Category: Poetry

Poetry

September 2 – Castle of Ojców by Franciszek Salezy Dmochowski

Ye who have wandered thro’ each foreign land
Have marked the Seine and Tiber’s silver course
And raised’ the eye to Alpine summits grand,
Should ye not blush to seek for beauty’s source
In other countries than your own? Behold
Where scenes as beautiful arrest the eyes
In Ojców’s groves and forests manifold —
Its river’s flow, its rocks that grandly rise!

Translation from Poets and Poetry of Poland A Collection of Polish Verse, Including a Short Account of the History of Polish Poetry, with Sixty Biographical Sketches of Poland’s Poets and Specimens of Their Composition by Paul Soboleski

Lange-Ojców

Komu obce strony znane,
Wstydem lice swe zarumień,
Jeśliś widział Tybr, Sekwanę,
A Prądnika minął strumień.

Po co szukać obcych krajów,
Alp odwiedzać grzbiet wysoki?
Wśród Ojcowa skał i gajów
Równie szczytne masz widoki.

Poetry

September 1 – September 1, 1939 by W. H. Auden

I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.

Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.

Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.

Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism’s face
And the international wrong.

Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.

The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.

From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
“I will be true to the wife,
I’ll concentrate more on my work,”
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the deaf,
Who can speak for the dumb?

All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.

Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.

Poetry

August 31 – An excerpt from A Generation by Krzysztof Kamil Baczyński

We learned the lesson: conscience does not exist
We dwell in caves, fear covers us,
we carve in horror our dark loves,
our own statues – evil troglodytes

We learned the lesson: love does not exist.
How else can we hide in the darkness
while sniffing nostrils seek our scent,
while swollen sticks and fists seek to envelop us

We learned the lesson. Pity does not exist.
In dreams we see our brother dead.
alive, they picked out his eyes
alive, they broke his bones with a club;
the chisel of pain works hard
the eyes are bubbles swollen with blood.

Translation unattributed

Wiatr drzewa spienia. Ziemia dojrzała.
Kłosy brzuch ciężki w gorę unoszą
i tylko chmury – palcom czy włosom
podobne – suną drapieżnie w mrok.

Ziemia owoców pełna po brzegi
kipi sytością jak wielka misa.
Tylko ze świerków na polu zwisa
głowa obcięta strasząc jak krzyk.

Kwiaty to krople miodu – tryskają
ściśnięte ziemią, co tak nabrzmiała,
pod tym jak korzeń skręcone ciała,
żywcem wtłoczone pod ciemny strop.

Ogromne nieba suną z warkotem.
Ludzie w snach ciężkich jak w klatkach krzyczą.
Usta ściśnięte mamy, twarz wilczą,
czuwając w dzień, słuchając w noc.

Pod ziemią drżą strumyki – słychać –
Krew tak nabiera w żyłach milczenia,
ciągną korzenie krew, z liści pada
rosa czerwona. I przestrzeń wzdycha.

Nas nauczono. Nie ma litości.
Po nocach śni się brat, który zginął,
któremu oczy żywcem wykłuto,
Któremu kości kijem złamano,
i drąży ciężko bolesne dłuto,
nadyma oczy jak bąble – krew.

Nas nauczono. Nie ma sumienia.
W jamach żyjemy strachem zaryci,
w grozie drążymy mroczne miłości,
własne posągi – źli troglodyci.

Nas nauczono. Nie ma miłości.
Jakże nam jeszcze uciekać w mrok
przed żaglem nozdrzy węszących nas,
przed siecią wzdętą kijów i rąk,
kiedy nie wrócą matki ni dzieci
w pustego serca rozpruty strąk.

Nas nauczono. Trzeba zapomnieć,
żeby nie umrzeć rojąc to wszystko.
Wstajemy nocą. Ciemno jest, ślisko.
Szukamy serca – bierzemy w rękę,
nasłuchujemy: wygaśnie męka,
ale zostanie kamień – tak – głaz.

I tak staniemy na wozach, czołgach,
na samolotach, na rumowisku,
gdzie po nas wąż się ciszy przeczołga,
gdzie zimny potop omyje nas,
nie wiedząc: stoi czy płynie czas.

Jak obce miasta z głębin kopane,
popielejące ludzkie pokłady
na wznak leżące, stojące wzwyż,
nie wiedząc, czy my karty iliady
rzeźbione ogniem w błyszczącym złocie,
czy nam postawią, z litości chociaż,
nad grobem krzyż.

Poetry

August 30 – An excerpt from Esther by Jean Racine

Esther

O Rachel, is it you? Thrice happy day,
O blessed heaven, which sends you to my prayers.
You did not know that I was made the Queen?
More than six months my friends have sought for you.
Where have you been?

Rachel

I heard that you were dead,
And hearing this, I lived most miserably,
Until a prophet told me, “Do not weep,
But rise, leave this, and take the Shushan road;
There you will see your Esther crowned the Queen.
And on your way comfort the wretched tribes;
Tell them the day approaches when our God
Will send His comfort with a powerful arm.”
I heard his words, and hurried to the palace.
Marvellous it is that proud Ahasuerus
Has crowned his captive, made a Jewess Queen.
O by what hidden ways, what strange events,
Has Heaven led you to this great position?

Esther

Have they not told you of the great disgrace
Of the proud Vashti, Queen before my coming?
The King divorced her, but when she was gone
His mind was troubled, and he sought for one
To bring him comfort.
They sought throughout the world in every land
To find a Queen.

I, as an orphan, lived alone and hidden
Under the care of watchful Mordecai:
He is my uncle, and he tended me.
Sad for the trouble of the captive Jews,
He told me all his secret plans, and I
Obeyed his wish, and sought to be the Queen.
Who could express the plots and counter-plots

Of all these courtiers, striving for the honour,
Striving to catch Ahasuerus’ eyes.
At last Ahasuerus’ order came to me,
And I appeared before the mighty King.
Long time he watched me in a sombre silence,
Then gently spoke: “You shall be Queen,” he said,
And crowned me with his royal diadem.
Then followed days of joys and festivals;
Esther was Queen, and seated in the purple;
Half of the world was subject to her sceptre.
But grass is growing in Jerusalem,
The stones are scattered from the holy Temple,
The God of Israel’s worship is no more.

Rachel

Have you not told the King your troubles, Esther?

Esther

The King? Even now he knows not that I am a Jewess,
For Mordecai keeps me secret still.

Rachel

Can Mordecai come about the Court?

Esther

His love for me finds out a thousand ways
To send advice, and me to ask for it.
A Father has less care for his own son.
Already by good Mordecai’s cunning
I have laid bare to the King the treacherous plots
Made by two slaves against him.
Meanwhile my love for our beloved race
Has filled this palace with young Jewesses.
Here I can care for them and teach their souls.
Among them, putting by my queenly pride,
I bow myself before the feet of God;
I hide from all the Persians who they are.

Come! Come, my daughters,
Companions here of my captivity.

Rachel

Innocent children, may God give you peace.

Esther

My daughters, sing us one of those sweet psalms
That tell of Zion.

1st Chorus

We cannot sing of Zion without tears.

2nd Chorus

How can we sing the happy songs of home In this strange land?

Translated and adapted by John Masefield.

Queen Esther by Edwin Long

ESTHER.

Est-ce toi, chere í‰lise? O jour trois fois heureux!
Que béni soit le del qui te rend í  ines voeux,
Toi qui de Benjamin comme moi descendue,
Fus de mes premiers ans la compagne assidue,
Et qui, d’un míªme joug souffrant l’oppression,
M’aidais í  soupirer les malheurs de Sion.
Combien ce temps encore est cher í  ma mémoire!
Mais toi, de ton Esther ignorais-tu la gloire?
Depuis plus de six mois que je te fais chercher,
Quel climat, quel désert a donc pu te cacher?

ELISE.

Au bruit de votre mort justement éplorée,
Du reste des humains je vivais séparée,
Et de mes tristes jours n’attendais que la fin,
Quand tout í  coup, Madame, un prophète divin:
"C’est pleurer trop longtemps une mort qui t’abuse,
Lève-toi, m’a-t-il dit, prends ton chemin vers Suse.
Lí  tu verras d’Esther la pompe et les honneurs,
Et sur le trône assis le sujet de tes pleurs.
Rassure, ajouta-t-il, tes tribus alarmées,
Sion: le jour approche où le Dieu des armées
Va de son bras puissant faire éclater l’appui;
Et le cri de son peuple est monté jusqu’í  lui.»
Il dit; et moi, de joie et d’horreur pénétrée,
Je cours. De ce palais j’ai su trouver l’entrée.
O spectacle! O triomphe admirable í  mes yeux,
Digne en effet du bras qui sauva nos aïeux!
Le fier Assuérus couronne sa captive,
Et le Persan superbe est aux pieds d’une Juive.
Par quels secrets ressorts, par quel enchaînement,
Le Ciel a-t-il conduit ce grand événement?

ESTHER

Peut-íªtre on t’a conté la fameuse disgrâce
De l’altière Vasthi, dont j’occupe la place,
Lorsque le Roi, contre elle enflammé de dépit,
La chassa de son trône, ainsi que de son lit.
Mais il ne put sitôt en bannir la pensée.
Vasthi régna longtemps dans son âme offensée.
Dans ses nombreux í‰tats il fallut donc chercher
Quelque nouvel objet qui l’en pí»t détacher.
De l’Inde a l’Hellespont ses esclaves coururent;
Les filles de l’í‰gypte í  Suse comparurent;
Celles míªme du Parthe et du Scythe indompté
Y briguèrent le sceptre offert í  la beauté.
On m’elevait alors, solitaire et cachée,
Sous les yeux vigilants du sage Mardochée.
Tu sais combien je dois í  ses heureux secours.
La mort m’avait ravi les auteurs de mes jours;
Mais lui, voyant en moi la fille de son frère,
Me tint lieu, chère í‰lise, et de père et de mère.
Du triste état des Juifs jour et nuit agité,
Il me tira du sein de mon obscurité;
Et sur mes faibles mains fondant leur délivrance,
Il me fit d’un empire accepter l’espérance.
A ses desseins secrets tremblante j’obéis.
Je vins. Mais je cachai ma race et mon pays.
Qui pourrait cependant t’exprimer les cabales
Que formait en ces lieux ce peuple de rivales,
Qui toutes disputant un si grand intéríªt,
Des yeux d’Assuérus attendaient leur arríªt?
Chacune avait sa brigue et de puissants suffrages:
L’une d’un sang fameux vantait les avantages;
L’autre, pour se parer de superbes atours,
Des plus adroites mains empruntait le secours;
Et moi, pour toute brigue et pour tout artifice,
De mes larmes au ciel j’offrais le sacrifice.

Enfin on m’annoní§a l’ordre d’Assuérus.
Devant ce fier monarque, í‰lise, je parus.
Dieu tient le coeur des rois entre ses mains puissantes.
Il fait que tout prospère aux âmes innocentes,
Tandis qu’en ses projets l’orgueilleux est trompé.
De mes faibles attraits le Roi parut frappé.
Il m’observa longtemps dans un sombre silence;
Et le Ciel, qui pour moi fit pencher la balance,
Dans ce temps-lí  sans doute agissait sur son coeur.
Enfin, avec des yeux où régnait la douceur:
"Soyez reine,» dit-il; et dès ce moment míªme
De sa main sur mon front posa son diadème.
Pour mieux faire éclater sa joie et son amour,
Il combla de présents tous les grands de sa cour;
Et míªme ses bienfaits, dans toutes ses provinces.
Invitèrent le peuple aux noces de leurs princes.

Helas! durant ces jours de joie et de festins,
Quelle était en secret ma honte et mes chagrins!
"Esther, disais-je, Esther dans la pourpre est assise,
La moitié de la terre í  son sceptre est soumise,
Et de Jérusalem l’herbe cache les murs!
Sion, repaire affreux de reptiles impurs,
Voit de son temple saint les pierres dispersées,
Et du Dieu d’Israí«l les fíªtes sont cessées!»

í‰LISE.

N’avez-vous point au Roi confié vos ennuis?

ESTHER.

Le Roi, jusqu’í  ce jour, ignore qui je suis.
Celui par qui le ciel règle ma destinée
Sur ce secret encor tient ma langue enchaînée.

í‰LISE.

Mardochée? Hé! peut-il approcher de ces lieux?

ESTHER

Son amitié pour moi le rend ingénieux.
Absent, je le consulte; et ses réponses sages
Pour venir jusqu’a moi trouvent mille passages.
Un père a moins de soin du salut de son fils.
Déjí  míªme, déjí , par ses secrets avis,
J’ai découvert au Roi les sanglantes pratiques
Que formaient contre lui deux ingrats domestiques.
Cependant mon amour pour notre nation
A rempli ce palais de filles de Sion,
Jeunes et tendres fleurs, par le sort agitées,
Sous un ciel étranger comme moi transplantées.
Dans un lieu séparé de profanes témoins,
Je mets í  les former mon étude et mes soins;
Et c’est lí  que, fuyant l’orgueil du diadème,
Lasse de vains honneurs, et me cherchant moi-míªme,
Aux pieds de l’í‰ternel je viens m’humilier,
Et goí»ter le plaisir de me faire oublier.
Mais a tous les Persans je cache leurs familles.
Il faut les appeler. Venez, venez, mes filles,
Compagnes autrefois de ma captivité,
De l’antique Jacob jeune postérité.

UNE DES ISRAí‰LITES

Ma soeur, quelle voix nous appelle?

UNE AUTRE

J’en reconnais les agréables sons.
C’est la Reine.

TOUTES DEUX.

Courons, mes soeurs, obéissons,
La Reine nous appelle:
Allons, rangeons-nous auprès d’elle.

TOUT LE CHOEUR

La Reine nous appelle:
Allons, rangeons-nous auprès d’elle.

í‰LISE.

Ciel! quel nombreux essaim d’innocentes beautés
S’offre í  mes yeux en foule et sort de tous côtés!
Quelle aimable pudeur sur leur visage est peinte!
Prospérez, cher espoir d’une nation sainte.
Puissent jusques au ciel vos soupirs innocents
Monter comme l’odeur d’un agréable encens!
Que Dieu jette sur vous des regards pacifiques.

ESTHER

Mes filles, chantez-nous quelqu’un de ces cantiques
Où vos voix si souvent se míªlant í  mes pleurs
De la triste Sion célèbrent les malheurs.

UNE ISRAí‰LITE

Déplorable Sion, qu’as-tu fait de ta gloire?
Tout l’univers admirait ta splendeur:
Tu n’es plus que poussière; et de cette grandeur
Il ne nous reste plus que la triste mémoire.
Sion, jusques au ciel élévee autrefois,
Jusqu’aux enfers maintenant abaissée,
Puissé-je demeurer sans voix,
Si dans mes chants ta douleur retracée
Jusqu’au dernier soupir n’occupe ma pensée!

Poetry, ,

Poetry notes

The return of the epic:

Dr. John Guzlowski informs that Matt Flumerfelt has been working on an epic poem based on the labors of Hercules, and he’s posted the first XIV books at his blog Baloney Emporium. Dr. Guzlowski has blogged about it with a sample from the poem. He says: Matt is a demon rhymer, and I think he’s going to bring rhyming back!

On the Psalms:

Dr. Guzlowski has also posted a short piece about Charles Swanson’s book of poemsAfter the Garden: Selected Responses to the Psalms.” Mr. Swanson’s poems bring together his love of the psalms and stories from his own life.

Poetry

August 29 – An excerpt from John the Baptist, an epic poem by Henry Charles Leonard

Rulers of civil state, and all the tribe
Of flatterers who bore the Herodian name.
Nor were there wanting guests uncircumcised,
Strangers of Rome from Capri late arrived
(Where now Tiberius, to his island home
From cares of State retreated, drained the cup
Of pleasure to the dregs, and made more short
Ignoble years), and Greeks, well-skilled to sing
In pleasing numbers, and, with practised hand,
To awake the tuneful lyre. Fair women graced
The festal banquet, not o’er quick to raise
Too high a moral standard where a King’
Was the chief sinner. Thus the feast was spread
With lavish hand; the loaded tables groaned
With far-fetched dainties, and Falernian wine
Filled high the beakers, while, in speech and song,
False flattery fawned and vanity believed.
And now the night grew late, and music raised
Her liveliest measures, as with merry feet
The dancers claimed the floor. Each vied with each
Whose graceful form and motion most might charm.
Now on the gaze of greatly-marvelling guests
Salome swept, fairest of all the fair,
The daughter of Herodias, in the prime
Of earliest loveliness, her head adorned
With fresh-culled roses, while a gauzy veil
But half-concealed her lithe and nymph-like form.
The tuneful strain uprose. With matchless grace
Her nimble feet kept time. In many a maze
Of complex figure she outvied them all.
Her task completed, on one knee she poised
Before the throne. The guests, with loud acclaim,
Sprang to their feet in drunken ecstasy,
Vowed her a goddess come to earth again,
Venus not lovelier, Hebe not more sweet,
Nor the divinest form which Grecian art
Had struck from Parian marble more divine,
While Herod, with great oaths, before them all
Bade her to choose her guerdon, nor to ask
Too mean a present, half his kingdom hers.
Then for a moment brief she paused, and glanced
To where her mother sat, obeyed the hand
Which beckoned her, obeyed the iron will
Which ruled her life, the prompting whisper heard,
Then trembling echoed it and cried : “O King!
I ask of thee to give me, in a dish,
The head of John the Baptist.” And the boon,
Thus craved, the King, although with sorrow struck,
Could not refuse. His evil oath, his guests
All eager round him, and the potent wine
Which dulled his conscience, all conspired to fix
His quick decision. Ere a single word
Was uttered more his fiat had gone forth.
The dungeon-door was opened, the sharp blade
Descended, and with awe the sobered court
Beheld the golden charger in the midst,
And on it laid the dreadful boon desired.
Herodias from her robe a bodkin took
And pierced the faithful tongue that had rebuked
Her evil life. The revel ceased in haste,
Awe filled the boldest as they understood
The plot and motive. When the morn arrived
Sorrowing disciples took the severed corpse,
And, loud lamenting, laid it in a tomb,
And brought their grief to Jesus.

Salome by Caravaggio

Poetry

August 28 – Are you happy by Paweł Hertz

Are you happy,
O my love?
Foolish, impatient
Your fruit plucked by hand.
Scent of orchards in the rooms,
O my love!

Translated by Dcn Jim

apples

Czy ty jesteś szczęśliwa,
O przyjaciółko moja?
Niemądra, niecierpliwa
Dłoń twoja owoc zrywa.
Sad pachnie na pokojach,
O przyjaciółko moja!

Poetry

August 27 – The Shoemaker by Bolesław Leśmian

Distant in the fog, the moon’s sickle shines
With its blade caught inside a chimney-top,
While, on tiptoe, a lamp stealthily climbs
The dark, where an alley comes to a stop.
A mad shoemaker—”lame upon a seat,
Staring at apparitions in a pit,
Diligently stitches shoes to fit the feet
Of God, whose surname is—”The Infinite.

Blest the toil from whose
    Creative power and might
Materialise such shoes
    Amid such a silver night!

God of the clouds, God of the morning dew,
Take this bountiful present from my hand,
Lest you injure your feet upon the blue
While walking barefoot in the promised land!
Let the spirits, lighting the stars at night,
Say the next day in a cloudy deluge
That there where a shoemaker enters light
The Almighty walks properly shod!

Blest the toil from whose
    Creative power and might
Materialise such shoes
    Amid such a silver night!

You gave me, God, a crumb of existence,
Which is enough for me the whole way through—”
Forgive that mid the shade of indigence
I can give you nothing, save a shoe or two.
In stitching there’s nothing except stitching,
So let’s stitch for as long as we can!
In living there’s nothing except living,
So let’s live until the graveyard’s end!

Blest the toil from whose
    Creative power and might
Materialise such shoes
    Amid such a silver night!

Translated by Leo Yankevich

Shoemaker Haberty's Shop by Eastman Johnson

W mgłach daleczeje sierp księżyca,
Zatkwiony ostrzem w czub komina,
Latarnia się na palcach wspina
W mrok, gdzie już kończy się ulica.
Obłędny szewczyk – kuternoga
Szyje, wpatrzony w zmór otmęty,
Buty na miarę stopy Boga,
Co mu na imię – Nieobjęty!

Błogosławiony trud,
Z którego twórczej mocy
Powstaje taki but
Wśród takiej srebrnej nocy!

Boże obłoków, Boże rosy,
Naści z mej dłoni dar obfity,
Abyś nie chadzał w niebie bosy
I stóp nie ranił o błękity!
Niech duchy, paląc gwiazd pochodnie,
Powiedzą kiedyś w chmur powodzi,
Że tam, gdzie na świat szewc przychodzi,
Bóg przyobuty bywa godnie!

Błogosławiony trud,
Z którego twórczej mocy
Powstaje taki but
Wśród takiej srebrnej nocy!

Dałeś mi Boże kęs istnienia,
Co mi na całą starczy drogę –
Przebacz, że wpośród nędzy cienia
Nic Ci, prócz butów, dać nie mogę.
W szyciu nic nie ma, oprócz szycia,
Więc szyjmy, póki starczy siły!
W życiu nic nie ma oprócz życia,
Więc żyjmy aż po kres mogiły!

Błogosławiony trud,
Z którego twórczej mocy
Powstaje taki but
Wśród takiej srebrnej nocy!

PNCC, Poetry, Poland - Polish - Polonia,

August 26 – Beautiful Magnificent Star

Beautiful magnificent star,
Mary of Czestochowa,
|: To you we appeal,
O Maria, Maria! : |

Gratefully we have heard the voice,
Mary calling to us:
|: “Come to me, O my children,
The time has come, oh, the time has come. ” : |

When the songbird sings,
Mary is praised,
|: The nightengale’s grateful voice
Sing, oh sing. : |

And we who have gathered
Vouchsafe to greet us Mary
|: Purest heart of the Mother of God
Grant us, oh grant us! : |

Oh, most precious jewel
Of this world, Mary!
|: Who has you, is with you
Rejoice, oh they rejoice. : |

Translated by Dcn Jim

Gwiazdo śliczna, wspaniała,
Częstochowska Maryja,
Do Ciebie się uciekamy,
O Maryjo, Maryjo!

Słyszeliśmy wdzięczny głos,
Jak Maryja woła nas:
“Pójdźcie do mnie, moje dzieci,
Przyszedł czas, ach, przyszedł czas”.

Gdy ptaszkowie śpiewają,
Maryję wychwalają,
Słowiczkowie wdzięcznym głosem
Śpiewają, ach, śpiewają.

I my też zgromadzeni
Pokłon dajmy Maryi,
Czyste serce Bożej Matce
Darujmy, ach, darujmy!

O, przedrogi klejnocie
Maryjo, na tym świecie!
Kto Ciebie ma, ten się z Tobą
Raduje, ach raduje.

Poetry

August 25 – My Love by Juozas Tysliava

You are lovely and great as Rome among its hills
Worshipped by firemen patrolling my conscience.
Storms unwind the darkening main roads
You come and leave by as history.

Tonight I barged in on your life,
Robbed the pyramids clean of a calm your eyes have,
And now I’m desire lining a coat made of space and time,
And the last common chord, when earth quakes and the sky trembles.

You are the wild bird’s dream on a moonlit night,
Wheat blossoming in Manitoba loam.
When star ore reached boiling in the cauldron of the sky,
Two lovers appeared from the East
               and worked their way West.

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis

Tu graži ir didelė, kaip Roma tarp kalnų.
Tave garbina mano sąžinės gaisrininkai.
Audros išvyniojo temstančius vieškelius,
Kuriais tu ateini ir nueini, kaip istorija.

Dar šią pačią naktį aš įsilaušiu į tavo gyvenimą
Ir tavo akių ramybės piramides aš išvogsiu —
Aš ilgesio pamušalas laiko ir erdvės apsiauste,
Aš paskutinis žemės ir dangaus drebėjimo
akordas.

Tu iškilminga, kaip karaliaus Saliamono giesmės,
Nuostabi, kaip kviečių žydėjimas Manitobos
žemėje.

Dangaus katile užvirė žvaigždžių metalas
Du meilės darbininkai atėjo iš rytų ir nuėjo į
vakarus.