"Those eyes of yours are two blue sapphires"
By Heinrich Heine
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Those eyes of yours are two blue sapphires
So lovable, so sweet.
Oh, triply lucky is the man
Whom lovingly they greet.
That heart of yours is one white diamond
Pouring its noble beams.
Oh, triply lucky is the man
For whom it lovingly gleams.
Those lips of yours are two red rubies
And none more beautifully move.
Oh, triply lucky is the man
To whom they confess their love.
If only I knew that lucky man
Or caught him anywhere,
I'd drag his ass to the deep green wood
And end his luck right there.
The Original:
"Saphire sind die Augen"
Saphire sind die Augen dein,
Die liebichen, die süßen.
Oh, dreimal glücklich ist der Mann,
Den sie mit Liebe grüßen.
Dein Herz, es ist ein Diamant,
Der edle Lichter sprühet.
Oh, dreimal glücklich ist der Mann,
Für den es lieben glühet
Rubinen sind die Lippen dein,
Mann kann nicht schönre sehen.
Oh, dreimal glücklich ist der Mann,
Dem sie die Liebe gestehen.
Oh, kennt ich nur den glücklichen Mann,
Oh, daß ich ihn nur fände,
So recht allein im grünen Wald,
Sein Glück hat bald ein ende.
Walter Arndt: November Tip (From German)
A November Tip
By Walter Arndt
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me read the original German
Now is the time to come and go
Unnoticed in the street
Before the cognizance of snow
That tracks you by your feet.
From door to door, from house to house
Rumor will mass on you,
And where you trod anonymous
You'll stride in christening view.
Your plan and pace will be the fare
Of hounding guessing-games,
And each will have his "maybe there"
To wager on your aims.
You might feel blessed when everyone
Cares everywhere you go.
If not: best get your going done
Before that blasted snow.
The Original:
Novemberwink
Walter Arndt
Noch ist es Zeit: jetzt komm' und geh
Privat und unbeschwert
Bevor ein Mitwißer aus Schnee'
Von jedem Schritt erfährt.
Von Haus zu Haus ein Klatsch-Gelichter
Folgt Dir von Tür zu Tür;
Du triffst auf taufende Gesichter
Wo anonym Du trabtest hier.
Kurs und Geschwindigkeit vergleicht
Ein rüdes Ratespiel
Und jeder spricht sein "dort vielleicht"
Und wettet auf Dein Ziel.
Vielleicht behagt der Segen Dir
und reizt dich die Idee.
Wenn nicht, mach' Deine Gänge hier
Vor dem verflixten Schnee.
By Walter Arndt
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me read the original German
Now is the time to come and go
Unnoticed in the street
Before the cognizance of snow
That tracks you by your feet.
From door to door, from house to house
Rumor will mass on you,
And where you trod anonymous
You'll stride in christening view.
Your plan and pace will be the fare
Of hounding guessing-games,
And each will have his "maybe there"
To wager on your aims.
You might feel blessed when everyone
Cares everywhere you go.
If not: best get your going done
Before that blasted snow.
The Original:
Novemberwink
Walter Arndt
Noch ist es Zeit: jetzt komm' und geh
Privat und unbeschwert
Bevor ein Mitwißer aus Schnee'
Von jedem Schritt erfährt.
Von Haus zu Haus ein Klatsch-Gelichter
Folgt Dir von Tür zu Tür;
Du triffst auf taufende Gesichter
Wo anonym Du trabtest hier.
Kurs und Geschwindigkeit vergleicht
Ein rüdes Ratespiel
Und jeder spricht sein "dort vielleicht"
Und wettet auf Dein Ziel.
Vielleicht behagt der Segen Dir
und reizt dich die Idee.
Wenn nicht, mach' Deine Gänge hier
Vor dem verflixten Schnee.
Eugenio Montale: "Here is the sign" (From Italian)
"Here is the Sign"
By Eugenio Montale
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Here is the sign: it shivers
over a wall long gone
golden: fretwork of a palm
burnt by the blinding dawn.
A stepping sound descends
the greenhouse and remains
unmuffled by the snow, and still
your life, your blood within my veins
The Original
Ecco il segno; s'innerva
sul muro che s'indora:
un frastaglio di palma
bruciato dai barbagli dell'aurora.
Il passo che proviene
dalla serra sì lieve,
non è felpato dalla neve, è ancora
tua vita, sangue tuo nelle mie vene.
By Eugenio Montale
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Here is the sign: it shivers
over a wall long gone
golden: fretwork of a palm
burnt by the blinding dawn.
A stepping sound descends
the greenhouse and remains
unmuffled by the snow, and still
your life, your blood within my veins
The Original
Ecco il segno; s'innerva
sul muro che s'indora:
un frastaglio di palma
bruciato dai barbagli dell'aurora.
Il passo che proviene
dalla serra sì lieve,
non è felpato dalla neve, è ancora
tua vita, sangue tuo nelle mie vene.
Borges: A Rose and Milton (From Spanish)
A Rose and Milton
By Jorge Luis Borges
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Amid the generations of the rose
That in the deep of ages lie long gone
I want one to be spared oblivion,
Unmarked and undistinguished among those
Bygone. I am bequeathed by destiny
The privilege of bestowing the first name
Upon that silent rose, the last and same
Flower that Milton held and could not see
Before his face. O you vermillion, white
Or yellow rose from a garden long erased,
Your immemorial past, by magic placed
In the one present, is this verse's light:
Gold, ivory, or blood, the shades enclose
You, as his fingers once, invisible rose.
The Original:
Una Rosa Y Milton
De las generaciones de las rosas
que en el fondo del tiempo se han perdido
quiero que una se salve del olvido,
una sin marca o signo entre las cosas
que fueron. El destino me depara
este don de nombrar por vez primera
esa flor silenciosa, la postrera
rosa que Milton acercó a su cara,
sin verla. Oh tú bermeja o amarilla
o blanca rosa de un jardín borrado,
deja mágicamente tu pasado
inmemorial y en este verso brilla,
oro, sangre o marfil o tenebrosa
como en sus manos, invisible rosa.
By Jorge Luis Borges
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Amid the generations of the rose
That in the deep of ages lie long gone
I want one to be spared oblivion,
Unmarked and undistinguished among those
Bygone. I am bequeathed by destiny
The privilege of bestowing the first name
Upon that silent rose, the last and same
Flower that Milton held and could not see
Before his face. O you vermillion, white
Or yellow rose from a garden long erased,
Your immemorial past, by magic placed
In the one present, is this verse's light:
Gold, ivory, or blood, the shades enclose
You, as his fingers once, invisible rose.
The Original:
Una Rosa Y Milton
De las generaciones de las rosas
que en el fondo del tiempo se han perdido
quiero que una se salve del olvido,
una sin marca o signo entre las cosas
que fueron. El destino me depara
este don de nombrar por vez primera
esa flor silenciosa, la postrera
rosa que Milton acercó a su cara,
sin verla. Oh tú bermeja o amarilla
o blanca rosa de un jardín borrado,
deja mágicamente tu pasado
inmemorial y en este verso brilla,
oro, sangre o marfil o tenebrosa
como en sus manos, invisible rosa.
Catullus: Poem 105 (from Latin)
Poem 105: A Prick Named Dick
By Catullus
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original in a reconstruction of what Classical Latin sounded like
Click to hear me recite this translation in English
There once was a prick named Dick1
Who climbed Parnassus too quick,
But the Muse with a scoff
Just jerked him straight off
With a pitchfork. He broke like a stick.
Note: -1- i.e. Mamurra, one of Catullus' long-standing rivals, also apparently a really bad poet.
The Original:
Mentula cōnātur Pipleium scandere montem.
Mūsae furcillīs praecipitem eiciunt.
By Catullus
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original in a reconstruction of what Classical Latin sounded like
Click to hear me recite this translation in English
There once was a prick named Dick1
Who climbed Parnassus too quick,
But the Muse with a scoff
Just jerked him straight off
With a pitchfork. He broke like a stick.
Note: -1- i.e. Mamurra, one of Catullus' long-standing rivals, also apparently a really bad poet.
The Original:
Mentula cōnātur Pipleium scandere montem.
Mūsae furcillīs praecipitem eiciunt.
Rumi: A Hundred Ways to Pray (From Persian)
A Hundred Ways to Pray
By Jalâluddin Rumi
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
We're wasted with pure spirit: drunk today and every day.
Lock down your anguished musings. There is music yet to play.
There are some hundred ways to make prostrations in that Mosque
Where your Beloved's beauty is your Qibla: turn and pray.
The Original:
Tajik Cyrillic:
Romanization:
Imrōz ču har rōz xarābēm, xarāb,
Magšā dar-i andēša u bargīr rabāb.
Sad gūna namāzast u rukū'ast u sujūd,
Ānrā, ki jamāl-i dōst bāšad mihrāb.
Afterthought:
Here's another translation which is as literal as I can make it:
Today, like every day, we are wasted, wasted!
Do not open the door of vexation, rather, take up the rabāb
There are a hundred kinds of prayer, bowing and prostration
For one whose mihrāb is the Beloved's beauty.
Now a commentary:
Line 1: The word rendered above as "wasted" means "ruined, destroyed" but (like the translation) also means "drunk" and is related to the word for wine-tavern (xarābāt)
Line 2: A rabāb is a kind of lute, rather like a zither-harp, played during musical sessions of ecstatic prayer (samā')
Line 3: Namāz is ritual prayer. Rukū' and sujūd are different postures assumed at various stages of prayer.
Line 4: All Muslims must pray in the direction of the Ka'ba in Mecca. The mihrab, or prayer-niche, is in essence a marker pointing the worshiper in that direction. The dōst, or "beloved" is a common name for God in Sufi poetic traditions.
For outrage's sake, here's Coleman Barks' "translation." In my opinion it is prime *headdesk* material for the way in which it erases Rumi's religion. I mean, heck, reading Barks' version you can't even tell that the author is a Muslim!
If today, like every other day
we wake up empty and frightened.
We don't have to open the door to the study
and begin reading.
We can take down a musical instrument.
Let the beauty we love be what we do
there are hundreds of ways
to kneel and kiss the earth
By Jalâluddin Rumi
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
We're wasted with pure spirit: drunk today and every day.
Lock down your anguished musings. There is music yet to play.
There are some hundred ways to make prostrations in that Mosque
Where your Beloved's beauty is your Qibla: turn and pray.
The Original:
امروز چو هر روز خرابیم خراب
مگشا در اندیشه و برگیر رباب
صدگونه نماز است و رکوعست و سجود
آنرا که جمال دوست باشد محراب
مگشا در اندیشه و برگیر رباب
صدگونه نماز است و رکوعست و سجود
آنرا که جمال دوست باشد محراب
Tajik Cyrillic:
Имрӯз чу ҳар рӯз харобем, хароб,
Магшо дари андешаю баргир рабоб.
Сад гуна намоз асту рукӯъ асту суҷуд,
Онро, ки ҷамоли дӯст бошад меҳроб.
Romanization:
Imrōz ču har rōz xarābēm, xarāb,
Magšā dar-i andēša u bargīr rabāb.
Sad gūna namāzast u rukū'ast u sujūd,
Ānrā, ki jamāl-i dōst bāšad mihrāb.
Afterthought:
Here's another translation which is as literal as I can make it:
Today, like every day, we are wasted, wasted!
Do not open the door of vexation, rather, take up the rabāb
There are a hundred kinds of prayer, bowing and prostration
For one whose mihrāb is the Beloved's beauty.
Now a commentary:
Line 1: The word rendered above as "wasted" means "ruined, destroyed" but (like the translation) also means "drunk" and is related to the word for wine-tavern (xarābāt)
Line 2: A rabāb is a kind of lute, rather like a zither-harp, played during musical sessions of ecstatic prayer (samā')
Line 3: Namāz is ritual prayer. Rukū' and sujūd are different postures assumed at various stages of prayer.
Line 4: All Muslims must pray in the direction of the Ka'ba in Mecca. The mihrab, or prayer-niche, is in essence a marker pointing the worshiper in that direction. The dōst, or "beloved" is a common name for God in Sufi poetic traditions.
For outrage's sake, here's Coleman Barks' "translation." In my opinion it is prime *headdesk* material for the way in which it erases Rumi's religion. I mean, heck, reading Barks' version you can't even tell that the author is a Muslim!
If today, like every other day
we wake up empty and frightened.
We don't have to open the door to the study
and begin reading.
We can take down a musical instrument.
Let the beauty we love be what we do
there are hundreds of ways
to kneel and kiss the earth
Catullus: Poem 16 "Pedicabo Ego Vos" (From Latin)
Poem 16
By Catullus
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the Latin in a reconstruction of late classical pronunciation
I'll fuck you up the ass and down the throat,
Anal Aurelius and facial Furius,
For deeming me indecent and effete,
A pansy author writing small soft verses.
A goodly poet's life must needs be pious,
But it's unnecessary in his verses.
Lines lie unspiced, unwanton and unwitty
Until they get indecent, with small, soft
Ticklings enough to stoke the nether needs
Not in young boys, but aged and bushy-backed
Men with arthritis of the crotch. You read
The thousand kisses from one woman packed
In my tight lines, and call me girl? Take note:
I'll fuck you up the ass and down the throat.
The Original:
Pēdīcābō ego vōs et irrumābō
Aurēlī pathice et cinaede Fūrī.
quī mē ex versiculīs meīs putāstīs
quod sunt molliculī parum pudīcum.
nam castum esse decet pium poētam
ipsum, versiculōs nihil necesse est
quī tum dēnique habent salem ac lepōrem
Sī sint molliculī ac parum pudīcī
et quod prūriat incitāre possint
nōn dīcō puerīs sed hīs pilōsīs
quī dūrōs nequeunt movēre lumbōs
Vōs quod mīlia multa bāsiōrum
lēgistis male mē marem putātis.
Pēdīcābō ego vōs et irrumābō
By Catullus
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the Latin in a reconstruction of late classical pronunciation
I'll fuck you up the ass and down the throat,
Anal Aurelius and facial Furius,
For deeming me indecent and effete,
A pansy author writing small soft verses.
A goodly poet's life must needs be pious,
But it's unnecessary in his verses.
Lines lie unspiced, unwanton and unwitty
Until they get indecent, with small, soft
Ticklings enough to stoke the nether needs
Not in young boys, but aged and bushy-backed
Men with arthritis of the crotch. You read
The thousand kisses from one woman packed
In my tight lines, and call me girl? Take note:
I'll fuck you up the ass and down the throat.
The Original:
Pēdīcābō ego vōs et irrumābō
Aurēlī pathice et cinaede Fūrī.
quī mē ex versiculīs meīs putāstīs
quod sunt molliculī parum pudīcum.
nam castum esse decet pium poētam
ipsum, versiculōs nihil necesse est
quī tum dēnique habent salem ac lepōrem
Sī sint molliculī ac parum pudīcī
et quod prūriat incitāre possint
nōn dīcō puerīs sed hīs pilōsīs
quī dūrōs nequeunt movēre lumbōs
Vōs quod mīlia multa bāsiōrum
lēgistis male mē marem putātis.
Pēdīcābō ego vōs et irrumābō
Huw Meirion Edwards: Lullaby (From Welsh)
Lullaby
By Huw Meirion Edwards
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Rock-a-bye baby. It's us and the night.
Rock-a-bye stars and rock-a-bye light.
Now there is nothing left in our reach
Except for the waves that cleanse this beach.
It's us and stars and the miles of sea
Calling up at you and me,
And the lullaby that I recite
Like one long elegy tonight.
It's us and stars that freeze and scrape
And the night of frigid rape
In your blood and in your face:
A yesterday that stays and stays.
Yesterday has locked today.
The womb must seal its scars away.
The cradle of your mother's womb
Must soon become your comfy tomb.
In all your fragility
Child of error, pardon me.
Pardon the sin whose weight I bear
In the name of the flesh we share.
Hush little baby, don't say a word.
It's too late, too cold to be heard.
Tonight we're nobody. A wave
Shall be our cradle and our grave.
The Original:
Hwiangerdd
Si hei lwli, ni a'r nos
Sy rhagor, a'r sêr agos,
A dim o'n blaenau ni'n dau
Ond atyniad y tonnau.
Ni a'r sêr, a'r dyfnder du
Odanom yn ein denu
Suo-gân ei drwmgwsg o
Yn un alargan heno
Ni a'r sêr bradwrus, oer,
A nos y treisio iasoer
Yn dy waed ac yn dy wedd,
Yn ddoe heb iddo ddiwedd.
Ddoe'n y cof am heddiw'n cau,
A chroth yn cuddio'i chreithiau.
Hon, y groth sydd heno'n grud,
Fydd havan dy fedd hefyd.
Yn dy holl eiddilwch di,
Yn ddamwain, maddau imi.
Maddau im y camwedd hwn
Yn enw'r cnawd a rannwn.
Si hei lwli, 'mabi, mae'n
Rhy oer, rhy hwyr i eiriau.
Heno'n neb yr hunwn ni
A'r don yn feddrod inni.
By Huw Meirion Edwards
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Rock-a-bye baby. It's us and the night.
Rock-a-bye stars and rock-a-bye light.
Now there is nothing left in our reach
Except for the waves that cleanse this beach.
It's us and stars and the miles of sea
Calling up at you and me,
And the lullaby that I recite
Like one long elegy tonight.
It's us and stars that freeze and scrape
And the night of frigid rape
In your blood and in your face:
A yesterday that stays and stays.
Yesterday has locked today.
The womb must seal its scars away.
The cradle of your mother's womb
Must soon become your comfy tomb.
In all your fragility
Child of error, pardon me.
Pardon the sin whose weight I bear
In the name of the flesh we share.
Hush little baby, don't say a word.
It's too late, too cold to be heard.
Tonight we're nobody. A wave
Shall be our cradle and our grave.
The Original:
Hwiangerdd
Si hei lwli, ni a'r nos
Sy rhagor, a'r sêr agos,
A dim o'n blaenau ni'n dau
Ond atyniad y tonnau.
Ni a'r sêr, a'r dyfnder du
Odanom yn ein denu
Suo-gân ei drwmgwsg o
Yn un alargan heno
Ni a'r sêr bradwrus, oer,
A nos y treisio iasoer
Yn dy waed ac yn dy wedd,
Yn ddoe heb iddo ddiwedd.
Ddoe'n y cof am heddiw'n cau,
A chroth yn cuddio'i chreithiau.
Hon, y groth sydd heno'n grud,
Fydd havan dy fedd hefyd.
Yn dy holl eiddilwch di,
Yn ddamwain, maddau imi.
Maddau im y camwedd hwn
Yn enw'r cnawd a rannwn.
Si hei lwli, 'mabi, mae'n
Rhy oer, rhy hwyr i eiriau.
Heno'n neb yr hunwn ni
A'r don yn feddrod inni.
Goethe: Mignon's Longing (From German)
Mignon's Longing
By J.W. Goethe
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
You know that land where lemon orchards bloom,
Its golden oranges aglow in gloom,
That land of soft wind blowing from blue sky,
Where myrtle hushes and the laurel's high?
You know that land?
That way! That way
I'd go with you, my love, and go today.
You know that house, its roof on colonnades,
The halls agleam, the rooms of gems and jades?
The marble statues eying all I do:
"Oh wretched child, what have they done to you?”
You know that house?
That way! That way
I'd go with you, my guardian, today.
You know that mountain and its clouded peak?
The path through mist that hooves of donkeys seek?
In caves the ancient dragon-spawn all rove.
The rocks loom high, and rivers burst above.
You know that place?
That way! That way,
O Father, lies our path! Let's go today!
The Original:
Mignons Sehnsucht
Kennst du das Land, wo die Zitronen blühn,
Im dunkeln Laub die Gold-Orangen glühn,
Ein sanfter Wind vom blauen Himmel weht,
Die Myrte still und hoch der Lorbeer steht?
Kennst du es wohl?
Dahin! dahin
Möcht ich mit dir, o mein Geliebter, ziehn.
Kennst du das Haus? Auf Säulen ruht sein Dach.
Es glänzt der Saal, es schimmert das Gemach,
Und Marmorbilder stehn und sehn mich an:
Was hat man dir, du armes Kind, getan?
Kennst du es wohl?
Dahin! dahin
Möcht ich mit dir, o mein Beschützer, ziehn.
Kennst du den Berg und seinen Wolkensteg?
Das Maultier sucht im Nebel seinen Weg;
In Höhlen wohnt der Drachen alte Brut;
Es stürzt der Fels und über ihn die Flut!
Kennst du ihn wohl?
Dahin! dahin
Geht unser Weg! O Vater, laß uns ziehn!
By J.W. Goethe
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
You know that land where lemon orchards bloom,
Its golden oranges aglow in gloom,
That land of soft wind blowing from blue sky,
Where myrtle hushes and the laurel's high?
You know that land?
That way! That way
I'd go with you, my love, and go today.
You know that house, its roof on colonnades,
The halls agleam, the rooms of gems and jades?
The marble statues eying all I do:
"Oh wretched child, what have they done to you?”
You know that house?
That way! That way
I'd go with you, my guardian, today.
You know that mountain and its clouded peak?
The path through mist that hooves of donkeys seek?
In caves the ancient dragon-spawn all rove.
The rocks loom high, and rivers burst above.
You know that place?
That way! That way,
O Father, lies our path! Let's go today!
The Original:
Mignons Sehnsucht
Kennst du das Land, wo die Zitronen blühn,
Im dunkeln Laub die Gold-Orangen glühn,
Ein sanfter Wind vom blauen Himmel weht,
Die Myrte still und hoch der Lorbeer steht?
Kennst du es wohl?
Dahin! dahin
Möcht ich mit dir, o mein Geliebter, ziehn.
Kennst du das Haus? Auf Säulen ruht sein Dach.
Es glänzt der Saal, es schimmert das Gemach,
Und Marmorbilder stehn und sehn mich an:
Was hat man dir, du armes Kind, getan?
Kennst du es wohl?
Dahin! dahin
Möcht ich mit dir, o mein Beschützer, ziehn.
Kennst du den Berg und seinen Wolkensteg?
Das Maultier sucht im Nebel seinen Weg;
In Höhlen wohnt der Drachen alte Brut;
Es stürzt der Fels und über ihn die Flut!
Kennst du ihn wohl?
Dahin! dahin
Geht unser Weg! O Vater, laß uns ziehn!
Catullus: Poem 75 (From Latin)
Poem 75
By Catullus
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
My mind's been laid so low through no fault but yours,
Has lost so much of itself through duty to you
That I can't like you, not for the best you could be,
Nor cease to love you, not for the worst you could do.
The Original:
Hūc est mēns dēducta tuā mea Lesbia culpā
atque ita sē officiō perdidit ipsa suō
ut iam nec bene velle queat tibi sī optima fīās
nec dēsistere amāre omnia sī faciās
By Catullus
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
My mind's been laid so low through no fault but yours,
Has lost so much of itself through duty to you
That I can't like you, not for the best you could be,
Nor cease to love you, not for the worst you could do.
The Original:
Hūc est mēns dēducta tuā mea Lesbia culpā
atque ita sē officiō perdidit ipsa suō
ut iam nec bene velle queat tibi sī optima fīās
nec dēsistere amāre omnia sī faciās
Omar Khayyam: "I want a book of poems..." (From Persian)
"I want a book of poems..."
Omar Khayyam
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original in Persian,
I want a book of poems, some red wine,
Some air to breathe, some bread on which to dine,
With you beside me in some empty ruin.
No Sultan's state will be as sweet as mine.
The Original:
Tungē may-i la'l xwāham o dīwānē
Sadd-i ramaqē bāyad o nisf-i nānē
W-āngah man o to nišasta dar wērānē
Xwaštar buwad az mamlakat-i sultānē.
Tajik Cyrillic:
Note: Yes, this is the one that became really famous in Edward Fitzgerald's translation as:
"A book of verses underneath the bough
A Jug of Wine, a loaf of bread and Thou
Beside me sitting in the wilderness.
O, wilderness were paradise enow."
Omar Khayyam
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original in Persian,
I want a book of poems, some red wine,
Some air to breathe, some bread on which to dine,
With you beside me in some empty ruin.
No Sultan's state will be as sweet as mine.
The Original:
تنگى مى لعل خواهم و ديوانى
سد رمقي بايد و نصف نانى
وانگه من و تو نشسته در و يرانى
خوشتر بود از مملكت سلطانى
Romanization:Tungē may-i la'l xwāham o dīwānē
Sadd-i ramaqē bāyad o nisf-i nānē
W-āngah man o to nišasta dar wērānē
Xwaštar buwad az mamlakat-i sultānē.
Tajik Cyrillic:
тунге майи лаъл хоҳаму дивоне
садди рамақе бояду нисфи ноне
вонгаҳ ман у ту нишаста дар вайроне
хуштар бувад аз мамлакати султоне
Note: Yes, this is the one that became really famous in Edward Fitzgerald's translation as:
"A book of verses underneath the bough
A Jug of Wine, a loaf of bread and Thou
Beside me sitting in the wilderness.
O, wilderness were paradise enow."
Omar Khayyam: "Because my birth was by no choice.." (From Persian)
"Because my birth was by no choice..."
By Omar Khayyam
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Persian
Because my birth was by no choice of mine
And my sure death some other's grim design,
Wine-bearer, do your duty: fill my glass.
We'll drown creation's agony in wine!
The Original:
By Omar Khayyam
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Persian
Because my birth was by no choice of mine
And my sure death some other's grim design,
Wine-bearer, do your duty: fill my glass.
We'll drown creation's agony in wine!
The Original:
چون آمدن به من نبد روز نخست
وین رفتن بی مراد عزمی ست درست
بر خیز و میان ببند ای ساقی چست
کاندوه جهان به می فرو خواهم شست
Romanization:
Čūn āmadanam ba man nabud rōz-i naxust
W-īn raftan-i bēmurād 'azmēst durust
Barxēz o miyān biband ay sāqī-i čust
K-andōh-i jahān ba may firō xwāham šust
Li Bai: Thought on a Quiet Night (From Classical Chinese)
Thought on a Quiet Night
By Li Bai
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Before my bed tonight the moon shone down
I took it instead for frost upon the ground
I lift my head watching the mountain moon
I lower my head missing my northern home
The Original:
(Medieval Chinese transcribed using David Branner's system)
By Li Bai
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Before my bed tonight the moon shone down
I took it instead for frost upon the ground
I lift my head watching the mountain moon
I lower my head missing my northern home
The Original:
(Medieval Chinese transcribed using David Branner's system)
| Han Characters 靜夜思 李白 牀前明月光， 疑是地上霜。 舉頭望山月， 低頭思故鄉。 | Medieval Chinese dzéing3b yà3 si3d lí3d beik2a dzrang3 dzan4 meing3a ngwat3a kwang1 ngi3d dzyí3b drì3c dzyàng3 srang3 kúo3b dou1 màng3 sran2b ngwat3a tei4 dou1 si3d kùo1 hang3 | Modern Chinese Jìng yè sī Lǐ bái Chuáng qián míng yuè guāng, Yí shì dì shàng shuāng. Jǔ tóu wàng shān yuè, Dī tóu sī gù xiāng. |
Omar Khayyam: "This pot once had a mind in love..." (From Persian)
"This pot once had a mind in love..."
Omar Khayyam
Click to hear me recite the original in Persian
This pot once had a mind in love like me,
Held by a lock of hair's captivity.
That handle at its neck was once a hand
Clasping a lover's neck insatiably.
The Original:
Omar Khayyam
Click to hear me recite the original in Persian
This pot once had a mind in love like me,
Held by a lock of hair's captivity.
That handle at its neck was once a hand
Clasping a lover's neck insatiably.
The Original:
این کوزه چو من عاشق زاری بوده است
در بند سر زلف نگاری بودهست
این دسته که بر گردن او میبینی
دستیست که برگردن یاری بودهست
Tajik Cyrillic:
Ин кӯза чӯ ман ошиқи зоре будаст,
Дар банди сари зулфи нигоре будаст.
В-ин даста, ки бар гардани ӯ мебинӣ,
Дастест, ки бар гардани ёре будаст.
Romanization:
Īn kōza ču man 'āšiq-i zārē būdast,
Dar band-i sar-i zulf-i nigārē būdast.
W-īn dasta, ki bar gardan-i ō mēbīnī,
Dastēst, ki bar gardan-i yārē būdast.
Īn kōza ču man 'āšiq-i zārē būdast,
Dar band-i sar-i zulf-i nigārē būdast.
W-īn dasta, ki bar gardan-i ō mēbīnī,
Dastēst, ki bar gardan-i yārē būdast.
Omar Khayyam: "A Call Rose" (From Persian)
"A Call Rose..."
Omar Khayyam
A dawn call from the tavern door for you:
"Up, scalawag! The wine-jugs pour for you.
Come raise another cup and drink before
The jugs of life can pour no more for you."
The Original:
Omar Khayyam
A dawn call from the tavern door for you:
"Up, scalawag! The wine-jugs pour for you.
Come raise another cup and drink before
The jugs of life can pour no more for you."
The Original:
آمد سحری ندا ز میخانهٔ ما
کای رندِ خراباتیِ دیوانهٔ ما
برخیز که پر کنیم پیمانه ز می
زان پیش که پر کنند پیمانهٔ ما
Romanization:
Āmad saharē nidā zi mayxāna-i mā
K-ay rind-i xarābātī-i dīwāna-i mā
Barxēz ki pur kunēm paymāna zi may
Z-ān pēš, ki pur kunand paymāna-i ma
Tajik Cyrillic:
Омад сахаре нидо зи майхонаи мо:
Āmad saharē nidā zi mayxāna-i mā
K-ay rind-i xarābātī-i dīwāna-i mā
Barxēz ki pur kunēm paymāna zi may
Z-ān pēš, ki pur kunand paymāna-i ma
Tajik Cyrillic:
Омад сахаре нидо зи майхонаи мо:
К-эй ринди хароботии девонаи мо,
Бархез, ки пур кунем паймона зи май,
З-он пеш ки пур кунанд паймонаи мо
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