Robert Desnos: Road Trip (From French)

Road Trip

By Robert Desnos

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Now and then on the road we come by vines

with ripened grapes in arm's reach and Oh they

are good! We're off to who knows what next day.

The leaf is handlike in its little lines.

But let us relish wine with holy signs

of youth and human runed desires in code

The glass drunk down, best get back on the road

born as cocks crow to die as the swan pines.

Nevertheless our glasses' imprint lingers

on tablecloth. Soon washerwomen's fingers

will get the stain out sure as water swirls

Cute singing miss That's how a promise passes 

Unbung the barrel Come refill our glasses

to clink and drink at will to sassy girls.

The Original:

Sur La Route

Sur la route parfois on rencontre des vignes 

Dont les raisins mûris sont à portée de main 

Qu’ils sont bons! Et partons où serons-nous demain? 

Car la feuille ressemble à la main par les lignes.

Mais chérissons le vin où se lisent les signes 

sacrés de la jeunesse et des désirs humains 

Le verre est bu, partons reprenons le chemin 

qui naît au chant du coq et meurt au chant du cygne 

Il reste cependant l’empreinte de nos verres 

sur la nappe tracée. Aux mains des lavandières 

La tache partira bientôt au fil de l’eau.

Ainsi vont les serments belle fille qui chantes 

Pour trinquer à plaisir en l’honneur des méchantes 

Remplissez notre verre aux bondes des tonneaux.

Abraham Sutzkever: A Voice From The Heart (From Yiddish)

This poem, written just before the Vilnius ghetto was established, is a call to resistance in the face of Nazi persecution. The theme of Jewish revolt is one that would for obvious reasons permeate a good deal of Sutzkever's work from the 40s.

A Voice From The Heart
By Abraham Sutzkever
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

The heart's voice ordered me: once more

believe in that debased word "Just".

Son of the lion, stand and war

against your slavery. You must.

There is a way. It leads within

wild primal woods of recollection.

There also is a pathogen

that bears a thousand-year infection.

If you want reasons for your ache,

make yourself into what it tells. 

And hear how grandfathers would wake

sons as storms billhooking bronze bells.

There is a way: arise, wayfarer.

Redeem the old snare. Stride and save. 

Death may forgive you any error

but can't forgive you staying a slave.

- Vilna, July 1941

The Original:

אַ שטים פֿון האַרץ

אבֿרהם סוצקעווער

אַ שטים פֿון האַרץ באַפֿעלט מיר: גלייב

אין שוין פֿאַרשוועכטן וואָרט גערעכטשאַפֿט

דער ווײַטער יורש פֿון אַ לייב

מוז ווידערשפּעניקן זײַן קנעכטשאַפֿט

ס׳איז דאָ אַ גאַנג. עס ליגט זײַן ציל

אין ווילדן אורוואַלד פֿון זכּרון.

ס׳איז אויך פֿאַראַן אַזאַ באַצילֹ,

וואָס טראָגט דעם סם פֿון טויזנט יאָרן.

און זוכסטו פֿאַר דײַן פּײַן אַ זין– 

פֿאַרוואַנדל זיך אין איר אַנטפּלעקער,

און הער ווי זיידעס וועקן זין

ווי שטורעמהעק אין בראָנדז פֿון גלעקער. 

ס׳איז דאָ אַ גאַנג. איז קלעטער, שפרײַז,

קויף אויס דעם דורותֿדיקן שטרויכל.

דער טויט איז מוחל יעדער גרײַז,

נאָר זײַן אַ קנעכט איז ער ניט מוחל.

ווילנע, יולי 1941

Victor Hugo: Night of the Fourth: A Remembrance (From French)

After Napoleon III's coup in 1851, Victor Hugo was one of a number of intellectuals who attempted to organize a popular resistance to the new regime. That resistance was violently put down and Hugo went into exile in Jersey under the English crown where he wrote Les Châtiments, a volume dedicated to excoriating Bonaparte and his regime, which included this poem. It recalls the death of a child on the streets of Paris on December 4th, two days after the coup d'état. I see no reason to doubt that the basic facts of the story Hugo tells here actually happened. He certainly was in a position to have experienced it that night. Some details must have been adjusted one way or another. There are differences — some of them mutually exclusive — between Hugo's verse account here and the version of the episode that he would later tell in prose in his Histoire d'un Crime. For example, the woman's complaint is here more straightforward and less confused, and her mention of religion and God here amounts to no more than stock interjections. Aragon's comparison of the two in Hugo, Poète Réaliste is worth reading. 

Night of the Fourth: A Remembrance

By Victor Hugo

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

The boy had got two bullets to the brain.

The flat was decent, neat but small and plain. 

A palm branch over a portrait hung inside.

There was an old grandmother. As she cried

we stripped him silently. His mouth gaped grey.

Death had drowned his eye's last shocked look away.

His arms hung limp as if to beg a prop. 

Inside his pocket was a boxwood top.

The wounds could fit a finger in his head. 

Have you seen blackberries bleed hedges red? 

His skull was split like cordwood cut lengthwise.

We stripped the kid before the woman's eyes

as she said "Goodness is he pale. Here, bring

the lamp. His hair's stuck to his brow. Poor thing."

When it was done, she took him in her lap.

It was so dark. We could still hear the clap

of rifles killing more out in the street.

One of us said "lets wrap him", got a sheet

out of the cupboard. His grandmother stood

to bring him near the fire as if she could

warm the kid's rigored limbs back up again.

Oh anything where death's frost hands have lain

will never warm down here to any heat.

She bent her head, pulled cold socks off his feet,

and her gnarled hands cupped the cadaverous toes.

She yelled "does this not hurt to see? God knows

he was a kid. He wasn't even eight.

He was in school. Teachers thought he was great. 

Whenever I had to write a letter, he

would write it for me. Tell me. What are we 

doing now, killing children? God on high

we're criminals. This morning, right there by

the window, he was playing up the street

they shot him in. Sir, he was good and sweet

as Christ. I'm old. Time's taking me apart.

What all would it hurt Mister Bonaparte 

to have me killed instead of my dear boy?"

She stopped a moment. Sobs began to cloy

her throat. Then she spoke more as we wept too.

"Now I'm alone what am I going to do?

That little boy was the last thing that I

had of his mother. And they shot him. Why? 

Why did they kill him!? Answer me now. Speak!

That child did not yell "Vive La République." 

In silence, hats in shaking hands, we stood

wishing we could console what nothing would. 

Ma'm it's all politics that you don't get. 

Monsieur Napoleon is poor and yet

a prince. A prince wants palaces and courtiers,

he needs his horses and his household porters,

cash for his gaming, for the feasts he's serving

and hunting. And that whole time, he's preserving

society, family, the church and state.

He wants Saint Cloud's prime summer real estate

worshipped by mayors and prefects, among others.

That is the reason why some old grandmothers

with their arthritic hands that time destroys

must stitch the shrouds of seven-year-old boys.

The Original:

Souvenir de la nuit du 4

L'enfant avait reçu deux balles dans la tête.
Le logis était propre, humble, paisible, honnête ;
On voyait un rameau bénit sur un portrait.
Une vieille grand-mère était là qui pleurait.
Nous le déshabillions en silence. Sa bouche,
Pâle, s'ouvrait ; la mort noyait son oeil farouche ;
Ses bras pendants semblaient demander des appuis.
Il avait dans sa poche une toupie en buis.
On pouvait mettre un doigt dans les trous de ses plaies.
Avez-vous vu saigner la mûre dans les haies ?
Son crâne était ouvert comme un bois qui se fend.
L'aïeule regarda déshabiller l'enfant,
Disant : - comme il est blanc ! approchez donc la lampe.
Dieu ! ses pauvres cheveux sont collés sur sa tempe ! -
Et quand ce fut fini, le prit sur ses genoux.
La nuit était lugubre ; on entendait des coups
De fusil dans la rue où l'on en tuait d'autres.
- Il faut ensevelir l'enfant, dirent les nôtres.
Et l'on prit un drap blanc dans l'armoire en noyer.
L'aïeule cependant l'approchait du foyer
Comme pour réchauffer ses membres déjà roides.
Hélas ! ce que la mort touche de ses mains froides
Ne se réchauffe plus aux foyers d'ici-bas !
Elle pencha la tête et lui tira ses bas,
Et dans ses vieilles mains prit les pieds du cadavre.
- Est-ce que ce n'est pas une chose qui navre !
Cria-t-elle ; monsieur, il n'avait pas huit ans !
Ses maîtres, il allait en classe, étaient contents.
Monsieur, quand il fallait que je fisse une lettre,
C'est lui qui l'écrivait. Est-ce qu'on va se mettre
A tuer les enfants maintenant ? Ah ! mon Dieu !
On est donc des brigands ! Je vous demande un peu,
Il jouait ce matin, là, devant la fenêtre !
Dire qu'ils m'ont tué ce pauvre petit être !
Il passait dans la rue, ils ont tiré dessus.
Monsieur, il était bon et doux comme un Jésus.
Moi je suis vieille, il est tout simple que je parte ;
Cela n'aurait rien fait à monsieur Bonaparte
De me tuer au lieu de tuer mon enfant ! -
Elle s'interrompit, les sanglots l'étouffant,
Puis elle dit, et tous pleuraient près de l'aïeule :
- Que vais-je devenir à présent toute seule ?
Expliquez-moi cela, vous autres, aujourd'hui.
Hélas ! je n'avais plus de sa mère que lui.
Pourquoi l'a-t-on tué ? Je veux qu'on me l'explique.
L'enfant n'a pas crié vive la République. -

Nous nous taisions, debout et graves, chapeau bas,
Tremblant devant ce deuil qu'on ne console pas.

Vous ne compreniez point, mère, la politique.
Monsieur Napoléon, c'est son nom authentique,
Est pauvre, et même prince ; il aime les palais ;
Il lui convient d'avoir des chevaux, des valets,
De l'argent pour son jeu, sa table, son alcôve,
Ses chasses ; par la même occasion, il sauve
La famille, l'église et la société ;
Il veut avoir Saint-Cloud, plein de roses l'été,
Où viendront l'adorer les préfets et les maires ;
C'est pour cela qu'il faut que les vieilles grand-mères,
De leurs pauvres doigts gris que fait trembler le temps,
Cousent dans le linceul des enfants de sept ans.

William Auld: Julia on Pandateria (From Esperanto)

Julia on Pandateria
By William Auld
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Esperanto

A life is slowly sinking on this island.
In the long afternoons a spiritless

and dreary wind along the whispery sea,
indifferent in flurrrying up my dress,
chafes up against my memories to bear
witness: death, death...death is still not there.

A threetime wife, a night-voracious lady
who only prized the present all her years,
has come to this amid the skirling gulls:

a vain past and a future dim with tears.
An empty woman pales away as would
a spirit starved of sacrificial blood.

I finally conclude, in this crude place

where flesh will rot in frigid foreign brume,

that my entire life (the wine, the roses,

the stolen kisses crazy with perfume...)

was always empty, cut off and alone.

The world's queen was a carcass with a crown.

When coupled I was most alone, yet sought
happiness where I could, where I was bound
by the compulsions of a curious yearning.
The more I looked and looked, the more I found
simple unhappiness in lovers' joys.
I always fell for all the same old ploys.

That was a different me: a legend heard
once long ago and in a stranger's dream.
What does Rome mean now? Only naked sand,
rocks, the rough-handed wind and seagulls' scream.
Meanwhile my body wilts in apathy
and Rome is all a fever fantasy.

The present has stopped mattering. Time is now 
endless, beginningless eternity,
and my young body, under the betrayal
and wanton pummeling of destiny,
blazes no longer. Drive for joy has fled

and even death has left me living dead.



The Original:

Julia sur Pandaterio
William Auld

Sur ĉi insulo viv’ subiras lante.
Dum longaj posttagmezoj morna vento
apud’ la mar’ susura, agitante
al mi la robon kun indiferento,
miajn memorojn frotas, kaj atestas:
morto, morto, morto… mort’ ne estas.

Edzin’ trifoja, nokt-frandino rava,
kiu la nunon taksis solvalora,
venas al tio ĉi: flutado meva,
paseo vana kaj futuro plora;
virin’ malplena palas kiel spirito
al kiu mankas sang’ de oferito.

Kaj mi konstatas en ĉi loko kruda,
kie la karno putros sub la rosoj
fremdaj kaj frizaj, ke la vivo tuta
- kisoj parfumfrenezaj, vino, rozoj –
ĉiam malplena estis, kaj izola…
Monda reĝin’ kadavris ĉiam sola.

Plej sola dum duopoj, sed mi celis
mian feliĉon, kie mi nur povis
kien sopiro stranga ĉiam pelis,
des pli serĉadis mi, ju pli mi trovis
nur malfeliĉon en la ĝojoj amaj.
Ĉiam surprizis min embuskoj samaj.

Tiu estis alia mi – nur fablo
aŭdita iam en fremdula revo.
Kion signifas Rom’? Ja nuda sablo,
rokoj, krudmana vent’, krianta mevo,
dum mia korpo velkas, apatia,
kaj Romo estas febro fantazia.

Ne plu la nuno gravas. Nun la tempo
estas eterna, sen komenc’, sen fino,
kaj mia juna karno pro la trompo
kaj troa martelado de l’ destino
ne ardas plu, ne plu al ĝoj’ incitas.
Kaj morto mortvivantan min evitas…

Borges: Poem Written in a Copy of Beowulf (From Spanish)

Verses Written in a Copy of Beowulf
By Jorge Luis Borges

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Sometimes I ask myself the reasons why
I'm driven, with no hope of satisfaction
as my night pushes onward now, to try
and learn the language of the roughneck Saxon.

Used up by years, my memory begins
to lose its grip upon the uselessly
repeated word, the way my own life spins
and soon unspins its weary history.

The soul (or so I tell myself) must have
some secret, some sufficent wherewithall
to know it does not end, that its vast, grave
circle can take all in and take on all.

Beyond this yearning and beyond this verse
it waits endless for me: the universe.

The Original:

Composición Escrita en un Ejemplar de la Gesta de Beowulf

A veces me pregunto qué razones

me mueven a estudiar sin esperanza

de precisión, mientras mi noche avanza

la lengua de los ásperos sajones.

Gastada por los años la memoria

deja caer la en vano repetida

palabra y es así como mi vida

teje y desteje su cansada historia.

Será (me digo entonces) que de un modo

secreto y suficiente el alma sabe

que es inmortal y que su vasto y grave

círculo abarca todo y puede todo.

Más allá de este afán y de este verso

me aguarda inagotable el universo.

Wen Yiduo: End of Days (From Chinese)

End of Days

By Wén Yīduō

Translated by A.Z. Foreman 

     Dew sobs in the choked waterpipes' bamboo. 

Green plantain tongues lick at the window like a bone.

    As chalky white walls back away from me

The room is now too huge for me to fill alone.

     I light a firepit up in my heart's chamber.

Waiting for my guest from afar, I hush and brood

     feeding the flame with telltale turds of rats.*

A mottled scaly snakeskin is my kindlewood. 

     The cock crows hurry. Ash heaps in the pit. 

A cold dark wind glances my mouth in one soft blow

     and there's my visitor before my eyes.

I close my eyes at last to follow him and go.

*The original reads literally "spider silk/webs and rat turds", a play on 蛛絲鼠跡 "spider webs and rat traces" which carries the idiomatic meaning of "subtle clues". 

The Original:

末日

聞一多

露水在筧筒裏哽咽着，
芭蕉的綠舌頭舐着玻璃窗，
四圍的堊壁都往後退，
我一人填不滿偌大一間房。

我心房裏燒上一盆火，
靜候着一個遠道的客人來，
我用蛛絲鼠矢餵火盆，
我又用花蛇的麟甲代劈柴。

雞聲直催，盆裏一堆灰，
一股陰風偷來摸着我的口，
原來客人就在我眼前，
我眼皮一閉，就跟着客人走。

Wen Yiduo: Silent Night (From Chinese)

This poem, never published in Wen's lifetime, explores the conflict of a dedicated family man who feels himself called to take risks for his country and for the larger society to which he cannot help but belong. It has been published with two different titles "Heartbeats" and "Silent Night". The latter alludes to a very famous Tang poem by Li Bai whose theme is rather germane.

Silent Night 

By Wen Yiduo

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

This lamp and these four walls bright with its bleach,

this desk and chair like faithful friends in reach,

this paper fragrance of old books beside

my darling teacup white as a chaste bride,

my young son nursing at his mother's breast,

my elder son whose snores announce good health and rest...

This eerie silent night. This rounded peace. These notes

of a thanksgiving hymn swell in my throat

to crack into a cursing diatribe.

No, silent night. I can't — won't take your bribe.

Who can enjoy a peace between four walls in here,

when his world reaches out to real frontiers?

These walls cannot block out the blast of war.

How can they halt my heart pounding? What for?

Better to choke my mouth with mud and sand

than croon the joy or grief of just one man.

Better lend mice my skull to burrow through

and feed this bag of flesh to maggots too,

if for a book of verse, a glass of wine and slight

comfort tick-tocking through a silent night

I fall deaf to my neighbors as they moan,

blind to those orphaned, widowed, shivering alone,

to men twitched dead in trenches, to madmen who chew

their beds, and all the horrors that life grinds us through.

Oh no, good fortune. I can't take your bribe.

My world is not what these walls circumscribe.

Just hear the gunfire! Death is roaring, reaving.

Silent night, how could you keep my heart from heaving?  

The Original:

靜夜

這燈光，這燈光漂白了四壁；
這賢良的棹椅，朋友似的親密；
這古書的紙香一陣陣的襲來；
要好的茶杯貞女一般潔白；
受哺的小兒接呷在母親懷裏，
鼾聲報道我大兒康健的消息……
這神秘的靜夜，這渾圓的和平，
我喉嚨裏顫動著感謝的歌聲。
但是歌聲馬上又變成了詛咒，
靜夜！我不能，不能受你的賄賂。
誰希罕你這牆內尺方的和平！
我的世界還有遼闊的邊境。
這四牆既隔不斷戰爭的喧囂，
你有什麼方法禁止我的心跳？
最好是讓這口裏塞滿了沙泥，
如其它只會唱著個人的休戚！
最好是讓這頭顱給田鼠掘洞，
讓這一團血肉也去餵著屍蟲，
如果只是為了一盃酒，一本詩
靜夜裏鐘擺搖來的一片閒適，
就聽不見了你們四鄰的呻吟，
看不見寡婦孤兒抖顫的身影，
戰壕裏的症攣，瘋人咬著病褟，
和各種慘劇在生活的磨子下。
幸福！我如今不能受你的私賄，
我的世界不在這尺方的牆內。
聽！又是一陣砲聲，死神在咆哮。
靜夜！你如何能禁止我的心跳？

Wen Yiduo: Dead Backwater (From Modern Chinese)

Deadwater

By Wén Yīduō
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Click to hear me recite the original in Chinese

This is a dead ditch rank with despair’s backwater.

A brisk wind can’t raise a ripple from its skin.

Why not junk some more scrap tin and copper here,

or dump your rotten dinner leftovers in.

Maybe the copper will turn to an emerald green,

and peach blossoms bloom out of the tin pots’ rust.

Then let the grease weave a layer of silk brocade

where germs brew a mist like twilit clouds at dusk.

Let the dead ditchwater ferment to green liquor

bubbling up floating pearls out of its white foam,

little pearls growing to bigger pearls in chuckles

that burst when liquor-raiding mosquitos come.

And so a dead ditch rank with despair’s backwater

can claim something lively, bright and all its own.

If the frogs here can’t handle the solitude

this stagnant muck can gurgle them up a tune!

This is a dead ditch rank with despair’s backwater.

No place for a Thing of Beauty in its juice.

Let’s just let Hellion Ugliness culture it

and see what kind of world it can produce.

The Original:

死水　　　　　　　　　Sǐshuǐ
聞一多　　　　　　　　Wén Yīduō

這是一溝絕望的死水，　Zhè shì yìgōu juéwàngde sǐshuǐ,
清風吹不起半點漪淪。　qīngfēng chuī bùqǐ bàndiǎn yìlún
不如多扔些破銅爛鐵，　Bùrú duō rēng xiē pòtóng làntiě,
爽性潑你的剩菜殘羹。　shuǎngxìng pō nǐde shèngcài cángēng.

也許銅的要綠成翡翠，　Yěxǔ tóngde yāo lǜ chéng fěicuì,
鐵罐上鏽出幾瓣桃花；　tiěguàn shàng xiù chū jǐ bàn táohuā;
再讓油膩織一層羅綺，　zài ràng yóunì zhī yì céng luōqǐ,
黴菌給他蒸出些雲霞。　méijūn gěi tā zhēng chū xiē yúnxiá.

讓死水酵成一溝綠酒，　Ràng sǐshuǐ jiàochéng yì gōu lǜjiǔ,
飄滿了珍珠似的白沫；　piāo mǎnle zhēnzhū shìde báimò;
小珠們笑聲變成大珠，　xiǎo zhūmen, xiàoshēng biànchéng dà zhū,
又被偷酒的花蚊咬破。　yòu bèi tōujiǔde huāwén yǎopò.

那麼一溝絕望的死水，　Nàme yì gōu juéwàngde sǐshuǐ,
也就誇得上幾分鮮明。　yějiù kuā déshàng jǐfēn xiānmíng.
如果青蛙耐不住寂寞，　Rúguǒ qīngwā nàibuzhù jìmò,
又算死水叫出了歌聲。　yòusuàn sǐshuǐ jiàochūle gēshēng.

這是一溝絕望的死水，　Zhè shì yì gōu juéwàngde sǐshuǐ,
這裡斷不是美的所在，　zhèlǐ duàn bùshì měide suǒzài,
不如讓給醜惡來開墾，　bùrú ràng géi chǒu'è lái kāikěn,
看他造出個什麼世界。　kàn tā zàochū gè shénme shìjiè.

Lady Bao Junhui: Moon Over Frontier Mountains (From Classical Chinese)

Moon Over Frontier Mountains
By Lady Bao Junhui
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Risen high — the moon of fall
Glows north on a Liaoyang¹ barricade
The border is far — the moon gleams farther
Ice-bows flash as winds invade
Soldiers gaze back — home beats at the heart
And war-steeds balk at the beat of a drum
The north wind grieves in the frontier grass
And barbarous sands hide hordes to come
Frost freezes the swordblade into the sheath
Wind wears the banners to bits on the plain
Oh someday— someday —to bow near the palace
And never hear camp-gongs clang again

¹: Liaoyang- a frontier town which has the distinction of being one of the most fiercely, gruesomely and perennially contested pieces of real estate in Chinese history.


The Original:
(Medieval Chinese transcribed using a system developed by David Branner)

Han Characters　 關山月　　 鮑君徽　 高高秋月明，　 北照遼陽城。　 塞迥光初滿，　 風多暈更生。　 徵人望鄉思，　 戰馬聞鼙驚。　 朔風悲邊草，　 胡沙暗虜營。　 霜凝匣中劍，　 風憊原上旌。　 早晚謁金闕，　 不聞刁斗聲。

Medieval Chinese　 kwan2a sran2b ngwat3a báu2 kwen3a hwi3a kau1 kau1 tshou3b ngwat3a meing3a pek1 tsyàu3 lau4 yang3 dzyeing3b sek1 ghwéing4 kwang1 tshruo3b mán1 pung3b te1 ghwèn3a kèing2a sreing2a treng3 nyen3b màng3 hang3 si3d tsyàn3b má2 men3a bei4 keing3a srok2 pung3b pi3cx pan4 tsháu1 ghuo1 sra2 àm1a lúo1 yweing3b srang3 ngeng3 ghap2b trung3b kàm3a pung3b bèi2b ngwan3a dzyàng3 tseing3b　 tsáu1 mán3a at3a kem3x khwat3a pet3a men3a tau4 tóu1 syeing3b

Modern Chinese　 Guān shān yuè　　 Bào Jūn hūi　　 Gāo gāo qiūyuè míng　　 Běizhào liáoyáng chéng　　 Sāi jiǒng guāng chū mǎn　　 Fēng duō yún gèngshēng　　 Zhēng rén wàng xiāngsī　　 Zhànmǎ wén pí jīng　　 Shuòfēng bēi biān cǎo　　 Hú shā àn lǔ yíng　　 Shuāng níng xiá zhōng jiàn　　 Fēng bèi yuán shàng jīng　　 Zǎowǎn yèjīn què　　 Bù wén diāodǒushēng

Anonymous: "Waiting on Him: A Dunhuang Song" (From Chinese)

A popular song from the mid-Tang dynasty, from a collection recovered in a scroll-cave at Dunhuang. Unlike most Song verse in this genre in the early period (but like most other lyrics in the peculiar collection it is taken from, the 雲謠集) this lyric appears to have been actually composed by a woman, rather than by a man in a woman's voice.

Waiting On Him (To the tune of "Bowing to the Moon")
By Anonymous
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Off to another land my wayward man has gone　
 　But now the new year has well-nigh come
And he hasn't made it home　
 　I hate his love that runs like water　
So reckless and so ready to roam　
He couldn't care less for home　
　Beneath the flowers I turn and pray
 　To the powers of heaven and earth and say 
　　Till this very day
He has left me in this empty room alone　

 I see above me the blues of heaven's dome
　I am sure the moon and stars and sun 　
Must know about my pain　
　I lean at the window-screen alone 　
　And let the tears come streaming down
　　On my gold-beaded silken gown
And cry away at unlucky fate　
 　And how messed up my karma has become
Still I pray I see his face　
 　And I swear I'll give him hell when he gets home


The Original:

拜新月

蕩子他州去　　
已經新歲未還歸
堪恨情如水　　
到處輙狂迷　　
不思家國　　　
花下遙指祝神明
直至于今　　　
拋妾獨守空閨　

上有宆蒼在　　
三光也合遙知　
倚帡幃坐　　　
淚流點滴　　　
金縷羅衣　　　
—自嗟薄命　　
緣業至于思　　
乞求待見面　　
誓辜伊　　　

Li Qingzhao: "A Cut of Plum" (From Classical Chinese)

To the tune "A Cut of Plum"
By Li Qingzhao
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Now fragrance of red lotus fades,    my mat feels autumn-blown.

    I loosen my gauze robe for bed,

    the boat I float in on my own.

Who's sent a lover's brocade letter    this way across the clouds?

    Skywriting geese return as moonlight

    fills the chill tower of one alone.

Flowers fall and scatter on their own    as waters run and drain.

    A singular longing links us in

    two places with one pointless pain.

This feeling clings and I can't find it    in me to put it out.

    It only falls out of my face

    to surface in the heart again.

The Original:

一剪梅
李清照

紅藕香殘玉簟秋。
輕解羅裳，
獨上蘭舟。
雲中誰寄錦書來？
雁字回時，
月滿西樓。

花自飄零水自流。
一種相思，
兩處閒愁。
此情無計可消除，
才下眉頭，
卻上心頭。

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. 

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

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.”