A Metaphor

Una Metáfora

from 'Homer in Cuernavaca'
Una Metáfora
“Las cigarras de voz de lirio”, dice Homero... Le pesa al preceptista, le duele al traductor. La audacia del poético y voluntario error de escolios y de notas ha juntado un rimero. Algo hay en Apolonio que es del mismo acero, y algo en el viejo Hesíodo que tiene igual sabor. No creo que se pueda decir nada mejor, y juzgue cada uno lo que dicte su fuero. ¿Pues no ha osado un moderno hablarnos del clamor rojo de los clarines, y no es valedero si otro habla del negro redoble del tambor? Transporte sensorial, Vocales de color, Sinestesia - perdónese el terminajo huero -, Suprarrealidad, Cantos de Maldoror ... ¡Se asusta el avispero! Mientras zozobra el crítico, digamos con valor: - ¡Bravo por “las cigarras de voz de lirio”, Homero!
A Metaphor
‘The lily-voiced cicadas’ is a saying found in Homer: it gives the teacher problems, the translator melancholia. The boldness of this lyrical and voluntary bloomer has piled up quite a congeries of glosses and of scholia. There’s a tag of Apollonius that has the selfsame mettle, and something in old Hesiod whose tang might correlate. I don’t believe that any turn of phrase can turn out better, let each of us pass judgement as our conscience may dictate. Didn’t some daring modern type bring up the ‘scarlet clamour of trumpets’? Didn’t someone else, with perfect sense and grammar, go on about the black pounding rhythm of the drummer? The transference of senses and the colours of the vowels - excuse the hollow jargon if I talk of synaesthetics - The Songs of Maldoror; the surreal, the super-real... We’re stirring up the hornets’ nest! Their heart is hardly Dada’s, so let’s say it loud and clear against the fretting of the critics:- Bravissimo, Homer, for the lily-voiced cicadas!

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

Sonnet 5

Categories
French

Sonnet 5

Jean Cassou (1897-1986)

Les poètes, un jour, reviendront sur la terre. Ils reverront le lac et la grotte enchantée, les jeux d’enfants dans les bocages de Cythère, le vallon des aveux, la maison des péchés, et toutes les amies perdues dans la pensée, les sœurs plaintives et les femmes étrangères, le bonheur féerique et la douce fierté qui posait des baisers à leur front solitaire. Et ils reconnaîtront, sous des masques de folles, à travers Carnaval, dansant la farandole, leurs plus beaux vers enfin délivrés du sanglot qui les fit naître. Alors, satisfaits, dans le soir, ils s’en retourneront en bénissant la gloire, l’amour perpétuel, le vent, le sang, les flots. From 33 Sonnets Composés au Secret copyright © Éditions Gallimard 1995
Sonnet 5
The poets shall return to earth one day: the lake and magic cave again they’ll see, Cythera’s tanglewoods where children play, the house of sins, the vale of constancy, and, lost in meditation, every she, sisters of sighs, fair friends from far away, unearthly joy and sweet nobility that kissed their forehead’s loneliness away. They’ll recognise in masks maniacal, dancing the farandole in carnival, their finest verse, freed from the agony that gave it birth: and then, in happiness, as evening falls they shall depart, and bless long love and glory, wind, and blood, and sea.
Published in 33 Sonnets of the Resistance Arc Publications, 2002

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Jean Cassou...

John Keats

ΓΙΑΝΝΗΣ ΚΗΤΣ

Ángelos Sikelianós (1884-1951)

ΓΙΑΝΝΗΣ ΚΗΤΣ
Στῆς Πύλου τὸν πλατὺ γιαλὸ τὸ φωτεινό, στοχὰζομουν     νὰ φτάνεις συντροφιά μου, μὲ τὸ καρὰβι τ’ ἀψηλὸ τοῦ Μἑντορα, ἂραμμἑνο ἀργά     στὴν ἀγκαλιά τῆς ἄμμου. Δεμἐνοι, μὲ τῶν ἒφηβων, ποὺ πἐτονται μὲ τοὺς Θεούς,     φτερουγιαστή φιλία, πρὸς τὰ θρονιὰ νὰ βαίνομε τὰ πέτρινα, ὀποὐ ὸ καιρὸς     κι' ὁ λαὸς ἑκὰμαν λεῖα, τὸν ἀντρα ν' ἀντικρύσουμε, ποὑ καὶ στὴν τρίτη γενεὰν     ἀτὰραχα ἐκυβὲρνα καί γιὰ ταξἱδια ὁ λόγος του καὶ γι' ἅγιες γνῶμες μἑστωνε     στὰ φρένα, ὂσον ἑγἑρνα. Στῆς τριἑτικης πρὸς τοὺς θεούς δαμάλας νὰ βρεΘοῦμε αὐγὴ,     καὶ τῆ Θυσία παρἑκει, ν’ ἀκούσουμε τὴ μιὰ κραυγή, ποὺ σὑρανε οἱ τρεῖς κόρες του     σὰ βουῒσε το πελέκι, τὴν ἀργογὑριστη ματιά, τὴ μαυροτσίνορη, ἂξαφνα     στὰ σκότη πνίγοντάς τη, μὲ τῶν κεράτων ἂνεργο, τὸ μισοφέγγαρο τὸ άχνό,     περἰχροσο ποὺ ἑπλὰστη. Τ' ὰπὰρθενὸ σου τὸ λουτρὸ σὰν ὰδερφὴ τὸν ὰδερφὸ,     ὴ ἀγάπη μου λογιάστη, σύντας γυμνὸ θὰ σ’ ἑλουζε καὶ μ΄ ὅμορφο θὰ σ’ ἒντυνε     χιτὡνα ἡ Πολυκὰστη. Νὰ σὲ ξυπνῶ, στοχἀζομουν, μὲ τὸ ποδάρι σπρὡχνοντας,     σὑντας αὑγἡ χαράξει, τὴν ώρα νὰ μὴ χὰνομε, ζεμὲνον ἀφοῦ προσδοκάει     τὸ φωτεινὸν ὰμὰξι· κι' ὸλημερἰς μὲ τὴν σιωπἡν, ἢ μὲ το λόγο τὸν ὰπλὸν,     ὸποὺ ἑρχεται καὶ πάει, νὰ κυβερνᾶμε τ' ἀλογα, ὸπού ὅλο σειοῦνε τὸ ζυγὸ     στὅνα καὶ στ' ἄλλο πλἀϊ. Μἀ πιότερο ὲστοχαζόμουν, σὑντας τὰ μάτια σου τὰ δυό,     ποὺ τἀχες σὰν ἀλὰφι, στοῦ Μενελάου τὰ δὡματα θ' ἀποξεχνιῶνταν στὸ χαλκὸ     καί στὸ λαμπρὸ χρυσάφι καὶ θὰ τηρἀγανε ᾶσειστα, βυθίζοντἀς τα σὲ βυθὸν     ὰγὐριστο στὴ μνήμη, τὰ κεχριμπἀρια τὰ βαριά, τὸ φλῶρο ή τ' ἀσπρο φίλντισι,     τὸ ἱστορημἑνο ὰσἡμι. Στοχαζόμουν, σὰ σκύβοντας στ' αὑτἰ θὰ σούλεγα μ' ὰργὴ     φωνὴ χαμηλωμἐνη· «Κράτει τα μάτια σου ὦ καλέ, γιατί σὲ λίγο θα φανεῖ     στὰ μάτια μας ή Ἑλένη, ὰγνὰντια μας θὰ νὰ φανεῖ τοῦ Κύκνου ἡ κόρη ἡ μοναχή     σὲ λίγο ἑδῶ μπροστά μας. καὶ τότε πιὰ βυθίζουμε στὸν ποταμὸ τῆς Λησμονιᾶς     τὰ βλέφαρά μας». Ἔτσι μοῦ ἀνάφαινες λαμπρός, ὅμως ποιοἰ μ' έφεραν σ' ἑσὲ     χορταριασμὲνοι δρόμοι! Τὰ πύρινα ὲκατὸφυλλα ποὺ σὅστρωσα στὸν τάφο σου,     κι' ὰνθεῖ γιὰ σένα ἡ Ρὡμη, μοῦ δείχνουνε τὰ ὸλόχρυσα τραγούδια σου, σὰν τὰ κορμιὰ     ποὺ ὰδρἀ κι' αρμὰτωμἑνα σὲ τὰφο ὰρχαῖο πρωτάνοιχτο κυττᾶς τα αστἑρια κι' ὡς κυττᾶς     βουλιὰζουνε χαμένα - κι' όλο τὸν άξιο θησαυρὸ τὸ Μυκηναῖο ποὺ λὸγιζα     νὰ πίθωνα μπροστὰ σου, τὰ κύπελλα καὶ τὰ σπαθιὰ και τὰ πλατιὰ διαβήματα-     καὶ στὴ νεκρὴ ὸμορφιὰ σου μιὰ προσωπίδα, ὡσὰν αυτή ποὺ σκἑπαοε τῶν 'Αχαιῶν     τὸ βασιλιὰ ἀπὸ κὰτου, ὸλὸχρυση καὶ ὸλὁτεχνη, πελεκητὴ μὲ τὸ σφυρί,     στὸ ὰχνὰρι τοῦ θανατου.
John Keats
On Pylos’ broad and shining shore I pondered     that you would be my friend, with Mentor’s lofty ship, moored, as day ended,     on the embracing strand. Linked in the light-winged comradeship of youth –     they soar amidst the gods – we’d fly away to rocky thrones, made smooth     by time and multitudes. We’d stand before the man who, calm and wise,     three generations ruled; his speech with voyages and homilies     was ripe as he was old. A heifer for the gods, three seasons grown:     dawn, the blood-rite to come. Hark! His three daughters yield a single groan,     against the axe’s hum. The eye, black-fringed, slow-rolling, in a moment     by darkness smothered; the horns, that served no purpose, pallid crescent     in gold foil covered.      I thought with love of your ablutions chaste,         as of brother and sister: your naked form, washed, and in tunic dressed,     so fine, by Polycastē.             I thought to urge you with my foot, and wake you,     at the night’s abating, lest we lose the very hour, when the shining vehicle     was yoked and waiting. All day, unspeaking, or in plain discourses,     now hither, now thither we’d range, and steer the swaying yoke of horses     to one side or other. But more than this, I thought your gaze would fall,     your eyes being like a fawn’s, oblivious on Menelaus’ hall,         sinking bright gold and bronze     to depths of no return, unmoved observer,     in memory’s sea-chamber, with glaucous ivory, and fabled silver,     and ponderous amber. I thought I spoke with soft unhurried voice,     bending low to your ear: “Steady your gaze, my friend! Before our face     Helen shall soon appear. “Soon here before us we shall recognise     the Swan’s peerless daughter,     and from that time we must immerse our eyes     in Lethean water.” The vision gleamed; yet weeds obscured the ways     by which to you I came! I strewed your grave with roses all ablaze;     Rome blossomed in your name. So blazed your songs of gold, like long-dead men,     strong and in full harness,         seen whole in graves exposed, who, being seen,     founder, dissolve, vanish. I thought to lay before you fitting treasures:     what but Mycenae’s booty, goblets, and battle-swords, and broad tiaras;     and on your lifeless beauty a mask, such as the Achaean king of old     wore, who was laid beneath: all carved by skilful blade in beaten gold,     on the faint trace of death.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès © With thanks to Mr Costas Bournazakis. Published in Long Poem Magazine 2010 Transcription: Themistokles Pantazakos

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Poetic Art

To Charles Morice

Paul Verlaine (1844-96)

To Charles Morice
De la musique avant toute chose, Et pour cela préfère l'Impair Plus vague et plus soluble dans l'air, Sans rien en lui qui pèse ou qui pose. Il faut aussi que tu n'ailles point Choisir tes mots sans quelque méprise : Rien de plus cher que la chanson grise Où l'Indécis au Précis se joint. C'est des beaux yeux derrière des voiles, C'est le grand jour tremblant de midi, C'est, par un ciel d'automne attiédi, Le bleu fouillis des claires étoiles ! Car nous voulons la Nuance encor, Pas la Couleur, rien que la nuance ! Oh ! la nuance seule fiance Le rêve au rêve et la flûte au cor ! Fuis du plus loin la Pointe assassine, L'Esprit cruel et le Rire impur, Qui font pleurer les yeux de l'Azur, Et tout cet ail de basse cuisine ! Prends l'éloquence et tords-lui son cou ! Tu feras bien, en train d'énergie, De rendre un peu la Rime assagie. Si l'on n'y veille, elle ira jusqu'où ? O qui dira les torts de la Rime ? Quel enfant sourd ou quel nègre fou Nous a forgé ce bijou d'un sou Qui sonne creux et faux sous la lime ? De la musique encore et toujours ! Que ton vers soit la chose envolée Qu'on sent qui fuit d'une âme en allée Vers d'autres cieux à d'autres amours. Que ton vers soit la bonne aventure Eparse au vent crispé du matin Qui va fleurant la menthe et le thym... Et tout le reste est littérature.
Poetic Art
Music: prefer it, everywhere, And let the medley be uneven: More vague, more soluble in air, It strikes no pose, it needs no leaven. Next, it’s important that you choose Your words with Error’s benefice: We love the blurred refrains that fuse The Pointed with the Imprecise. This is the veiled yet lovely eye, This, the broad noonday’s trembling lustres; Or in less heated autumn sky, Stars, glittering in azure clusters. For it is Nuance we esteem: Away with colour, only nuance! For only nuance can affiance Woodwind to horn and dream to dream. The cruel wit, the impure laugh, The murderous barb, keep far from you: That garlic of the vulgar chef Brings tears to angels in the blue. Take eloquence and wring its neck! And while you’re throttling eloquence, Knock into Rhyme a bit of sense: Where will it stop, with none to check? O who shall hymn the wrongs of Rhyme? What cloth-eared child or ranting fellow Forged us this gem not worth a dime, That to the rasp rings false and hollow? Music, more music! At all times! Let yours be verse that soars above, Descried when fleet-winged souls remove To other loves, in other climes; Let yours be verse that freely scatters Its aromatic mint and thyme On dawn’s fresh breezes, cleansed of rhyme! The rest is nothing but belles-lettres.
An earlier version appeared in Acumen 47.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Laurel

Αχιλλέας Παράσχος Η Δáφνη

Achillies Paraschos (1838-95)

Αχιλλέας Παράσχος Η Δáφνη
Μή με ζηλεύετε· κανείς τή δάφνη μή ζηλεύει· μ’ αίμα καί δάκρυ πύρινο τή ρίζα μου ποτίζουν. Καλότυχος όποιος ποτέ τή δάφνη δέν γυρεύει, καί μόνον τά τριαντάφυλλα τό στήθος του στολίζουν. Κοινό στεφάνο μ’έχουνε η δόξα καί ο πόνος, καί τά θλιμμέν’απόπαιδα τής μοίρας μ’ έχουν μόνο. Κάθε μου φύλλο άδοξος τό φαρμακεύει φθόνος· γιά τούτο μόνο ποιητάς τού κόσμου στεφανώνω.
The Laurel
‘Envy me not. Let not one soul envy the laurel-tree. My roots quaff blood and burning tears, for thus they water me. Happy the man who never made the laurel-wreath his quest, And has no more than roses to decorate his breast. I am a crown that’s common to glory and to pain; My every leaf is poisoned, base jealousy’s my bane. Only those wretches wear me whom fortune forth has hurled, And that alone is why I crown the poets of the world.’

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Art

Categories
French

Art

THÉOPHILE GAUTIER (1811-72)

Oui, l’oeuvre sort plus belle D’une forme au travail Rebelle, Vers, marbre, onyx, émail. Point de contraintes fausses! Mais que pour marcher droit Tu chausses, Muse, un cothurne étroit. Fi du rhythme commode, Comme un soulier trop grand, Du mode Que tout pied quitte et prend! Statuaire, repousse L’argile que pétrit Le pouce Quand flotte ailleurs l’esprit. Lutte avec le carrare, Avec le paros dur Et rare, Gardiens du contour pur; Emprunte à Syracuse Son bronze où fermement S’accuse Le trait fier et charmant; D’une main délicate Poursuis dans un filon D’agate Le profil d’Apollon. Peintre, fuis l’aquarelle, Et fixe la couleur Trop frêle Au four de l’émailleur. Fais les sirènes bleues, Tordant de cent façons Leurs queues, Les monstres des blasons; Dans son nimbe trilobe La Vierge et son Jésus, Le globe Avec la croix dessus. Tout passe. — L’art robuste Seul a l’éternité, Le buste Survit à la cité, Et la médaille austère Que trouve un laboureur Sous terre Révèle un empereur. Les dieux eux–mêmes meurent, Mais les vers souverains Demeurent Plus forts que les airains. Sculpte, lime, cisèle; Que ton rêve flottant Se scelle Dans le bloc résistant!
Art
Yes, a work comes out better that’s hewn and won from matter perverse: enamel, onyx, marble, verse. For false rules we’ve no use! But to go straight as an arrow, Muse, your shoe needs to be narrow. Down with commodious rhythm that’s like an outsize boot, whose fathom fits and fails every foot! Modeller, shun, for it slips at your finger–tips, the clay, should thoughts go astray; grapple with travertine, or rarer parian; guard pure line of contour with hard carrara; borrow from Syracuse her bronze, standing firm to accuse proper pride and charm; make dextrously, chase in a perfect nugget of agate Phoebus’s beaked face. Painter, eschew the gouache: fix the frail timbres at fire–flash in the enameller’s embers. Make mermaids and dolphins, twist in fivescore fashions their tailfins, blue monsters of blazons; haloed in triple lobe, limn Mary and her Son; the globe, and His Cross thereon. All passes. — Robust art lives for ever; the bust is the city’s survivor. The dull medal, found by humble labourer beneath ground, reveals an emperor. Even gods perish, yet peerless stanzas flourish, stronger than bronzes. Sculpt, chisel, rasp: let the precisian block grasp your dancing vision!

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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To the Fates

An die Parzen

Friedrich Hölderlin (1770-1843)

An die Parzen
Nur Einen Sommer gönnt, ihr Gewaltigen! Und einen Herbst zu reifem Gesange mir, Daß williger mein Herz, vom süßen Spiele gesättiget, dann mir sterbe. Die Seele, der im Leben ihr göttlich Recht Nicht ward, sie ruht auch drunten im Orkus nicht; Doch ist mir einst das Heil’ge, das am Herzen mir liegt, das Gedicht, gelungen, Willkommen dann, o Stille der Schattenwelt! Zufrieden bin ich, wenn auch mein Saitenspiel Mich nicht hinab geleitet; Einmal Lebt ich, wie Götter, und mehr bedarfs nicht.
To the Fates
Grant me a single summer, ye mighty ones, Grant me an autumn’s ripeness of melody, That less reluctant, being sated With the sweet playing, my heart may perish. Souls, if denied their sacred inheritance In life, are unquiet too in the underworld; I, though, achieved ere now the holy Poetry, close to my heart, the poem. Then be you welcome, stillness and shadow–world! I’ll be content, no less, should my minstrelsy Not guide me down: time was, when I have Lived like the gods: nothing more is needed.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Poetic Symbols

Es pfleget ein Poet

Kaspar Stieler (1632-1707)

Es pfleget ein Poet
Es pfleget ein Poet auch oft mit Sinnebildern Hoch sinnlich umzugehn und ein Gemähld zu schildern, Das gleichsam redt und lacht, und ein Geheimnis stellt mit schönem Ansehn vor. Hierzu nimmt er die Welt. Sein Buch ist die Natur und was darinnen lebet, ja, unbeseeltes gar, drinn’ eine Wirkung webet, als etwa beym Magnet–Pantarban, Palmenbaum, und, was der Arzt entdeckt in dem gedritten Raum des ihm vertrauten Reichs: Zusamt dem Künstler sachen, die ein’ Aufmerksamkeit und Nachgedenken machen. Drob setzt er einen Spruch: kurzdeutend, sinnlich, scharf, annehmlich, nachdrucksvoll, der keine Tolks zwar darf, doch aber mehrenteils mit Versen wird erleutert, dem kleinen Deutspruch nach. In diesen wird erweitert und lieblich ausgesagt des Sinnebilds Verstand, sein’ Eigenschaft und Zweck. Wie Wort– und Mahlwerksband glei ch einer Seel’ und Leib verknüpft sey und sich ahnen. Des Sinnbilds Ursprung sind: Ring, Wapen, Schild’ und Fahnen Es münzt Oktavian, wie man in Raht und That soll gehn den Mittelweg, zu früh nicht, nicht zuspat: Sein Liebling, Mezenat, gebraucht in seinem Siegel Den Serifiner Frosch, als der Verschweigung Spiegel.
Poetic Symbols
A poet often makes enlightened use Of symbols, to produce A speaking, laughing picture that presents Some hidden truth, with style and consequence. For this, he takes the world: his book’s the living Stuff of nature, and the inanimate too, weaving Its effect, be it a magnet, a swaying palm, Or what the scientist learns in the lucky room Of his own kingdom. All is grist to his art, Arousing interest, stimulating thought. He sets his sound–bite: pithy, pointed, neat, Cogent, impressive, needing no exegete, Yet with abundant verses clarified Backing the aperçu. Here is amplified, Lovingly spread, the meaning of the symbol, Its property and point. The pair resemble Each other; they are joined like soul and flesh. The symbol comes from flags, rings, shields and crests. Octavian states that men in thought and deed Should take the middle way, not early nor delayed; His dear Maecenas took the Aegean islands’ Serīphos frog for his signet, mirror of silence.
Published in Acumen 68, 2010.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Violet Calls on me to Compose a Sonnet

Un soneto me manda hacer Violante

Lope de Vega (1562-1635)

Un soneto me manda hacer Violante
Un soneto me manda hacer Violante que en mi vida me he visto en tanto aprieto; catorce versos dicen que es soneto; burla burlando van los tres delante. Yo pensé que no hallara consonante, y estoy a la mitad de otro cuarteto; mas si me veo en el primer terceto, no hay cosa en los cuartetos que me espante. Por el primer terceto voy entrando, y parece que entré con pie derecho, pues fin con este verso le voy dando. Ya estoy en el segundo, y aun sospecho que voy los trece versos acabando; contad si son catorce, y está hecho.
Violet Calls on me to Compose a Sonnet
I'm keeping busy! Now, I have to frame a sonnet, by command of Violet. In sonnets, fourteen lines are what you get: the first three make it look an easy game. I thought I’d find no word that ends the same! And now I’m halfway through the second set: but, thinking forward to the first tercet, the quatrains are comparatively tame. The first tercet is starting, I’ve just spotted! Off on the right foot first I entered on it, so in this line the same is duly slotted. I’m on the second tercet of my sonnet: already thirteen lines are crossed and dotted. Count up – fourteen, I fancy – yes, I’ve done it.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cgyrO9Eb0ao

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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