Anonymous: Deor (From Old English)

This poem refers to stock characters — real and fictional — from Germanic lore. Some of the figures are now obscure, and most are not known directly from Old English versions of the story. I have modernized many of the names in my translation, giving them forms that would be plausible as Modern English versions of the name. The biggest exception is Wayland, whose Old English name would actually have been Weeland or Weland had it survived into the modern period.

Wayland (Old English Wéland, Old Norse Vǫlundr, Old High German Wiolant) was a smith renowned for his metal working ability. He was forced to work for Nithad (OE Niþhad, ON Níðuðr) who hamstrung him to stop his escape. Wayland avenged himself by killing the king's sons, raping his daughter Beadild (OE Beadohilde, ON Bǫðvildr). Mathild and Geat are opaque. They appear to be famous lovers that met a tragic end, like Romeo and Juliet, or Layla and Majnun. The ablest guess is that they correspond to Magnhild and Gaute of a Scandinavian ballad tale recorded in the 19th century, but even if so the story as it was known to the poet's English audience may well have differed greatly from the version known from Scandinavia a thousand years later. Thedric is Theodoric, the Ostrogothic emperor who ruled in Italy from 493 to 526. Armenric is Ermanaric the Goth, another famous tyrant, known to us from Beowulf and Widsith. (I confected the form Armenric by positing that the vowel of Eormanric underwent pre-rhotic lowering to /a/ in Late Middle English and, as in most native words, failed to raise again in the Early Modern period. Eormanric becomes Armenric just like "feorr", "deorc" do "far", "dark".)

The phonology of my recording below is not based on the extant West Saxon text in the Exeter Book. That'd be too easy and I wanted to do something different. Trying to date a poem as short as this is difficult, but its subject matter and in particular its preservation of genuine Old English reflexes of mythical proper names suggests that it isn't much younger than the 9th century if that. I based my reading on the Mercian dialect recorded in the Vespasian Psalter. Thus vowel length has collapsed in inflectional endings, /ĕ̄o/ and /ĭ̄o/ have merged, and Mercian second fronting is in full effect. The text shown in the video is meant to give an idea of what the text in the Exeter Book might have looked like if it were copied out faithfully from a Mercian exemplar.

Deor
By Anonymnous
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Wayland in Wormland went through harrows,
The strongminded smith suffered in exile.
Worry and longing  walked beside him,
winter-raw anguish. He ached for escape
after King Nithad cramped his sinews 
and bound a slave of the better man.

That passed in time. So too can this. 

To Beadild's mind her brothers' deaths
weren't as wounding as what she faced
herself when she came to clearly see
that she was pregnant. That princess unwed
could not handle what would become of her.

That passed in time. So too can this.

We know the tale   of tragic Mathild.
the Geat bore her a bottomless passion,
all sleep banished  by a baneful love

That passed in time. So too can this.

Tyrant Thedrick for thirty winters
ruled the Mearings, as many know.

That passed in time. So too can this.

We have all heard tell of Armenrick
and his wolfsick mind. He was one cruel king,
That overlord of the outland Goths
whose state was set in strung-up hearts 
as strong men sat in sorrow-chains
awaiting the worst, and wishing so much
for a foe to liberate the land of their king.

That passed in time. So too can this.

A man sits mournful, mind ripped from joy.
His spirit in dark, he deems himself
foredoomed to endure ordeals forever.
Then he may think how throughout the world
the Wise God goes and works around:
meting out grace, mercy and certain
success to some, suffering to many.

Of myself I want to say just this:
I was high poet  to the Hedenings once,
Dear to my master. "Deer" was my name.
For many winters  I was a man in that hall
And the heart of my lord. But Herrend came
And reaped the riches and rights of land
That guardian of men  once granted me,
And stole my place  with a poet's skill. 

That passed in time. So too can this.

The Original:

Wélond him be wurman  wreces cunnade
ánhýdiġ eorl  earfoða drég
hefde him tó ġesíþþe  sorġe end longoþ
wintercalde wræce  wéan oft onfond
seoþþan hine níþhád on  néde leġde
swoncre seonobende  on sellan mon

þes oferéode  þisses swé meġ

Beadohilde ne wes  hire bróðra déaþ
on seofan swé sár  swé hire seolfre þing,
þet híe ġearolíċe  onġeten hefde
þet híe écen wes;  ǽfre ne mehte
þríste ġeþencan,  hú ymb þet ṡċolde.

þes oferéode þisses swé meġ

Wé þet Mǽþhilde  monġe ġefrugnon
wurdon grundléase  Ġéates fríge,
þet him séo sorglufu  slép alle binom.

þes oferéode þisses swé meġ

Þéodríċ áhte  þrítiġ wintra
Méringa burg;  þet wes moneġum cúþ.

þes oferéode þisses swé meġ

Wé ġeáscadun  Éormonríċes
wylfenne ġeþóht;  áhte wíde folc
Gotena ríċes.  Þet wes grim cyning.
Set seċġ moniġ  sorgum ġebunden,
wéan on wénan,  wyṡċte ġenehhe
þet þes cyneríċes  ofercumen wére.

þes oferéode þisses swé meġ

Siteþ sorgċeriġ,  sélum bidǽled,
on seofan swerċeþ,  seolfum þinceþ
þet síe endeléas  earfoða dæl.
Meġ þonne ġeþencan,  þet ġeond þás weoruld
wítiġ dryhten  wendeþ genehhe,
eorle monegum  áre geṡċéawaþ,
wíslícne bléd,  sumum wéana dǽl.

Þet iċ bi mé seolfum  seċġan wille,
þet iċ hwíle wes Heodeninga sċop,
dryhtne déore.  Mé wes Déor noma.
Áhte iċ feola wintra  folgaþ tilne,
holdne hláford,  oþþet Heorrenda nú,
léoþcreftiġ monn  londreht ġeþáh,
þet mé eorla hléow  ǽr ġesalde.

þes oferéode þisses swé meġ






Beowulf 2231-2270: Lament of the Last Survivor (From Old English)

Lament of the Last Survivor 
(Beowulf 2231-2270)
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

  There was such ancient wealth in that earthen vault.
In an age long past, with an end in his mind,
someone now nameless had known to hide
his dear treasure in the darkness here,
the heaped legacy of a highborn race
at dynasty's end.  Death already
had taken them all in times gone by,
and left just this one: the last warrior
of a fallen line whose fate he mourned,
expecting the same. This sad watchman
knew that ageless hoard would be only his
to enjoy briefly. The barrow stood
built and waiting  by the breaking waves
crafted for safety, set on the headland.
That keeper of rings  then carried in
all the gold-plated  goods he had there
worth protecting.  His words were these few:
    "Hold now, O earth, what heroes cannot:
Wealth of warriors. It was worthy men
who delved it from you. Death in battle
has mowed them down. Mortal horror
has made away with the mortal souls
of each of my clan who have quit this life,
the hall-mirth of knights. Nobody's here
to bear me a blade or bring my cup's
burnished meadgold. My band moved on.
The hard helmet hasped in goldwork
must lose its hoop. Helm-shiners sleep
that once burnished my battle-mask. 
War-coats that braved the biting steel
when shields burst wide will be worn to bits
with their brave wearers. The whorled hauberk
will wander no more on the warchief's back
in a battle band.  No more brilliant harp
with timbered tune, no trained falcon
swooping the songhall, no swift-hoof horse 
prancing the courtgrounds. Plundering carnage
ousts whole peoples out of existence."
   So he mourned who survived, remembering hurts,
alone after them all, aching and maundering
for days and nights  till death seethed up
and beat his heart.


The Original:


      þér wæs swelcrá feolá
in þǽm eorðselí  ǽrġistréoná,
swé híæ on ġárdagum  gumæná náthwelċ,
iorminláƀǽ  æðilan cynnæs,
þanchycgændí  þér gihýddǽ,
díorǽ máðmas.  Allǽ híæ déaþ fornam
ǽrran mélum,  ænd se án þá ġén
líodá duguðǽ  se þér længist hwearƀ,
weard winiġómor,  wéndǽ þæs ylcan,
þæt hé lýtil fæc  langġistréoná
brúcan móstí.  Berg allġearu 
wunudǽ on wangǽ,  wæterýðum néh
níowi bi næssǽ  nearucræftum fæst.
þér on innan bær  eorlġistréoná
hringá hirdí,  hordwiorðnǽ dǽl,
fǽttan goldæs,  féa wordá cwæþ:

Hald þú nú, hrúsǽ, nú hæliþ ni móstun,
eorlá ǽhti. Hwæt hit ǽr on þé
gódǽ biġétun; gúþdéaþ fornam,
ferhbealu frœ́cni firhá ġihwelċnǽ,
líodá mínrá,  þonǽ þe þis líƀ ofġæƀ,
secgá selidréamas. Náh hwá sweord weġǽ
oþþǽ forþ berǽ fǽtid wéġí,
drynċfæt díorí: duguþ ellor sċóc.
Sċæl se heardá helm hyrstidgoldǽ
fǽtum bifallæn: feormiænd swefaþ,
þá þe beadugríman bíowan sċoldun,
ġé swelċǽ sío heripád, sío æt hildí ġibád
oƀær bordá ġibræc bití íserná,
brosnaþ æftær beornǽ. Ni mæġ byrnan hring
æftær wíġfruman wídǽ fœ́ran,
hæliðum bi halƀǽ; nis hearpan wyn,
gomæn glíwbéamæs, ni gód heaƀuc
ġeond sæl swingiþ, ni se swiftá mærh
burhstedi béatiþ. Bealucwalm haƀaþ
feolá ferhcynná forþ onsændid!
Swé ġómormód ġehþu mǽndǽ
án æftær allum, unblíþí hwearƀ
dæġæs ænd næhtæs, oþþæt déaðæs wælm
hrán æt heortan 


Jovan Dučić: Zohra (From Serbian)

Zohra
By Jovan Dučić
Translated by A. Z. Foreman

At first dusk on a seashore a wayfarer met a young and dark woman who took her two bare, black and heavy breasts in her hands and started to say a prayer to the star that had just flared in the West, while keeping her eyes, fixed and unmoving, on the planet.
It was a prayer to Zohra, goddess with breasts black and heavy as hers. Every evening Zohra sends Her star to receive the prayers of all women in the desert whose bodies hunger for a man.
The next day at dusk on that same shore she lay in the foreign traveler's arms. But she, poor hapless thing, did not greet the Star's rising with breasts held in her hands, for her eyes had been darkened by his kisses.
Thus the stranger had sundered the woman from her divinity. So she gave him grapes that he had to die from, before the insulted Star set in the desert, because Zohra is cruel, and would otherwise no longer send another man to her shore every evening.

— From Prose Poems "Blue Legends", Belgrade 1908

The Original:

Зохра
Јован Дучић

Путник је срео у првом сутону на морској обали младу и црну жену, која према звезди, што у тај мах блисну на западу, узе своје две голе црне и тешке дојке у руке и поче говорити молитву, држећи непомично очи на планети.

То је била молитва Зохри, која је богиња с тако исто црним и тешким дојкама. Зохра свако вече шаље своју звезду да прими за њу молитву свих жена у пустињи чије тело жуди човека.

Сутрадан у сутон, на тој истој обали, лежала је она у наручју тога путника странца. Али, несрећница, није поздравила, држећи своје дојке у рукама, излазак Звезде, јер су јој очи биле помрчале од његових пољубаца.

Тако је странац био одвојио жену од њеног божанства. Зато му је жена дала неко грожђе од кога је морао умрети пре него увређена Звезда зађе у пустињи. Јер је Зохра свирепа и не би јој више на обалу слала свако вече другог човека.

A Fourteenth Century Tale: The Slaying of the Grendelving (AKA the Jabberwock)

Grendelvengthe (Ungreithly called Jabberwockie)
By Louis Kervaill

Bredeliche wast & slythy spreren
Gimelèd & gore on þe waben.
The swappelingès misel weren.
The momè gwin outgraben.

Warè the Grendelving, my sone.
His jowès gnaue, his clauès cacche.
Bifle the Galgol-Foule & shone
The wragious Lodersnacche.

He nom his guthrew swerd in honde.
Longe the eglich fend he soghte.
He rested hym by the Tre Toum-Tym
And ther stod in a thoghte.

He stod with pithèsherwe in mode
Tho Grendelving wiþ ye on flame
Blastè thurgh that shoufengèd wode
And blumelèd in grame.

Oon, two, oon, two, he hadde hym so.
Þe guþrew mechè dide snixnak.
He lefte hym dede & with his hede
Galomphaunt sterte abak.

And hastow slayn þe Grendelving?
Heleth & sone, I clippè thee
Fairaclous Dai! Oho, aihai!
He holough high in gle.

Bredeliche wast & slythy spreren
Gimelèd & gore on the waben.
The swappelingès misel weren.
The momè gwin outgraben.

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 slight modification of David Branner's system)

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
tsyàn3b2 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   

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 

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:

¹Literally 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

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.