Tag: Mother

Rebozo de mi Madrecita

Rebozo de mi Madrecita

Ricardo López Méndez (1903-89)

Rebozo de mi Madrecita
Madrecita chula, guardo tu rebozo como santo cariño, con mi devoción, Madrecita linda, ¡qué maravilloso si yo me lo oprimo sobre el corazón! Cuando fuiste niña cubrió tu cabeza y entrabas al templo con él a rezar; cuando fuiste novia, cubrió tu belleza y enjugó tu llanto si te vio llorar. Tu rebozo madre, me sirvió de cuna, se inició en tus hombros, como en un trigal, con él me cubriste del sol a la luna, él era mi cielo y era mi jacal … El fue tu mortaja, madrecita mía; La muerte en la noche del ancho llegó: te arropó en su sombra, miró tu agonía y el viejo rebozo también te lloró.
Rebozo de mi Madrecita
Your dear shawl, I keep it, sweetest darling mother, keep it with devotion, by its warmth caressed. Darling lovely mother, what a thing of wonder, when I hold it tightly, hug it to my breast! When you yet were growing, it concealed your tresses, graced you in the chapel when you went to pray; when you came to marry, hid your charming blushes, if it saw you weeping, wiped your tears away. Mother, your rebozo served me as a cradle, first about your shoulders, snug as a cob of corn. with your shawl you covered me from sun and moonbeam, it was all my heaven and my humble home … At the last you wore it, O my darling mother; death came down from heaven, dark night covered all. In its shade enfolding, watchful at your dying, sharing in our sorrow mourned the dear old shawl.
Beautifully recited by Lucy Tregear at the Mexican evening of Poet in the City, British Museum, February 2010.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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On Mother's Day

Zum Muttertag

Erich Kästner (1899-1974)

Zum Muttertag
Das ist ein Glück: mit seiner Mutter fahren! Weil Mütter doch die besten Frauen sind. Sie reisten mit uns, als wir Knaben waren, und reisen nun mit uns, nach vielen Jahren, als wären sie das Kind.
On Mother's Day
It's such a joy to travel with one's mother! Stars among women, they're the best of all. When we were little boys they travelled with us, and after all these years they travel with us, Just as if they were small.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Le Pont du Nord

Le Pont du Nord (as sung by Germaine Montéro)

Pierre Mac Orlan (1882-1970)

Le Pont du Nord (as sung by Germaine Montéro)
Je n’ai pas pu payer ma taule. Je dois deux semain’s et ma clé N’ouvrira plus la rue des Saules: Ainsi l’a voulu le taulier. La neige tomb’, c’est grand’ vacherie Dans l’ciel, sur la terre et sur moi. Le froid mord dans mes joues maigries Et me ronge le bout des doigts. Ma mèr’ m’a dit, il y a longtemps, — «C'est sur le Pont du Nord qu’Adèle Ta soeur aînée a foutu l'camp Pour danser la java rebelle Loin des conseils de ses parents. C’est là qu’ell’ perdit sa ceinture, La vie et l’air de la chanson. Les Rabouin’s, la Bonne Aventure, Tout ça c’est de l’accordéon.» Quand ma mère eut fermé la bouche, Mon premier soin, ru’ Durantin, Fut d’aborder une Manouche. On peut dir’ qu’elle tombait bien. Sa jupe à volants était mûre; Elle a regardé dans ma main Et m’a dit la Bonne Aventure Devant la port’ d’un marchand d’vin. —«Tu seras marié pour toujours Avant que la lune se couche Dans la lumièr’ du petit jour Tout d'suite après ta premièr’ touche: Car c’est ainsi que naît l’amour. Tu me paieras à la prochaine… Es-tu rassuré’ sur ton sort ? Il est au bout du Pont des Peines, Autrement dit le Pont du Nord. » — «Monsieur, demandai-je à tout l'monde, Où se trouve le Pont du Nord?» Les uns disaient: Au bout du monde Et d’autres: Au bout du corridor. Dans les neiges indifférentes J’ai aperçu le pont brumeux. Il n’avait pas de main-courante Et frôlait le fleuve et les cieux. Le vent, tel un homme en folie, Bouscula les points cardinaux; Et la neige fondit en pluie Pour mieux vous refroidir les os. Et la chair promise au tombeau La fille aperçut-elle un signe Qui lui fit entrevoir les corps Des mal marié's à la dérive ?… Ce n'est plus de notre ressort.
Le Pont du Nord
Can’t pay my rent. Two weeks behind. My key won’t open Rue des Saules: The landlord’s wish, he isn’t kind. It’s snowing, snowing wretchedly On earth, on heaven, and on me. On my thin cheeks the snowflakes fall: The cold bites into them, and nips And gnaws my frozen finger-tips. My mother told me long ago ‘Le Pont du Nord is where Adèle, Your elder sister, went awol And whooped it up, a ne’er-do-well, Far from her parents’ good advice. She lost her belt, she lost the tune, Her life and luck and good fortune: Drop-outs and chancers, no-one nice, Sad song, cheap music, rotten show.’ Soon as my mam had turned it up, My first requirement was to step To Gypsy Rose, rue Durantin, A palmist, doing rather well: The skirts she wore were flounced and full. She read my hand, my fate and all My future and my fortune in The doorway of a bottle-shop. 'Before the setting of the moon You shall be wed for ever more At the first light of early dawn, As soon as you’ve embarked on your… For that’s the way that love is born. Pay me next time. I reassure My clients: all you hear is gain. You’ll need to cross the Bridge of Pain That’s also called Le Pont du Nord.’ I asked if anyone could say Where I might find the Pont du Nord. Some said: it’s half the world away, Some said: it’s down the corridor. The snow just fell without a thought. I saw the bridge in misty guise: No handrail, no police report, It skimmed the river and the skies. The wind was like a man insane: The compass-points were all assailed. The snow was melting into rain, By which your bones are truly chilled. The flesh is promised to the tomb. Did the girl see by any chance A sign that let her glimpse the doom Of brides in sad mésalliance? That’s now beyond our competence.
Published in Journal of the London Institute of Pataphysics, 2020.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Nis Randers

Nis Randers

Otto Ernst (1862-1928)

Nis Randers
Krachen und Heulen und berstende Nacht, Dunkel und Flammen in rasender Jagd - Ein Schrei durch die Brandung! Und brennt der Himmel, so sieht man’s gut: Ein Wrack auf der Sandbank! Noch wiegt es die Flut; Gleich holt sich’s der Abgrund. Nis Randers lugt - und ohne Hast Spricht er: «Da hängt noch ein Mann im Mast; Wir müssen ihn holen.» Da fasst ihn die Mutter: «Du steigst mir nicht ein! Dich will ich behalten, du bleibst mir allein, Ich will’s, deine Mutter! Dein Vater ging unter und Momme, mein Sohn, Drei Jahre verschollen ist Uwe schon, Mein Uwe, mein Uwe!» Nis tritt auf die Brücke. Die Mutter ihm nach! Er weist nach dem Wrack und spricht gemach: «Und seine Mutter?» Nun springt er ins Boot und mit ihm noch sechs: Hohes, hartes Friesengewächs; Schon sausen die Ruder. Boot oben, Boot unten, ein Höllentanz! Nun muss es zerschmettern...! Nein, es blieb ganz!... Wie lange, wie lange?   Mit feurigen Geißeln peitscht das Meer Die menschenfressenden Rosse daher; Sie schnauben und schäumen. Wie hechelnde Hast sie zusammenzwingt! Eins auf den Nacken des andern springt Mit stampfenden Hufen! Drei Wetter zusammen! Nun brennt die Welt! Was da? - Ein Boot, das landwärts hält. - Sie sind es! Sie kommen! – Und Auge und Ohr ins Dunkel gespannt... Still - ruft da nicht einer? - Er schreit’s durch die Hand: «Sagt Mutter, 's ist Uwe!»
Nis Randers
Crashing and howling and thunder-scarred night, Racing and chasing of darkness and light – A cry through the lightning! When heaven is blazing the sighting is good: A wreck on the sandbar! still tossed by the flood: The sea-trench is gaping. Nis Randers he gazes, and speaks out at last: ‘One man is still there, hanging on to the mast; We must hasten to save him.’ His mother has seized him. ‘You’ll not brave the squall: I’ll hold you and keep you, my last one of all. ’Tis the wish of your mother. ‘Your father has perished, and Momme, my son, And my Uwe three years has been missing and gone, My Uwe, my Uwe.’ Nis hastes to the jetty. She follows behind. He points to the wreck and speaks gently his mind: ‘He too has a mother.’ Now he leaps in the boat and six more spring aboard: The brave men of Friesland are stalwart and hard. The oars are soon straining. Boat up and boat down, it’s a caper from hell. Look now, she must shatter! No, all is yet well. How long, O how long?   The sea cracks its whip, flaring onward it forces The fearsome assault of its man-eating horses: They snort and they foam. With curses and urgency herded together, They bound on the backs and the necks of each other: Hooves trample and swarm. Triple lightning! The world is a burning brand! What’s that? It’s a boat – it is heading to land! They are coming, they come! Intent on the darkness, all ears and all eyes… Did somebody call? Through cupped hands he cries: ‘Tell Mother it’s Uwe!’

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Kallipáteira – Greek Olympic Poem

ΚΑΛΛΙΠÁΤΕΙΡΑ

Lórentsos Mavílis (1860-1912)

ΚΑΛΛΙΠÁΤΕΙΡΑ
“Αρχόντισσα Ροδίτισσα, πώς μπήκες; Γυναίκες διώχνει μια συνήθεια αρχαία εδώθε.” “ Έχω έν’ ανίψι, τον Ευκλέα, πατέρα, γιο, τρί’ αδέρφι’ Ολυμπιονίκες. Να μ’αφήσετε πρέπει, Ελλανοδίκες, κ’ εγώ να καμαρώσω μές στα ωραία κορμιά, που για τ’ αγρίλι του Ηρακλέα παλεύουν, θιαμαστές ψυχές αντρίκες! Με τες άλλες γυναίκες δεν είμ’ όμοια· στον αιώνα το σόι μου θα φαντάζει με της αντρειάς τ’ αμάραντα προνόμια. με μάλαμα γραμμένος το δοξάζει, σ’ αστραφτερό κατεβατό μαρμάρου ύμνος χρυσός τ’ αθάνατου Πινδάρου!”
Kallipáteira – Greek Olympic Poem
“O high–born Rhodian lady, how came you to our door? For women are debarred from here by usages of yore.” “My nephew’s name is Eukles; my father and my son, and my three brothers, all of these Olympic glory won. Judges of Greece, their merits bespeak my right to pass, proud of their splendid bodies, these that clinch for crowns of Herakles, sprigs of wild olive: spirits manly and marvellous. I am no common woman. My brave men shine in story: they earned what cannot fade. Writ gold on sparkling marble their golden hymn of glory, that deathless Pindar made.”
My translation was beautifully recited by the Shakespearean actress, Lucy Tregear, at the Greek Olympic poetry evening in the British Library, 28 May 2012, staged by Poet in the City. The poem was introduced by Dr Armand d’Angour. Kallipateira’s father Diagoras of Rhodes won the boxing at the 79th Olympic Games in 464 BC. The island’s airport is named after him. He was also Circuit Victor — ‘periodonikês’ — winning at the Pythian, Isthmian and Nemean Games (the Grand Slam of four majors), and triumphed repeatedly at other Games all over Greece. He was regarded as a model of athletic prowess. Pindar’s great poem on his victory, Olympian Ode 7, was inscribed in gold letters on marble at the Temple of Athena at Lindos, Rhodes. His son Damagetos won the Olympic pankration (a ferocious combination of boxing and wrestling) in 452 and 448, and his son Akousilaos won the boxing in 448, when the two young men carried their father shoulder–high: someone told him to expire at the supreme moment, and he took the hint. A third son, Dorieus, won the pankration in 432, 428 and 424, and a total of 22 victories in the Pythian, Isthmian and Nemean Games. At the Pythian, no–one would face him. Later, two grandsons won the Olympic boxing. A painting by James Barry shows the two sons carrying the old man, with Kallipateira beside them. It can be seen at http://www.bbc.co.uk/arts/yourpaintings/paintings/crowning-the-victors-at-olympia-218502. Women were not admitted to the ancient Olympics, except for one, the priestess of Demeter. After Diagoras’ death, Kallipateira became the trainer of her son Peisirrhodos, entering the stadium in disguise. Overjoyed at his victory, she leapt over a barrier into the athletes’ enclosure, and was detected. Any other woman would have been in trouble: she was treated with great respect! Women were not allowed to compete in the first modern Olympics, at Athens in 1896. Mavílis’ poem appeared in 1898. Of the 2,000 competitors at the first London Olympics in 1908, thirty–seven were women. Lórentsos Mavílis, born in Ithaca, was a poet, multilingual translator, soldier, chess–player, and member of parliament. He fell in battle at Mount Driskos, near Ioannina. Thanks are due to the editors of Classical Association News, where this poem first appeared.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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