Posts Tagged: Poetry

Notre chemin de vérité de Michael Leuning

La version française suit le texte en anglais

What will you do, God, when I die?

Was wirst du tun, Gott, wenn ich sterbe?

Was wirst du tun, Gott, wenn ich sterbe?
Ich bin dein Krug (wenn ich zerscherbe?)
Ich bin dein Trank (wenn ich verderbe?)

Bin dein Gewand und dein Gewerbe,
mit mir verlierst du deinen Sinn.

Nach mir hast du kein Haus, darin
dich Worte, nah und warm, begrüßen.
Es fällt von deinen müden Füßen
die Samtsandale, die ich bin.

Dein großer Mantel lässt dich los.
Dein Blick, den ich mit meiner Wange
warm, wie mit einem Pfühl, empfange,
wird kommen, wird mich suchen, lange -
und legt beim Sonnenuntergange
sich fremden Steinen in den Schoß.

Was wirst du tun, Gott? Ich bin bange.

Rainer Maria Rilke, 26.9.1899, Berlin-Schmargendorf

What will you do, God, when I die?

What will you do, God, when I die?
I am your pitcher (when I shatter?)
I am your drink (when I go bitter?)

I, your garment; I, your craft.
Without me what reason have you?

Without me what house
where intimate words await you?
I, velvet sandal that falls from your foot.
I, cloak dropping from your shoulder.

Your gaze, which I welcome now
As it warms my cheek,
Will search for me hour after hour
And lie at sunset, spent,
On an empty beach
Among unfamiliar stones.

What will you do, God? It troubles me.

Rilke, The Book of Hours I, 36

photo Margot Krebs Neale

Mude, mas comece devagar

Card by Helena Helena Hadjioannou Inside Edvard Munch Madone (1894) photo Margot Krebs Neale

MUDE

Mas comece devagar,
porque a direção é mais importante
que a velocidade.

Sente-se em outra cadeira,
no outro lado da mesa.
Mais tarde, mude de mesa.

Quando sair,
procure andar pelo outro lado da rua.
Depois, mude de caminho,
ande por outras ruas,
calmamente,
observando com atenção
os lugares por onde você passa.
Tome outros ônibus.

Mude por uns tempos o estilo das roupas.
Dê os teus sapatos velhos.
Procure andar descalço alguns dias.
Tire uma tarde inteira
para passear livremente na praia,
ou no parque,
e ouvir o canto dos passarinhos.

Veja o mundo de outras perspectivas.

Abra e feche as gavetas
e portas com a mão esquerda.
Durma no outro lado da cama.
Depois, procure dormir em outras camas.
Assista a outros programas de tv,
compre outros jornais,
leia outros livros,
Viva outros romances!

Não faça do hábito um estilo de vida.
Ame a novidade.
Durma mais tarde.
Durma mais cedo.
Aprenda uma palavra nova por dia
numa outra língua.
Corrija a postura.
Coma um pouco menos,
escolha comidas diferentes,
novos temperos, novas cores,
novas delícias.

Tente o novo todo dia.O novo lado,
o novo método,
o novo sabor,
o novo jeito,
o novo prazer,
o novo amor.
A nova vida.
Tente.
Busque novos amigos.
Tente novos amores.
Faça novas relações.
Almoce em outros locais,
vá a outros restaurantes,
tome outro tipo de bebida
compre pão em outra padaria.
Almoce mais cedo,
jante mais tarde, ou vice-versa.
Escolha outro mercado,
outra marca de sabonete,
outro creme dental.
Tome banho em novos horários.
Use canetas de outras cores.
Vá passear em outros lugares.

Ame muito,
cada vez mais,
de modos diferentes.

Troque de bolsa,
de carteira,
de malas.
Troque de carro.
Compre novos óculos,
escreva outras poesias.
Jogue os velhos relógios,
quebre delicadamente
esses horrorosos despertadores.

Abra conta em outro banco.
Vá a outros cinemas,
outros cabeleireiros,
outros teatros,
visite novos museus.
Mude.

Lembre-se de que a Vida é uma só.
Arrume um outro emprego,
uma nova ocupação,
um trabalho mais light,
mais prazeroso,
mais digno,
mais humano.

Se você não encontrar razões para ser livre,
invente-as.

Seja criativo.

E aproveite para fazer uma viagem despretensiosa,
longa, se possível sem destino.
Experimente coisas novas.
Troque novamente.
Mude, de novo.
Experimente outra vez.
Você certamente conhecerá coisas melhores
e coisas piores,
mas não é isso o que importa.
O mais importante é a mudança,
o movimento,
o dinamismo,
a energia.

Só o que está morto não muda!

Edson Marques.

CHANGE

Mais commence doucement,
Parce que la direction
Est plus importante que la vitesse.

Assieds-toi sur une autre chaise,
De l’autre côté de la table.
Plus tard, change de table.

Quand tu sors,
Essaie de marcher de l’autre côté de la rue.
Puis, change de chemin
Prends d’autres rues,
Calmement,
Observant attentivement
Les lieux où tu passes.
Prends d’autres autobus.

Change pour un temps ton style vestimentaire
Donne tes vielles chaussures.
Essaie de marcher pieds-nus certains jours.
Prends un après-midi entier
Pour te promener librement sur la plage,
Ou dans un parc,
Et entendre le chant des oiseaux.

Vois le monde sous de nouvelles perspectives.

Ouvre et ferme les tiroirs
et les portes de la main gauche,
Dors de l’autre côté du lit,
Puis, essaie de dormir dans d’autres lits.
Regarde d’autres programmes de télévision,
Achète d’autres journaux,
Lis d’autres livres,
Vis d’autres romances !

Ne fais pas de l’habitude un style de vie.
Aime la nouveauté
Dors plus tard.
Dors plus tôt.
Apprends un nouveau mot chaque jour
Dans une langue étrangère.
Corrige ton maintien.
Mange un peu moins,
Choisis des nourritures différentes,
De nouvelles épices, de nouvelles couleurs,
De nouveaux délices.

Essaye du nouveau tous les jours. L’autre côté,
Une autre méthode,
Une autre saveur,
Une nouvelle manière,
Un plaisir nouveau,
Un nouvel amour.
Une vie nouvelle.
Essaie.
Cherche de nouveaux amis
Essaie de nouveaux amours.
Etablie de nouvelles relations.
Déjeune dans des lieux nouveaux,
Va dans de nouveaux restaurants,
Prends des boissons d’un style nouveau,
Achète ton pain dans une autre boulangerie.
Déjeune plus tôt,
Dine plus tard, ou l’inverse.
Choisis un marché différents,
Une autre marque de savon,
Une autre pâte dentifrice.
Prends un bain à d’autres horaires.
Utilise des stylos de couleurs différentes.
Promènes-toi dans des lieux différents.

Aime beaucoup,
Chaque fois plus,
Différemment.

Change de sac
De portefeuille
De valises.
Change de voiture.
Achète de nouvelles lunettes,
Ecris d’autres poésies.
Jette les vieilles montres
Casse délicatement
Ces horribles réveils.

Ouvre un compte dans une autre banque.
Va dans d’autres cinémas,
D’autres coiffeurs,
D’autres théâtres,
Visite d’autres musées.
Change.

Souviens-toi qu’il n’y a qu’une Vie.
Trouve un autre emploi,
Une nouvelle occupation,
Un travail plus léger,
Plus plaisant,
Plus digne,
Plus humain.

Si tu ne trouves pas de raisons d’être libre,
Invente-les.

Sois créatif.

Et profites-en pour faire un voyage sans prétention
Long, si possible sans destination.
Expérimente des choses nouvelles.
Change de manière toujours nouvelle
Et change encore
Expérimente une fois de plus.
Tu connaîtras certainement des choses meilleures
Et des choses pires
Mais ce n’est pas ce qui importe.
Le plus important est le changement
Le mouvement
Le dynamisme
L’énergie.

C’est seulement quand on est mort que l’on ne bouge plus.

Edson Marques.

traduction Margot Krebs Neale

Da neigt sich die Stunde und rührt mich an

Da neigt sich die Stunde und rührt mich an

Da neigt sich die Stunde und rührt mich an
mit klarem, metallenem Schlag:
mir zittern die Sinne. Ich fühle: ich kann -
und ich fasse den plastischen Tag.

Nichts war noch vollendet, eh ich es erschaut,
ein jedes Werden stand still.
Meine Blicke sind reif, und wie eine Braut
kommt jedem das Ding, das er will.

Nichts ist mir zu klein, und ich lieb es trotzdem
und mal es auf Goldgrund und groß
und halte es hoch, und ich weiß nicht wem
löst es die Seele los...

Rainer Maria Rilke, 20.9.1899,
Berlin-Schmargendorf

The hour is striking

The hour is striking so close above me,
so clear and sharp,
that all my senses ring with it.
I feel it now: there’s a power in me
to grasp and give shape to my world.

I know that nothing has ever been real
without my beholding it.
All my becoming has needed me.
My looking ripens things
and they come toward me, to meet and be met
...

–Rilke’s Book of Hours
(translated by Johanna Macy & Anita Barrows)

Another translation this time by Fulicasenia

Then bends down the hour and strikes me...

Then bends down the hour and strikes me
With a clear, metallic blow:
My senses tremble: I feel: I can--
And I grasp the ductile day.

Nothing was yet completed, before I glimpsed it;
Every becoming stood still.
My gaze is ripe, and like a bride
There comes to each one that which he will.

Nothing is too small for me and I love it nonetheless
And paint it on a golden ground and large,
And hold it high, and I don't know for whom
It will set the spirit free...

Love-Laden Keening: All Souls Day

img_8266sg-sanctus

"We sing for a moment, not only with the angels, but with those whom we have loved and see no longer, those with whom we are still bound together in the communion of saints..."

Read more here: the sonnet and introduction by Malcolm Guite that have inspired me to create this picture Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus: A Requiem Sonnet for All Souls Day.

Songs set to photographs: a challenge

Continuing to put Malcolm Guite's beautiful songs on YouTube with photographs.
His songs are so full of images, it seems a real challenge.
But I do what I did with some of his poems before, I just listen to the feelings that those images summon up for me and then choose photographs in what I have. Sometimes I will take a picture specifically or make a composite picture but I try to not make it too busy so the beauty of the song remains central.

Redemption Song (A song for Ruth)

Sing a song of sowing
Carrying the seed
A song of hopeful planting
To meet a future need
Sing a song of letting go
And falling to the ground
Of burying that feels like loss
Still waiting to be found

There are no songs of famine
Hunger has no voice
The poor must scavenge what they can
While the rich are spoiled for choice
The stones of fear and anger
Will strike you from behind
Hunger hates the stranger
And cleaves to his own kind

Sing a song of exile
Loneliness and loss
A song of broken bridges
Nobody can cross
A song of desperation
For a word you can understand
A song of fearful labour
On someone else’s land

Then sing a song of marriage
The grace of bride and groom
The fruitful vine around the door
Joy within the room
A song of love and longing
For the children yet to be
A quiver-full of future hopes
Aimed at eternity

Sing a song of mourning
The shadows and the tombs
The bitterness of broken hearts
And disappointed wombs
Sing a song of empty words
And unexpressed despair
Of reaching out at midnight
For the one who isn’t there

Sing a song of waiting
Weeping on the earth
A song of expectation
Longing for new birth
Sing a song of patience
Of watching through the night
Sing those hours before the dawn
Then sing the coming light

Sing a song of harvest
Of one who bind the sheaves
And one who gleans along the edge
The good another leaves
Sing a song of winnowing
And taking into store
Of Barley heaped like glowing gold
All on the threshing floor

Sing out before the Lord of Life
Your songs of joy and pain
Sing of the years the locusts ate
That cannot come again
Sing to Him your hopes and fears
Your tales of right and wrong
And He will make your voice a part
Of His Redemption Song

©Malcolm Guite 2011
From the album "Dancing through the fire"
Cambridge Riffs Records
www.cambridgeriffs.co.uk/records

PHOTOGRAPHS
©Margot Krebs Neale
www.margot-krebs-neale.co.uk

A song and its music set to photographs

Ragged Light Of The Evening
Malcolm Guite

I could make a bonfire of our vanity
Wouldn’t smoke out your memory
Something’s alight at the heart of that fire
You walk towards me through the ghosts of desire.

Hidden hearts still call to each other
But when you fall there's no return
If I ever learn to call you my lover
I do believe my tongue would burn.

You changed like an angel on the edge of my sight
The gift of your love was just a trick of the light
I still feel your touch in the shimmering rain
I'd rather be buried than feel that again.

Yes I brought you everything I believed in
Only to find the god withdrawn
I let you love me in the ragged light of the evening
But I loved you in the whisky light of dawn.

We walked together to the very edge
We kicked aside the last minute bridge
For all the years we've both fallen through
I still tremble on that brink with you.

Hidden hearts still call out to each other
But when you fall there's no return
If I ever learn to call you my lover
I do believe my tongue would burn.

You can tone down the colours, you can fade it to grey
You can move to the border where time fades away
Bury the feelings, scrub out the stain
In the blink of an eye it’s vivid again.

I brought you everything I believed in
Only to find the god withdrawn
I let you love me in the ragged light of the evening
And leave me in the whisky light of dawn.

From the album "The Green Man and other songs"
Copyright © Malcolm Guite 2007
Cambridge Riffs Records
www.cambridgeriffs.co.uk/records

Holy Cross Day

I am borrowing Malcolm Guite's description of Holy Cross Day and one of his poems from the Sonnets of the Cross in Sounding the Seasons; seventy Sonnets for the Christian Year Canterbury Press 2012

"Today, is Holy Cross day. It originally commemorated the day when Helena the Mother of Constantine was believed to have found the true cross, astonishing the inhabitants of Jerusalem by searching the rubbish tip of Golgotha and, on unearthing this discarded sign of shame, exalting it as the greatest treasure on earth. But this festival has become since then a day when any of us can again find the cross, still a discarded sign of shame, and find in it the greatest treasure and the source of grace."

The painting is by Alexandra Drysdale

p1030770bsmall

A sonnet by Malcolm Guite on Holy Cross Day

I JESUS IS GIVEN HIS CROSS

He gives himself again with all his gifts
And now we give him something in return.
He gave the earth that bears, the air that lifts,
Water to cleanse and cool, fire to burn,
And from these elements he forged the iron,
From strands of life he wove the growing wood,
He made the stones that pave the roads of Zion
He saw it all and saw that it is good.
We took his iron to edge an axe’s blade,
We took the axe and laid it to the tree,
We made a cross of all that he has made,
And laid it on the one who made us free.
Now he receives again and lifts on high
The gifts he gave and we have turned awry.

p1030799smMalcolm Guite, the poet and Alexandra Drysdale, the painter. Michaelhouse, Cambridge, Easter 2011

Sny – Dreams WISŁAWA SZYMBORSKA

Rita; washington DC25aSNY

SNY

Wbrew wiedzy i naukom geologów,
kpiąc sobie z ich magnesów, wykresów i map –
sen w ułamku sekundy
piętrzy przed nami góry tak bardzo kamienne,
jakby stały na jawie.

A skoro góry, to i doliny, równiny
z pełna infrastrukturą.
Bez inzynierów, majstrów, robotników,
bez koparek, spycharek, dostawy budulca –
gwałtowne autostrady, nagłe mosty,
natychmiastowe miasta zaludnione gęsto.

Bez reżyserów z tubą i operatorów –
tłumy dobrze wiedzące, kiedy nas przerazic
i w jakiej chwili zniknąć.

Bez biegłych w swoim fachu architektów,
bez cieśli, bez murarzy, betoniarzy –
na scieżce raptem domek jak zabawka,
a w nim ogromne sale z echem naszych kroków
i ściany wykonane z twardego powietrza.

Nie tylko rozmach ale i dokładność –
poszczególny zegarek, calkowita mucha,
na stole obrus haftowany w kwiaty,
nadgryzione jabłuszko ze śladami zębów.

A my – czego nie mogą cyrkowi sztukmistrze,
magowie, cudotwórcy i hipnotyzerzy –
nieupierzeni potrafimy fruwać,
w czarnych tunelach świecimy sobie oczami,
rozmawiamy ze swadą w nieznanym języku
i to nie z byle kim, bo z umarłymi.

A na dodatek, wbrew własnej wolności,
wyborom serca i upodobaniom,
zatracamy się
w miłosnym pożądaniu do –
zanim zadzwoni budzik.

Co na to wszystko autorzy senników,
badacze onirycznych symboli i wróżb,
lekarze z kozetkami do psychoanaliz –
jeśli coś im się zgadza,
to tylko przypadkiem
i z tej tylko przyczyny,
że w naszych śnieniach,
w ich cieniach i lśnieniach,
w ich zatrzęsieniach, niedoprzewidzeniach,
w ich odniechceniach i rozprzestrzenieniach
czasem nawet uchwytny sens
trafić się może.

(Krakow, 2009.)

Wisława Szymborska

DREAMS

Despite the geologists’ knowledge and craft,
mocking magnets, graphs, and maps—
in a split second the dream
piles before us mountains as stony
as real life.

And since mountains, then valleys, plains
with perfect infrastructures.
Without engineers, contractors, workers,
bulldozers, diggers, or supplies—
raging highways, instant bridges,
thickly populated pop-up cities.

Without directors, megaphones, and cameramen—
crowds knowing exactly when to frighten us
and when to vanish.

Without architects deft in their craft,
without carpenters, bricklayers, concrete pourers—
on the path a sudden house just like a toy,
and in it vast halls that echo with our steps
and walls constructed out of solid air.

Not just the scale, it’s also the precision—
a specific watch, an entire fly,
on the table a cloth with cross-stitched flowers,
a bitten apple with teeth marks.

And we—unlike circus acrobats,
conjurers, wizards, and hypnotists—
can fly unfledged,
we light dark tunnels with our eyes,
we wax eloquent in unknown tongues,
talking not with just anyone, but with the dead.

And as a bonus, despite our own freedom,
the choices of our heart, our tastes,
we’re swept away
by amorous yearnings for—
and the alarm clock rings.

So what can they tell us, the writers of dream books,
the scholars of oneiric signs and omens,
the doctors with couches for analyses—
if anything fits,
it’s accidental,
and for one reason only,
that in our dreamings,
in their shadowings and gleamings,
in their multiplings, inconceivablings,
in their haphazardings and widescatterings
at times even a clear-cut meaning
may slip through.

translation Clare Kavanah and Stanislaw Baranczak

Wisława Szymborska

hard lifesgsm

Trudne życie z pamięcią

Jestem złą publicznością dla swojej pamięci.
Chce, żebym bezustannie słuchała jej głosu,
a ja się wiercę, chrząkam,
słucham i nie słucham,
wychodzę, wracam i znowu wychodzę.

Chce mi bez reszty zająć uwagę i czas.
Kiedy śpię, przychodzi jej to łatwo.
W dzień bywa różnie, i ma o to żal.

Podsuwa mi gorliwie dawne listy, zdjęcia,
porusza wydarzenia ważne i nieważne,
przywraca wzrok na prześlepione widoki,
zaludnia je moimi umarłymi.

W jej opowieściach jestem zawsze młodsza.
To miłe, tylko po co bez przerwy ten wątek.
Każde lustro ma dla mnie inne wiadomości.

Gniewa się, kiedy wzruszam ramionami.
Mściwie wtedy wywleka wszystkie moje błędy,
ciężkie, a potem lekko zapomniane.
Patrzy mi w oczy, czeka, co ja na to.
W końcu pociesza, że mogło być gorzej.

Chce, żebym żyła już tylko dla niej i z nią.
Najlepiej w ciemnym, zamkniętym pokoju,
a u mnie ciągle w planach słońce teraźniejsze,
obłoki aktualne, drogi na bieżąco.

Czasami mam jej towarzystwa dosyć.
Proponuję rozstanie. Od dzisiaj na zawsze.
Wówczas uśmiecha się z politowaniem,
bo wie, że byłby to wyrok i na mnie.

Wisława Szymborska

Hard Life with Memory

I’m a poor audience for my memory.
She wants me to attend her voice non-stop,
but I fidget, fuss,
listen and don’t,
step out, come back then leave again.

She wants to take up all my time and attention.
She’s got no problem when I sleep.
The day’s a different matter, which upsets her.

She thrust old letters, snapshots at me eagerly
stirs up events both important and un-,
turns my eyes to overlooked views,
peoples them with my dead.

In her stories I’m always younger.
Which is nice, but why always the same story.
Every mirror holds different news for me.

She gets angry when I shrug my shoulders.
And takes revenge by hauling out old errors,
weighty, but easily forgotten.
Looks into my eyes, checks my reaction.
Then comforts me, it could be worse.

She wants me to live only for her and with her.
ideally in a dark, locked room,
but my plans still feature today’s sun,
clouds in progress, current roads.

At times I get fed up with her.
I suggest a separation. From now to eternity.
Then she smiles at me with pity,
since she knows it would be the end of me too.

translation Clare Kavanah