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.

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.

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!

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 should something of me survive my end

without completely vanishing away

and be discovered by some heart-matched friend

by chance near Snowdon in the dusky 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

Neruda: Poem XVII from 'One Hundred Love Sonnets' (From Spanish)

Poem XVII from "One Hundred Love Sonnets"

By Pablo Neruda

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Comissioned by Mary Reid Bogue 

I love you not as if you were a rose of salt, topaz

or arrow of fire-popagating carnations:

I love you with the love of certain darkling things,

in secret, in between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that does not flower but bears

within itself concealed, those flowers' light,  

and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose

from earth lives on, and darkly, in my body. 

I love you knowing not how, nor when nor whence,

I love you straightforwardly with neither pride nor problem:

so do I love you because I know no other way to love, 

than in this form in which I am not and you aren't

so close that your hand on my chest is mine,

so close that your eyes close with my dream.

If you want to hear me read the original text, head on over here

The Original:

No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.

Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.

Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,

sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.

Francisco de Quevedo: Giganton (From Spanish)

A gigante or gigantón was an enormous stuffed effigy paraded through town streets on certain holidays during the Middle Ages and early Renaissance. They were usually made out of flammable materials, and were often set on fire in celebration. This sonnet has been misunderstood by many — even trained hispanists — who didn't grasp that this poem's "giant" is in fact such a gigantón. Willis Barnstone, for example, completely misses this in his translation and so bungles a number of lines which don't make much sense unless one knows what a gigantón is.

Disillusionment with External Appearances, whence an Examination of Inner Truth
By Francisco de Quevedo
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

See how that paunchy wicker-giant struts
Along the street, all pride and gravity?
Well, he's got rags and kindling-brush for guts.
A flunkey props him up for all to see,
Whose soul he feeds upon to move as well.
He waves his grandeur anywhere he wants,
But any who examine his stiff shell
Will sneer at all that frippery he flaunts.

Such is the seeming splendor of the vile 
Tyrants who live by ludicrous illusion, 
An eminent, fantastic garbage pile. 
See how they blaze in purple as they girt
Their hands with gems in colorful profusion. 
Inside, they are all nausea, worms, and dirt.


The Original:

Desengaño de la Exterior Aparencia, con el Examen Interior y Verdadero

¿Miras este Gigante corpulento
Que con soberbia y gravedad camina?
Pues por de dentro es trapos y fajina,
Y un ganapán le sirve de cimiento.
Con su alma vive y tiene movimiento,
Y adonde quiere su grandeza inclina,
Mas quien su aspecto rígido examina
Desprecia su figura y ornamento.

Tales son las grandezas aparentes
De la vana ilusión de los Tiranos,
Fantásticas escorias eminentes.
¿Veslos arder en púrpura, y sus manos
En diamantes y piedras diferentes?
Pues asco dentro son, tierra y gusanos.

Notas Léxicas:

Fajina: conjunto de ramitas, cortezas y otros despojos de las plantas, que se solía emplear para hacer rellenos de diversas clases; en este case, la materia de la que se compone el gigantón.

Escorias: en un sentido literal, las heces vidriosas que flotan a la superficie de los hornos de fundir metales; y en otro figurado, cualquier cosa vil, desechada y de ningún valor.

Góngora: On The Deceptive Brevity of Life (From Spanish)

On the Deceptive Brevity of Life 
By Luís de Góngora
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Less did the speedy bowshot arrow seek
its destined target than it sharply bit!
And no more silently did chariot streak 
round to its goal across dumb sand and grit
than hastens toward its end, invisibly
harried, this time of ours. He that would doubt
(a beast bereft of reason though he be) 
has a black star in each sun coming out. 
Carthage proclaims it. How can you not know? 
You dice with danger, friend, while yet you chase
shadows and cling to fraud against your fears. 
Think not the hours will spare you as they go,
the hours forever grinding down the days,
the days as ever gnawing up the years.

The Original:

De la Brevedad Engañosa de la Vida

Menos solicitó veloz saeta
Destinada señal, que mordió aguda!
Agoral carro por la arena muda
No coronó con mas silencio meta
Que presurosa corre, que secreta
a su fin nuestra edad. A quien lo duda,
(fiera que sea de razón desnuda)
cada sol repetido es un cometa.
Confiéssalo Cartago ¿y tu lo ignoras?
Peligro corres Licio, si porfías
en seguir sombras y abraçar engaños.
Mal te perdonarán a ti las horas;
las horas que limando están los días,
los días que royendo están los años. 

Camoes: Hopeless Case (From Portuguese)

Hopeless Case
By Luís de Camões
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

They all consider me a hopeless case
Seeing me so addicted to my cares,
Cutting myself off from the human race,
Forgotten in humanity's affairs. 
But I who trekked bent double round the globe
And learned the way of it from sea to sea,
Deem him a clueless, vulgar little rube
Who's not known my refining agony. 

So land and sea and winds revolve and roll. 
Let other men quest after wealth and fame,
Conquering cold, cast-iron, calm and flame.
Leave me alone to honest beggary 
Happily bearing to eternity 
Your gorgeous face incised upon my soul.

The Original:

Julga-me a gente toda por perdido,
Vendo-me, tão entregue a meu cuidado,
Andar sempre dos homens apartado,
E de humanos commercios esquecido.
Mas eu, que tenho o mundo conhecido,
E quasi que sôbre elle ando dobrado,
Tenho por baixo, rustico, e enganado
Quem não he com meu mal engrandecido.

Vá revolvendo a terra, o mar, e o vento,
Honras busque e riquezas a outra gente,
Vencendo ferro, fogo, frio e calma.
Que eu por amor sómente me contento
De trazer esculpido eternamente
Vosso formoso gesto dentro da alma.

Camoes: The Day I Was Born (From Portuguese)

The Day I Was Born
Luís Vaz de Camões
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Let the day I was born die and be gone
Forever from all time that is or was. 
Let it never return or, if it does, 
Let an eclipse bear down upon the sun,

Let it black out and light go on the run,
The world show signs of readying to die,
And monsters spawn and blood rain from the sky,
And mother be a stranger to her son.

Then let the people, ignorant and dazed,
Face pale in tears, ghastliness in the heart,
Reckon the world already come apart.   

O timid creatures, do not be amazed
That this day of all days beheld the birth
Of the most cursèd goddamned wretch on earth. 

The Original:

O dia em que eu nasci, morra e pereça,
Não o queira jamais o tempo dar,
Não torne mais ao mundo e, se tornar,
Eclipse nesse passo o sol padeça.

A luz lhe falte, o sol se lhe escureça,
Mostre o mundo sinais de se acabar,
Nasçam-lhe monstros, sangue chova o ar,
A mãe ao próprio filho não conheça.

As pessoas pasmadas, de ignorantes,
As lágrimas no rosto, a cor perdida,
Cuidem que o mundo já se destruiu.

Ó gente temerosa, não te espantes,
Que este dia deitou ao mundo a vida
Mais desgraçada que jamais se viu!

Vyacheslav Ivanov: Love (From Russian)

Love
By Vyacheslav Ivanov
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

We are two tree-trunks lightning struck alight,
Two flames of midnight woodland by the sea.
We are two meteors soaring through the night,
The two-tipped arrow of one destiny, 
We are two steeds whose rein a single right
Hand holds. One spur pricks them to harmony.
We are the two eyes of a single sight,
Two quavering wings of a sole reverie.

We are two shades that come to grieve together
Over the marble of a godly tomb
Where ancient Beauty rests in peace forever.
The two-voiced lips where single mysteries cross, 
We are one Sphinx that both ourselves subsume. 
We are two arms of one united cross.

Audio of me reciting this poem in Russian


The Original:

Любовь

Mы – двa грозой зaжжённыe стволa,
двa плaмeни полуночного борa;
Mы – двa в ночи лeтящих мeтeорa,
Oдной судьбы двужaлaя стрeлa.
Mы – двa коня, чьи дeржит удилa
Oднa рукa, – однa язвит их шпорa;
двa окa мы eдинствeнного взорa,
Meчты одной двa трeпeтных крылa.

Mы – двух тeнeй скорбящaя чeтa
Haд мрaмором божeствeнного гробa,
Гдe дрeвняя почиeт Крaсотa.
Eдиных тaйн двуглaсныe устa,
Ceбe сaмим мы Cфинкс eдиный обa.
Mы – двe руки eдиного крeстa.

Quevedo: Brevity and Nullity (From Spanish)

Brevity and Nullity
(Describing his life's brevity and how the life he has lived seems nothing)
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

　"Is any life home?" Can none answer me?　
"Help!" All my yesteryears are wasted here. 　
Fate has chawed off my every day and year, 　
my hours gone under in insanity. 　
　How powerless, I cannot even see
where or how time and health have fled my gaze. 　
My life went missing. Now I just have days　
alive, beset by all catastrophe.　
　The past is gone. Tomorrow never is.  
The now spares not a second on the go.　
I am a Was, a Will, a weary Is. 　
　To now, tomorrow and the past I sew
diaper and winding-sheet, remaining this　
succession of deceased and long ago. 　

Audio of me reciting this poem in Spanish:


The Original:

Represéntase la brevedad de lo que vive y cuán nada parece lo que se vivió

   ¡Ah de la vida! Nadie me responde?
Aquí de los antaños que he vivido;
la fortuna mis tiempos ha mordido;
las horas mi locura las esconde.
   ¡Que sin poder saber cómo ni adónde,
la salud y la edad se hayan huído!
Falta la vida, asiste lo vivido
y no hay calamidad que no me ronde.
   Ayer se fue, mañana no ha llegado,
hoy se está yendo sin parar un punto;
soy un fue, y un seré y un es cansado.
   En el hoy, y mañana, y ayer, junto
pañales y mortaja, y he quedado
presentes sucesiones de difunto.

Michelangelo: "Sulfur Heart" for Tommaso de' Cavalieri (From Italian)

For Tommaso de' Cavalieri
By Michelangelo Buonarroti
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

　With sulfur heart, with wickerwork for flesh,
with bones of drywood kindling, with a soul　
that has no guide and no way to control　
impulse desire and its wayward excess,　
　with a brain blind and stumbling under stress
in pits of tar, in the world's snaring lash,　
it's no great wonder if I, in a flash,　
blaze at the first thing I see incandesce.   　
　If human hands that bear art from on high
can conquer nature, bending it to art　
though every thing be stamped with its proud name,　
　and I was born alert with ear and eye
for this, matched with the thief who torched my heart,　
the blame is His who fated me for flame. 　

The Original:

　Al cor di zolfo, a la carne di stoppa,
a l'ossa che di secco legno sieno;　
a l'alma senza guida e senza freno　
al desir pronto, a la vaghezza troppa;　
　a la cieca ragion debile e zoppa
al vischio, a' lacci di che 'l mondo è pieno;　
non è gran maraviglia, in un baleno　
arder nel primo foco che s'intoppa.　
　A la bell'arte che, se dal ciel seco
ciascun la porta, vince la natura,　
quantunche sé ben prema in ogni loco;　
　s'i' nacqui a quella né sordo né cieco,
proporzionato a chi 'l cor m'arde e fura,　
colpa è di chi m'ha destinato al foco.　

Quevedo: How All Things Warn of Death (From Spanish)

How All Things Warn Of Death
By Francisco de Quevedo y Villegas
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

     I looked upon the walls of my old land,
so strong once, and now moldering away,
worn out by Time's long march, day after day,
which had already sapped their will to stand.
      I went out to the country, saw the sun 
drink up the streams unfettered from the frost,
and cattle groan how light of day was lost
to woodland, with its shadows overrun.
      I went into my home, but saw the crude 
and rotted ruins of an agèd room;
my cane gone weak and crooked in the grime.
     I felt my sword surrendering to Time
and nothing of the many things I viewed
reminded me of anything but Doom.

Audio of me reading this poem in Spanish


The Original:

Enseña Cómo Todas Las Cosas Avisan de la Muerte

     Miré los muros de la patria mía,
si un tiempo fuertes, ya desmoronados,
de la carrera de la edad cansados,
por quien caduca ya su valentía.
     Salíme al campo; vi que el sol bebía
los arroyos del yelo desatados,
y del monte quejosos los ganados,
que con sombras hurtó su luz al día.
     Entré en mi casa; vi que, amancillada,
de anciana habitación era despojos;
mi báculo, más corvo y menos fuerte.
     Vencida de la edad sentí mi espada,
y no hallé cosa en que poner los ojos
que no fuese recuerdo de la muerte.

Borges: Ewigkeit (From Spanish)

Ewigkeit
Jorge Luis Borges
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Let Spanish verse turn on my tongue, affirm
Once more in me what it has always said
Since Seneca in Latin: that true dread
Sentence that all is fodder for the worm.
Let it turn back with song to hail pale ashes,
Death's calends and the final victory
Of that word-ruler queen whose footfall smashes
The banners of our empty vanity.

Not that. I'll cravenly deny not one
Thing that has blessed my clay. I know of all
Things, one does not exist: oblivion.
That in eternity beyond recall 
The precious things I've lost stay burning on:
That forge, that risen moon, that evening-fall.

Audio of me reading this poem in Spanish


The Original:

Ewigkeit
Jorge Luis Borges

Torne en mi boca el verso castellano
a decir lo que siempre está diciendo
desde el latín de Séneca: el horrendo
dictamen de que todo es del gusano.
Torne a cantar la pálida ceniza,
los fastos de la muerte y la victoria
de esa reina retórica que pisa
los estandartes de la vanagloria.

No así. Lo que mi barro ha bendecido
no lo voy a negar como un cobarde.
Sé que una cosa no hay. Es el olvido;
sé que en la eternidad perdura y arde
lo mucho y lo precioso que he perdido:
esa fragua, esa luna y esa tarde.

Bian Zhilin: Air Force Fighters (From Chinese)

Written some time between 1937 and 1940.

Air Force Fighters
Biàn Zhīlín
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

With lightning and with thunder
Defend the skies of light
Defend the clouds of white
Dark smudges come to plunder

Falcons of liberty
Linked earthward from the skies
To keep our country clear
You have sharp eyes

Lighter than feathers you fly
Weightier than Mount Tai
Freely in your duty and deadly arts
 
Immortals of the sky
Who in five minutes die
In a hundred million worrying hearts
 
Notes:

L9-10: The first two lines (which literally read "lighter than a wildgoose feather, heavier than Mt. Tai"), both proverbial idioms in Chinese, are an allusion to a passage from the famous Letter to Ren An by the Han dynasty historian Sīmǎ Qiān. The passage reads: a man may die but once, and whether death is to him as weighty as Mount Tai, or light as a goosefeather, depends on why he dies and what for. The most important thing is not to disgrace one's ancestors.

L11: literally "free and easy (carefree) within your responsibility." The "free and easy" is a callback to a chapter of Zhuangzi.


The Original:
 

空軍戰士　　　Kōngjūn Zhànjī
卞之琳　　　　Biàn Zhīlín

要保衛藍天，　Yào bǎowèi lántiān,
要保衛白雲，　yào bǎowèi báiyún,
不讓打污印，　bù ràng dǎ wū yìn,
靠你們雷電。　kào nǐmen léidiàn.

與大地相連，　Yǔ dàdì xiānglián,
自由的鷲鷹，　zìyóude jiùyīng,
要山河乾淨，　yào shānhé gānjìng,
你們有敏眼。　nǐmen yǒu mǐn yǎn.

也輕於鴻毛，　Yě qīng yú hóngmáo,
也重於泰山，　yě zhòng yú tàishān,
責任內消遙，　zérèn nèi xiāo yáo,

勞苦的人仙！　láokǔde rénxiān!
五分鐘死生，　Wǔ fēnzhōng sǐshēng,
千萬顆憂心！　qiānwàn kē yōuxīn!

Zheng Min: Death of a Poet #2 (From Chinese)

From Death of a Poet (Poem 2 of 19)
By Zheng Min
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Songs never sung aloud
Dreams incompletely dreamt
stare down at me from the edge of a cloud
like migrant birds in fog's bewilderment

Here the primordial age is just beginning
but sans the dinosaur's vitality
history wanders lost in the confusion
spring will not arrive so easily

Take away the notes you did not sing
Take away your incompletely painted dream
On that side: sky 　and on the other: earth

Already the long long lines carrying
true feelings long ago washed clean
compose our story's sequel going forth

The Original:

没有唱出的歌　　　　　　　Méiyǒu chàng chūde gē
没有做完的梦　　　　　　　Méiyǒu zuò wánde mèng
在云端向我俯窥　　　　　　zài yúnduān xiàng wǒ fǔkuī  
候鸟样飞向迷茫　　　　　　hòuniǎo yàng fēi xiàng mímáng

这里洪荒正在开始　　　　　zhèlǐ hónghuāng zhèngzài kāishǐ
却没有恐龙的气概　　　　　què méiyǒu kǒnglóngde qìgài
历史在纷忙中走失　　　　　lìshǐ zài fēn mángzhōng zǒushī
春天不会轻易到来　　　　　chūntiān bú huì qīngyì dàolái

带走吧你没有唱出的音符　　dàizǒu ba nǐ méiyǒu chàngchūde yīnfú
带走吧你没有画完的梦境　　dàizǒu ba nǐ méiyǒu huàwánde mèngjìng
天的那边，地的那面　　　　tiān dì nàbiān dì dì nà miàn

已经有长长的从伍一　　　　yǐjīng yǒu zhǎngde cóng wǔyī
带着早已洗净的真情　　　　dài zhe zǎoyǐ xǐ jìngde zēngqíng
把我们的故事续编。　　　　bă wŏmende gùshì xùbiān

Zheng Min: Death of a Poet # 1 (From Chinese)

From Death of a Poet (Poem 1 of 19)
By Zheng Min
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Who is it, who is it who's
the one whose mighty fingers break
This winter day's narcissus, make
the white juice ooze

out of jade green and scallion-white stems?
Who is it, who is it
Who is it whose mighty fist
shattered this elegant antique vase to bits?

Who makes the juice of life
gush from the breast?
The narcissus is withering

Destruction of the illusions of a new wife
is the hand that makes a life
taking back a song with more to sing

The Original:

是谁，是谁　　　　　　Shì shéi, shì shéi
是谁的有力的手指　　　shì shéi de yǒulì de shóuzhǐ
折断这冬日的水仙　　　zhéduàn zhè dōngrì de shuǐxiān
让白色的汁液溢出　　　ràng báisè de zhīyè yìchū

翠绿的，葱白的茎条？　cuìlǜ de, cōngbái de jīng tiáo?
是谁，是谁　　　　　　Shì shéi, shì shéi
是谁的有力的拳头　　　shì shéi de yǒulì de quántóu
把这典雅的古瓶砸碎　　bǎ zhè diányǎ de gǔ píng zá suì

让生命的汁液　　　　　ràng shēngmìng de zhīyè
喷出他的胸膛　　　　　pēn chū tā de xiōngtáng
水仙枯萎　　　　　　　shuǐxiān kūwěi

新娘幻灭　　　　　　　xīnniáng huànmiè
是那创造生命的手掌　　shì nà chuàngzào shēngmìng de shóuzhǎng
又将没有唱完的歌索回　yòu jiāng méiyǒu chàng wán de gē suǒ huí

Gwenallt Jones: Wales (From Welsh)

Wales
By Gwenallt Jones
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Why give us all this misery? The wrack
Of pain on flesh and blood like leaden weight,
Your language on our shoulders like a sack,
And your traditions fetters round our feet?
The canker rots your colors everywhere.
Your soul is scabbed with boils. Your song a scream.
In your own land you are but a nightmare
And your survival but a witch's dream.
Still, we can't leave you in the filth to stand
A generation's laughing-stock and jest.
Your former freedom is our sword in hand,
Your dignity a buckler at our breast.
We'll grip our spears and spur our steeds: go brave
Lest we should shame our fathers in their grave.  

The Original:

Cymru
Gwenallt Jones

Paham y rhoddaist inni'r tristwch hwn,
A'r boen fel pwysau plwm ar gnawd a gwaed?
Dy iaith ar ein hysgwyddau megis pwn,
A'th draddodiadau'n hual am ein traed?
Mae'r cancr yn crino dy holl liw a'th lun,
A'th enaid yn gornwydydd ac yn grach,
Nid wyt ond hunllef yn dy wlad dy hun,
A'th einioes yn y tir ond breuddwyd gwrach.
 Er hyn, ni allwn d'adael yn y baw
Yn sbort a chrechwen i'r genedlaeth hon,
Dy ryddid gynd sydd gleddyf yn ein llaw,
A'th urddas sydd yn astalch ar ein bron,
A chydiwn yn ein gwayw a gyrru'r meirch
Rhag cywilyddio'r tadau yn eu heirch.

Waldo Williams: Wales and Welsh (From Welsh)

Wales and Welsh
By Waldo Williams
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Here are the mountains. One language alone can raise them
And set them in freedom against a sky of song.
Only one pierced the riches of their poverty,
Through the dream of ages, visions of moment, come and gone.
When through thin air the sun cuts carvings on the rocks,
Strong over a chasm, sure over playgrounds of chance,
I know not how they endure, unless the bounds of time
Bound them in turn, in an eternity of dance. 
Fit home for her, their interpreter! No matter what,
We must claim the place and never ask the price.
She's danger's daughter. Wind whips her path, her foot
Where they of the lower air fell and failed to rise.
Till now she's seen her way far clearer than prophets see.
She'll be as young as ever, as full of devilry.  


This poem alludes obliquely to a poem Aros mae'r mynyddoedd mawr (Still the mighty mountains stay) by the lyricist and poetaster John 'Ceiriog' Hughes. It begins

Still the mighty mountains stay
Still the winds about them roar
Still we hear at break of day
Songs of shepherds as of yore....

The Original:

Cymru a Chymraeg

Dyma’r mynyddoedd. Ni fedr ond un iaith eu codi
A’u rhoi yn eu rhyddid yn erbyn wybren cân.
Ni threiddiodd ond un i oludoedd eu tlodi.
Trwy freuddwyd oesoedd, gweledigaethau munudau mân
Pan ysgythro haul y creigiau drwy'r awyr denau,
Y rhai cryf uwch codwm, y rhai saff ar chwaraele siawns
Ni wn i sut y safant onid terfynau
Amser a'u daliodd yn nhro tragwyddoldeb dawns.
Tŷ teilwng i'w dehonglreg! Ni waeth a hapio
Mae'n rhaid inni hawlio'r preswyl heb holi'r pris.
Merch perygl yw hithau. Ei llwybr y mae'r gwynt yn chwipio,
Ei throed lle diffygiai, lle syrthiai, y rhai o'r awyr is.
Hyd yma hi welodd ei ffordd yn gliriach na phroffwydi.
Bydd hi mor ieuanc ag erioed, mor llawn direidi.

Yehuda Amichai: "The lips of dead men..." (From Hebrew)

"The lips of dead men..."
By Yehuda Amichai
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

The lips of dead men whispered thoughtlessly
A single word of silence in the earth.
Already every flower, every tree
Has wildly overdone its springtime birth.

Bandages are torn off, again undressed
The earth does not want healing. It wants pain.
Spring is not peace at all. Spring is not rest
At all. Spring is enemy terrain. 

We went with other lovers on patrol
To see if we could reach our goal.
We were sent to the End of Rainbow Land, 

And we already knew: the dead return;
Already knew: even the storm is borne
Out of a young girl's open hand.

Audio recording of me reading the original Hebrew:


The Original:

שפתי מתים

יהודה עמיחי

שִׂפְתֵי מֵתִים אָמְרוּ מִלָּה בְּלַחַשׁ

בָּאֲדָמָה, שִׂיחָה לְפִי תֻּמָּם,

וּכְבָר הָאִילָנוֹת, בְּלִי כָּל יַחַס,

הִגְזִימוּ נוֹרָאָה בִּפְרִיחָתָם.

הַתַּחְבּוֹשׁוֹת שׁוּב נִקְרָעוֹת בְּכֹחַ,

הָאֳדָמָה אֵינָהּ רוֹצָה מַרְפֵּא, רוֹצָה כְּאֵב.

וְהָאָבִיב אֵינֶנּוּ שֶׁקֶט, לֹא מָנוֹחַ,

וְהָאָבִיב הוּא אֶרֶץ הָאוֹיֵב.

נִשְׁלַחְנוּ עִם זוּגוֹת הָאוֹהֲבִים, 

פַּטְרוֹל אֶל אֶרֶץ-עֵבֶר-קֶשֶׁת,

לִרְאוֹת הַאִם אֶפְשָׁר לָגֶשֶׁת.

וּכְבָר יָדַעְנוּ, הַמֵּתִים שָׁבִים,

וּכְבָר יָדַעְנוּ, גַּם הַסְּעָרָה

יוֹצֵאת עַכְשָׁו מֵחֹפֶן נַעֲרָה.