Adunis: The Fall (From Arabic)

The Fall
By Adunis
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

I live between fire and plague,

With my language, with these worlds all mute,
I live in apple-grove and sky,
in the first happiness and the despondency
of when it was Eve and I,
master of that cursed tree,
master of fruit.
I live between clouds and sparks,
in stone that grows, 
in a book that knows
secrets and the Fall.

The Original:

قصيدة السقوط
ادونيس

أعيشُ بَينَ النارِ والطاعون
مَع لغتي، مع هذه العوالِمِ الخُرَساء
أعيشُ في حديقةِ التُفاحِ والسَماء
في الفَرَح الأوّل والقَنوط
بينَ يدَي حواء 
سيّد ذاك الشجر الملعون
وسيّد الثمار 
أعيشُ بين الغَيم والشَرار
في حَجَر يكبُرُ،  في كتاب
يعلَمُ الأسرار والسُقوط.

Adunis: Prophecy (From Arabic)

Prophecy 
By Adunis
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Out of our thousand-year-old sleep,
Out of our stunted history,
To the country dug grave-like into our lives,
To this drugged, murdered land,
A reverenceless sun arrives
To kill the sheikh 

    of locusts and of sand
And time that grows upon its plains
   And dries out on its plains
    Like fungus

A slaughter-loving, devastator sun

    Dawns on this bridge

The Original:

نبوءة

ادونيس

للوطن المحفور في حياتِنا كالقَبر

للوطنِ المخدَّرِ المقتول

تجيء من سُباتنا الألفيّ، من تاريخِنا المشلولْ

شمسٌ بلا عبادهْ

تقتلُ شيخَ الرّملِ والجرادَهْ

والزَمنَ النابتَ في سهوبهِ

اليابس في سهوبهِ

كالفِطْر

شَمسٌ تُحبُّ الفتكَ والإبادَهْ

تطلع من وراء هذا الجسر...

Samih al-Qasim: A Tale of One City (From Arabic)

A Tale of One City
By Samih Al-Qasim
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Once a blue city
Dreamt of foreigners
Milling around
And shopping every night and day..

There's a dark city
That hates foreigners
Making their rounds
With gunsights scanning each café..

The Original:

قصّةُ مدينة 
سميح القاسم

 كانت هناك  مدينةٌ زرقاء
تحلُمُ بالأجانب
يتسكعون وينفِقون
من الصباح ..الى الصباح..

صارت هناك مدينةٌ سوداء
تحتقِرُ الأجانب
الدائرين على مقاهيها
بفوهاتِ السلاح..

Adunis: Mirror for the Twentieth Century (From Arabic)

Mirror For The Twentieth Century
By Adunis
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

A coffin clad with a child's face

A book 
Written in a crow's guts
A beast coming out, carrying a flower

A rock
Breathing in a lunatic's lungs

     This is it
     This is the Twentieth Century.

The Original:

مرآةٌ للقرن العشرين
ادونيس

تابوتٌ يُلبَسُ وجْهَ الطفل
كِتابْ
يُكتَبُ في أحشاءِ غُرابْ
وَحْشٌ يتَقَدَّم، يحمل زهرهْ

صَخْرَهْ
تتنفّسُ في رئتيْ مجنونْ: 

         هو ذا
         هو ذا القرن العشرونْ.

Avot Yeshurun: In The City Of The Judges (From Hebrew)

In The City of the Judges
Avot Yeshurun

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Click to hear me recite the original Hebrew

Fragrant is my father's talis,
Sheathes me like a talisman.
The spirit of Elder Israel is
In the talis of taʿal-ismaʿ.

Mighty is my father's talis
Set loose on me who cannot hear.
For fear the Kaʿba's hallows
Drown my brow on stone. For fear.

My father my fear
Lay your hand upon my neck and hear....

I found a ram's horn yesterday.
Far in the south His deserts lie.
Judge, you in Jerusalem,
Whether the horn's neck was not I...

I found a ram's horn yesterday.
The horn for me? Beneath my star?
Judge, you in Jerusalem,
Whether I found my true shofar.

The Original:

בְּעִיר הַשּׁוֹפְטִים

רֵיחָנִית טַלִּית אַבָּא

קְרוּמָה עָלַי כְּמִין טַלִּיסְמָא.

וְרוּחַ יִשְׂרָאֵל סָבָא

בְּטַלִּיתוֹ שֶׁל כָּל “תַּעַל אִשְׂמַע!”

אַדִּירִים טַלִּית אַבָּא,

פְּרוּעָה עָלַי, מִי לֹא שׁוֹמֵעַ.

פֶּן אֲנִי לַכַּעְבֶּה,

פֶּן אֲנִי מִצְחִי טוֹבֵעַ…

אַבָּא מוֹרְאִי,

שְׁלַח יָדְךָ לְצַוָּארִי…

תְּמוֹל מָצָאתִי קֶרֶן אַיִל,

הַרְחֵק בַּנֶּגֶב מִדְבָּרוֹ.

שִׁפְטוּ אַתֶּם בִּירוּשָׁלַיִם,

אִם לֹא הָיִיתִי צַוָּארוֹ…

תְּמוֹל מָצָאתִי קֶרֶן אַיִל,

אוּלַי הַקֶּרֶן עֲבוּרִי.

שִׁפְטוּ אַתֶּם בִּירוּשָׁלַיִם

אִם לֹא מָצָאתִי שׁוֹפָרִי.

Natan Alterman: Moon (From Hebrew)

Moon
Nathan Alterman
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Even an old landscape has a moment of its birth.
The strange, impregnable 

And birdless skies. 
Under your window, moonlit on the earth,
Your city bathes in cricket-cries.

But when you see the path still looks afar
To wanderers, and the moon

Rests on a cypress spear,
You ask in wonder "Lord! Are all of these still here?
Can I not ask in whispers how they are?"

The waters look at us from their lagoons.
The tree in red of earrings 

Stays a silent tree.
Never, my God, shall Thy huge playthings' sorrow 
Be rooted out of me.

The Original:

יָרֵחַ
נתן אלתרמן

גַּם לְמַרְאֶה נוֹשָׁן יֵשׁ רֶגַע שֶׁל הֻלֶּדֶת.
שָׁמַיִם בְּלִי צִפּוֹר
זָרִים וּמְבֻצָּרִים.
בַּלַּיְלָה הַסָּהוּר מוּל חַלּוֹנְךָ עוֹמֶדֶת
עִיר טְבוּלָה בִּבְכִי הַצִּרְצָרִים.

וּבִרְאוֹתְךָ כִּי דֶּרֶךְ עוֹד צוֹפָה אֶל הֵלֶךְ
וְהַיָּרֵחַ
עַל כִּידוֹן הַבְּרוֹשׁ
אַתָּה אוֹמֵר- אֵלִי, הַעוֹד יֶשְׁנָם כָּל אֵלֶּה?
הַעוֹד מֻתָּר בְּלַחַשׁ בִּשְׁלוֹמָם לִדְרֹשׁ?

מֵאַגְמֵיהֶם הַמַּיִם נִבָּטִים אֵלֵינוּ.
שׁוֹקֵט הָעֵץ
בְּאֹדֶם עֲגִילִים.
לָעַד לֹא תֵעָקֵר מִמֶּנִּי, אֱלֹהֵינוּ,
תּוּגַת צַעֲצוּעֶיךָ הַגְּדוֹלִים.

Tuvia Rübner: Spring in the World (From Hebrew)

Spring in the World
Tuvia Rübner

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

The flowers are big, as if
You could live inside their fold.
The clouds are clear in blue,
As if the heart were consoled.

Butterflies burst out, as if
They'd never seen real light shine.
My body with yours, as if nothing
Divided your blood from mine.

Birds in flame, as if
The full sky were at last unfurled.
Laugh-buds bloom, as if
There were spring in the world.

The Original:

אָבִיב בָּעוֹלָם
טוביה ריבנר

הַפְּרָחִים גְּדוֹלִים, כְּאִלּוּ
אֶפְשָׁר לָגוּר בְּתוֹכָם,
עֲנָנִים שְׁקוּפִים בַּתְּכֵלֶת,
כְּאִלּוּ הַלֵּב רֻחַם,

פַּרְפָּרִים מִתְפָּרצִים, כְּאִלּוּ
לֹא רָאוּ אֶת הָאוֹר מֵעוֹדָם,
גּוּפִי עִם גּוּפֵך, כְּאִלּוּ
אֵין גְּבוּל בֵּין דָּם לְדָם,

לַהֲבוֹת צִפֳּרים, כְּאִלּוּ
הַשַׁחַק לְבַסּוֹף נִשְׁלַם, 
צִיצֵי צְחוֹקִים, כְּאִלּוּ
אָבִיב בָּעוֹלָם. 

Jacob Fichman: "Midnight" (From Hebrew)

Midnight

Jacob Fichman
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Recording of me reciting the original in Hebrew

The sign will come. A wakened heart shall see,
Beneath each canopy, a hand of flame.
But we heed not the voice we hear. It came
To warn in vain. In vain, the prophecy.

The dreamwhacked morning sings its sorrows over. 
Day hides, tight-lipped, embosomed by its sun.
Only the midnight lightning rips each cover
And spirits break out in a thunder-run.

Confounded heart, do not sink back in light
Visions that nurtured you. It's time to keep
A meeting with the shadows. Not to sleep.

Prize the abyss. Gauge all its depths tonight.
Suck all its terrors to intoxication. 
Then will it gape its mouth to sing creation.

The Original:

חֲצוֹת

יעקב פיכמן

הָאוֹת יֻתַּן, וְלֵב נֵעוֹר יִרְאֶה

כַּף אֵשׁ שְׁלוּחָה מִתַּחַת כָּל חֻפָּה.

אַךְ קַלֵּי-דָם נִקְשַׁב לְקוֹל מַתְרֶה.

וְשָׁוְא הִזְהִיר הַקּוֹל. וְשָׁוְא נִבָּא. 

הַבֹּקֶר נְכָאָיו יַרְנִין הוֹזֶה,

וְיוֹם צְמוּד-פֶּה אֶל חֵיק שִׁמְשׁוֹ נֶחְבָּא;

רַק בּרַק חֲצוֹת יִקְרַע אֶת כָּל מִכְסה;

וְכַת רוּחוֹת נִנְעֶרֶת מֵאָרְבָּהּ.

הוֹי, לֵב נִדְהָם, אַל נָא תָּשׁוּב תִּשְׁקַע

בְּחֶזְיוֹנוֹת טִפְּחוּךָ: עֵת קַדֵּם

אֶת הַצְּלָלִים. וְאֵין לְהֵרָדֵם. 

וְאֶת הַתְּהוֹם חוֹנֵן. מֹד כָּל עָמְקָהּ.

מֹץ כָּל אֵימֶיהָ עַד לְשִׁכָּרוֹן–

אוֹ אָז תִּפְתַּח אָת פּיהָ וְתָרֹן. 

Zackary Sholem Berger: No (from Yiddish)

No

By Zackary Sholem Berger 

Translated by A.Z. Foreman 

Audio recording of me reading the original

No their death will not revive the dead.

No their hunger is not our bread.

More tears from them just make more tears.

Blood is red. Is red.

The beheaded child. The floating skull...¹

The child under rubble. Lived hardly at all.

Snuffed breath of Jew and Gentile will not blow

Anyone's grief away. No.

I sit and write. One letter. At a time.

Despair is nothing. Live? Maybe. Or die...²

No their destruction has not built one shred.

Dead is dead.

Notes:

¹ — Literally the skull on the water, a reference to the story of Hillel from Pirkei Avot: "He as well saw a skull floating on the surface of the water and he said to it: Because you drowned others they drowned you; and those that drowned you will in the end be drowned."

²— In the original this line reads literally "Despair is nothing. Shall I live? Shall I die?" the last two sentences are in Hebrew, and the whole effect of the sentence puzzled me till I asked the poet about it and he told me he had Psalm 118:17 in mind. At which point with a "no duh" directed at myself, it made sense to me. Still it's hard to make work in English.

The Original:

נישט 

שלום בערגער

נישט זייער טויט וועט מחייה זײַן די טויטע.
נישט זייער הונגער איז אונדזער ברויט.
מערן זייערע טרערן וועט נאָר טרערן מערן.
בלוט איז רויט. איז רויט.

דער שאַרבן אויפֿן וואַסער. דאָס קינד געקעפּט---
דאָס קינד אונטער חורבֿות. האָט קוים געלעבט.
דער געכאַפּטער אָטעם פֿון ייִד און גוי
לופֿטערט נישט קיינעמס נויט. 

איך זיץ און שרײַב, אות נאָך אות
ייאוש איז גאָרנישט, אחיה? אמות?
נישט זייער צעשטערונג האָט אויפֿגעבויט.
טויט איז טויט.

Abū Salīk Gurgānī: Life Advice (From Persian)

Life Advice
Abū Salīk Gurgānī

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Better to shed your own blood on the ground
Than shed your self-respect on a court's floor. 
Better to worship idols than a man.
That is my teaching. Heed it and endure. 

The Original:

خونِ خْوَد‌را گَر بِریٰزی بر زَمین بِهْ کِه آبِ روٰیْ ریٰزی دَر کَنار

بُت‌پَرَسْتَنْدَه بِه اَز مَردُم‌پَرَست پَنْد گِیر و کار بَنْد و گوٰش دار

xūn-i xwadrā gar birēzī bar zamīn

bih ki āb-i rōy rēzī dar kanār

butparastanda bih az mardumparast

pand gīr u kār band u gōš dār

Rudaki: "Everything's Right" (From Persian)

"Everything's Right"

By Rōdakī

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

 
Everything's right as it should be. It is
A festive time. So yes: feast with them too.
Why drag out your anxieties and fears?
Destiny's state will do what it must do.
Scheming like some Vizier won't turn out well.
The hands of fate will not be turned askew.
Life's wheel cannot create your substitute.
Your mother will not bear another you.
God will not shut a door on you without
Another hundred opening. Go through.

The Original:

كار همه راست، آنچُنان كه بِبايد        حالتِ شاديست، شاد باشى، شايد

اندُه و انديشه را دراز چه دارى؟        دولتِ تو خود همان كند كه بپايد

راىِ وزيران ترا به كار نَيايد،           هرچه صوابست، بخت خود فرمايد

چرخ نَيار بديلِ تو زِ خلايق         وان كه ترا زاد نيز چون تو نَزايد

ايزد هرگز درى نبندد بر تو          تا صد ديگر به بهترى نگشايد

Omar Khayyam: The Skull of Kay Kawos (From Persian)

The Skull of King Kawos

Omar Khayyam

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

I saw a bird perched on the walls of Tōs

Before it lay the skull of King Kāwōs,

And to that skull it cried "Poor king! Poor thing!
Your rolling drums and bells, where now are those?"

The Original:

مرغى ديدم نشسته بر بارهٔ طوس 

در پيش نهاده كلهٔ كى كاووس

با كله همى‌گفت كه افسوس افسوس

كو بانگ جرس‌ها و چه شد نالهٔ كوس

Murɣē dīdam nišasta bar bāra-i tōs
dar pēš nihāda kalla-i kay kāwōs
bā kalla hamē guft ki afsōs afsōs 
kō bāng-i jarashā u či šud nāla-i kōs 

Rudaki: Ode to Nasr bin Ahmad (From Persian)

Ode to Nasr bin Ahmad

By Rudaki

Translated from Persian by A.Z. Foreman

....They knew that the king intended to stay there for that summer also. Then the army's captains and royal nobles went to Abu Abdillah Rudaki, the most honored man in the king's inner circle, who had his ear more than anyone else. They said to him "we will give you five thousand dinars if you can find a way to get the king to move on from here. We are really missing our wives and children, and we're so homesick for Bukhara, it's well-nigh killing us." Rudaki agreed. Since he'd taken the Amir's pulse and understood his state of mind, he realized that prose would not move him, so he opted for verse and composed an ode. When the Amir had taken his morning drink, Rudaki came in and sat down in his place. When the musicians were done, he took up the harp. Playing in Amorosi Minor, he began this poem...

      (From Nizāmī Arūzī's "Four Discourses")

Rolling Moliyan's aromas blow our way

       Memories of friends that love us flow our way.

Where the grit and gravel of the Oxus runs

       Silken soft beneath our feet, we'll go our way.

Thrilled to greet a friend, Jayhun's waves jump their banks

       Half-way up our horses' flanks to show our way.

Here's to you Bukhara and your king. Cheer up!

       He'll return in cheer again. We know our way.

Bright Bukhara is the sky. Our king its moon.

       Soon the moon will move back home to glow our way.

Green Bukhara is a garden. He, its tree,

       He's a cypress bound for home to grow our way.

The Original:

دانستند که سر آن دارد که این تابستان نیز آنجا باشد. پس سران لشکر و مهتران ملک به نزدیک استاد ابو عبدالله الرودکی رفتند و از ندماء پادشاه هیچ کس محتشم‌تر و مقبول القول‌تر از او نبود. گفتند:پنج هزار دینار تو را خدمت کنیم اگر صنعتی بکنی که پادشاه از این خاک حرکت کند که دلهای ما آرزوی ديدن زن و فرزند همی‌برد و جان ما از اشتیاق بخارا همی برآید. رودگی قبول کرد که نبض امیر بگرفته بود و مزاج او بشناخته. دانست که به نثر با او در نگیرد روی به نظم آورد و قصیده‌ای بگفت و به وقتی که امیر صبوح کرده بود درآمد و به جای خویش بنشست و چون مطربان فرو داشتند او چنگ برگرفت و پردهٔ عشاق بنواخت و این قصیده آغاز کرد:

بوى جوى موليان آيذ همى      ياذ يار مهربان آيذ همى

ريگِ آموى و درشتيهاى او        زيرِ پايم پرنيان آيذ همى

آبِ جيحون از نشاطِ روىِ دوست      خنگ مارا تا ميان آيذ همى

اى بخارا شاذ باش و دير زى       ميز زى تو شاذمان آيذ همى

مير ماه است و بخارا آسمان       ماه سوىِ آسمان آيذ همى

مير سرو است و بخارا بوستان       سرو سوىِ بوستان آيذ همى 

Saadi: Golestan 8.12 (From Persian)

From the Golestan: Chapter 8, Section 12

By Saadi of Shiraz

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Have no mercy an enemy for his powerlessness. If he were powerful, he would have none on you.

      Faced with a helpless enemy,
      Don't brag that you're a gentleman.
      In every body's bone, there's marrow.
      In every shirt, there is a man.

The Original:

بر عجز دشمن رحمت مکن که اگر قادر شود بر تو نبخشاید.

دشمن چو بینی ناتوان

لاف از بروت خود مزن

مغزیست در هر استخوان

مردیست در هر پیرهن

Zulfiya Atoi: Daughter's Song (From Tajik)

Daughter's Song

By Zulfiya Atoi

Translated by A.Z. Foreman 

At my name, life began. It was the key

To opening the lock on goodness' door.

At my name, hands reached out and gripped the stars.

My every hair brought miracles galore.

At my name, Farhad dug into the mountain

And threw himself down from it, and was dead.

At my name, Qays became loveshot Majnun,

Preferring deserts to the world he shed.

Scattering laughter I return as spring.

Now come the poets' whining elegies. 

They say I am unkind, that I steal hearts.

But I am kind as a musk-wafting breeze.

The Original:

Сурӯди Духтар

Зулфия Атоӣ

Зиндагӣ бо номи ман оғоз шуд

Қулфи дарҳои накӯӣ боз шуд

Дастҳо бо номи ман ахтар гирифт,

Ҳар сари мӯ соҳиби эъҷоз шуд.

Кӯҳро бо номи ман Фарҳод канд,

Бандҳои қуллааш аз ҳам фиканд.

Қайс ҳам бо номи ман Маҷнун бишуд,

Аз ҷаҳон омад биёбонаш писанд.

Чун баҳорон гаштаам ман хандарез,

Бандбанди шоирон шуд нолахез.

Дилбари номеҳрубонам гуфтаанд,

Меҳрубонам чун насими мушкбез!

In Perso-Arabic script:

سرود دختر

زلفيه عطائى

زندگی با نام من آغاز شد

قفل درهای نکویی باز شد

دست‌ها با نام من اختر گرفت

هر سر مو صاحب اعجاز شد

کوه را با نام من فرهاد کَند

بندهای قله‌اش از هم فکند

قیس هم با نام من مجنون بشد

از جهان آمد بیابانش پسند

چون بهاران گشته‌ام من خنده‌ریز

بندبند شاعران شد ناله‌خیز

دلبر نامهربانم گفته‌اند

مهربانم چون نسیم مشک‌بیز!

Hafiz: Ghazal 220 "Aspirations" (From Persian)

Ghazal 220 "Aspirations" 
By Hafiz
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Although our city preacher won't　
like hearing it from me,　
　　He'll never be a Muslim with　
　　this much hypocrisy.　
Learn to get drunk, be a gentleman　
not a dumb animal　
　　That cannot drink a drop of wine 　
　　or be a man at all. 　
The essence must be unalloyed　
to make His grace our own,　
　　Or from our clay no pearls will come
　　nor coral come from stone. 　
The Almighty shall fulfill His will.　
Rejoice, my heart! No con　
　　Or devilry can turn a demon　
　　into a Solomon. 　
Mine is the noble art of love.　　
I hope against belief　　
　　This craft won't bring, as others brought,　　
　　despondency and grief.　　
Last night he said "Tomorrow I　　
will grant your heart's desire"　　
　　God let him have no change of heart
　　nor let him be a liar.
May God add a good heart to all　　
your physical attraction　　
　　So you'll no longer torment me 
　　with harrowing distraction.
Hafiz! Unless a mote of dust　　
aspires to mighty height,　　
　　It is not drawn to the true fount
　　from which the sun draws light.


Prose paraphrase:

(1) Though the city preacher won't find it easy to hear these words, as long as he practices sophistry and hypocrisy, he'll never be a real Muslim. (2) Train yourself in dissolute drunkenness, and be a gentleman to others. For not so artful is the beast that does not drink wine, or become human. (3) There must be a pure-gemmed essence in order to be a vessel for holy grace, for without it stone and clay will not become pearl and coral. (4) He of the Greatest Name does his work - be glad O heart, for by no trick or fraud can a devil ever become Solomon. (5) I practice love, and hope that this noble art will not, as other arts have done, cause me chagrin. (6)  Last night he was saying "Tomorrow I will give you your heart's desire." Oh God, contrive to keep him from having compunction about doing so! (7) For my own sake I pray God include in your beauty a good disposition, so that my mind is no longer distraught and discombobulated. (8) So long as the dustmote lacks lofty aspiration and drive, Hafiz, it is not in quest for the source that is the resplendent sun's own dayspring.   

Notes:

Verse 1: The word for hypocrisy, sālūs is identical to one of the words for the Christian trinity (though they are spelled differently in Perso-Arabic script.) Hypocrisy, for Hafiz, is a cardinal sin against the divine, and this may be a punny way of equating it with the dilution of monotheism, as the triune God of Christianity was, and indeed still is, generally seen by Muslims as a sketchy traducement of God's essential oneness. I myself get the sense that such punctilios as the dubious nature of the trinity (as well as all the things that you have to do or think to be a "true" Muslim) might have been precisely the sort of thing a pietistic preacher would rant about from the pulpit. The real sin isn't the Christian's sālūs (trinity) that would offend the preacher, but rather the preacher's own sālūs (hypocrisy) that offends Hafiz. Thus the preacher who might rant about what makes a proper Muslim is himself failing to measure up.          

Verse 3: See Qur'an [55:19-22]

Verse 7:  Many recensions of this poem have husn-i xulqē zi Xudā mētalabam xōy-i turā "I seek of God a fine disposition for your character", which does not make overmuch sense as xulq and xōy are more or less synonyms. Khanlārī prefers the variant ending in husn-i turā "to your beauty" which seems much more compelling to me. This version makes it clear that the speaker is asking for the beloved to be as good in heart as he is good to look at, for if so he will satisfy the lover's desire rather than making him yearn tormentedly. It also adds a nice bit of wordplay. For ḥusn-i xulq is also a technical term for "virtue of character" in a religious and ethical sense. Hafiz, though, is enjoining the beloved to keep his word and do something which, however pleasurable, is rather at odds with what the jurist would deem virtuous.       


The Original:

گر چه بر واعظ شهر این سخن آسان نشود تا ریا ورزد و سالوس مسلمان نشود

رندی آموز و کرم کن که نه چندان هنر است حیوانی که ننوشد می و انسان نشود

گوهر پاک بباید که شود قابل فیض ور نه هر سنگ و گلی لوءلوء و مرجان نشود

اسم اعظم بکند کار خود ای دل خوش باش که به تلبیس و حیل دیو سليمان نشود

عشق می‌ورزم و امید که این فن شریف چون هنرهای دگر موجب حرمان نشود

دوش می‌گفت که فردا بدهم کام دلت سببی ساز خدایا که پشیمان نشود

حسن خلقی ز خدا می‌طلبم حسن ترا تا دگر خاطر ما از تو پریشان نشود

ذره را تا نبود همت عالی حافظ
طالب چشمه خورشید درخشان نشود

Romanization:

Gar či bar wā'iz-i šahr īn suxan āsān našawad
Tā riā warzad u sālūs musalmān našawad
Rindī āmōz u karam kun ki na čandān hunarast
Hayawānē ki nanōšad may u insān našawad
Gawhar-i pāk bibāyad, ki šawad qābil-i fayz,
War na har sang u gilē lu'lu' u marjān našawad.
Ism-i a'zam bukunad kār-i xwad ay dil, xwaš bāš
Ki ba talbīs u hayal dēw Sulaymān našawad
'Išq mēwarzam u ummēd ki īn fann-i šarīf
Čūn hunarhā-i digar mawjib-i hirmān našawad
Dōš mēguft ki fardā bidiham kām-i dilat
Sababē sāz Xudāyā ki pašēmān našawad
Husn-i xulqē zi Xudā mētalabam husn-i turā
Tā digar xātar-i mā az tu parēšān našawad
Zurrarā tā nabuwad himmat-i 'ālī hāfiz
Tālib-i čašma-i xwaršēd-i duruxšān našawad

Тоҷикӣ:

Гарчи бар воизи шаҳр ин сухан осон нашавад, 

То риё варзаду солус, мусулмон нашавад. 

Риндӣ омӯзу карам кун, ки на чандон ҳунар аст, 

Ҳаявоне, ки нанӯшад маю инсон нашавад. 

Гавҳари пок бибояд, ки шавад қобили файз, 

Варна ҳар сангу гиле лӯълӯву марҷон нашавад. 

Исми аъзам бикунад кори худ, эй дил, хуш бош 

Ки ба талбису ҳиял дев Сулаймон нашавад. 

Ишқ меварзаму уммед, ки ин фанни шариф, 

Чун ҳунарҳои дигар мӯҷиби хирмон нашавад. 

Дӯш мегуфт, ки фардо бидиҳам коми дилат, 

Сабабе соз, Худоё, ки пашемон нашавад. 

Ҳусни хулқе зи Худо металабам ҳусни туро, 

То дигар хотири мо аз ту парешон нашавад. 

Зарраро то набувад ҳиммати олӣ, Ҳофиз, 

Толиби чашмаи хуршеди дурахшон нашавад. 

Pangur Bán (from Old Irish)

The poem translated here is of anonymous authorship, in that the author's name is unknown. But he was an Irish monk operating at or near Reichenau Abbey in what is today Germany in the 9th century. The poem is found in his notebook. The meter of the original is a loose seven-syllable deibide with the featural rhymes typical of Old Irish, in the alternating rinn/ardrinn style in which a stressed syllable is rhymed with an unstressed one. I have rendered it in English with seven-syllable trochaic tetrameter and mostly using full rhymes, which may be a bit sing-songy or clip-cloppy, but seems to fit the tone of the poem rather well. Compare this with my translation of Creide's lament where I used a syllabic approach to vary the rhythm a great deal more, and also used rhymes that — in English — would be judged imperfect but fit the featural criteria for what counts as a rhyme in Irish. 

Pangur Bán 

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Youtube video of me reciting the original and my translation

Me and Pangur Bán at work:
He the cat, and I the clerk.
He is hunting mice to nip,
I am at my scholarship.

Fame's for fools. I'd rather rest
Studying my book with zest.
Happy for me, Pangur Bán
Plies his child-play all he can.

It's our never-boring tale.
We two, home alone, can't fail
To find everlasting sport
On which to fixate our art.

After berserk battle he

Nets a mouse in victory.

Me, I net a hard, dark line

Till I make its meaning shine.

His bright penetrating eye

Points toward the wall. While I 

Set my far less piercing sight

On a point more recondite.

He exults, getting a raw

Mouse impaled upon his claw.

When a dear yet difficult

Problem yields, I too exult.

That's us, ever at our art.

None bugging his counterpart, 

Each making a craft his own

To rejoice in it alone. 

Crafty Pangur, cat of prey,

Plies his trade by night and day.

I do monk's work, day and night,

Solving, bringing dark to light.

The Original:

Messe ocus Pangur Bán,

cechtar nathar fria saindán;

bíth a menma-sam fri seilgg,

mu menma céin im saincheirdd

Caraim-se fos, ferr cach clú,

oc mu lebrán léir ingnu;

ní foirmtech frimm Pangur bán,

caraid cesin a maccdán.

Ó ru·biam — scél cen scís —

innar tegdais ar n-óendís,

táithiunn — díchríchide clius —

ní fris tarddam ar n-áthius.

Gnáth-húaraib ar gressaib gal

glenaid luch inna lín-sam;

os mé, du·fuit im lín chéin

dliged n-doraid cu n-dronchéill.

Fúachid-sem fri frega fál

a rosc anglése comlán;

fúachimm chéin fri fégi fis

mu rosc réil, cesu imdis,

Fáelid-sem cu n-déne dul

hi·n-glen luch inna gérchrub;

hi·tucu cheist n-doraid n-dil,

os mé chene am fáelid.

Cía beimmi amin nach ré,

ní·derban cách ar chéle.

Maith la cechtar nár a dán,

subaigthius a óenurán.

Hé fesin as choimsid dáu

in muid du·n-gní cach óenláu;

du thabairt doraid du glé

for mu mud céin am messe.

Lament of Créide for Dínertach (From Old Irish)

This poem preserved in the West Munster cycle. According to the prose preface there, Dínertach had come to fi ght for Guaire of Gort in 649 and was killed in battle, and the poem was made by Guaire's daughter Créd who had fallen for him. This does not make overmuch sense, as the poem is more intelligible if it is Guaire's wife who is speaking. The language of the poem, as reconstructed from a later copy, puts it in the late 9th century, hundreds of years after the events that supposedly occasioned it. It gives me the impression of having been originally an independent work that was eventually sutured into a prose narrative.

Créide's Lament for Dínertach (ca. 9th century)

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

These sleep-slaughtering arrows strike
Every hour in cold of night:
Pangs for time spent after dark
With the man from Roigne's march.

Mad love for an outlander
Who outstripped his every peer
Has stripped my bloom, bleached my cheek,
And will now not let me sleep.

He spoke sweeter than men sing
Save those hymning heaven's king:
My great flame who spoke no bluff,
My sleek, tender-sided love.

As a girl I was modest,
Had no truck with lust or tryst.
Now in my uncertain age
Wantonness plays its charades.

Here I've got every good thing
With Gúaire, cold Aidne's king.
But the mind will out afar
From my folk to Irluachar.

Here they sing round Cell Colmán
In grand Aidne of that man
From past Limerick's grave-track,
The great flame named Dínertach.

Christ! It mutilates my heart
How they killed him in the dark.
These sleep-slaughtering arrows strike
Every hour in cold of night.

The Original:

It é saigte gona súain,

cech thrátha i n-aidchi adúair,

serccoí, lia gnása, íar n-dé,

fir a tóeb thíre Roigne.

Rográd fir ala thíre

ro-síacht sech a chomdíne

ruc mo lí (ní lór do dath);

ním-léci do thindabrad.

Binniu laídib a labrad

acht Ríg nime nóebadrad:

án bréo cen bréthir m-braise,

céle tana tóebthaise.

Imsa naídiu robsa náir:

ní bínn fri dúla dodáil;

ó do-lod i n-inderb n-aís

rom-gab mo théte togaís.

Táthum cech maith la Gúaire,

la ríg n-Aidni adúaire;

tocair mo menma óm thúathaib

isin íath i n-Irlúachair.

Canair a i n-íath Aidni áin,

im thóebu Cille Colmáin,

án bréo des Luimnech lechtach

díanid comainm Dínertach. 

Cráidid mo chride cainech,

a Chríst cáid, a ̇foraided:

it é saigte gona súain

cech thrátha i n-aidchi adúair.

Baudelaire: The Enemy (From French)

The Enemy
By Charles Baudelaire
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Hear me recite the original here on Youtube

My youth was but a dark-aired hurricane,
Pierced by an eye of sun from time to time;
So ravaged was my world by bolts and rain
That in my garden few red fruits still climb.

Now at the autumn of the mind I stand,
And here I am to toil with rake and spade
If I am to renew this flooded land
Of grave-sized holes the burrowing rains have made.

And who knows if my dream-grown flowers shall reach
Beneath this soil now scrubbed into a beach
And taste the mystic foods that heal their parts?

Agony. Agony! Time eats our lives
As the dark Enemy that gnaws our hearts
Grows bloated with the blood we lose, and thrives. 

The Original:

L'Ennemi

Ma jeunesse ne fut qu'un ténébreux orage,
Traversé çà et là par de brillants soleils;
Le tonnerre et la pluie ont fait un tel ravage,
Qu'il reste en mon jardin bien peu de fruits vermeils.

Voilà que j'ai touché l'automne des idées,
Et qu'il faut employer la pelle et les râteaux
Pour rassembler à neuf les terres inondées,
Où l'eau creuse des trous grands comme des tombeaux.

Et qui sait si les fleurs nouvelles que je rêve
Trouveront dans ce sol lavé comme une grève
Le mystique aliment qui ferait leur vigueur?

— Ô douleur! ô douleur! Le Temps mange la vie,
Et l'obscur Ennemi qui nous ronge le coeur
Du sang que nous perdons croît et se fortifie!

Joseph Freiherr von Eichendorff: Forest Conversation (From German)

Forest Conversation

Joseph Freiherr von Eichendorff

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

It's late and cold. The light is gone.

So why ride through these woods alone?

The woods are vast. I'll be your guide

And help you home, you pretty bride."

"Great are men's lies and trickery.

They broke my heart in agony.

The hunter's bugle echoes round.

Oh flee. You don't know whom you've found."

Lady and horse, richly adorned.

Young body, marvelously formed.

I know you now. Dear God on high!

You are that witch, the Lorelei.

"Know me indeed! That tower is mine 

That looks out deep into the Rhine.

It's late and cold. The light is gone.

Your life outside these woods is done."

Me reading this poem:

A. Z. Foreman · "Forest Conversation"/"Waldgespräch" by Eichendorff, read in German and in my English translation

The Original:

Waldgespräch

Joseph Karl Benedikt, Freiherr von Eichendorff

 
Es ist schon spät, es wird schon kalt,
Was reit'st du einsam durch den Wald?
Der Wald ist lang, du bist allein,
Du schöne Braut! Ich führ' dich heim!

"Groß ist der Männer Trug und List,
Vor Schmerz mein Herz gebrochen ist,
Wohl irrt das Waldhorn her und hin,
O flieh! Du weißt nicht, wer ich bin."

So reich geschmückt ist Roß und Weib,
So wunderschön der junge Leib,
Jetzt kenn' ich dich - Gott steh' mir bei!
Du bist die Hexe Lorelei. -

"Du kennst mich wohl - von hohem Stein
Schaut still mein Schloß tief in den Rhein.
Es ist schon spät, es wird schon kalt,
Kommst nimmermehr aus diesem Wald."

Heinrich Heine: "The Runestone Juts into the Sea" (From German)

"Es ragt in's Meer der Runenstein"
Heinrich Heine
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

The runestone juts into the sea.
I sit beside it & dream. 
The seawinds skirl. The seagulls cry.
The waves foam away and stream.

I have loved many a pretty girl
And many a good lad in my day.
Where have they gone? The seawinds skirl.
The waves keep streaming away.

Me reading the original:

A. Z. Foreman · "The Runestone justs into the sea" by Heinrich Heine, read in German and in my English translation

The Original:

Es ragt in’s Meer der Runenstein,

Da sitz’ ich mit meinen Träumen.

Es pfeift der Wind, die Möwen schrein,

Die Wellen, die wandern und schäumen.

Ich habe geliebt manch schönes Kind

Und manchen guten Gesellen –

Wo sind sie hin? Es pfeift der Wind,

Es schäumen und wandern die Wellen.

Anonymous: Opening of "Charlemagne and Elfguest" (From Middle Dutch)

"Karel ende Elegast", a medieval Romance about Charlemagne going out stealing in the middle of night on God’s orders, and in the process discovering a conspiracy on his life, is among the most famous pieces of Middle Dutch literature. Surprisingly I can't find anyone who has done a verse-translation into English. I guess if you want a thing done right, you gotta do it your own self. I here translate the first 82 lines of it. 

Opening of Charlemagne and Elfguest
Anonymous
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

There is a real true history
I can tell you. Listen to me:

It happened just as evening fell
While Charlemagne was sleeping well
Along the Rhine at Ingelheim.
The land was all his. At the time 
He was both emperor and king.
Hear what a true yet wondrous thing
Happened Charlemagne back then
(Remembered still by many men)
One night at Palace Ingelheim 
Where he had planned in one day's time
To hold court and wear his crown
So to magnify his renown. 

Now as the king in slumber lay
A holy angel called his way. 
So the king suddenly woke
At these words that angel spoke.
He said "Get up now, noble man.
Get dressed quickly as you can,
Arm yourself. Go out and steal.
God himself bid me reveal
This task to you. He is Lord on high.
Do it, or in dishonor die. 
Unless you ride tonight and thieve,
Evil will befall you. Believe:  
It will be the end of you.
You will die, your life be through
Before this next court finishes.
So now, take good heed of this
And go out stealing. Take your chance. 
Take your shield and take your lance.
Arm yourself. Go, mount your steed
And do not dally. Ride with speed."
This the king heard, open-eared.
It struck him as rather weird. 
There was no one to be seen,
He wondered what that voice might mean.
He assumed he'd dreamt it, and then
Paid it no mind. But once again 
Spoke the heavens' messenger
Angrily to the emperor:
"Get UP Charles. Go out and steal.
 God hath sent me to reveal
This His will. Go out. Ride on.
Do it, or your life is done."
This and nothing more said he.
And the king cried "Mercy me!"
Upset as he had ever been
"What does this freakish happening mean?
Are elf-delusions making me blunder
With figments of this monstrous wonder?
Oh God in heaven, honestly
What need even is there for me
To go out stealing? I am so rich,
There is no man with whom I'd switch,
No man on earth, not king or count,
Whose wealth amounts to my amount,
Unless he is my vassal too
And gives me service as my due.
My land is so massive, there
Is nothing like it anywhere. 
The land is entirely mine
From Cologne upon the Rhine
To as far as Rome which none
Own but the emperor alone.
I am king and my wife queen
From the eastern Danube's stream
To the wild and western sea.
And there's still more that belongs to me:
There's Galicia and Spain
Which I won by battle's reign
When I chased the heathen out
So now it's mine without a doubt. 
Why would I need to thieve at all
Like some pathetic criminal?

Why does God bid this of me?

I would hate to break his decree.

But did he really bid me thieve?

It's a struggle to believe

That the Mighty King of Kings

Wills me the shame of stealing things." 

Audio of me reading the first 76 lines of the original in Middle Dutch:

A. Z. Foreman · Uittreksel van "Karel ende Elegast" in het Middelnederlands vorgelezen

The Original:

Vraeye historie ende al waer 

mach ic u tellen, hoorter naer. 

Het was op enen avontstonde 

dat Karel slapen begonde 

tEngelem op den Rijn.

Dlant was alle gader sijn.

Hi was keyser ende coninc mede. 

Hoort hier wonder ende waerhede! 

Wat den coninc daer ghevel,

dat weten noch die menige wel. 

tEnghelem al daer hi lach

ende waende op den anderen dach 

crone draghen ende houden hof 


omme te meerner sinen lof.

Daer die coninc lach ende sliep, 

een heilich engel aen hem riep, 

so dat die coninc ontbrac

biden woerden die dengel sprac 

hij seyde: “Staet op, edel man. 

Doet haestelic u cleeder an, 

wapent u ende vaert stelen, 

God die hiet mi u bevelen,

die in hemelrike is here,

of ghi verliest lijf ende eere.

En steeldi in deser nacht niet, 

so is u evel gheschiet.

Ghi sulter omme sterven 

ende uwes levens derven

eer emmermeer scheit dit hof.

Nu verwacht u daer of,

vaert stelen of ghi wilt.

Neemt uwen speere ende uwen schilt, 

wapent u, sit op u paert

haestelic ende niet en spaert.

Dit verhoorde die coninc.

Het docht hem een vreemde dinc, 

want hi daer niemant en sach, 

wat dat roepen bedieden mach.

Hi waendet slapende hebben gehoort 

ende hilt hem niet an dat woert. 

Dengel die van Gode quam,

sprac ten coninc als die was gram: 

“Staet op, Karel, ende vaert stelen, 

God die hiet my u bevelen

ende ontbiedet u te voren,

anders hebdi u lijf verloren.”

Met dien woerde sweech hi.

Ende die coninc riep “Ay mi,” 

als die seere was vereent.

“Wat ist dat dit wonder meent? 

Ist alfs ghedroch dat mi quelt 

endit grote wonder telt?

Ay, hemelsche drochtijn, 

wat node soude mij sijn 

te stelene? Ic ben so rike.

En is man in aertrijcke,

weder coninc noch graven,

die so rijc sijn van haven,

sine moeten mi sijn onderdaen 

ende te minen diensten staen.

Mijn lant is so groot,

men vint nyewers sijns ghenoot.

Dlant is algader mijn

tote Colene opten Rijn 

ende tote Romen voort,

alst den keyser toe behoort.

 Ic ben here, mijn wijf is vrouwe,

oest totter wilder Denouwe

ende west totter wilder see.

Nochtans heb ic goets veel meer:

Galissien en Spandien lant,

dat ic selve wan mitter hant,

ende ic die heydene verdreef,

dat mi dlant alleene bleef.

Wat node soude mi sijn dan 

te stelene ellendich man?

Waer om ontbiedet mi dit God? 

Node brekic sijn ghebot - 

wistic dat hijt mi ontbode.

En mochs niet gheloven node 

dat mi God die lachter onste 

dat ic te stelen begonste.”

T. H. Parry-Williams: "Barrenness" (From Welsh)

Barrenness
By T. H. Parry-Williams 

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

It was a treeless world of weather-swept
Wilds in Snowdonia around my birth,
Bare as if giants had forever kept
Smoothing out every slanting slope of earth;
And as I grew up, through boyhood's amazing 
Years in our upland home among my own,
Those mountains' primal forms would press in, bracing
Me till their barrenness became my bone.
And if something of me survives my end
Without completely vanishing away,
And then is found by a like-hearted friend
By chance near Snowdon in the dusking day
He'll see in it no image, no design,
Just long-drawn barrenness' bleak outline.

Me reading the original:

A. Z. Foreman · "Moelni" by T. H. Parry Williams read in Welsh and in my English translation

The Original:

Moelni

Nid oedd ond llymder anial byd di-goed 

O gylch fy ngeni yn Eryri draw,

Fel petai’r cewri wedi bod erioed

Yn hir lyfnhau’r llechweddau ar bob llaw; 

A thros fy magu, drwy flynyddoedd syn 

Bachgendod yn ein cartref uchel ni, 

Ymwasgai henffurf y mynyddoedd hyn, 

Nes mynd o’u moelni i mewn i’m hanfod i. 

Ac os bydd peth o’m defnydd yn y byd 

Ar ôl yn rhywle heb ddiflannu’n llwyr,

A’i gael gan gyfaill o gyffelyb fryd

Ar siawns wrth odre’r Wyddfa ’mrig yr hwyr, 

Ni welir arno lun na chynllun chwaith, 

Dim ond amlinell lom y moelni maith

Storm on the Great Moor (From Old Irish)

Storm on the Great Moor

(Anonymous: possibly 9th century)

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Night falls cold on the Great Moor,
Storming with no small downpour. 
Wind laughs at its whooping flood
Shrieking on shielding wildwood.

Me reading the original Old Irish:

A. Z. Foreman · "Úar ind adaig" read in Old Irish and in English translation

The Original:

Úar ind adaig i móin móir 
feraid dertan ní deróil
dordán fris tib in gaeth glan
geissid ós caille clithar

Dafydd ap Gwilym: The Seagull (From Welsh)

The Seagull

By Dafydd ap Gwilym

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Seagull floating　on the seething tideflow,
White as moonlight　or wild snow,
Moving in beauty　immaculate, 
As a sunbeam-shard　or sea-gauntlet,
Lightly skimming 　the swell windward,
Swift fish-eating　stately bird
Wont to angle　at anchor with me
Side by side there,　a sea-lily,
Shining letter 　in silvered text,
A nun atop　the sea-tide's crest. 

Perfect girl-symbol 　worth praise in art,
Go for the curves　of castle and rampart.
Keep looking, seagull, 　till you light on her
Gorgeous as Igraine, 　 on the grand tower.
Speak my words 　in sweet concord.
Let her choose me 　and love my word.
If you see her alone 　(since success
With so rare a girl　 takes real deftness)
Then get some nerve　to greet her. Say I,
A well-bred lad,　must win her or die. 

I love that girl, 　my guard of vigor.
No lover has loved 　a lovelier
I'm telling you, men. 　Not Taliesin
Nor flattery-lipped　lusty Merlin.
Such a man-stopper　with copper hair
And superlative form　far too proper.

Oh yes, good gull 　if you do come
To that most charming cheek　 in Christendom,
Unless she answers 　my love kindly
That girl will mean　the end of me.

Audio of me reading the original Welsh:

A. Z. Foreman · "Yr Wylan" by Dafydd ap Gwilym read in Welsh and English translation

The Original:

Yr Wylan

Yr wylan deg ar lanw, dioer,

Unlliw ag eiry neu wenlloer,

Dilwch yw dy degwch di,

Darn fel haul, dyrnfol heli.

Ysgafn ar don eigion wyd,

Esgudfalch edn bysgodfwyd.

Yngo'r aud wrth yr angor

Lawlaw â mi, lili môr.

Llythr unwaith lle'th ariannwyd,

Lleian ym mrig llanw môr wyd.

Cyweirglod bun, cai'r glod bell,

Cyrch ystum caer a chastell.

Edrych a welych, wylan,

Eigr o liw ar y gaer lân.

Dywaid fy ngeiriau dyun,

Dewised fi, dos hyd fun.

Byddai'i hun, beiddia'i hannerch,

Bydd fedrus wrth fwythus ferch

Er budd; dywaid na byddaf,

Fwynwas coeth, fyw onis caf.

Ei charu'r wyf, gwbl nwyf nawdd,

Och wŷr, erioed ni charawdd

Na Merddin wenithfin iach,

Na Thaliesin ei thlysach.

Siprys dyn giprys dan gopr,

Rhagorbryd rhy gyweirbropr.

Och wylan, o chai weled

Grudd y ddyn lanaf o Gred,

Oni chaf fwynaf annerch,

Fy nihenydd fydd y ferch.

Thankful for a Stormy Night (From Old Irish)

This short piece was written by a monk in the margin of an Irish manuscript of Priscian's Institutiones grammaticae. The poem's author welcomes a stormy night free from the risk of attacking Vikings, and supplies us with our earliest attestation of the Irish name for Scandinavia.  

Thankful for a Stormy Night

Anonymous (9th century)

Translated by A.Z. Foreman from Old Irish

Bitter wild winds blow tonight,
Tossing the sea's tress to white.
Good. I don't fear clear seas may
Bring berserkers from Norway.

Audio of me reading the original Old Irish:

A. Z. Foreman · "Is acher in gáeth" read in reconstructed Old Irish pronunciation

The Original:

Is aicher in gáeth in nocht
fu·fúasna fairrge findḟolt;
ní·águr réimm Mora Minn
dond láechraid lainn úa Lothlind

"Summer's Gone" (From Old Irish)

"Summer's Gone"

Anonymous

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Here's my song.   Sad stags moan.

Winter blows,   summer's gone.

High winds lash.    Low, the sun.

Short, its course.   Seas roar on.

Fall-red fern   loses form.

Wildgeese wail   as the norm.

Cold now holds   each bird's wing.

Icy times.   So I sing.

The Original:

Scél lemm dúib   dordaid dam

snigid gaim   ro·fáith sam

Gáeth ard úar   ísel grían

gair a r-rith   ruirthech rían

Rorúad rath   ro·cleth cruth 

ro·gab gnáth   giugrann guth

Ro·gab úacht   etti én

aigre ré   é mo scél

T. H. Parry Williams: Return (From Welsh)

Return
T. H. Parry-Williams

Translated by A. Z. Foreman

The tumults of the world can never move
Heaven's silence. This earth's cries will not distress
The power of the peace which lies above
The great expanse's touchless nothingness. 
All man's and world's commotion here below
Cannot disturb that peace, will never purl
The distances whose turns and courses so
Impose pure quiet in their rapid whirl.
And as our journeying with all we are
From our birth-wail until the final whine
Is but time's ripple, shadow of a scar
On that vast muteness, mild and superfine,
Forever fleeing this foolish bother, we
Slip back into that great tranquility.

Me reading the original Welsh:

A. Z. Foreman · "Dychwelyd" by T. H. Parry Williams read in Welsh and in my English translation

The Original:

Dychwelyd

Ni all terfysgoedd daear byth gyffroi

distawrwydd nef; ni sigla lleisiau’r llawr

rymuster y tangnefedd sydd yn toi

diddim diarcholl yr ehangder mawr;

ac ni all holl drybestod dyn a byd

darfu’r tawelwch nac amharu dim

ar dreigl a thro’r pellterau sydd o hyd

yn gwneuthur gosteg â’u chwyrnellu chwim.

Ac am nad ydyw’n byw ar hyd y daith,

o gri ein geni hyd ein holaf gŵyn,

yn ddim ond crych dros dro neu gysgod craith

ar lyfnder esmwyth y mudandod mwyn,

ni wnawn, wrth ffoi am byth o’n ffwdan ffôl,

ond llithro i’r llonyddwch mawr yn ôl.

Vasyl Stus: A Hundred Years (From Ukrainian)

A Hundred Years Since Sich Went Down

By Vasyl' Stus

Translated by A. Z. Foreman

A hundred years since Sich* went down.

Siberia. Cells in Solovkí**.

And dead of night wraps right around

A hellhole land and hellish scream.

A hundred years of tortured dreams,

Of expectations, faith and blood

Of sons all branded for their love,

A hundred hearts like blazing beams.

And from their bast shoes they grow up,

From cossack breeches on the plain,

From smokey huts slaves grow to sons

Of their one mother, their Ukraine.

You will no longer perish, stout

Land sacked and slaved for centuries. 

Oppressors cannot choke you out

With Siberias or Solovkís.

You are still suffering in pain,

You are still ripped and raggedy,

But, tough already and untamed,

You have stood tall for liberty.

Your mother's milk was anger. Now

You'll get no peace from it. It will 

Keep growing, growing, growing till

The final prison doors go down,

And with a joyful, thunderous roar

The sky drops lightning bolts, as words

That are Shevchenko's*** prophet birds

Over the Dnipro's waters soar.

*Sich - main encampment of the Ukrainian Cossacks until Catherine II ordered it destroyed

** Solovkí — the Solovkí islands were home to an infamous Soviet concentration camp that bore their name. 

***Ukraine's national poet

Audio of me reading the original Ukrainian:

A. Z. Foreman · "A Hundred Years" by Vasyl Stus, read in Ukrainian and in my English translation

The Original:

Сто років як сконала Січ.

Сибір. І соловецькі келії.

І глупа облягає ніч

пекельний край і крик пекельний.

Сто років мучених надій,

і сподівань, і вір, і крові

синів, що за любов тавровані,

сто серць, як сто палахкотінь.

Та виростають з личаків,

із шаровар, з курної хати

раби зростають до синів

своєї України-матері.

Ти вже не згинеш, ти двожилава,

земля, рабована віками,

і не скарать тебе душителям

сибірами і соловками.

Ти ще виболюєшся болем,

ти ще роздерта на шматки,

та вже, крута і непокірна,

ти випросталася для волі,

ти гнівом виросла. Тепер

не матимеш од нього спокою,

йому ж рости і рости, допоки

не упадуть тюремні двері.

І радісним буремним громом

спадають з неба блискавиці,

Тарасові провісні птиці —

слова шугають над Дніпром.

Hryhoriy Chubay: Half a Breath (From Ukrainian)

This translation was originally published in EastWest Literary Forum

Half a Breath

By Hryhoriy Chubay

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

When I am half a breath off from your lips,
When I am half a step away from you you — 

Your pupils are all woven out of wonder
And in your eyes it's all boundless and blue

You whisper something quiet and bewitched.
That whisper bluely cuts my quiet through
And I forget that I know how to breathe,
And I forget my feet can walk to you. 

Your eyelids' raven rises black in flight
And whisks my confidence somewhere remote,
Now half a step is left behind unwalked
And half a breath is stuck here in my throat.

Your pupils are all woven out of wonder

And in your eyes it's all boundless and blue

But there is half a breath left to your lips
And half a step left from my lips to you.    

Recording of the Original:

A. Z. Foreman · "Half A Step" by Hryhoriy Chubay, read in Ukrainian and in my English translation

The Original:

Коли до губ твоїх

Григорій Чубай

Коли до губ твоїх лишається півподиху,

Коли до губ твоїх лишається півкроку -

Зіниці твої виткані із подиву,

В очах у тебе синьо і широко.

Щось шепчеш зачаровано і тихо ти,

Той шепіт мою тишу синьо крає.

І забуваю я, що вмію дихати,

І що ходити вмію, забуваю.

А чорний птах повік твоїх здіймається

І впевненість мою кудись відмає.

Неступленим півкроку залишається,

Півподиху у горлі застрягає.

Зіниці твої виткані із подиву,

В очах у тебе синьо і широко,

Але до губ твоїх лишається півподиху,

До губ твоїх лишається півкроку.