Binsey Poplars

Binsey Poplars

Gerard Manley Hopkins

The poplars were felled in 1879. My Latin..
Binsey Poplars
My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled, Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun, All felled, felled, are all felled; Of a fresh and following folded rank Not spared, not one That dandled a sandalled Shadow that swam or sank On meadow & river & wind-wandering weed-winding bank. O if we but knew what we do When we delve or hew — Hack and rack the growing green! Since country is so tender To touch, her being só slender, That, like this sleek and seeing ball But a prick will make no eye at all, Where we, even where we mean To mend her we end her, When we hew or delve: After-comers cannot guess the beauty been. Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve Strokes of havoc unselve The sweet especial scene, Rural scene, a rural scene, Sweet especial rural scene. [Campaigning against a housing estate that would have scarred the view of Highgate from Hampstead Heath, I wrote: 'Witan, the ancient council. Hurst, a wooded hill. Not since the Binsey Poplars, those Hopkins-harrowing topplers, Fell or were felled by the fiend of eld that wishes old England ill, And the trains stopped stopping at Adlestrop, and at Grantchester time stood still, Has anything worse been heard in verse, including, if you will, The nefarious, unhilarious, Dissolution of Halnaker Mill.' ...]
Binsey Poplars
o quantum amatae vos mihi populi! Titana textis frondibus obrui ~~vidi refrenarique in auris; ~~~~praecipites cecidistis omnes, haud una sospes caede trucissima. intactus ordo duplicis agminis ~~occisus, umbrosis puellas ~~~~vel pueros recreare alutis gnarus, per agros, flumina, flamina, ventos vagantes, litora, harundines ~~per prata procurvas, per undas ~~~~nantibus his, aliis caducis. o stirps molesti nescia criminis, prompta ad fodendum, scindere promptior! ~~~torquemus increscens, virescens ~~~~ dilaniamus, in omne damnum. rus tenue tactu, rus tenerum ambitu! levis videndi fixus acu globus: ~~ instanter, heu! non est ocellus. ~~~~sic etiam reparare nisi pala et securi, deruimus modo saltus amoenos : nesciet advena ~~quantum venustatis fuisset: ~~~~undecimus decimusve tantum stragi sat ictus: conficit eripit prospectum agrestem, gaudia rustica ~~dejecta: prospectum placentem ~~~~destruit egregium, placentem.
Classical Verse Challenge for April 2024.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Gerard Manley Hopkins...

Mitad del Mundo

Mitad del Mundo

Raoul Schrott (1964)

The poem is in the form of a letter sent from Ecuador to a loved one, far away. Mitad del Mundo, Middle of the World, is the name of the imposing Equator monument there. The phrase equally means Half the World (Hemisphere) which suggests the distance the letter will travel.The poem's two halves make a mirror image: in this translation, as in the original, the rhymes are perfect, and each line rhymes with, and is precisely the same length as, its counterpart equally far from the middle.The monument consists of a globe mounted on a tall plinth that tapers upwards from its square base. La Condamine in 1735 took geodesic measurements here. Similar work in France later set the length of the new international unit: a metre, defined as one forty-millionth of the earth’s circumference. This prevailed over the older idea of the length of a pendulum swinging for precisely one second. The true position of the Equator was found to be a little distance away, up a mountain. Even the amusing unofficial museum is not plumb on the line. Blurring and inaccuracy are a theme of the poem.
Mitad del Mundo
also schreib ich dir ... und eine art gestufter pyramide markiert die mitte einer wohl nie fertig werdenden touristenstadt ringsum glasig schwarze berge steinbrüche krater wind voll sand · dafür ist die erde hier aus ihren angeln gehoben und auf den sockel eines monuments gesetzt     als wäre sie in diesem mittag mit einem ruck erstarrt · grund für meine gleichgültigkeit kann ich keinen sagen aber es ist als brächte das fehlen jeden schattens alles nun ins lot unscharfe kippbilder auf den postkarten der souvenirläden den umfang der welt · kolorierte drucke einer spanischen fortuna mit ihrem erdball · die erinnerung an das türkisblau von spitzen schuhen in einer auslage die du so blau nicht wolltest · unwillkürlich überhörte sätze wie: pedir la luna und tafeln der himmelsmechanik die alle von etwas reden das schablonen bloß veranschaulichen · ein staubigeres licht loht im leeren auf der hinterlassene himmel hat nichts mehr zu tragen     und für deine fragen finde ich keinen ausdruck anders als ...doch dieser stillstand brachte zuletzt selbst unser ewiges im kreis bewegen zumindest von hoch oben auf einen gieicher · es stand man habe am äquator den meter nach der weite bestimmt die der pendelschlag hier hat was weiter war als ich von dir bei jedem meiner abschiede
Mitad del Mundo
Right, well I’m writing to you … a sort of stepped pyramid made of stone marks the midpoint of a tourist town whose end-size can’t be reckoned all round are mountains of glassy black and quarries and craters wind full of sand · for this the earth has been levered up from its axis here and put on the plinth of a monument     as if at high noon it suddenly suffered suspended animation I cannot propose any reason at all for my equanimity it’s as if the total absence of shadow brought everything into true blurred shaky postcard photos in shops of souvenir tourist tat the girth of the earth the colourized prints of an hispanic fortuna holding her globe · I’ve a memory it’s that turquoise blue of pointed shoes displayed for sale that you found too blue and so didn’t want · phrases heard by chance, like pedir la luna and noticeboards of celestial mechanics, all describing what mock-ups quite simply make obvious · a dusty light flares through the void, for nothing else is on board the deserted sky     and in answer to your questions I can unearth no explanation apart from … but by this stasis our ceaseless orbit was sent down from above at last and is at least manoeuvred on to the equable level · in the old days they said the equator’s where they defined the metre, as far as a pendulum swings in a second it’s further away than I’ve been from you, whenever I’ve upped and gone.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u4W1lcdy4P0 Published in The London Magazine, 2017

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Raoul Schrott...

STRALSUND

STRALSUND

Ricarda Huch (1864-1947)

STRALSUND
Altgraue Stadt, die das Meer umblaut, Wo das rostrote Segel sich bläht, Aufblitzt der Fische blanke Haut Und die gaukelnde Möwe kräht. Es brandet um der Kirche Wall Vergebens Well und Sturm, Sie zittert wohl von der Orgel Schall, Kein Feind stürzt ihren Turm. Die Wolken mit zartem Flügelschlag Streifen ihr Haupt, drin wühlt Ein Traum von zorniger Schlachten Tag, Wo Blut ihren Fuss umspült. Da liegen die Toten Stein bei Stein, Die Glocken summen dazu: Ewiges Gedächtnis, mein Sohn, sei dein, Ewige, ewige Ruh!
STRALSUND
The old grey town that blue sea girds: The swell of rust-red sails, The squawking, tumbling salt-sea birds, The flash of clean fish-scales. On this church wall the pounding wave And tempest waste their fire: Though organ-thunder shakes the nave, No foe hurls down the spire. The clouds with tender beating wing Caress its head, that dreams Of fierce-fought battles reddening Its foot with gory streams. The dead are sleeping, stone by stone, The sounding bells request: Eternal memory, my son, Be thine, eternal rest!

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Notre-Dame, Paris

Notre-Dame de Paris

Gérard de Nerval (1808-55)

Notre-Dame de Paris
Notre-Dame est bien vieille: on la verra peut-être Enterrer cependant Paris qu’elle a vu naître; Mais, dans quelque mille ans, le Temps fera broncher Comme un loup fait un bœuf, cette carcasse lourde, Tordra ses nerfs de fer, et puis d’une dent sourde Rongera tristement ses vieux os de rocher! Bien des hommes, de tous les pays de la terre Viendront, pour contempler cette ruine austère, Rêveurs, et relisant le livre de Victor; – Alors ils croiront voir la vieille basilique, Toute ainsi qu’elle était, puissante et magnifique, Se lever devant eux comme l’ombre d’un mort!
Notre-Dame, Paris
Notre-Dame’s old. Who knows if, by and by, She, who saw Paris born, shall see her die? Ages shall pass. Time, as the wolf subdues The ox, shall bring her heavy carcass down With his dull tooth, shall twist her iron thews, And gnaw her skeleton of ancient stone. From every land on earth a throng shall stream To view the dismal ruin, and shall dream, Reading the fable that great Victor made: They’ll see a vision of the hallowed pile, Mighty and splendid in its antique style, Rise up before them like a spectral shade!
Published in Festschrift for Patricia Oxley

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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St Helena

Ste-Hélène

Victor Hugo (1802-85)

Third poem in L'Expiation, following Moscow and Waterloo. All published by The Napoleonic Society of America, and in Translation and Literature (Edinburgh U.P.)
Ste-Hélène
Il croula. Dieu changea la chaîne de l’Europe. Il est, au fond des mers que la brume enveloppe, Un roc hideux, débris des antiques volcans. Le Destin prit des clous, un marteau, des carcans, Saisit, pâle et vivant, ce voleur du tonnerre, Et, joyeux, s’en alla sur le pic centenaire Le clouer, excitant par son rire moqueur Le vautour Angleterre à lui ronger le cœur. Évanouissement d’une splendeur immense ! Du soleil qui se lève à la nuit qui commence, Toujours l’isolement, l’abandon, la prison, Un soldat rouge au seuil, la mer à l’horizon, Des rochers nus, des bois affreux, l’ennui, l’espace, Des voiles s’enfuyant comme l’espoir qui passe, Toujours le bruit des flots, toujours le bruit des vents ! Adieu, tente de pourpre aux panaches mouvants, Adieu, le cheval blanc que César éperonne ! Plus de tambours battant aux champs, plus de couronne, Plus de rois prosternés dans l’ombre avec terreur, Plus de manteau traînant sur eux, plus d’empereur ! Napoléon était retombé Bonaparte. Comme un romain blessé par la flèche du Parthe, Saignant, morne, il songeait à Moscou qui brûla. Un caporal anglais lui disait : halte-là ! Son fils aux mains des rois ! sa femme aux bras d’un autre ! Plus vil que le pourceau qui dans l’égout se vautre, Son sénat qui l’avait adoré l’insultait. Au bord des mers, à l’heure où la bise se tait, Sur les escarpements croulant en noirs décombres, Il marchait, seul, rêveur, captif des vagues sombres. Sur les monts, sur les flots, sur les cieux, triste et fier, L’œil encore ébloui des batailles d’hier, Il laissait sa pensée errer à l’aventure. Grandeur, gloire, ô néant ! calme de la nature ! Les aigles qui passaient ne le connaissaient pas. Les rois, ses guichetiers, avaient pris un compas Et l’avaient enfermé dans un cercle inflexible. Il expirait. La mort de plus en plus visible Se levait dans sa nuit et croissait à ses yeux Comme le froid matin d’un jour mystérieux. Son âme palpitait, déjà presque échappée. Un jour enfin il mit sur son lit son épée, Et se coucha près d’elle, et dit : « C’est aujourd’hui » On jeta le manteau de Marengo sur lui. Ses batailles du Nil, du Danube, du Tibre, Se penchaient sur son front, il dit : « Me voici libre ! Je suis vainqueur ! je vois mes aigles accourir ! » Et, comme il retournait sa tête pour mourir, Il aperçut, un pied dans la maison déserte, Hudson Lowe guettant par la porte entrouverte. Alors, géant broyé sous le talon des rois, Il cria : « La mesure est comble cette fois ! Seigneur ! c’est maintenant fini ! Dieu que j’implore, Vous m’avez châtié ! » La voix dit : Pas encore !
St Helena
He fell; and God changed Europe's iron bands. Far in the fog-bound seas a vile rock stands, Belched up by old volcanoes. Destiny Took nails and clamps and neck-irons, gleefully, Seized him who stole the thunder, living, pale, And dragged him to the grizzled peak, to nail Him down, and with a mocking laugh to start The vulture England gnawing at his heart. * Immeasurable splendour, passed away! From earliest sunrise till the end of day Ever alone, abandoned, caged in prison; A redcoat near; beyond, the sea's horizon. Bare rocks, grim woods, depression, emptiness: Sails passing, fleeing into hopelessness. The sound of winds and waves for evermore! Farewell, white horse that Caesar spurs to war, Farewell the pounding drums, the stratagem, The purple tent, the plumes, the diadem! No quaking prostrate kings inferior; No robe trailed over them; no emperor. Napoleon was reduced to Bonaparte. He thought of Moscow burning, sick at heart As Roman bleeding from the Parthian bolt: An English corporal, to bid him Halt! Kings held his son; his wife was spoken for; Worse than a pig that wallows in a sewer, His senate cursed him, worshipping no more. When ocean winds fall still, he walked the shore On cliffs that crumbled in black heaps of stone, The dark waves' captive, dreaming and alone. As bygone battles still amazed his eye, With rueful pride on hill and sea and sky He cast his thoughts, to stray on high adventure. Grandeur and glory, void! the calm of nature! Eagles pass by, not knowing who he is. The kings, his jailers, took their compasses And closed him in a ring inflexible. He sickened. Death more and more visible Rose in the night and grew before his eyes, Like the cold breaking of a strange sunrise. His soul, that fluttered still, was almost fled. At last he laid his sword upon his bed, And took his place, and said `This is the day'. The greatcoat of Marengo on him lay. Nile, Danube, Tiber: battles on his brow Gathered. Said he: `I am unfettered now! I am victorious! Come, my eagles, fly!' And as he turned his head aside to die, Intruding in the empty house he saw Hudson Lowe watching through the half-closed door. The kings beneath their heel had trampled him! `Full measure!' cried the giant; `to the brim! Now it is finished! God whom I implore, Thy chastening's done!' The voice said, `There is More!'

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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On First Looking into Chapman's Translation

On First Looking Into Chapman’s Homer

John Keats (1795-1821)

My lipogram, no letter E
On First Looking Into Chapman’s Homer
Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne; Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He star'd at the Pacific—and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise— Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
On First Looking into Chapman's Translation
I got around, saw lots of lands of gold, Good kingdoms, many a top–class duchy too, And sundown islands (I was shooting through) Which bards as loan–stock from Apollo hold. On various occasions I was told About an old blind highbrow’s Timbuctoo: But always was as ignorant as you, Until Dan Chapman said it loud and bold. That did it! Say you watch a midnight sky: An unknown rock floats up into your bag! Or stout Balboa’s sharp rapacity Scans your Pacific, plants a Spanish flag, His troops agog with curiosity, Dumbstruck upon a Panamanian crag.
Said at Poet in the City Drop–in, Daunts Bookshop, Piccadilly, London, W1. Contributed to Poetry Atlas website.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Inspiration on Britain's Topmost Summit

Sonnet. Written Upon The Top Of Ben Nevis

John Keats (1795-1821)

Let's see whether he needed the letter E.
Sonnet. Written Upon The Top Of Ben Nevis
Read me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loud Upon the top of Nevis, blind in mist! I look into the chasms, and a shroud Vapourous doth hide them, -- just so much I wist Mankind do know of hell; I look o'erhead, And there is sullen mist, -- even so much Mankind can tell of heaven; mist is spread Before the earth, beneath me, -- even such, Even so vague is man's sight of himself! Here are the craggy stones beneath my feet,-- Thus much I know that, a poor witless elf, I tread on them, -- that all my eye doth meet Is mist and crag, not only on this height, But in the world of thought and mental might!
Inspiration on Britain's Topmost Summit
I ask for words, Parnassian! - said out loud on Scotia's topmost summit, blind in mist! I look into its chasms, which a shroud of vapour bars from sight; so much I wist mankind doth know of Tartarus; and this, upwards, is dismal mist - and that's how much mankind can know of paradisal bliss; downwards, mist rolls across this world: just such, so indistinct, is man's own mirror-study. On craggy rocks aloft my right foot stands -- This much I know, that, poor unwitting noddy, I am on rocks, -- and what my sight commands Is mist and crag, not only on this hill, But in our world of brains and thoughts and skill.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Pyrenees

Les Pyrénées

Guillaume, Sieur du Bartas (1544-90)

The Lord of Salluste was a Huguenot who fought for Henry of Navarre (Henri IV of France). His epic poem on the Creation of the World was hugely admired, not least by Milton and Goethe. Nerval hailed him as a precursor, an ‘ancestor’. One of his many translators was James VI of Scotland: he was sent there to try for a marriage of James to Henry’s sister. He also went to Denmark. Honneyman speculated that some of Shakespeare’s Sonnets are translations of suppressed work by Agrippa d’Aubigné, a poet at the Navarrese court: that Henry himself was the Fair Friend, his Queen Marguerite the Dark Lady, and du Bartas the Rival Poet. I wrote an old–fashioned version and a modern version. Only on this website have they appeared together!
Les Pyrénées
François, arreste–toi, ne passe la campagne Que Nature mura de rochers d’un costé, Que l’Auriège entrefend d’un cours précipité; Campagne qui n’a point en beauté de compagne. Passant, ce que tu vois n’est point une montagne: C’est un grand Briarée, un géant haut monté Qui garde ce passage, et défend, indomté, De l’Espagne la France, et de France l’Espagne. Il tend à l’une l’un, à l’autre l’autre bras, Il porte sur son chef l’antique faix d’Atlas, Dans deux contraires mers il pose ses deux plantes. Les espaisses forests sont ses cheveux espais; Les rochers sont ses os; les rivières bruyantes L’éternelle sueur que luy cause un tel faix. François, arreste–toi, ne passe la campagne Que Nature mura de rochers d’un costé, Que l’Auriège entrefend d’un cours précipité; Campagne qui n’a point en beauté de compagne. Passant, ce que tu vois n’est point une montagne: C’est un grand Briarée, un géant haut monté Qui garde ce passage, et défend, indomté, De l’Espagne la France, et de France l’Espagne. Il tend à l’une l’un, à l’autre l’autre bras, Il porte sur son chef l’antique faix d’Atlas, Dans deux contraires mers il pose ses deux plantes. Les espaisses forests sont ses cheveux espais; Les rochers sont ses os; les rivières bruyantes L’éternelle sueur que luy cause un tel faix.
The Pyrenees
published in Outposts: Frenchman, hold hard, nor pass beyond that land That nature fortified with rocky walls, That Ariège thrusts through with headlong falls, Land garlanded, most gallant and most grand. What thou seest, passing here, is no high–land; Rather a mighty Briareus, a giant Set high to guard this passage, and, defiant, Spain’s way to France, France’s to Spain command. One arm to France, t’other to Spain is spread; Upon his crest sits Atlas’ ancient weight; His feet the two opposing seas betread. The thickets are the thick hairs of his head; The rocks his bones; the roaring mountain–spate, The sweat his burthen ever makes him shed. published in Modern Poetry in Translation: FRENCH NATIONALS STOP HERE. NO TRANSIT through The Ariège (Dept. no. 9). A natural break: cascade, scarp, anticline. No contest: champion country. Get that view! VISITORS THIS IS NOT A MOUNTAIN CHAIN. You’re looking at a brontosaurus which Has got across the middle of the pitch Showing a No Way card to France and Spain. Ne passez pas. No pase el paso usted. His spiky neck is what jacks up the sky; Feet in the Bay of Biscay and the Med; The forest canopy tops out his head; His bones are rocks. The long–term power supply? Sweat, leached from stress–points on the watershed.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Seven Hills of Rome

CELLE QUI DE SON CHEF...

Joachim du Bellay (1522-60)

CELLE QUI DE SON CHEF...
Celle qui de son chef les étoiles passait, Et d'un pied sur Thétis, l'autre dessous l'Aurore, D'une main sur le Scythe, et l'autre sur le More, De la terre et du ciel la rondeur compassait: Jupiter ayant peur, si plus elle croissait, Que l'orgueil des Géants se relevât encore, L'accabla sous ces monts, ces sept monts qui sont ore Tombeaux de la grandeur qui le ciel menaçait. II lui mit sur le chef la croupe Saturnale, Puis dessus l'estomac assit la Quirinale, Sur le ventre il planta l'antique Palatin, Mit sur la dextre main la hauteur Célienne, Sur la senestre assit l'échine Exquilienne, Viminal sur un pied, sur l'autre l'Aventin.
Seven Hills of Rome
She whose head higher than the stars was crowned, One foot on ocean, one beneath the Dawn, One hand on Moor and one on Scythian, Compassed the earth and then the heavens round. Jupiter, fearing for his menaced heaven, And lest the Giants' pride should rise again, Crushed her beneath those hills that yet remain As tombs of her great might, in number seven. Upon her head he heaped the Saturnal, Upon her stomach set the Quirinal, Upon her belly, storied Palatine: The Coelian upon her dexter hand, Steep Esquiline upon the left doth stand: On the feet, Viminal and Aventine.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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