ديگران قرعه قسمت همه بر عيش زدند دل غمديده ما بود که هم بر غم زد
جان علوی هوس چاه زنخدان تو داشت دست در حلقه آن زلف خم اندر خم زد
حافظ آن روز طربنامه عشق تو نوشت
که قلم بر سر اسباب دل خرم زد

Saadi: Ghazal 14, An Aubade (From Persian)

2013-01-18T11:39:00.003-06:00

A lovertine Aubade (or so I would think of it) from 13th century Persia.

Ghazal 14: An Aubade
By Saadi
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Persian

They're beating that unwelcome drum
of dawn more hastily tonight.
(Or has the rooftop bird, by some
mistake, not gotten morning right?)
Was it one moment or all night
sacked from our lives against our will?
- With us together lip to lip,
and much desire left to fulfill!
I now turn smiling, now turn shy,
now glad at heart, and now heartbroken
And still I fail to get across
a message that can't just be spoken.
If your foot deigns to touch my neck
you honor me by standing near.
But for my low-laid head I've no
welcome to offer steps so dear.
And now that luck has finally made
peace with us to a fare-thee-well,
The spiteful mob of trash who talked
trash about us can go to hell!
Saadi's a marked man now. Tell men,
mystics and masses, near and far,
I'm an idolator! But, then,
how goddesslike my idols are!

The Original:

إمشب سبكتر مى زنند اين طبلِ بى هنگام را

يا وقتِ بى دارى غلط بودست مرغِ بام را

يك لحظه بود اين يا شبى كز عمرِ ما تاراج شد

ما همچنان لب بر لبى نابرگرفته كام را

هم تازەرويم هم خجل هم شادمان هم تنگدل

كز عهده بى رون آمدن نتوانم اين پيغام را

گر پاي بر فرقم نهى تشريفِ قربت مى دهى

جز سر نمى دانم نهاد از عذرِ اين اقدام را.

چون بختِ نيك انجام را با ما بكلى صلح شد

بگذار تا جان مى دهد بدگوى بد فرجام را

سعدى علم شد در جهان، صوفى و عامى گو بدان

ما بتپرستى مى كنيم آنگاه چنين اصنام را

Du Fu: On a Moonlit Night while Imprisoned in Chang'an

2013-01-11T02:20:00.003-06:00

During the An Lushan rebellion, the Emperor had fled the capital of Chang'an which had fallen to the rebels. Du Fu was away at the time and took his wife and children (the oldest of them maybe 5 years old) to safety at Fūzhōu, in present day Fùxiàn, about 140 miles north of Chang'an on the river Luo. Du Fu then headed for the frontier town of Lingwu to join the new court. But he was intercepted by the rebels and taken to Chang'an, and imprisoned. There, he wrote this poem.

On a Moonlit Night while Imprisoned in Chang'an
By Du Fu
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click here to hear me recite the original in Modern Chinese pronunciation
Click here to hear me recite it in my reconstruction of what Medieval Chinese sounded like

Tonight this same moon rises on Fuzhou　
　　where she, alone, will watch it with me gone.　
My heart here races for our children there　
　　too young to learn what she knows of Chang'an¹　
In fragrant mist, her cloud-coiffed hair is dewed.　
　　In the chill light, her jade-white shoulders swoon. 　
When shall we lean together by one window　
　　drying our tear-scarred cheeks by one bright moon?　

¹: i.e. that Du Fu is being held there.

The Original, transcriptions:

Han Characters　

月夜　　　　
杜甫　　　　

今夜鄜州月，
閨中只獨看。
遙憐小兒女，
未解憶長安。
香霧雲鬟濕，
清輝玉臂寒。
何時倚虛幌，
雙照淚痕乾。　

Middle Chinese　

ngwat_3a yà₃
dúo₁ púo_3c

kem_3x yà₃ phuo_3c tsyou_3b ngwat_3a
kwei₄ trung_3b tsyí_3b duk_1b khan₁
yau₃ lan₄ sáu₃ nyi_3b núo_3b
mì_3a ghèi_2a ek₃ drang₃ an₁
hang₃ mùo _3c wen_3a ghwan_2a syep₃
tsheing_3b hwi_3a nguk_3c pì_3by ghan₁
ghe₁ dzyi_3d í_3bx huo_3b ghwáng₁
srong₂ tsyàu₃ lwì_3c ghen₁ kan₁

Modern Chinese　　

Yuè yè　
Dù Fǔ　

Jīnyè fūzhōu yuè　
Guī zhōng zhǐ dú kān　
Yáo lián xiǎo ér nǚ　
Wèi xiè¹ yì cháng'ān　
Xiāng wù yún huán shī　
Qīng huī yù bì hán　
hé shí yǐ xū huǎng　
shuāng zhào lèi hén gān　

Notes on the Chinese:
1- the normal reading of this character in modern Chinese (as well as most recitations I would imagine) is jiě. A traditional literary reading of this character, when it means "understand," would be the more etymologically consistent xiè which is what I went with.

Pushkin: "To...." (From Russian)

2012-12-13T08:13:00.000-06:00

To....
By Alexander Pushkin
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Russian

I still recall a wonder vision.
The day when you before me shone,
A fleeting genius apparition,
A perfect beauty paragon.

Through hopeless sorrows that oppressed me,
Through life's alarms and senseless schemes
That caring voice and soul caressed me,
And that endearing face filled dreams.

Years passed. The stormwinds whirled against me,
Scattering former dreams of grace,
And I forgot your voice caressed me,
Forgot your beatific face.

In wastes, away...in isolation
My days dragged on from year to year:
No deity, no inspiration
No life, no love, and not one tear.

The soul was wakened by a vision
As finally again you shone,
A fleeting genius apparition,
A perfect beauty paragon.

The heart rebounds in exaltation,
As resurrected from dead years
Rise deity and inspiration
And love and life and all the tears.

The Original:

К А. Керн
Александр Пушкин

Я помню чудное мгновенье:
Передо мной явилась ты,
Как мимолетное виденье,
Как гений чистой красоты.

В томленьях грусти безнадежной
В тревогах шумной суеты,
Звучал мне долго голос нежный
И снились милые черты.

Шли годы. Бурь порыв мятежный
Рассеял прежние мечты,
И я забыл твой голос нежный,
Твой небесные черты.

В глуши, во мраке заточенья
Тянулись тихо дни мои
Без божества, без вдохновенья,
Без слез, без жизни, без любви.

Душе настало пробужденье:
И вот опять явилась ты,
Как мимолетное виденье,
Как гений чистой красоты.

И сердце бьется в упоенье,
И для него воскресли вновь
И божество, и вдохновенье,
И жизнь, и слезы, и любовь.

Pushkin: I Loved You (Russian)

2012-12-13T06:43:00.002-06:00

I Loved You
By Alexander Pushkin
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the Russian

I loved you, once: and love, it could well be,
Within my soul lies unextinguished yet.
But let the thought no longer trouble you.
I would not bring you anguish or regret.
I loved you with no words and to no end
Now timorous, now jealous, pain by pain.
I loved you though so tenderly, sincerely
I hope to God you're loved like that again.

The Original:

Я Вас Любил

Я вас любил: любовь еще, быть может,
В душе моей угасла не совсем;
Но пусть она вас больше не тревожит;
Я не хочу печалить вас ничем.
Я вас любил безмолвно, безнадежно,
То робостью, то ревностью томим;
Я вас любил так искренно, так нежно,
Как дай вам бог любимой быть другим.

Pushkin: To The Sea (From Russian)

2012-12-06T00:06:00.000-06:00

This may be thought of as Pushkin's locus amœnus poem, and it was an absolute pain in the ass to translate. Seriously. Not because the language is hard, or even because of the (today) opaque allusions, or even because I was making the final touches to it with one eye temporarily out of commission due to a corneal abrasion, but because of the resonances of language. Pushkin's gift is the ability to phrase an idea in such a way, and in such a context, that the Russophone reader somehow just feels that this is the natural way to say it. Much as Shakespeare constructed phrases (not merely obvious ones such as to thine own self be true, the fault is not in the stars, doth protest to much, to be or not to be, one fell swoop, star-crossed lovers but also words many English speakers use every day such as good riddance, laughingstock, what's done is done, hoist by one's own petard, seen better days, strange bedfellows, a sorry sight) that, by dint of talent and a hefty amount of luck, became part of the English semanticon, so too did Pushkin make much of the Russian phrasebank in his own image. One example from this poem is властитель дум "master/potentate of (one's) thoughts/ideas" a term which in modern Russian is now used to describe the dominant intellectual influence either on a person or on an age.

To The Sea
By Alexander Pushkin
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Russian

Unfettered element! Farewell
Before me now one final time
You roll again that skyblue swell,
And sparkle with a pride sublime.

Like an old friend's regretful sigh,
Like calls of fare-you-well through tears,
Your summoning sound, your sounding cry,
One final time now fills my ears.

Oh yes, my heart's desired reach!
How often I in twilight went
Quiet and dark along your beach,
Wracked by a sacred deep intent¹

Dear were the answers you would send,
Dim primal sounds, the chasm's call
The silences of evenfall
And those impulsive flights of wind.

The humble sail of fishers' slips,
With the protection of your mood,
Bravely amid your watertips,
But you, a Titan unsubdued,
Roll rough and drown a herd of ships.

'Twas not my luck to leave the night
Fallen on this dry stirless shore,
To greet you, raptured into light,
And make my grand poetic flight
Across your crests forevermore

You called... I was enthralled aground.
Vainly my heart in shackles strained.
By spells of potent passion bound
Beside the beaches I remained.

 What's to regret? Toward what far shoal
Could I my madcap voyage chart?
In all your open wilds, one goal
Could still have power to strike my heart,

One cliff...that sepulcher of glory
There a chill slumber in the west
Whelmed memories of a mighty story...
There was Napoleon felled to rest.

There rested he in tribulations.
And, after him as thunder, rolls
Yet one more genius of the nations,
One more commander of our souls²

Leaving the world his wreath forever
He vanished, grieved by liberty.
Seethe! Sound! Blow wild with angry weather.
He was your one true bard, O Sea.

In him your spirit wrought its mark,
In your own image was he framed
Like you was potent, deep and dark.
Like you, an element untamed.

The world's a void. Now in that cold
Whither, O Sea, would you with me?
In every land one fate takes hold:
Each drop of virtue is patrolled
By technocrats...or tyranny3

So, Sea, farewell. I will recall
Your august splendor all my years.
Long shall your boom as evenings fall
Sound and resound within my ears.

To woods and hushful wastes, away
Imbued anew with you, I bring
Your gleam and shadow, cliff and bay,
And your dear waves' blue rumoring.

Notes:
¹: A reference to Pushkin's plan (which ultimately never materialized) to escape Russia and head for western Europe via the Baltic. This idea is also alluded to in stanzas 6 and 7.
²: A reference to the poet Byron, who had died at Missolonghi earlier that year (1824.)
³: The original says "enlightenment" instead of "tecnhnocrats." The latter word didn't exist in Pushkin's time. Here Pushkin was using an instance of the old Romantic idea that "enlightenment" seen in western Europe as a herald of liberation was nothing more than tyranny in new garb. Pushkin's experience of this had to do with the way in which modernization and reform were being and had been implemented in Russia, being used to entrench power rather than challenge it.

The Original:

К Морю
Александр Пушкин

Прощай, свободная стихия!
В последний раз передо мной
Ты катишь волны голубые
И блещешь гордою красой.

Как друга ропот заунывный,
Как зов его в прощальный час,
Твой грустный шум, твой шум призывный
Услышал я в последний раз.

Моей души предел желанный!
Как часто по брегам твоим
Бродил я тихий и туманный,
Заветным умыслом томим!

Как я любил твои отзывы,
Глухие звуки, бездны глас,
И тишину в вечерний час,
И своенравные порывы!

Смиренный парус рыбарей,
Твоею прихотью хранимый,
Скользит отважно средь зыбей:
Но ты взыграл, неодолимый,-
И стая тонет кораблей.

Не удалось навек оставить
Мне скучный, неподвижный брег,
Тебя восторгами поздравить
И по хребтам твоим направить
Мой поэтический побег.

Ты ждал, ты звал... я был окован;
Вотще рвалась душа моя:
Могучей страстью очарован,
У берегов остался я.

О чем жалеть? Куда бы ныне
Я путь беспечный устремил?
Один предмет в твоей пустыне
Мою бы душу поразил.

Одна скала, гробница славы...
Там погружались в хладный сон
Воспоминанья величавы:
Там угасал Наполеон.

Там он почил среди мучений.
И вслед за ним, как бури шум,
Другой от нас умчался гений,
Другой властитель наших дум.

Исчез, оплаканный свободой,
Оставя миру свой венец.
Шуми, взволнуйся непогодой:
Он был, о море, твой певец.

Твой образ был на нем означен,
Он духом создан был твоим:
Как ты, могущ, глубок и мрачен,
Как ты, ничем неукротим.

Мир опустел... Теперь куда же
Меня б ты вынес, океан?
Судьба людей повсюду та же:
Где капля блага, там на страже
Уж просвещенье иль тиран.

Прощай же, море! Не забуду
Твоей торжественной красы
И долго, долго слышать буду
Твой гул в вечерние часы.

В леса, в пустыни молчаливы
Перенесу, тобою полн,
Твои скалы, твои заливы,
И блеск, и тень, и говор волн.

Pushkin: The Invocation (From Russian)

2012-11-26T19:29:00.000-06:00

The poem was first published after Pushkin’s death by Zhukovski. In his edition it consists of three stanzas. However critics have shown that Pushkin himself crossed out the middle stanza. The poem may profitably be read as sixteen lines, with the middle eight lines being a variant. But I think it is even stronger as a 3-stanza poem, and so have translated it as such.

The Invocation

By A.S. Pushkin

Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Russian

Oh if it's true that in the night

When living souls repose abed

And fallen beams of lunar light

Slide onto headstones of the dead...

Oh if it's true that then till day

The graves are opened in the earth,

I call the shade of Layla forth!

Come back, my dear! This way! This way

Beloved shade, appear and rise

As once you were before we parted,

As pale and chill as winter skies,

By final agony contorted.

Come as a distant star, a ray,

As a light sound, a breath, a scent,

Or as a ghastly revenant

I care not how! This way! This way!

I do not call you to reprove

Or take revenge on those whose spite

Ended the life of her I love,

Nor to spy out the grave's dark rite,

Nor yet because I writhe as prey

To doubt… But, anguishing above you,

I want to say that I still love you

And am still yours! This way! This way!

The Original:

О, если правда, что в ночи,
Когда покоятся живые,
И с неба лунные лучи
Скользят на камни гробовые,
О, если правда, что тогда
Пустеют тихие могилы —
Я тень зову, я жду Леилы:
Ко мне, мой друг, сюда, сюда!

Явись, возлюбленная тень,
Как ты была перед разлукой,
Бледна, хладна, как зимний день,
Искажена последней мукой.
Приди, как дальная звезда,
Как легкий звук иль дуновенье,
Иль как ужасное виденье,
Мне все равно, сюда! сюда!..

Зову тебя не для того,
Чтоб укорять людей, чья злоба
Убила друга моего,
Иль чтоб изведать тайны гроба,
Не для того, что иногда
Сомненьем мучусь... но тоскуя
Хочу сказать, что все люблю я,
Что все я твой: сюда, сюда!

Akhmatova: To Death (From Russian)

2012-11-18T06:09:00.001-06:00

To Death
By Anna Akhmatova
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

You're sure to come. So why wait anymore?
I'm waiting for you. I am through.
My light is out. My doors are open for
The simple wonder that is you.
So take whatever guise might strike your fancy:
Blast chemical weapons through my room,
Come quiet as the nightstick of a gangster,
Disease my throat with typhus fume,
Or be the bedtime story you once told
(The one we're sick of every night)
That I may see the law's blue cap¹, the cold
House-porter's face in livid fright.²
I could care less. The Yenisey swirls by,
The North Star glimmers overhead,
And the blue glint in a beloved eye
Goes dark against the final dread.

Notes:
¹ The blue cap of the uniform worn by the secret police
² i.e. as he opens the tenants' doors for the inspectors when they come to round up suspects.

The Original:

К Смерти
Анна Ахматова

Ты все равно придешь. Зачем же не теперь?
Я жду тебя. Мне очень трудно.
Я потушила свет и отворила дверь
Тебе, такой простой и чудной.
Прими для этого какой угодно вид,
Ворвись отравленным снарядом
Иль с гирькой подкрадись, как опытный бандит,
Иль отрави тифозным чадом,
Иль сказочкой, придуманной тобой
И всем до тошноты знакомой, -
Чтоб я увидела верх шапки голубой
И бледного от страха управдома.
Мне все равно теперь. Струится Енисей,
Звезда полярная сияет.
И синий блеск возлюбленных очей
Последний ужас затмевает.

Lady Bao Junhui: Moon Over Frontier Mountains (From Classical Chinese)

2012-11-18T06:09:00.000-06:00

Moon Over Frontier Mountains
By Lady Bao Junhui
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click here to hear me recite the original in my version of 8th cent. Medieval Chinese pronunciation

The rising, rising moon of fall
Glows north on the Liaoyang¹ barricade.
The border is far but the moon gleams farther.
Great ice-bows flash as the winds invade.
Soldiers gaze back: home beats at the heart
And war-steeds balk at the beat of a drum.
The north wind grieves in the frontier grass
And barbarous sands hide hordes to come.
Frost freezes their swordblades into the sheath.
Wind wears their banner to bits on the plain...
Oh someday.... someday... to bow near the palace
And never hear camp-gongs clang again!

¹: Liaoyang- a frontier town which has the distinction of being one of the most fiercely, gruesomely and perennially contested pieces of real estate in Chinese history.

The Original:
(Medieval Chinese transcribed using a system developed by David Branner)

Han Characters　

關山月　
鮑君徽

高高秋月明，
北照遼陽城。
塞迥光初滿，
風多暈更生。
徵人望鄉思，
戰馬聞鼙驚。
朔風悲邊草，
胡沙暗虜營。
霜凝匣中劍，
風憊原上旌。
早晚謁金闕，
不聞刁斗聲。　

Medieval Chinese　

kwan_2a sran_2b ngwat_3a
báu₂ kwen_3a hwi_3a

kau₁ kau₁ tshou_3b ngwat_3a meing_3a
pek₁ tsyauH₃ lau₄ yang₃ dzyeing_3b
sek₁ ghwéing₄ kwang₁ tshruo_3b mán₁
pung_3b te₁ ghwèn_3a kèing_2a sreing_2a
treng₃ nyen_3b màng₃ hang₃ si_3d
tsyàn_3b má₂ men_3a bei₄ keing_3a
srok₂ pung_3b pi_3cx pan₄ tsháu₁
ghuo₁ sra₂ àm_1a lúo₁ yweing_3b
srang₃ ngeng₃ ghap_2b trung_3b kàm_3a
pung_3b bèi_2b ngwan_3a dzyàng₃ tseing_3b　
tsáu₁ mán_3a at_3a kem_3x khwat_3a
pet_3a men_3a tau₄ tóu₁ syeing_3b

Modern Chinese　

Guān shān yuè　
Bào Jūn hūi　

Gāo gāo qiūyuè míng　
Běizhào liáoyáng chéng　
Sāi jiǒng guāng chū mǎn　
Fēng duō yún gèngshēng　
Zhēng rén wàng xiāngsī　
Zhànmǎ wén pí jīng　
Shuòfēng bēi biān cǎo　
Hú shā àn lǔ yíng　
Shuāng níng xiá zhōng jiàn　
Fēng bèi yuán shàng jīng　
Zǎowǎn yèjīn què　
Bù wén diāodǒushēng　

Du Fu: Seagulls (From Classical Chinese)

2012-11-18T06:08:00.001-06:00

Seagulls
By Du Fu
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original in my idea of what educated Medieval Chinese sounded like

Cold on the outland riverbank, the seagulls
Play as they please, caught by no other care.
Getting their wish, they dot the youth-green rice-shoots,
Changing thought's course, they turn jade wings elsewhere.
Darkened in snow, they hurtle to chill nests.
Quickened in wind, they yield themselves to air:
A few scant flocks, bleak over grayed blue seas,
Pure shapes that sigh in daylight and despair.

The Original:
(Medieval transcription thanks to a system developed by David Branner)

Han Characters　

鷗
杜甫

江浦寒鷗戲，
無他亦自饒。
卻思翻玉羽，
隨意點青苗。
雪暗還須落，
風生一任飄。
幾群滄海上，
清影日蕭蕭。　

Medieval Chinese　

ou₁
dúo₁ púo_3c

kong₂ phúo₁ ghan₁ ou₁ hì_3bx
muo_3c the₁ yeik_3b dzì_3c nyau₃
khak₃ si_3d phan_3a nguk_3cghúo_3c
zwi_3b ì_3d tím₄ tsheing₄ mau_3x
swat_3b àm_1a ghwan_2a suo_3c lak₁
pung_3b sreing_2a et_3by nyèm₃ phau_3y
kí_3a gwen_3a tshang₁ héi_1a dzyàng₃
tsheing_3b éing_3a nyet_3b sau₄ sau₄

Modern Chinese　

Ōu　
Dù Fǔ　

Jiāngpǔ hán ōu xì, 　
Wú tā yì zì ráo.　
Què sī fān yù yǔ,　
Suíyì diǎn qīng miáo.　
Xuě àn huán xū luò,　
Fēng shēng yírèn piāo.　
Jǐ qún cānghǎi shàng,　
Qīng yǐng rì xiāoxiāo　

Many thanks go to: Adam Elgar and Seree Zohar for comments that vastly improved and rescued the English; to Allen Tice for textual discussion and oddly encouraging backhanded compliments; and finally to Prof. 梅祖麟 for wondrous insight into the Middle Chinese tone contours of reduplicated syllables.

Li Qingzhao: "My Jeweled mat feels like fall" (From Classical Chinese)

2012-11-18T06:08:00.000-06:00

To the tune "A Cut of Plum"
By Li Qingzhao
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click here to hear me recite the original in modern Mandarin pronunciation

My jeweled mat feels like fall. Scents wilt from the once-red lotus flower.
With silken skirt drawn loose, I board
My magnolia boat alone with the hour...
Who is it that sends a gilded letter my way across the clouds?
News-bearing geese¹ return with the season
When chills of moonlight are filling the tower².

The wind-stripped flowers are blown away and the river just coldly runs.
The longing we bear is one and the same:
An idle grief in two places at once.
This feeling goes on and I just can't find it in me to put it out.
The second it falls from the brim of my brows
It climbs to the rim of my heart, and dawns.

¹- The migratory wild goose is a traditional symbol of mutual yearning, and it was often portrayed as a bearer of lovers' messages.
²- Suggestive of the common trope of a woman waiting for her absent beloved atop a watchtower, scanning the countryside for any sign of his return.

The Original:

一剪梅
李清照

紅藕香殘玉簟秋。
輕解羅裳，
獨上蘭舟。
雲中誰寄錦書來？
雁字回時，
月滿西樓。

花自飄零水自流。
一種相思，
兩處閒愁。
此情無計可消除，
才下眉頭，
卻上心頭。

Heinrich Heine: The Fisher Maiden (From German)

2012-11-18T06:07:00.000-06:00

The Fisher Maiden
By Heinrich Heine
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Beautiful fisher maiden,
Come, steer your boat to land.
Come here and sit down beside me,
We’ll dally, hand in hand.

Come, nestle your head on my heart now,
And don’t be afraid of me;
Just think of how bravely, daily
You trust in the savage sea.

My heart is like the waters
With storms and waves and tides,
And many a pearl of beauty
Upon its bed resides.

The Original:

Das Fischermädchen

Du schönes Fischermädchen,
Treibe den Kahn ans Land;
Komm zu mir und setze dich nieder,
Wir kosen Hand in Hand.

Leg an mein Herz dein Köpfchen
Und fürchte dich nicht zu sehr;
Vertraust du dich doch sorglos
Täglich dem wilden Meer.

Mein Herz gleicht ganz dem Meere,
Hat Sturm und Ebb' und Flut,
Und manche schöne Perle
In seiner Tiefe ruht.

Rilke: The Gazelle (From German)

2012-11-18T06:04:00.000-06:00

The Gazelle
By Rainer Maria Rilke
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Enchanted thing: How can the chord of two
choice words rise to the music of the rhyme
that comes and goes as by a sign in you?
From your brow leaf and lyre bloom, and in time
all that is yours is all but metaphor
in songs of love whose words soft as a rose's
petals cover the eyelid someone closes
as he puts down his book and reads no more:

that he may see you: carried off as though
each leg were locked and loaded with a leap
you will not trigger while the neck can keep
the head held high and harkening: just so
the woodland bather stops her bath to rise,
the woodland lake retained in her turned eyes.

The Original:

Die Gazelle
Rilke

Verzauberte: wie kann der Einklang zweier
erwählter Worte je den Reim erreichen,
der in dir kommt und geht, wie auf ein Zeichen.
Aus deiner Stirne steigen Laub und Leier,
und alles Deine geht schon im Vergleich
durch Liebeslieder, deren Worte, weich
wie Rosenblätter, dem, der nicht mehr liest,
sich auf die Augen legen, die er schließt:

um dich zu sehen: hingetragen, als
wäre mit Sprüngen jeder Lauf geladen
und schösse nur nicht ab, solang der Hals
das Haupt im Horchen hält: wie wenn beim Baden
im Wald die Badende sich unterbricht:
den Waldsee im gewendeten Gesicht.