Poems Found in Translation

Du Fu: Spring Outlook (From Chinese)

2026-05-21T22:16:38.878-05:00

Spring Outlook
By Du Fu
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original in Medieval Chinese
Click here to hear me recite the original in modern Mandarin pronunciation

The state shattered,　river and mountain survive　
　　The city springfallen,　weeds and trees take ground
Touched by the times,　tears splash at sight of blossoms　
　　Aggrieved at displacement,　the heart jolts at birds' sound
The beacons of war　 have brimmed three months with flame
　　Letters from home　 are now worth a thousand in gold
I scratch and pull　 so much at my whitening hair　
　　It'll soon be too thin　 for my hatpin　 to keep hold

The Original:

(Medieval Chinese transcribed using a slight modification of David Branner's system)

Han Characters　

春望　
杜甫　

國破山河在，
城春草木深。
感時花濺淚，
恨別鳥驚心。
烽火連三月，
家書抵萬金。
白頭搔更短，
渾欲不勝簪。

Medieval Chinese

tshywen_3b màng₃
dúo₁ púo_3c

kwek₁ phè₁sran_2bghe_1d dzèi_1a
dzyeing_3b tshywen_3b tsháu₁ muk_1b syem₃　
kám_1a dzyi_3d hwa₂ tsàn_3blwì_3c　
ghèn₁ pat_3bxtáu₄keing_3a sem₃
phung_3c hwé₁ lan_3b sam_1b ngwat_3a
ka₂ syuo_3b téi₄ màn_3a kem_3x
beik_2a dou₁ sau₁kèing_2atwán₁
ghwèn₁ yuk_3cpet_3a syeng₃ tshrem₃　

Modern Mandarin　

Chūn wàng　
Dù Fǔ　

Guó pò shān hé zài, 　
chéng chūn cǎo mù shēn.　
Gǎn shí huā jiàn lèi, 　
hèn bié niǎo jīng xīn.　
Fēng huǒ lián sān yuè, 　
jiā shū dǐ wàn jīn.　
Bái tóu sāo gèng duǎn, 　
hùn yù bù shēng chēn.

Li Qingzhao: "A Cut of Plum" (From Classical Chinese)

2026-05-21T22:15:58.160-05:00

To the tune "A Cut of Plum"
By Li Qingzhao
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Click to hear me read the original in a reconstruction of Song-era literary pronunciation

Now fragrance of red lotus fades, my mat feels autumn-blown.

I loosen my gauze robe for bed,

the boat I float in on my own.

Who's sent a lover's brocade letter this way across the clouds?

Skywriting geese return as moonlight

fills the chill tower of one alone.

Flowers fall and scatter on their own as waters run and drain.

A singular longing links us in

two places with one pointless pain.

This feeling clings and I can't find it in me to put it out.

It only falls out of my face

to surface in the heart again.

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。

Sergei Yesenin: Letter to His Old Mother (From Russian)

2026-05-11T12:14:00.000-05:00

Yesenin's poetry was much beloved of the Soviet criminal underworld. Probably no other poet was so quoted in prison tattoos. According to Varlam Shalamov, this poem and a few others were known by heart by "every literate criminal" (каждый грамотный блатарь) not long after the poet's death. As every action has an equal and opposite reaction, so an underworld culture riddled with misogyny also produced an obsessive cult of the mother. The mother here is entirely fictional. The poem has nothing to do with Yesenin's actual relationship (strained and difficult) with the actual woman that give birth to him.

Letter to His Old Mother
By Sergei Yesenin
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Are you alive and well still, momma?
I am alright. Greetings. Tonight
I hope your cottage is still bathing
In that ineffable evening light.

I've heard you're awful worried for me,
That you've been hiding your distress,
And often walk out on the highway
In your old-fashioned peasant dress,

And often see the same recurring
Dream, as the evening shadows start,
Of some punk in a bloody bar-fight
Sticking a switchblade* through my heart.

Don't worry, ma. It is just nasty
Imagination. Even I
Am not a diehard enough drunkard
To not see you before I die.

I'm still your son, love you as always
And all I dream of is to come
Back in one piece from gnarly anguish
And look again on our old home.

I'll come back as the spreading blossom
Of spring makes our white garden grow.
But please don't wake me at first morning
Light, like you did eight years ago.

Don't stir up dreams forever done with.
Don't fret about what never was.
I learned too early in my life to
Stick it out through exhausting loss.

And don't teach me to pray. Why bother?
The old days are long gone in night.
You're my one joy and comfort, mother.
You are my one ineffable light.

So best forget that awful worry,
Don't sink yourself in such distress.
Don't walk so much out on the highway
In that old-fashioned peasant dress.

* - the original here says "Finnish knife." So named because it was developed from the puuko, a bodkin used by Finnish woodsmen, the Russian "Finnish knife" or finka was extensively modified to make it useful for fighting: with a long blade, a clip-point back, and a large handguard. This made it convenient for amateur assassination, as its design meant that even those who couldn't handle a knife very well could stab somebody and not accidentally cut themselves. It became a "gangster's blade" so strongly associated with the criminal underworld that it was banned in the Soviet Union in the 30s. The NR-40 combat knife used by the Soviet Army during WWII is a mass-produced version of this infamous gang weapon.

The Original:

Письмо Матери

Ты жива еще, моя старушка?
Жив и я. Привет тебе, привет!
Пусть струится над твоей избушкой
Тот вечерний несказанный свет.

Пишут мне, что ты, тая тревогу,
Загрустила шибко обо мне,
Что ты часто ходишь на дорогу
В старомодном ветхом шушуне.

И тебе в вечернем синем мраке
Часто видится одно и то ж:
Будто кто-то мне в кабацкой драке
Саданул под сердце финский нож.

Ничего, родная! Успокойся.
Это только тягостная бредь.
Не такой уж горький я пропойца,
Чтоб, тебя не видя, умереть.

Я по-прежнему такой же нежный
И мечтаю только лишь о том,
Чтоб скорее от тоски мятежной
Воротиться в низенький наш дом.

Я вернусь, когда раскинет ветви
По-весеннему наш белый сад.
Только ты меня уж на рассвете
Не буди, как восемь лет назад.

Не буди того, что отмечталось,
Не волнуй того, что не сбылось, -
Слишком раннюю утрату и усталость
Испытать мне в жизни привелось.

И молиться не учи меня. Не надо!
К старому возврата больше нет.
Ты одна мне помощь и отрада,
Ты одна мне несказанный свет.

Так забудь же про свою тревогу,
Не грусти так шибко обо мне.
Не ходи так часто на дорогу
В старомодном ветхом шушуне.

Dobriča Cesarić: Cry (From Croatian)

2026-05-08T20:39:00.000-05:00

Cry

By Dobriša Cesarić

Translated by A. Z. Foreman

My pain swells all day long unnoticed

outside my voice that barely stirs.

But when night comes and it spills over

I cry out all at once in verse.

When I have shrieked my whole shriek out

to go seek echoes, I can say

I have split my own heart among

brothers unknown and faraway.

And my cry blunders, maunders, wanders

and when a heart like mine is stirred,

will it grasp that it was released

from a night torturously endured?

The Original:

Krik

Čitavog dana bol mi buja,

Zamjetljiv tek u glasu tihom,

Al dođe noć, i razlije se -

I najedanput kriknem stihom.

Zavrisnuvši svoj vrisak u svijet

Da naokolo traži jeku,

Razdjelio sam srce svoje

Med braću neznanu, daleku.

I krik moj luta, luta, luta

A kada srodno srce prene,

Dal' ono shvati da je pušten

Iz noći mučne, probdivene?

Borges: Here Today (From Spanish)

2026-04-21T03:38:00.001-05:00

Here, Today

By Jorge Luis Borges

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

We're already the oblivion we will be,
the elemental dust that does not know
us and that was red Adam and is now
all men. The dust that we shall never see.

We're already the two dates on the tomb:
The end and the beginning. Now. The casket.
Decomposition and the shroud to mask it.
Triumph of death. The dirges in the gloam.

I'm not the sort of fool who mindlessly

clings to his own name's magic sound. I can

be hopeful as I think about the man

who will not know this earth was home to me.

Under the heavens' indifferent blue yonder

This is a most consoling thing to ponder.

The Original:

Aquí. Hoy
Jorge Luís Borges

Ya somos el olvido que seremos.
El polvo elemental que nos ignora
y que fue el rojo Adán y que es ahora
todos los hombres, y que no veremos.

Ya somos en la tumba las dos fechas
del principio y el término. La caja,
la obscena corrupción y la mortaja,
los triunfos de la muerte, y las endechas.

No soy el insensato que se aferra
al mágico sonido de su nombre.
Pienso con esperanza en aquel hombre

que no sabrá que fui sobre la tierra.
Bajo el indiferente azul del cielo,
esta meditación es un consuelo.

Pushkin: No It's Just You (From Russian)

2026-04-21T03:06:00.009-05:00

No It's Just You

By A.S. Pushkin

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

So you're a Pole. No harm in this.
Kościuszko is. Mickiewicz is.
You could be any kind of foreign.
Be Tatar even. No harm there.
Or be a Jew. I still don't care.
The harm's that you're Vidocq Vulgarin.*

*The original Фигляринъ is a transposition of the name “Булгаринъ” based on the word “фигляръ” (“joker, fool”). I've substituted something else that might have meaning in English.

The Original:

Не то бѣда, что ты полякъ:
Костюшко ляхъ, Мицкевичъ ляхъ!
Пожалуй, будь себѣ татаринъ, —
И тутъ не вижу я стыда;
Будь жидъ — и это не бѣда;
Бѣда, что ты Видокъ Фигляринъ.

Tyutchev: Silentium (From Russian)

2026-04-21T01:20:00.001-05:00

Silentium

By Fyodor Tyutchev

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Say not a thing. Be hidden. Keep

your every thought and feeling deep
within your soul. There let them rise
and set like stars across the skies

of night where sound can never ring.
Delight in them. Say not a thing.

How can a heart say what is true?
How can another fathom you
Or know what quickens you or why?
Uttered ideas are a lie.
Delving defiles a flowing spring.
Drink well of it. Say not a thing.

Learn to live in yourself. A whole
world is engendered in your soul
where veiled and magic thoughts abound.

They will be dumbed by outer sound,

dispersed by beams the day will bring.

Attend their song. Say not a thing.

The Original:

Silentium

Ѳедоръ Тютчевъ

Молчи, скрывайся и таи

И чувства и мечты свои –

Пускай въ душевной глубинѣ

Встаютъ и заходятъ онѣ

Безмолвно, какъ звѣзды въ ночи, –

Любуйся ими – и молчи.

Какъ сердцу высказать себя?

Другому какъ понять тебя?

Пойметъ ли онъ, чѣмъ ты живешь?

Мысль изреченная есть ложь.

Взрывая, возмутишь ключи, –

Питайся ими – и молчи.

Лишь жить въ себѣ самомъ умѣй –

Есть цѣлый міръ въ душѣ твоей

Таинственно-волшебныхъ думъ;

Ихъ оглушитъ наружный шумъ,

Дневные разгонятъ лучи, –

Внимай ихъ пѣнью – и молчи!..

Marina Boroditskaya: On-Call Translation (From Russian)

2026-04-20T13:48:00.000-05:00

On-Call Translation
By Marina Boroditskaya
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Another commissioned translation. Incoming!
And an alien poet, like aliens from space,
Will enter your atmosphere, space-suit on fire,
And land as a crib on your desk in your face.

Get cracking, then. Pump his chest with your palms,
Try and find life in this thing from out there.
Start the heart's rhythm, give mouth-to-mouth,
Till he starts breathing the harsh local air.

Seems this one will live. But others do die.
And who'll hear you out, if it all just fizzles,
How the muse's honey congealed in your breast,
And refused to be poured into alien vessels?

The Original:

И опять принесут заказной перевод,
И поэт иноземный, как инопланетный,
Прожигая скафандр, в атмосферу войдет
И подстрочником ляжет на стол кабинетный.

Что ж, ладонь на ладонь, жми на впалую грудь,
Силясь жизнь уловить в странном облике внешнем,
Слабый ритм ухватить, что-то влить и вдохнуть,
Чтобы смог он дышать в резком воздухе здешнем.

Этот ладится жить, а иной и помрет,
И кому объяснишь, коль пойдут пересуды,
Как густеет в груди поэтический мед,
Как не хочет он литься в чужие сосуды?

Robert Desnos: Literature (From French)

2026-04-17T04:41:00.001-05:00

Literature

By Robert Desnos

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

How I should like to write great verse today

Much like the verse in school we'd read and hear

Sometimes it swung my dreams the other way

Or possibly my brain's a little queer

But counting syllables measuring words to stick

To boundaries seems ant drudgery and would cost

My Latin my Chinese my Arabic

And even sleep the friend I've never lost

Yeah who cares How I talk is how I'll write

And if a slinking grammar cop starts bitching

Damning me from the dark with sneery spite

There's a whole nother field where I'll outpitch him

The Original:

Littérature

Je voudrais aujourd’hui écrire de beaux vers

Ainsi que j’en lisais quand j’étais à l’école

Ça me mettait parfois les rêves à l’envers

Il est possible aussi que je sois un peu folle

Mais compter tous ces mots accoupler ces syllabes

Me paraît un travail fastidieux de fourmi

J’y perdrais mon latin mon chinois mon arabe

Et même le sommeil mon serviable ami

J’écrirai donc comme je parle et puis tant pis

Si quelque grammairien surgi de sa pénombre

Voulait me condamner avec hargne et dépit

Il est une autre science où je puis le confondre

"Summer's Gone" (From Old Irish)

2026-04-17T04:35:00.000-05:00

"Summer's Gone"

Anonymous

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Here's my song. Sad stags moan.

Winter blows, summer's gone.

High winds lash. Low, the sun.

Short, its course. Seas roar on.

Fall-red fern loses form.

Wildgeese wail as the norm.

Cold now holds each bird's wing.

Icy times. So I sing.

The Original:

Scél lemm dúib dordaid dam

snigid gaim ro·fáith sam

Gáeth ard úar ísel grían

gair a r-rith ruirthech rían

Rorúad rath ro·cleth cruth

ro·gab gnáth giugrann guth

Ro·gab úacht etti én

aigre ré é mo scél

Natan Alterman: Moon (From Hebrew)

2026-04-17T04:14:00.000-05:00

Moon
Nathan Alterman
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Even an old landscape has a moment of its birth.
The strange, impregnable

And birdless skies.
Under your window, moonlit on the earth,
Your city bathes in cricket-cries.

But when you see the path still looks afar
To wanderers, and the moon

Rests on a cypress spear,
You ask in wonder "Lord! Are all of these still here?
Can I not ask in whispers how they are?"

The waters look at us from their lagoons.
The tree in red of earrings

Stays a silent tree.
Never, my God, shall Thy huge playthings' sorrow
Be rooted out of me.

The Original:

יָרֵחַ
נתן אלתרמן

גַּם לְמַרְאֶה נוֹשָׁן יֵשׁ רֶגַע שֶׁל הֻלֶּדֶת.
שָׁמַיִם בְּלִי צִפּוֹר
זָרִים וּמְבֻצָּרִים.
בַּלַּיְלָה הַסָּהוּר מוּל חַלּוֹנְךָ עוֹמֶדֶת
עִיר טְבוּלָה בִּבְכִי הַצִּרְצָרִים.

וּבִרְאוֹתְךָ כִּי דֶּרֶךְ עוֹד צוֹפָה אֶל הֵלֶךְ
וְהַיָּרֵחַ
עַל כִּידוֹן הַבְּרוֹשׁ
אַתָּה אוֹמֵר- אֵלִי, הַעוֹד יֶשְׁנָם כָּל אֵלֶּה?
הַעוֹד מֻתָּר בְּלַחַשׁ בִּשְׁלוֹמָם לִדְרֹשׁ?

מֵאַגְמֵיהֶם הַמַּיִם נִבָּטִים אֵלֵינוּ.
שׁוֹקֵט הָעֵץ
בְּאֹדֶם עֲגִילִים.
לָעַד לֹא תֵעָקֵר מִמֶּנִּי, אֱלֹהֵינוּ,
תּוּגַת צַעֲצוּעֶיךָ הַגְּדוֹלִים.

Al-Muhalhil: Vengeance at Dawn (From Arabic)

2026-04-17T04:10:00.000-05:00

This post's guest of honor is ˁAdī bin Rabīˁa of Taghlib, commonly known as Al-Muhalhil "The Verse-weaver." Born presumably at the very end of the 5th century, he is among the earliest Pre-Islamic Arabian poets to whom any surviving verse of substantive length is attributed. He is chiefly known for poems dealing with the Basūs War, in which a 40-year feud between the tribes of Taghlib and Bakr was supposedly ignited when his brother Kulayb was killed for slaughtering another tribe's stray camel.

Vengeance at Dawn
By Al-Muhalhil of Taghlib
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Long was my night of wake at Anˁamayn 　
　While sleepless at the ceaseless stars I gazed.
How can I age in life while a slain man 　
　Of Taghlib still calls for a man to slay?
Oh chide the eyes for tears shed over ruins.　
　In the breast a wound is torn over Kulayb.
In the breast there is a need unsatisfied 　　
　So long as doves among the branches wail.
How can he ever weep over ruined things　
　Who is pledged to war with men in every age?
How can I forget you Kulayb when I've not quelled　
　The sorrow whelming me, the bloodparched rage?

My heart today make good your bloodwit vow　
　When they ride out at dawn retaliate.
They fetch their bows and we flash lightning bolts　
　 As stallions threatening their stallion prey.
We steel ourselves beneath their flashing steel　
　Till they fall pounded by our long hard blades
And can keep up no more. We keep attacking 　

　For the man who keeps the field is war's true mate.

Audio of me reading this poem in Arabic

The Original:

باتَ لَيلي بالأَنْعَمَين طَويلا أَرْقُبُ النَجْمَ ساهِراً لَنْ يَزولا
كَيف أٌمدي ولَا يزالُ قتيلٌ مِن بَني وائلٍ يُنادي قتيلا
أُزْجُرِ الْعَينَ أَنْ تُبَكِّي الطُلولا إِنَّ في الصَدْرِ مِنْ كُلَيبٍ فَليلا
إِنَّ في الصَدْرِ حاجةً لَنْ تُقَضَّى ما دَعا في الغُصونِ داعٍ هَديلا
كَيفَ يَبْكي الطُلولَ مَن هو رَهْنٌ بِطِعانِ الأنامِ جيلا فَجِيلا
كَيف أَنساكَ يا كلَيبُ ولمّا أقضِ حُزناً ينوبُني وغَليلا
أيُّها القَلبُ أَنْجِزِ اليومَ نَحْباً مِن بني الحِصْنِ إذ غَدوا وذُحولا
انتَضَوا مَعْجِسَ القِسي وأَبْرَقْـنا كَما تُوعِد الفُحولُ الفُحولا
وصَبَرْنا تَحتَ البوارِقِ حتَّى دَكْدَكَتْ فيهِمِ السُيوفُ طَويلا
لم يُطيقوا أنْ يَنْزِلوا ونَزَلْنا وَأَخو الحَربِ مَن أَطاقَ النُزولا

Romanization:

Bāta laylī bi-l-'Anˁamayni ṭawīlā arqubu l-najma sāhiran lan yazūlā

Kayfa umdī wa-lā yazālu qatīlun min Banī Wā'ilin yunādī qatīlā

Uzjuri l-ˁayna an tubakkī l-ṭulūlā inna fī l-ṣadri min Kulaybin falīlā

Inna fī l-ṣadri ḥājatan lan tuqaḍḍā mā daˁā fī l-ġuṣūni dāˁin hadīlā
Kayfa yabkī l-ṭulūla man huwa rahnun bi-ṭiˁāni l-'anāmi jīlan fa-jīlā
Kayfa ansāka yā Kulaybu wa-lammā aqḍi ḥuznan yanūbunī wa-ġalīlā
Ayyuhā l-qalbu anjizi l-yawma naḥban min Banī l-Ḥiṣni iḏ ġadaw wa-ḏuḥūlā
Intaḍaw maˁjisa l-qisiyyi wa-'abraqnā kamā tūˁidu l-fuḥūlu l-fuḥūlā
Wa-ṣabarnā taḥta l-bawāriqi ḥattā dakdakat fīhimi l-suyūfu ṭawīlā
Lam yuṭīqū an yanzilū wa-nazalnā wa-'aḫū l-ḥarbi man aṭāqa l-nuzūlā

Imru' al-Qays: From the Muˁallaqa: The Thunderstorm (From Arabic)

2026-04-17T04:04:00.000-05:00

My translation of the finale of the famous Mu'allaqa attributed to Imru'l Qays. A terrific thunderstorm rages over the mountains on the northern edge of the Najd. The scene is imagined over so vast an area that it must be poetic fiction. (As the medieval commentators note: Sitār, Yaḏbul and Qaṭan cannot possibly all be seen from the same place.) I include a recording in a reconstruction of how literary Arabic may have been prounced in the late Umayyad period (largely based on phonetic descriptions from early grammarians). For more on that see my discussion after.

From the Muˁallaqa: A Mountain Storm
Attributed to Imru' al-Qays
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Do you see lightning, friend? Look there: its flash
forks through the cumulus like fingers, quick
to shed its distant light; there: like the lit

lamp of a monk who tilts oil on the wick.

I sat to watch it with my friends, between
Ḍārij and Al-ˁUdhayb. Oh I gazed far
enough to see the storm raise its right arm
on Mount Qaṭan, its left on Al-Sitār,
and dump its rainload round Kutayfa, slamming

trees' faces to the ground as it went wide.
Its shower bucked on over Mount Qanān
sluicing the mountain goats off every side.
It left no palm-trunk standing at Taymā
nor building built of anything but rock.
Tall Mount Thabīr stood in its water-onslaught
like a tribe's chieftain in a stripelined cloak.
At dawn, debris on Al-Mujaymir's peaks
lay strewn like spun wool on a spindle-tip.
The storm had left its load upon the desert
like goods a merchant loosens from his hip.
That morning, finches noised about the dales
as if blind drunk on pepper-fiery wine.
That evening, raptors lay drowned at its edge
like ripped-out squills that freakishly entwine.

The Original:

أصَاحِ تَرَِى بَرْقاً أُرِيْكَ وَمِيضَـهُ كَلَمْـعِ اليَدَيْنِ فِي حَبِيٍّ مُكَلَّـلِ

يُضِيءُ سَنَاهُ أَوْ مَصَابِيْحُ رَاهِـبٍ أهَانَ السَّلِيْـطَ بِالذُّبَالِ المُفَتَّـلِ

قَعَدْتُ لَهُ وصُحْبَتِي بَيْنَ ضَـارِجٍ وبَيْنَ العـُذَيْبِ بُعْدَمَا مُتَأَمَّـلِ

عَلَا قَطَنا بِالشَّيْمِ أَيْمَنُ صَوْبِـهِ وَأَيْسَـرُهُ عَلَى السِّتَارِ فَيَذْبُـلِ

فَأَضْحَى يَسُحُّ المَاءَ حَوْلَ كُتَيْفَةٍ يَكُبُّ عَلَى الأذْقَانِ دَوْحَ الكَنَهْبَلِ

ومَـرَّ عَلَى القَنَـانِ مِنْ نَفَيَانِـهِ فَأَنْزَلَ مِنْهُ العُصْمَ مِنْ كُلِّ مَنْـزِلِ

وتَيْمَاءَ لَمْ يَتْرُكْ بِهَا جِذْعَ نَخْلَـةٍ وَلاَ أٌجُماً إِلاَّ مَشِيْداً بِجِنْـدَلِ

كَأَنَّ ثَبِيْـراً فِي عَرَانِيْـنِ وَبْلِـهِ كَبِيْـرُ أُنَاسٍ فِي بِجَـادٍ مُزَمَّـلِ

كَأَنَّ ذُرَى رَأْسِ المُجَيْمِرِ غُـدْوَةً مِنَ السَّيْلِ وَالأَغثَاءِ فَلْكَةُ مِغْـزَلِ

وأَلْقَى بِصَحْـرَاءِ الغَبيْطِ بَعَاعَـهُ نُزُوْلَ اليَمَانِي ذِي العِيَابِ المُحَمَّلِ

كَأَنَّ مَكَـاكِيَّ الجِـوَاءِ غُدَّبَـةً صُبِحْنَ سُلافاً مِنْ رَحيقٍ مُفَلْفَـلِ

كَأَنَّ السِّبَـاعَ فِيْهِ غَرْقَى عَشِيَّـةً بِأَرْجَائِهِ القُصْوَى أَنَابِيْشُ عُنْصُـلِ

Note:

The Arabic of my audio recording is in what I choose to call "Early Classical Arabic" pronunciation. To put it grandiosely, it is a kind of Arabic that hasn't been heard for over a thousand years. To put it plainly, it is a speculative reconstruction of the kind of Arabic pronunciation the grammarian Sibawayh might have used, based on his description of Arabic speech-sounds, and augmented with some inference based on typology. The main differences from textbook Classical Arabic as it is taught and learned today are as follows:

The ج was /ɟ/ (not /dʒ/)
The ش was /ɕ/ (not /ʃ/)
The ص was (for an indeterminate number of speakers including Sibawayh) an affricate /t͡sˤ/ rather than the fricative /sˁ/. (For reasoning behind this reconstruction see this article by Ahmad Al-Jallad).
The ض was a pharyngealized lateral, probably /ɮˤ/ or /d͡ɮˤ/ (the modern /dˁ/ pronunciation is much more recent)
The ت and ك appear to have been quite strongly aspirated /kʰ tʰ/.
In addition to the familiar three vowels /a: i: u:/ there existed /e:/ for many speakers (and, more marginally, /o:/ for some.)
The vowel /a:/ was optionally raised to [e:] due to i-mutation under a complex of different circumstances, partially neutralizing the contrast between /a:/ and phonemic /e:/ and giving the realizations of /a:/ a range and distribution not commonly heard in modern elevated poetic recitations.

Although I render ش as alveolo-palatal /ɕ/, full disclosure requires noting that another possibility would be a true palatal non-sibilant /ç/, which is what many (perhaps most) posit based on a strict interpretation of Sibawayhi's statement. Now, Sibawayhi, who doesn't get enough credit as a phonetician, could probably have distinguished palatal from alveolo-palatal articulation. But whether he would have cared to is a different question. Although he groups ي ش ج at the same place of articulation, it is only ش which causes assimilation of the definite article. Thus there was something about šīn that made it pattern, for assimilation purposes, with the coronals rather than the dorsals. The most straightforward interpretation would be that this is because šīn was indeed a sibilant. Sibilants as an articulatory class involve a centerline grooved tongue focusing the airstream such that it strikes the teeth. Whereas non-sibilant fricatives do not involve the teeth as a secondary articulator. Sibilants, probably because of the need to involve the teeth, are always coronal. Alveolo-palatal articulation sits uneasily in a no-man's land between the dorsal and coronals, and is as far back as you can go and still produce a sound that behaves acoustically and structurally like a sibilant. For /ç/ to function as a sibilant, it must thus have front articulation [ç̟], which (notational and theoretical games aside) makes it functionally /ɕ/.

One phonologically interesting way in which Sibawayhi's Arabic was likely counterintuitive from the standpoint of many modern accents of the standard language, and doubly so for non-native Arabic speakers given how they tend to be taught, is that what we normally think of as voiced plain stops /b d ɟ/ and voiceless plain stops /t k/ did not — strictly speaking — have presence or absence of voicing per se as their distinguishing feature. In this, Sibawayh's Arabic would align with certain modern dialects like San'ani Arabic. (See Phonation and glottal states in Modern South Arabian and San’ani Arabic by Janet Watson and Barry Heselwood for this and more, including a good explanation of a crucial articulatory category in Sibawayh's description.) The chief featural distinction between the two sets was probably aspiration in the latter and non-aspiration (with adductive glottal tension) in the former. In a dialect like this, although /b d ɟ/ probably did not have fully specified voicing, much of the time this would be of little phonetic consequence since in most positions voicing would be triggered positionally. In post-pausal position, however, although /b d ɟ/ would trigger a glottal prephonation state, their actual voice-onset time would not necessarily be different from that of a voiceless non-aspirated stop.

Théophile de Viau: Lament for Clairac (From French)

2026-04-17T03:59:00.000-05:00

Lament for Clairac

Théophile de Viau (1590 – 1626)
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Go hear to hear me read this poem in Early Modern French and in English

Sun-hallowed walls where I once loved Philis,

Sweet places where my soul knew charm and wonder,
Today, beneath our wrecked roofs, just a piece

Of a high-handed army's bloody plunder.

Altar cloth gone in smoke, great church now scorched
Unholy ruin, mysteries undone,
Horrific relicts of a city torched:
Men, horses and great halls buried as one.

Deep moats packed with debris from shattered walls,
Tableaux of horror, shrieks and burials,
River where blood will not stop running high.

Slaughterfields where the wolves and crows gorge free,
Clairac! For the one birth you gave to me
How many, many deaths you make me die.

The Original:

Sacrez murs du Soleil où j'adouray Philis,
Doux sejour où mon ame estoit jadis charmee,
Qui n'est plus aujourd'huy soubs nos toits desmoulis
Que le sanglant butin d'une orgueilleuse armee;

Ornemens de l'autel qui n'estes que fumee,
Grand Temple ruiné, mysteres abolis,
Effroyables objects d'une ville allumee,
Palais, hommes, chevaux, ensemble ensevelis;

Fossez larges et creux tous comblés de murailles,
Spectacles de frayeur, de cris, de funerailles,
Fleuve par où le sang ne cesse de courir,

Charniers où les Corbeaux et loups vont tous repaistre,
Clairac pour une fois que vous m'avez fait naistre,
Helas! combien de fois me faictes vous mourir.

Fatemeh Shams: A Poem for Iran (From Persian)

2026-04-17T03:57:00.001-05:00

A Poem For Iran

By Fatemeh Shams
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

To never go to sleep because a nightmare terrifies,

 to sit awake each night until dawn breaks into the skies,

 to stagger woozy somewhere between sleep and wakening

 to die in life's own name as blindness teeters on the eyes,

in pointless hollow love that just repeats relentlessly,

in all that "Oh I love you dear!" and "Oh do you love me?"

in wanting that all comes to naught for all that never comes

in pointless work and plunged in out-of-work banality,

to have at last no memory, no border and nowhere,

to drift through men's and women's cold embraces here and there,

to haul a suitcase and three hundred books from place to place

to have, among all colors in the world, a shroud's to wear,

to break the heart away from every face the veils obscure

from every man whose inmost being is a rancid sewer

to break the heart away from the strange city of my childhoods

that still holds within its soil a sorrow clean and pure

from endlessly not going back as hesitations weigh

through waking dreams in exile's arms without You night and day

through boundless yearning for what I will never see again,

through the despair of having turned a word like "hope" cliché

with no love and no homeland in this mad perplexity,

stuck in this narrow alley whose dead end runs endlessly,

to vomit You from me and, oh, to ask with all my love

"Dear wounded country, my sick home! Do You still think of me?"

The Original:

شعرى براى ايران

از ترس یک کابوس تا هرگز نخوابیدن هر شب نشستن تا طلوع صبح را دیدن

جایی میان خواب و بیداری، تلو خوردن در برزخ ِ کوری به نام ِ زندگی مُردن

در جا زدن در عشق‌های پوچ ِ تکراری در دوستت دارم عزیزم! دوستم داری

در خواستن‌هایی که از دم بی‌سرانجامند در شغل‌های آبکی، در قعر ِ بیکاری

بی‌حافظه، بی‌مرز، بی شهر و وطن بودن آواره در آغوش ِ سرد ِ مرد و زن بودن

یک ساک و سیصد جلد را هی جا به جا کردن بین تمام ِ رنگ‌ها، رنگ ِ کفن بودن

دل کندن از هر کس که بر صورت نقابی داشت هر کس که در قعر وجودش منجلابی داشت

دل از کندن از شهر ِ غریب کودکی‌هایم آنجا که در خاکش غم و اندوه نابی داشت

از برنگشتن‌های بی‌پایان ِ پُر تردید بیدارخوابی بی تو در آغوش این تبعید

دلتگی ِ بی‌مرز از هرگز ندیدن‌ها سرخوردگی از ابتذال واژه امید

بی‌سرزمین، بی‌عشق، در اوج همین مستی در کوچه باریک ِ بی پایان ِ بن‌بستی

آوردنت بالا و هی با عشق پرسیدن ای سرزمین خسته! توی فکر من هستی

Al-Mutanabbi: On the Recapture of Al-Ḥadath (From Arabic)

2026-04-17T03:41:00.000-05:00

The year is 954 A.D. Al-Ḥadath Al-Ḥamrā is a strategically important town on the Arab-Byzantine border, between Marˁaš and Malaṭiya, which depended for protection on a fortress built on nearby Mount Uḥaydib. After being captured and demilitarized in 950 by the Byzantines, it was retaken in October of 954 by Sayfu l-Dawla Abū Ḥasan Bin Ḥamdān, the Emir of Aleppo (whom I have seen fit to anglicize as Lord Ali the Realmsword) who set about refortifying it, only to be interrupted by the appearance of Byzantine forces under the command of Bardas Phocas. Before the end of the month, a decisive battle was fought around Mount Uhaydib. After a day of heavy fighting, Lord Realmsword with a small company of hardened men broke through the Byzantine line. Bardas' forces retreated, leaving members of his own family as prisoners. Lord Realmsword was then able to finish up the fortification of Al-Hadath, whereupon he had the pleasure of hearing his court poet Abū Ṭayyib Al-Mutanabbī recite the poem translated here in celebration of the occasion.

Oh and here's a recording of me reciting the Arabic text:

A. Z. Foreman · Al-Mutanabbi's panegyric to Sayfu l-Dawlah on the taking of Al-Hadath

In Praise of Lord Realmsword on the Recapture of Al-Hadath
By Al-Mutanabbī
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

This translation is dedicated to Tahera Qutbuddin, in whose wonderful seminar I had the pleasure of reading this and other poems by Al-Mutanabbī and got some idea of how to translate him.

Resolutions measure　a man's resolve
　and noble deeds　a noble name.
Small deeds loom large　to little eyes

　and great deeds shrink　in a great man's gaze.

Behold Lord Ali　of the house of Hamdan,
　See how Realmsword　is rightly his name.
He wills his forces　to show the force of his will
　which hardened brigades　can hardly attain
He expects of his men　no more than himself
　but more than the lordliest　of lions can claim.
Agelong vultures　of the vast drylands
　would pledge their lives　to protect his blades.
They'd meet no harm　though made talonless
　since his sturdy arms　of steel were made.
Does that Red City　still realize her color,⁽²⁾
　whether cloudbursts brought　the blood or the rain?
Where first she drank　of flashing clouds
　she drank of skulls　the day he came.
While blade beat blade　he built and braced her
　where she shook from the force　of the Fates' brute waves.
She lay mad in the hold　of an unholy spell
　that dead bodies broke　at break of day.

Displaced by Fate　to a foreign creed,
　the strike of your swords　restored her Faith.
What nights yield to you　is yours forever.
　What they steal from you　they soon must repay.
Plans you pass are verbs　in the present now
　having moved to past　before men can negate.
No Roman or Viking⁽³⁾ 　could raze that stronghold
　raised with pikethrusts　 for pillars and base.
No wronged man died　and no wrongdoer lived
　when they called her to justice.　The Judge was Fate.

So clad in steel　they came at you
　their coursers seemed legless　crossing the plain.
When they flashed, their blades 　all blended in
　with steel garments　aglint with day,
An army on the crawl　from east and west
　clamoring till the ears　of Orion⁽⁴⁾ ached,
A horde of tangled　tongues and peoples
　with translators for each　order relayed.

Then that molten time　melted fake mettle
　till only war's metal　and men remained
Every sword shattered　that failed to shatter
　the bulwark of bloodwood　and bucklers and mail
Every fool turned gutless　in fear of gutting
　fled from the ranks　of fighters that day.
Where standing meant death　you stood your ground
　as if on the sleeping　eyelids of bane.
While wounded, fright-fouled　fighters ran past you
　you fought with a smile　and a shining face
and went beyond bounds　of bravery and reason
　till they said you knew　the Numen's ways.

I know how hawks 　will hold birds down
　in a grip to gut 　their grounded game.⁽⁵⁾
You squeezed the foe's wings　on a squirming heart
　and dealt hard death　to downstruck prey.
You skivered their skulls　when you still hadn't won
　then their vitals and throats　as victory came.
You detested lances 　and tossed them aside,
　your sword spitting　on spears at close range.

Let any who look　for the light of conquest
　see it in the luster　of lightweight blades.
You strewed them hard　over Uháydib like coins
　strewn over a woman　on her wedding day.
Your horses trampled　the hilltop nests
　where fodder galore　before them lay.
Eaglets imagined 　it was their mothers you brought,
　not the sturdy wingfoot 　steeds that raced
till they slipped and you had them　slide on their bellies　
　across the earth　like crawling snakes.

Will the Domesticus⁽⁶⁾ dare　every day against you
　with his neck fighting 　his advancing face?
Does he not sense lions' 　scent till he tastes it?
　Even wildbeasts can sense　a lion on the way.
Our leader's sorties　struck him hard
　when his son, his wife's brother 　and his son were slain.
Troops helped him scamp　to escape the swords
　that were busy hacking 　their heads away.
He got the message 　of Mashrafi⁽⁷⁾ steel
　to his men, though told　 in the tongue of strangers.
He was glad to surrender　not in stupidity,
　but after his loss　even life was a gain.　
You are no mere king　who conquers his peer⁽⁸⁾
but the one God's triumph　over triune pagans,
You have ennobled 　all of Adnan⁽⁹⁾,
　 Pride of the Outlands⁽¹⁰⁾　and all creation.
The praise is yours　for my pearls of verse:
　I just string them. 　You set their shape. 　　
Your gifts⁽¹¹¹⁾ gallop with me　through the grind of war
　so you bear no regrets　and I no blame
On a steed whose feet 　fly to battle
　as soon as it hears　the howling fray.

Oh Realmsword unsheathed 　and ready forever,
　held in no doubt　nor held at bay.
Joy to skull-strikers,　to stout men's deeds,
　to them that love you　and Islam: you are safe.
And why wouldn't God　still guard your edge
　to behead his foes　with you for a blade?

Notes:

2 — Hali l-ḥadaṯu l-ḥamrā'u taˁrifu lawnahā? (Literally: "Does Red Al-Hadath know her color?")

"Red" was a term that could be used for non-Arabs, especially Persians, Greeks or "Franks" (Western Europeans) who were seen as being of lighter complexion. E.g. Atānī kullu aswada minhum wa'aḥmar "Every one of them, Arab and not, came to me". A saying attributed to Muhammad has it that buˁiṯtu ilā l-'aḥmari wa-l-aswad "I was sent to the red and the black" of which the most straightforward interpretation is "to all mankind, Arab and not." The term Al-Ḥamrā' as a collective adjective may also be used to refer generically to foreigners, or to emancipated slaves.

Al-Hadaṯ Al-Ḥamrā' "Red Hadath" is the traditional appellation of the city. The color is — I think — being played on at multiple levels. She (the city is morphosyntactically feminine) is in the most obvious sense "red" after being soaked with blood. But she was also a "red" (foreign, Greek) city when under Byzantine rule, which she no longer is. She is now "red" (emancipated from bondage) now that Lord Realmsword has relieved her of foreign control. Despite her traditional appellation, she may not even know that she is now red in one sense, and was red in the other, so completely has she now been redeemed to her proper place under Islamdom.

3 — "Vikings". The original text uses the word Rūs which in Modern Arabic simply means "Russians." Anglophone commenters on this poem have usually translated it thus, and Arabic commentaries often leave the word unglossed as though its meaning were transparent. But the Arabic word Rūs, at this time, actually referred to Norsemen (specifically the Byzantine Varangian guard is probably what is meant.) Since English "Rus" is far too scholarly, and "Norsemen" would be a bit too specific, I have used the most readily intelligible term Vikings. (I considered calquing off of Old Norse Garðmaðr and rendering the phrase as "Greeks and Garthmen" or the like. But somehow it felt a bit silly to go to such an extreme.)

4 — The original actually refers to Gemini, a different constellation. But makes for a more transparent image of an anthropomorphized stellar figure.

5 — This verse, like some others in my translation, does not have an exact counterpart in the original. But it served in English to make the image clearer. Al-Mutanabbī's description evokes the way a hawk pounces on larger types of prey. The predator holds its prey to the ground, delivering blows to the skull to dispatch it fully before slashing into the throat.

6 — Domesticus (or, rather δομέστικος) was Bardas' Byzantine military title, loaned into Arabic as dumustuq, which is the word Al-Mutanabbī uses.

7 — In poetry, good swords are often said to be "Mashrafi" after an obscure place called Mashraf. Nobody quite knows why, though everybody likes to guess.

8 — Literally "You are monotheism defeating polytheism (širk)". That Christians have in some sense diluted the principle of monotheism by worshipping a trinity was — as it still is — a commonplace of anti-Christian Muslim polemic.

9 — Adnan: the Northern Arabs are supposedly descendants of ˁAdnān.

10 — "Outlands" is my rendering of ˁawāṣim. The word has often been misread as meaning "capitals" which is its sense in Modern Arabic. The term ˁawāṣim here refers to a part of the frontier zone between the Byzantine Empire and the Empire of the Caliphs. The forward strongholds of this zone were called ṯuġūr "mouths", while those further rearward were called the ˁawāṣim "guardianesses".

11 — Lord Realmsword had gifted the poet with some horses.

The Original:

عَلى قَدْرِ أهْلِ العَزْم تأتي العَزائِمُ وَتأتي علَى قَدْرِ الكِرامِ المَكارمُ

وَتَعْظُمُ في عَينِ الصّغيرِ صغارُها وَتَصْغُرُ في عَين العَظيمِ العَظائِمُ

يُكَلّفُ سيفُ الدّوْلَةِ الجيشَ هَمّهُ وَقد عَجِزَتْ عنهُ الجيوشُ الخضارمُ

وَيَطلُبُ عندَ النّاسِ ما عندَ نفسِه وَذلكَ ما لا تَدّعيهِ الضّرَاغِمُ

يُفَدّي أتَمُّ الطّيرِ عُمْراً سِلاحَهُ نُسُورُ الفَلا أحداثُها وَالقَشاعِمُ

وَما ضَرّها خَلْقٌ بغَيرِ مَخالِبٍ وَقَدْ خُلِقَتْ أسيافُهُ وَالقَوائِمُ

هَلِ الحَدَثُ الحَمراءُ تَعرِفُ لوْنَها وَتَعْلَمُ أيُّ السّاقِيَيْنِ الغَمَائِمُ

سَقَتْها الغَمَامُ الغُرُّ قَبْلَ نُزُولِهِ فَلَمّا دَنَا مِنها سَقَتها الجَماجِمُ

بَنَاهَا فأعْلى وَالقَنَا يَقْرَعُ القَنَا وَمَوْجُ المَنَايَا حَوْلَها مُتَلاطِمُ

وَكانَ بهَا مثْلُ الجُنُونِ فأصْبَحَتْ وَمِنْ جُثَثِ القَتْلى عَلَيْها تَمائِمُ

طَريدَةُ دَهْرٍ ساقَها فَرَدَدْتَهَا على الدّينِ بالخَطّيّ وَالدّهْرُ رَاغِمُ

تُفيتُ کللّيالي كُلَّ شيءٍ أخَذْتَهُ وَهُنّ لِمَا يأخُذْنَ منكَ غَوَارِمُ

إذا كانَ ما تَنْوِيهِ فِعْلاً مُضارِعاً مَضَى قبلَ أنْ تُلقى علَيهِ الجَوازِمُ

وكيفَ تُرَجّي الرّومُ والرّوسُ هدمَها وَذا الطّعْنُ آساسٌ لهَا وَدَعائِمُ

وَقَد حاكَمُوهَا وَالمَنَايَا حَوَاكِمٌ فَما ماتَ مَظلُومٌ وَلا عاشَ ظالِمُ

أتَوْكَ يَجُرّونَ الحَديدَ كَأنّمَا سَرَوْا إليك بِجِيَادٍ ما لَهُنّ قَوَائِمُ

إذا بَرَقُوا لم تُعْرَفِ البِيضُ منهُمُ ثِيابُهُمُ من مِثْلِها وَالعَمَائِمُ

خميسٌ بشرْقِ الأرْضِ وَالغرْبِ زَحْفُهُ وَفي أُذُنِ الجَوْزَاءِ منهُ زَمَازِمُ

تَجَمّعَ فيهِ كلُّ لِسْنٍ وَأُمّةٍ فَمَا يُفْهِمُ الحُدّاثَ إلاّ الترَاجِمُ

فَلِلّهِ وَقْتٌ ذَوّبَ الغِشَّ نَارُهُ فَلَمْ يَبْقَ إلاّ صَارِمٌ أوْ ضُبارِمُ

تَقَطّعَ ما لا يَقْطَعُ الدّرْعَ وَالقَنَا وَفَرّ منَ الفُرْسانِ مَنْ لا يُصادِمُ

وَقَفْتَ وَما في المَوْتِ شكٌّ لوَاقِفٍ كأنّكَ في جَفنِ الرّدَى وهْوَ نائِمُ

تَمُرّ بكَ الأبطالُ كَلْمَى هَزيمَةً وَوَجْهُكَ وَضّاحٌ وَثَغْرُكَ باسِمُ

تجاوَزْتَ مِقدارَ الشّجاعَةِ والنُّهَى إلى قَوْلِ قَوْمٍ أنتَ بالغَيْبِ عالِمُ

ضَمَمْتَ جَناحَيهِمْ على القلبِ ضَمّةً تَمُوتُ الخَوَافي تحتَها وَالقَوَادِمُ

بضَرْبٍ أتَى الهاماتِ وَالنّصرُ غَائِبٌ وَصَارَ إلى اللّبّاتِ وَالنّصرُ قَادِمُ

حَقَرْتَ الرُّدَيْنِيّاتِ حتى طَرَحتَها وَحتى كأنّ السّيفَ للرّمحِ شاتِمُ

وَمَنْ طَلَبَ الفَتْحَ الجَليلَ فإنّمَا مَفاتِيحُهُ البِيضُ الخِفافُ الصّوَارِمُ

نَثَرْتَهُمُ فَوْقَ الأُحَيْدِبِ كُلّهِ كمَا نُثِرَتْ فَوْقَ العَرُوسِ الدّراهمُ

تدوسُ بكَ الخيلُ الوكورَ على الذُّرَى وَقد كثرَتْ حَوْلَ الوُكورِ المَطاعِمُ

تَظُنّ فِراخُ الفُتْخِ أنّكَ زُرْتَهَا بأُمّاتِها وَهْيَ العِتاقُ الصّلادِمُ

إذا زَلِقَتْ مَشّيْتَها ببُطونِهَا كمَا تَتَمَشّى في الصّعيدِ الأراقِمُ

أفي كُلّ يَوْمٍ ذا الدُّمُسْتُقُ مُقدِمٌ قَفَاهُ على الإقْدامِ للوَجْهِ لائِمُ

أيُنكِرُ رِيحَ اللّيثِ حتى يَذُوقَهُ وَقد عَرَفتْ ريحَ اللّيوثِ البَهَائِمُ

وَقد فَجَعَتْهُ بابْنِهِ وَابنِ صِهْرِهِ وَبالصّهْرِ حَمْلاتُ الأميرِ الغَوَاشِمُ

مضَى يَشكُرُ الأصْحَابَ في فوْته الظُّبَى لِمَا شَغَلَتْهَا هامُهُمْ وَالمَعاصِمُ

وَيَفْهَمُ صَوْتَ المَشرَفِيّةِ فيهِمِ على أنّ أصْواتَ السّيوفِ أعَاجِمُ

يُسَرّ بمَا أعْطاكَ لا عَنْ جَهَالَةٍ وَلكِنّ مَغْنُوماً نَجَا منكَ غانِمُ

وَلَسْتَ مَليكاً هازِماً لِنَظِيرِهِ وَلَكِنّكَ التّوْحيدُ للشّرْكِ هَازِمُ

تَشَرّفُ عَدْنانٌ بهِ لا رَبيعَةٌ وَتَفْتَخِرُ الدّنْيا بهِ لا العَوَاصِمُ

لَكَ الحَمدُ في الدُّرّ الذي ليَ لَفظُهُ فإنّكَ مُعْطيهِ وَإنّيَ نَاظِمُ

وَإنّي لَتَعْدو بي عَطَايَاكَ في الوَغَى فَلا أنَا مَذْمُومٌ وَلا أنْتَ نَادِمُ

عَلى كُلّ طَيّارٍ إلَيْهَا برِجْلِهِ إذا وَقَعَتْ في مِسْمَعَيْهِ الغَمَاغِمُ

ألا أيّها السّيفُ الذي لَيسَ مُغمَداً وَلا فيهِ مُرْتابٌ وَلا منْهُ عَاصِمُ

هَنيئاً لضَرْبِ الهَامِ وَالمَجْدِ وَالعُلَى وَرَاجِيكَ وَالإسْلامِ أنّكَ سالِمُ

وَلِمْ لا يَقي الرّحم?نُ حدّيك ما وَقى وَتَفْليقُهُ هَامَ العِدَى بكَ دائِمُ

Anonymous: Deor (From Old English)

2026-04-17T00:20:00.002-05:00

This poem refers to stock characters — real and fictional — from Germanic lore. Some of the figures are now obscure, and most are not known directly from Old English versions of the story. I have modernized many of the names in my translation, giving them forms that would be plausible as Modern English versions of the name. The biggest exception is Wayland, whose Old English name would actually have been Weeland or Weland had it survived into the modern period.

Wayland (Old English Wéland, Old Norse Vǫlundr, Old High German Wiolant) was a smith renowned for his metal working ability. He was forced to work for Nithad (OE Niþhad, ON Níðuðr) who hamstrung him to stop his escape. Wayland avenged himself by killing the king's sons, raping his daughter Beadild (OE Beadohilde, ON Bǫðvildr). Mathild and Geat are opaque. They appear to be famous lovers that met a tragic end, like Romeo and Juliet, or Layla and Majnun. The ablest guess is that they correspond to Magnhild and Gaute of a Scandinavian ballad tale recorded in the 19th century, but even if so the story as it was known to the poet's English audience may well have differed greatly from the version known from Scandinavia a thousand years later. Thedric is Theodoric, the Ostrogothic emperor who ruled in Italy from 493 to 526. Armenric is Ermanaric the Goth, another famous tyrant, known to us from Beowulf and Widsith. (I confected the form Armenric by positing that the vowel of Eormanric underwent pre-rhotic lowering to /a/ in Late Middle English and, as in most native words, failed to raise again in the Early Modern period. Eormanric becomes Armenric just like "feorr", "deorc" do "far", "dark".)

The phonology of my recording below is not based on the extant West Saxon text in the Exeter Book. That'd be too easy and I wanted to do something different. Trying to date a poem as short as this is difficult, but its subject matter and in particular its preservation of genuine Old English reflexes of mythical proper names suggests that it isn't much younger than the 9th century if that. I based my reading on the Mercian dialect recorded in the Vespasian Psalter. Thus vowel length has collapsed in inflectional endings, /ĕ̄o/ and /ĭ̄o/ have merged, and Mercian second fronting is in full effect. The text shown in the video is meant to give an idea of what the text in the Exeter Book might have looked like if it were copied out faithfully from a Mercian exemplar.

Deor
By Anonymnous
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Wayland in Wormland　went through harrows,
The strongminded smith　suffered in exile.
Worry and longing 　walked beside him,
winter-raw anguish.　He ached for escape
after King Nithad　cramped his sinews　

and bound a slave　of the better man.

That passed in time.　So too can this.

To Beadild's mind　her brothers' deaths
weren't as wounding　as what she faced
herself when she came　to clearly see
that she was pregnant.　That princess unwed
could not handle　what would become of her.

That passed in time.　So too can this.

We know the tale 　of tragic Mathild.
the Geat bore her　a bottomless passion,
all sleep banished 　by a baneful love

That passed in time.　So too can this.

Tyrant Thedrick　for thirty winters
ruled the Mearings,　as many know.

That passed in time.　So too can this.

We have all heard tell　of Armenrick
and his wolfsick mind.　He was one cruel king,
That overlord　of the outland Goths
whose state was set　in strung-up hearts　
as strong men sat　in sorrow-chains
awaiting the worst,　and wishing so much
for a foe to liberate　the land of their king.

That passed in time.　So too can this.

A man sits mournful,　mind ripped from joy.
His spirit in dark,　he deems himself
foredoomed to endure　ordeals forever.
Then he may think　how throughout the world

the Wise God goes　and works around:
meting out grace,　mercy and certain
success to some,　suffering to many.

Of myself I want　to say just this:
I was high poet　　to the Hedenings once,
Dear to my master.　"Deer" was my name.
For many winters　 I was a man in that hall
And the heart of my lord.　But Herrend came
And reaped the riches　and rights of land
That guardian of men 　once granted me,
And stole my place 　with a poet's skill.

That passed in time.　So too can this.

The Original:

Wélond him be wurman 　wreces cunnade

ánhýdiġ eorl 　earfoða drég

hefde him tó ġesíþþe　 sorġe end longoþ

wintercalde wræce 　wéan oft onfond

seoþþan hine níþhád on 　néde leġde

swoncre seonobende 　on sellan mon

þes oferéode　 þisses swé meġ

Beadohilde ne wes　 hire bróðra déaþ
on seofan swé sár 　swé hire seolfre þing,
þet híe ġearolíċe　 onġeten hefde
þet híe écen wes;　 ǽfre ne mehte
þríste ġeþencan, 　hú ymb þet ṡċolde.

þes oferéode þisses swé meġ

Wé þet Mǽþhilde　 monġe ġefrugnon
wurdon grundléase　 Ġéates fríge,
þet him séo sorglufu　 slép alle binom.

þes oferéode þisses swé meġ

Þéodríċ áhte 　þrítiġ wintra
Méringa burg; 　þet wes moneġum cúþ.

þes oferéode þisses swé meġ

Wé ġeáscadun　 Éormonríċes
wylfenne ġeþóht;　 áhte wíde folc
Gotena ríċes.　 Þet wes grim cyning.
Set seċġ moniġ　 sorgum ġebunden,
wéan on wénan,　 wyṡċte ġenehhe
þet þes cyneríċes　 ofercumen wére.

þes oferéode þisses swé meġ

Siteþ sorgċeriġ,　 sélum bidǽled,
on seofan swerċeþ,　 seolfum þinceþ
þet síe endeléas 　earfoða dæl.
Meġ þonne ġeþencan, 　þet ġeond þás weoruld

wítiġ dryhten　 wendeþ genehhe,
eorle monegum　 áre geṡċéawaþ,
wíslícne bléd, 　sumum wéana dǽl.

Þet iċ bi mé seolfum　 seċġan wille,
þet iċ hwíle wes　Heodeninga sċop,
dryhtne déore.　 Mé wes Déor noma.
Áhte iċ feola wintra　 folgaþ tilne,
holdne hláford, 　oþþet Heorrenda nú,
léoþcreftiġ monn 　londreht ġeþáh,
þet mé eorla hléow　 ǽr ġesalde.

þes oferéode þisses swé meġ

Beowulf 2231-2270: Lament of the Last Survivor (From Old English)

2026-04-17T00:00:00.003-05:00

Lament of the Last Survivor
(Beowulf 2231-2270)
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

　　There was such ancient wealth　in that earthen vault.

In an age long past,　with an end in his mind,

someone now nameless　had known to hide

his dear treasure　in the darkness here,

the heaped legacy　of a highborn race

at dynasty's end. 　Death already

had taken them all　in times gone by,

and left just this one:　the last warrior

of a fallen line　whose fate he mourned,

expecting the same.　This sad watchman

knew that ageless hoard　would be only his

to enjoy briefly.　The barrow stood

built and waiting 　by the breaking waves

crafted for safety,　set on the headland.

That keeper of rings　 then carried in

all the gold-plated 　goods he had there

worth protecting. 　His words were these few:

"Hold now, O earth,　what heroes cannot:

Wealth of warriors.　It was worthy men

who delved it from you.　Death in battle

has mowed them down.　Mortal horror

has made away　with the mortal souls

of each of my clan　who have quit this life,

the hall-mirth of knights.　Nobody's here

to bear me a blade　or bring my cup's

burnished meadgold.　My band moved on.

The hard helmet　hasped in goldwork

must lose its hoop.　Helm-shiners sleep

that once burnished　my battle-mask.

War-coats that braved　the biting steel

when shields burst wide　will be worn to bits

with their brave wearers.　The whorled hauberk

will wander no more　on the warchief's back

in a battle band. 　No more brilliant harp

with timbered tune,　no trained falcon

swooping the songhall,　no swift-hoof horse

prancing the courtgrounds.　Plundering carnage

ousts whole peoples　out of existence."

So he mourned who survived,　remembering hurts,

alone after them all,　aching and maundering

for days and nights 　till death seethed up

and beat his heart.

The Original:

　　　　　　þér wæs swelcrá feolá

in þǽm eorðselí　 ǽrġistréoná,

swé híæ on ġárdagum 　gumæná náthwelċ,

iorminláƀǽ 　æðilan cynnæs,

þanchycgændí　 þér gihýddǽ,

díorǽ máðmas. 　Allǽ híæ déaþ fornam

ǽrran mélum,　 ænd se án þá ġén

líodá duguðǽ 　se þér længist hwearƀ,

weard winiġómor, 　wéndǽ þæs ylcan,

þæt hé lýtil fæc 　langġistréoná

brúcan móstí.　 Berg allġearu

wunudǽ on wangǽ, 　wæterýðum néh

níowi bi næssǽ 　nearucræftum fæst.

þér on innan bær 　eorlġistréoná

hringá hirdí,　 hordwiorðnǽ dǽl,

fǽttan goldæs,　 féa wordá cwæþ:

Hald þú nú, hrúsǽ,　nú hæliþ ni móstun,
eorlá ǽhti.　Hwæt hit ǽr on þé
gódǽ biġétun;　gúþdéaþ fornam,
ferhbealu frœ́cni　firhá ġihwelċnǽ,
líodá mínrá,　 þonǽ þe þis líƀ ofġæƀ,
secgá selidréamas.　Náh hwá sweord weġǽ
oþþǽ forþ berǽ　fǽtid wéġí,
drynċfæt díorí:　duguþ ellor sċóc.
Sċæl se heardá helm　hyrstidgoldǽ
fǽtum bifallæn:　feormiænd swefaþ,
þá þe beadugríman　bíowan sċoldun,
ġé swelċǽ sío heripád,　sío æt hildí ġibád
oƀær bordá ġibræc　bití íserná,
brosnaþ æftær beornǽ.　Ni mæġ byrnan hring
æftær wíġfruman　wídǽ fœ́ran,

hæliðum bi halƀǽ;　nis hearpan wyn,
gomæn glíwbéamæs,　ni gód heaƀuc
ġeond sæl swingiþ,　ni se swiftá mærh
burhstedi béatiþ.　Bealucwalm haƀaþ
feolá ferhcynná　forþ onsændid!

Swé ġómormód　ġehþu mǽndǽ

án æftær allum,　unblíþí hwearƀ

dæġæs ænd næhtæs,　oþþæt déaðæs wælm

hrán æt heortan　

Jovan Dučić: Zohra (From Serbian)

2026-04-16T14:50:00.000-05:00

Zohra

By Jovan Dučić

Translated by A. Z. Foreman

At first dusk on a seashore a wayfarer met a young and dark woman who took her two bare, black and heavy breasts in her hands and started to say a prayer to the star that had just flared in the West, while keeping her eyes, fixed and unmoving, on the planet.

It was a prayer to Zohra, goddess with breasts black and heavy as hers. Every evening Zohra sends Her star to receive the prayers of all women in the desert whose bodies hunger for a man.

The next day at dusk on that same shore she lay in the foreign traveler's arms. But she, poor hapless thing, did not greet the Star's rising with breasts held in her hands, for her eyes had been darkened by his kisses.

Thus the stranger had sundered the woman from her divinity. So she gave him grapes that he had to die from, before the insulted Star set in the desert, because Zohra is cruel, and would otherwise no longer send another man to her shore every evening.

— From Prose Poems "Blue Legends", Belgrade 1908

The Original:

Зохра

Јован Дучић

Путник је срео у првом сутону на морској обали младу и црну жену, која према звезди, што у тај мах блисну на западу, узе своје две голе црне и тешке дојке у руке и поче говорити молитву, држећи непомично очи на планети.

То је била молитва Зохри, која је богиња с тако исто црним и тешким дојкама. Зохра свако вече шаље своју звезду да прими за њу молитву свих жена у пустињи чије тело жуди човека.

Сутрадан у сутон, на тој истој обали, лежала је она у наручју тога путника странца. Али, несрећница, није поздравила, држећи своје дојке у рукама, излазак Звезде, јер су јој очи биле помрчале од његових пољубаца.

Тако је странац био одвојио жену од њеног божанства. Зато му је жена дала неко грожђе од кога је морао умрети пре него увређена Звезда зађе у пустињи. Јер је Зохра свирепа и не би јој више на обалу слала свако вече другог човека.

A Fourteenth Century Tale: The Slaying of the Grendelving (AKA the Jabberwock)

2026-04-16T14:45:00.005-05:00

Grendelvengthe (Ungreithly called Jabberwockie)

By Louis Kervaill

Bredeliche wast & slythy spreren

Gimelèd & gore on þe waben.

The swappelingès misel weren.

The momè gwin outgraben.

Warè the Grendelving, my sone.

His jowès gnaue, his clauès cacche.

Bifle the Galgol-Foule & shone

The wragious Lodersnacche.

He nom his guthrew swerd in honde.

Longe the eglich fend he soghte.

He rested hym by the Tre Toum-Tym

And ther stod in a thoghte.

He stod with pithèsherwe in mode

Tho Grendelving wiþ ye on flame

Blastè thurgh that shoufengèd wode

And blumelèd in grame.

Oon, two, oon, two, he hadde hym so.

Þe guþrew mechè dide snixnak.

He lefte hym dede & with his hede

Galomphaunt sterte abak.

And hastow slayn þe Grendelving?

Heleth & sone, I clippè thee

Fairaclous Dai! Oho, aihai!

He holough high in gle.

Bredeliche wast & slythy spreren

Gimelèd & gore on the waben.

The swappelingès misel weren.

The momè gwin outgraben.

Robert Desnos: Road Trip (From French)

2025-03-27T03:10:00.000-05:00

Road Trip

By Robert Desnos

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Now and then on the road we come by vines

with ripened grapes in arm's reach and Oh they

are good! We're off to who knows what next day.

The leaf is handlike in its little lines.

But let us relish wine with holy signs

of youth and human runed desires in code

The glass drunk down, best get back on the road

born as cocks crow to die as the swan pines.

Nevertheless our glasses' imprint lingers

on tablecloth. Soon washerwomen's fingers

will get the stain out sure as water swirls

Cute singing miss That's how a promise passes

Unbung the barrel Come refill our glasses

to clink and drink at will to sassy girls.

The Original:

Sur La Route

Sur la route parfois on rencontre des vignes

Dont les raisins mûris sont à portée de main

Qu’ils sont bons! Et partons où serons-nous demain?

Car la feuille ressemble à la main par les lignes.

Mais chérissons le vin où se lisent les signes

sacrés de la jeunesse et des désirs humains

Le verre est bu, partons reprenons le chemin

qui naît au chant du coq et meurt au chant du cygne

Il reste cependant l’empreinte de nos verres

sur la nappe tracée. Aux mains des lavandières

La tache partira bientôt au fil de l’eau.

Ainsi vont les serments belle fille qui chantes

Pour trinquer à plaisir en l’honneur des méchantes

Remplissez notre verre aux bondes des tonneaux.

Abraham Sutzkever: A Voice From The Heart (From Yiddish)

2025-03-21T13:51:00.019-05:00

This poem, written just before the Vilnius ghetto was established, is a call to resistance in the face of Nazi persecution. The theme of Jewish revolt is one that would for obvious reasons permeate a good deal of Sutzkever's work from the 40s.

A Voice From The Heart
By Abraham Sutzkever
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

The heart's voice ordered me: once more

believe in that debased word "Just".

Son of the lion, stand and war

against your slavery. You must.

There is a way. It leads within

wild primal woods of recollection.

There also is a pathogen

that bears a thousand-year infection.

If you want reasons for your ache,

make yourself into what it tells.

And hear how grandfathers would wake

sons as storms billhooking bronze bells.

There is a way: arise, wayfarer.

Redeem the old snare. Stride and save.

Death may forgive you any error

but can't forgive you staying a slave.

- Vilna, July 1941

The Original:

אַ שטים פֿון האַרץ

אבֿרהם סוצקעווער

אַ שטים פֿון האַרץ באַפֿעלט מיר: גלייב

אין שוין פֿאַרשוועכטן וואָרט גערעכטשאַפֿט

דער ווײַטער יורש פֿון אַ לייב

מוז ווידערשפּעניקן זײַן קנעכטשאַפֿט

ס׳איז דאָ אַ גאַנג. עס ליגט זײַן ציל

אין ווילדן אורוואַלד פֿון זכּרון.

ס׳איז אויך פֿאַראַן אַזאַ באַצילֹ,

וואָס טראָגט דעם סם פֿון טויזנט יאָרן.

און זוכסטו פֿאַר דײַן פּײַן אַ זין–

פֿאַרוואַנדל זיך אין איר אַנטפּלעקער,

און הער ווי זיידעס וועקן זין

ווי שטורעמהעק אין בראָנדז פֿון גלעקער.

ס׳איז דאָ אַ גאַנג. איז קלעטער, שפרײַז,

קויף אויס דעם דורותֿדיקן שטרויכל.

דער טויט איז מוחל יעדער גרײַז,

נאָר זײַן אַ קנעכט איז ער ניט מוחל.

ווילנע, יולי 1941

Victor Hugo: Night of the Fourth: A Remembrance (From French)

2025-03-21T13:37:00.001-05:00

After Napoleon III's coup in 1851, Victor Hugo was one of a number of intellectuals who attempted to organize a popular resistance to the new regime. That resistance was violently put down and Hugo went into exile in Jersey under the English crown where he wrote Les Châtiments, a volume dedicated to excoriating Bonaparte and his regime, which included this poem. It recalls the death of a child on the streets of Paris on December 4th, two days after the coup d'état. I see no reason to doubt that the basic facts of the story Hugo tells here actually happened. He certainly was in a position to have experienced it that night. Some details must have been adjusted one way or another. There are differences — some of them mutually exclusive — between Hugo's verse account here and the version of the episode that he would later tell in prose in his Histoire d'un Crime. For example, the woman's complaint is here more straightforward and less confused, and her mention of religion and God here amounts to no more than stock interjections. Aragon's comparison of the two in Hugo, Poète Réaliste is worth reading.

Night of the Fourth: A Remembrance

By Victor Hugo

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

The boy had got two bullets to the brain.

The flat was decent, neat but small and plain.

A palm branch over a portrait hung inside.

There was an old grandmother. As she cried

we stripped him silently. His mouth gaped grey.

Death had drowned his eye's last shocked look away.

His arms hung limp as if to beg a prop.

Inside his pocket was a boxwood top.

The wounds could fit a finger in his head.

Have you seen blackberries bleed hedges red?

His skull was split like cordwood cut lengthwise.

We stripped the kid before the woman's eyes

as she said "Goodness is he pale. Here, bring

the lamp. His hair's stuck to his brow. Poor thing."

When it was done, she took him in her lap.

It was so dark. We could still hear the clap

of rifles killing more out in the street.

One of us said "lets wrap him", got a sheet

out of the cupboard. His grandmother stood

to bring him near the fire as if she could

warm the kid's rigored limbs back up again.

Oh anything where death's frost hands have lain

will never warm down here to any heat.

She bent her head, pulled cold socks off his feet,

and her gnarled hands cupped the cadaverous toes.

She yelled "does this not hurt to see? God knows

he was a kid. He wasn't even eight.

He was in school. Teachers thought he was great.

Whenever I had to write a letter, he

would write it for me. Tell me. What are we

doing now, killing children? God on high

we're criminals. This morning, right there by

the window, he was playing up the street

they shot him in. Sir, he was good and sweet

as Christ. I'm old. Time's taking me apart.

What all would it hurt Mister Bonaparte

to have me killed instead of my dear boy?"

She stopped a moment. Sobs began to cloy

her throat. Then she spoke more as we wept too.

"Now I'm alone what am I going to do?

That little boy was the last thing that I

had of his mother. And they shot him. Why?

Why did they kill him!? Answer me now. Speak!

That child did not yell "Vive La République."

In silence, hats in shaking hands, we stood

wishing we could console what nothing would.

Ma'm it's all politics that you don't get.

Monsieur Napoleon is poor and yet

a prince. A prince wants palaces and courtiers,

he needs his horses and his household porters,

cash for his gaming, for the feasts he's serving

and hunting. And that whole time, he's preserving

society, family, the church and state.

He wants Saint Cloud's prime summer real estate

worshipped by mayors and prefects, among others.

That is the reason why some old grandmothers

with their arthritic hands that time destroys

must stitch the shrouds of seven-year-old boys.

The Original:

Souvenir de la nuit du 4

L'enfant avait reçu deux balles dans la tête.
Le logis était propre, humble, paisible, honnête ;
On voyait un rameau bénit sur un portrait.
Une vieille grand-mère était là qui pleurait.
Nous le déshabillions en silence. Sa bouche,
Pâle, s'ouvrait ; la mort noyait son oeil farouche ;
Ses bras pendants semblaient demander des appuis.
Il avait dans sa poche une toupie en buis.
On pouvait mettre un doigt dans les trous de ses plaies.
Avez-vous vu saigner la mûre dans les haies ?
Son crâne était ouvert comme un bois qui se fend.
L'aïeule regarda déshabiller l'enfant,
Disant : - comme il est blanc ! approchez donc la lampe.
Dieu ! ses pauvres cheveux sont collés sur sa tempe ! -
Et quand ce fut fini, le prit sur ses genoux.
La nuit était lugubre ; on entendait des coups
De fusil dans la rue où l'on en tuait d'autres.
- Il faut ensevelir l'enfant, dirent les nôtres.
Et l'on prit un drap blanc dans l'armoire en noyer.
L'aïeule cependant l'approchait du foyer
Comme pour réchauffer ses membres déjà roides.
Hélas ! ce que la mort touche de ses mains froides
Ne se réchauffe plus aux foyers d'ici-bas !
Elle pencha la tête et lui tira ses bas,
Et dans ses vieilles mains prit les pieds du cadavre.
- Est-ce que ce n'est pas une chose qui navre !
Cria-t-elle ; monsieur, il n'avait pas huit ans !
Ses maîtres, il allait en classe, étaient contents.
Monsieur, quand il fallait que je fisse une lettre,
C'est lui qui l'écrivait. Est-ce qu'on va se mettre
A tuer les enfants maintenant ? Ah ! mon Dieu !
On est donc des brigands ! Je vous demande un peu,
Il jouait ce matin, là, devant la fenêtre !
Dire qu'ils m'ont tué ce pauvre petit être !
Il passait dans la rue, ils ont tiré dessus.
Monsieur, il était bon et doux comme un Jésus.
Moi je suis vieille, il est tout simple que je parte ;
Cela n'aurait rien fait à monsieur Bonaparte
De me tuer au lieu de tuer mon enfant ! -
Elle s'interrompit, les sanglots l'étouffant,
Puis elle dit, et tous pleuraient près de l'aïeule :
- Que vais-je devenir à présent toute seule ?
Expliquez-moi cela, vous autres, aujourd'hui.
Hélas ! je n'avais plus de sa mère que lui.
Pourquoi l'a-t-on tué ? Je veux qu'on me l'explique.
L'enfant n'a pas crié vive la République. -

Nous nous taisions, debout et graves, chapeau bas,
Tremblant devant ce deuil qu'on ne console pas.

Vous ne compreniez point, mère, la politique.
Monsieur Napoléon, c'est son nom authentique,
Est pauvre, et même prince ; il aime les palais ;
Il lui convient d'avoir des chevaux, des valets,
De l'argent pour son jeu, sa table, son alcôve,
Ses chasses ; par la même occasion, il sauve
La famille, l'église et la société ;
Il veut avoir Saint-Cloud, plein de roses l'été,
Où viendront l'adorer les préfets et les maires ;
C'est pour cela qu'il faut que les vieilles grand-mères,
De leurs pauvres doigts gris que fait trembler le temps,
Cousent dans le linceul des enfants de sept ans.

William Auld: Julia on Pandateria (From Esperanto)

2025-03-19T12:51:00.150-05:00

Julia on Pandateria
By William Auld
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Esperanto

A life is slowly sinking on this island.
In the long afternoons a spiritless

and dreary wind along the whispery sea,
indifferent in flurrrying up my dress,
chafes up against my memories to bear
witness: death, death...death is still not there.

A threetime wife, a night-voracious lady
who only prized the present all her years,
has come to this amid the skirling gulls:

a vain past and a future dim with tears.
An empty woman pales away as would
a spirit starved of sacrificial blood.

I finally conclude, in this crude place

where flesh will rot in frigid foreign brume,

that my entire life (the wine, the roses,

the stolen kisses crazy with perfume...)

was always empty, cut off and alone.

The world's queen was a carcass with a crown.

When coupled I was most alone, yet sought
happiness where I could, where I was bound
by the compulsions of a curious yearning.
The more I looked and looked, the more I found
simple unhappiness in lovers' joys.
I always fell for all the same old ploys.

That was a different me: a legend heard
once long ago and in a stranger's dream.
What does Rome mean now? Only naked sand,
rocks, the rough-handed wind and seagulls' scream.
Meanwhile my body wilts in apathy
and Rome is all a fever fantasy.

The present has stopped mattering. Time is now
endless, beginningless eternity,
and my young body, under the betrayal
and wanton pummeling of destiny,
blazes no longer. Drive for joy has fled

and even death has left me living dead.

The Original:

Julia sur Pandaterio
William Auld

Sur ĉi insulo viv’ subiras lante.
Dum longaj posttagmezoj morna vento
apud’ la mar’ susura, agitante
al mi la robon kun indiferento,
miajn memorojn frotas, kaj atestas:
morto, morto, morto… mort’ ne estas.

Edzin’ trifoja, nokt-frandino rava,
kiu la nunon taksis solvalora,
venas al tio ĉi: flutado meva,
paseo vana kaj futuro plora;
virin’ malplena palas kiel spirito
al kiu mankas sang’ de oferito.

Kaj mi konstatas en ĉi loko kruda,
kie la karno putros sub la rosoj
fremdaj kaj frizaj, ke la vivo tuta
- kisoj parfumfrenezaj, vino, rozoj –
ĉiam malplena estis, kaj izola…
Monda reĝin’ kadavris ĉiam sola.

Plej sola dum duopoj, sed mi celis
mian feliĉon, kie mi nur povis
kien sopiro stranga ĉiam pelis,
des pli serĉadis mi, ju pli mi trovis
nur malfeliĉon en la ĝojoj amaj.
Ĉiam surprizis min embuskoj samaj.

Tiu estis alia mi – nur fablo
aŭdita iam en fremdula revo.
Kion signifas Rom’? Ja nuda sablo,
rokoj, krudmana vent’, krianta mevo,
dum mia korpo velkas, apatia,
kaj Romo estas febro fantazia.

Ne plu la nuno gravas. Nun la tempo
estas eterna, sen komenc’, sen fino,
kaj mia juna karno pro la trompo
kaj troa martelado de l’ destino
ne ardas plu, ne plu al ĝoj’ incitas.
Kaj morto mortvivantan min evitas…

Borges: Poem Written in a Copy of Beowulf (From Spanish)

2025-02-03T22:41:00.003-06:00

Verses Written in a Copy of Beowulf
By Jorge Luis Borges

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Sometimes I ask myself the reasons why
I'm driven, with no hope of satisfaction
as my night pushes onward now, to try
and learn the language of the roughneck Saxon.

Used up by years, my memory begins
to lose its grip upon the uselessly
repeated word, the way my own life spins
and soon unspins its weary history.

The soul (or so I tell myself) must have
some secret, some sufficent wherewithall
to know it does not end, that its vast, grave
circle can take all in and take on all.

Beyond this yearning and beyond this verse
it waits endless for me: the universe.

The Original:

Composición Escrita en un Ejemplar de la Gesta de Beowulf

A veces me pregunto qué razones

me mueven a estudiar sin esperanza

de precisión, mientras mi noche avanza

la lengua de los ásperos sajones.

Gastada por los años la memoria

deja caer la en vano repetida

palabra y es así como mi vida

teje y desteje su cansada historia.

Será (me digo entonces) que de un modo

secreto y suficiente el alma sabe

que es inmortal y que su vasto y grave

círculo abarca todo y puede todo.

Más allá de este afán y de este verso

me aguarda inagotable el universo.