Birth of Christ, with comment on the Bee.
Nacimiento de Cristo, en que se discurrió la abeja.
Nacimiento de Cristo, en que se discurrió la abeja.
De la más fragante Rosa
nació la Abeja más bella,
a quien el limpio rocío
dio purísima materia.
Nace, pues, y apenas nace,
cuando en la misma moneda,
lo que en perlas recibió,
empieza a pagar en perlas.
Que llore el Alba, no es mucho,
que es costumbre en su belleza;
mas ¿quién hay que no se admire
de que el Sol lágrimas vierta?
Si es por fecundar la Rosa,
es ociosa diligencia,
pues no es menester rocío
después de nacer la Abeja;
y más, cuando en la clausura
de su virginal pureza,
ni antecedente haber pudo
ni puede haber quien suceda.
Pues a ¿qué fin es el llanto
que dulcemente le riega?
Quien no puede dar más Fruto,
¿qué importa que estéril sea?
Mas ¡ay! que la Abeja tiene
tan íntima dependencia
siempre con la Rosa, que
depende su vida de ella;
pues dándole el néctar puro
que sus fragancias engendran,
no sólo antes la concibe,
pero después la alimenta.
Hijo y madre, en tan divinas
peregrinas competencias,
ninguno queda deudor
y ambos obligados quedan.
La Abeja paga el rocío
de que la Rosa la engendra,
y ella vuelve a retornarle
con lo mismo que la alienta.
Ayudando el uno al otro
con mutua correspondencia,
la Abeja a la Flor fecunda,
y ella a la Abeja sustenta.
Pues si por eso es el llanto,
llore Jesús, norabuena,
que lo que expende en rocío
cobrará después en néctar.
Birth of Christ, with comment on the Bee.
From the sweet-scented Rose
is born the lovely Bee,
to whom the bright dew gave
its essence and purity.
No sooner is he born
than in the same currency
what he received in pearls
in pearls he starts to repay.
If the Dawn weeps, that’s nothing,
just its habit, being beautiful;
but that the Sun sheds tears,
don’t we all find it incredible?
If it’s to water the Rose,
that’s a tender care forlorn,
for there’s no need of dew
after the Bee is born;
he is intact in his purity
like a nun in a cloister:
he had no predecessor
and can have no successor.
Then what good is the weeping
that gently plies him with water?
He can bear no more Fruit
and is barren, but does that matter?
But oh! the Bee relies
for his life on her, the Rose:
his dependence is always
so intimate and close:
for by giving him pure nectar
that her sweet scents deliver,
she gives him life, conceives him,
and feeds him too, thereafter.
Mother and son, in such sacred
and wondrous obligations,
neither is left indebted
and both of them are grateful.
He pays her for the dew,
the Bee whom the Rose conceives:
and she gives him in return
the same food she receives.
Giving aid to one another
in mutual symmetry,
the Bee enriches the Flower
and the Flower sustains the bee.
If that is the cause of weeping,
weep, Jesus, and best of luck!
whatever you spend in dew,
in nectar you’ll reap it back.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
Adistrop
Adlestrop
Edward Thomas (1878-1917)
Adlestrop
Yes. I remember Adlestrop—
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.
The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop—only the name
And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.
And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.
Adistrop
D’you think I forgot about Adistrop?
Not a bit of it! what?
It was half-past two and it was hot,
Almost July, and unusually
My rapid train was brought to a stop.
Sibilant vapour. Throaty cough.
Nobody got on or off.
Anybody on platform? Not.
All I saw was a big signboard
Saying ‘Adistrop’: just that word,
And willows and grass and a plant too spry,
Pink, and a fragrant ulmaria (? try
‘Wool of Mary’?) and haycocks, dry,
Still and sightly as clouds on high,
Solitary, stuck in a sunny sky;
And a blackbird singing, but not for long,
Not far off; all around, birdsong,
From distant, hazily vaporous
Avian byways of Oxon and Glos.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Edward Thomas...
Advent
Advent
Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)
Advent
Es treibt der Wind im Winterwalde
die Flockenherde wie ein Hirt,
und manche Tanne ahnt, wie balde
sie fromm und lichterheilig wird,
und lauscht hinaus. Den weißen Wegen
streckt sie die Zweige hin - bereit,
und wehrt dem Wind und wächst entgegen
der einen Nacht der Herrlichkeit.
Advent
Winds drive the flakes in the wintry wood,
herding them, as a shepherd would.
Fir-trees can tell they soon will stand
piously laced with holy light:
alert and ready, they withstand
the wind, and stretch and seek the white
pathways, and swell their boughs toward
that night, that single glorious night.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Rainer Maria Rilke...
Night filters through...
Die Nacht holt heimlich
Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)
Die Nacht holt heimlich
DIE NACHT holt heimlich durch des Vorhangs Falten
aus deinem Haar vergessnen Sonnenschein.
Schau, ich will nichts, als deine Hände halten
und still und gut und voller Frieden sein.
Da wächst die Seele mir, bis sie in Scherben
den Alltag sprengt; sie wird so wunderweit:
An ihren morgenroten Molen sterben
die ersten Wellen der Unendlichkeit.
Night filters through...
Night filters through the curtain’s folds
forgotten sunshine from your hair.
To be at rest, and well, and hold
your hands: that is my one desire.
My soul grows wonderfully wide
to blast the commonplace aside.
On its dawn-reddened seawalls die
the first waves of infinity.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Rainer Maria Rilke...
I’ll softly steal
Weißt du, ich will mich schleichen
Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)
Weißt du, ich will mich schleichen
Weißt du, ich will mich schleichen
leise aus lautem Kreis,
wenn ich erst die bleichen
Sterne über den Eichen
blühen weiß.
Wege will ich erkiesen,
die selten wer betritt
in blassen Abendwiesen?
und keinen Traum, als diesen:
Du gehst mit.
I’ll softly steal
I’ll softly steal
from the circle’s noise
seeing the pale
star flowers rise
above oak-trees.
I’ll choose ways lonely,
who treads them, who
in dusk-dim leas?
and this dream only:
you come too.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Rainer Maria Rilke...
Epiphany
Epifanía
Miguel de Unamuno (1864-1936)
Epifanía
Agranda la puerta, padre,
porque no puedo pasar;
la hiciste para los niños,
yo he crecido a mi pesar.
Si no me agrandas la puerta,
achícame, por piedad;
vuélveme a la edad bendita
en que vivir es soñar.
Gracias, padre, que ya siento
que se va mi pubertad;
vuelvo a los días rosados
en que era hijo no más.
Hijo de mis hijos ahora
y sin masculinidad
siento nacer en mi seno
maternal virginidad.
Epiphany
Make the door wider, my father:
through it I cannot pass.
You made a door for children:
I’ve grown bigger, alas.
If you don’t make it wider,
let me again be small:
give back the newness of living,
the age when dreaming is all.
Thank you, my father, I sense now
That my puberty is gone;
I return to the days that were rosy
When I was only a son.
Now I’m a son of my own sons
Without any masculinity:
I sense the birth within me
Of a motherly virginity.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Miguel de Unamuno...
Do thank A.R., that vocal makar, a faraway castaway at Harar!
‘Vowels’ - A Triple Lipogram Without E, I, U:
Arthur Rimbaud (1854-91)
‘Vowels’ - A Triple Lipogram Without E, I, U:
A noir, E blanc, I rouge, U vert, O bleu: voyelles,
Je dirai quelque jour vos naissances latentes:
A, noir corset velu des mouches éclatantes
Qui bombinent autour des puanteurs cruelles,
Golfes d’ombre; E, candeurs des vapeurs et des tentes,
Lances des glaciers fiers, rois blancs, frissons d’ombelles;
I, pourpres, sang craché, rire des lèvres belles
Dans la colère ou les ivresses pénitentes;
U, cycles, vibrements divins des mers virides,
Paix des pâtis semés d’animaux, paix des rides
Que l’alchimie imprime aux grands fronts studieux;
O, suprême clairon plein des strideurs étranges,
Silences traversés des Mondes et des Anges:
– O l’Oméga, rayon violet de Ses Yeux!
Do thank A.R., that vocal makar, a faraway castaway at Harar!
A black, X snow, Y blood, Z grass, O sky:
My task’s to show how all that lot locks on.
A, smooth black thorax of a flash-brat fly
that swoops atop a nasty hollow john,
dark blots; X, canvas camps and drops of fogs,
snow-lords, cold polar swords, and blooms that worry;
Y, maroon, spat blood, hoots, and tasty snogs,
Angry or blotto, two ways to say sorry;
Z, calm of pastor’s grass that’s food for cows,
Salt snot-floods’ holy rhythms; calm of cwms
Laboratory-drawn on scholars’ brows;
O, top-rank blasts, blown hard for odd brass brays,
Good ghosts on non-clang pathways, worlds on zooms:
- O Grand, O Final Orbs! O gamma-rays!
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Arthur Rimbaud...
The Rimbaud and Verlaine Foundation
With Two Words
Mit zwei Worten
Conrad Ferdinand Meyer (1825-98)
Mit zwei Worten
Am Gestade Palästinas, auf und nieder, Tag um Tag,
»London?« frug die Sarazenin, wo ein Schiff vor Anker lag.
»London!« bat sie lang vergebens, nimmer müde, nimmer zag,
Bis zuletzt an Bord sie brachte eines Bootes Ruderschlag.
Sie betrat das Deck des Seglers und ihr wurde nicht gewehrt.
Meer und Himmel. »London?« frug sie, von der Heimat abgekehrt,
Suchte blickte, durch des Schiffers ausgestreckte Hand belehrt,
Nach den Küsten, wo die Sonne sich in Abendglut verzehrt ...
»Gilbert?« fragt die Sarazenin im Gedräng der grossen Stadt,
Und die Menge lacht und spottet, bis sie dann Erbarmen hat.
»Tausend Gilbert gibts in London!« Doch sie sucht und wird nicht matt.
»Labe dich mit Trank und Speise!« Doch sie wird von Tränen satt.
»Gilbert!« »Nichts als Gilbert? Weisst du keine andern Worte? Nein?
»Gilbert!« ... »Hört, das wird der weiland Pilger Gilbert Becket sein –
Den gebräunt in Sklavenketten glüher Wüste Sonnenschein
Dem die Bande löste heimlich eines Emirs Töchterlein –
»Pilgrim Gilbert Becket!« dröhnt es, braust es längs der Themse Strand.
Sieh, da kommt er ihr entgegen, von des Volkes Mund genannt,
Über seine Schwelle führt er, die das Ziel der Reise fand.
Liebe wandert mit zwei Worten gläubig über Meer und Land.
With Two Words
Palestine; beside the water, up and down, day after day,
‘London?’ asked the Arab maiden, where a ship at anchor lay.
‘London?’ long in vain she queried, never tired or in dismay,
Till at last a rowboat brought her out alongside from the quay.
So the white-winged ship she boarded: no-one told her to return.
Sea and sky. Still asking ‘London?’ as her homeland fell astern,
Searching, scanning, from the skipper’s pointing hand agog to learn,
To those distant coasts she journeyed, heading where the sunsets burn.
‘Gilbert?’ asks the Arab maiden in the mighty city’s press,
And the people laugh and mock her, till they turn to kindliness.
‘London has a thousand Gilberts!’ Yet she searches nonetheless;
‘Food and drink will give thee comfort!’ Yet her tears are numberless.
‘Gilbert!’ ‘Only Gilbert? Are all other words unknown to thee?’
‘Gilbert!’ ‘Listen – Gilbert Becket was a pilgrim: Yes! ’Tis he!
He was roasted by the desert sun in chains and slavery,
Till the emir’s lovely daughter slipped his bonds and set him free.’
‘Pilgrim Gilbert Becket!’ thrums and roars along the Thames’s Strand.
As the people name him, see, he comes to meet her near at hand,
Takes her in across his threshold, just as Providence had planned…
Love with two words passed believing, faithful, over sea and land.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Conrad Ferdinand Meyer...