These are my modern English translations of poems by the first poet we know by name, the ancient Sumerian poet Enheduanna, other wonderful ancient female poets like Sappho and Tzu Yeh, the great Jewish Holocaust poet Miklos Radnoti, the ancient Scottish poet William Dunbar, the eclectic German poet Georg Trakl, the avant garde English poet Pauline Mary Tarn, who wrote poems in French as Renee Vivien, and other poets from around the globe so famous that we know them by a single name, such as Basho, Chaucer, Corinna, Dante, Hesse, Homer, Issa, Rilke, Rumi, Sappho, Sulpicia, Verlaine, Virgil and Voltaire...
Elegy
by Perhat Tursun, Ugyhur poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
“Your soul is the entire world.”
—Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha
Asylum seekers, will you recognize me among the mountain passes’ frozen corpses?
Can you identify me here among our Exodus’s exiled brothers?
We begged for shelter but they lashed us bare; consider our naked corpses.
When they compel us to accept their massacres, do you know that I am with you?
Three centuries later they resurrect, not recognizing each other,
Their former greatness forgotten.
I happily ingested poison, like a fine wine.
When they search the streets and cannot locate our corpses, do you know that I am with you?
In that tower constructed of skulls you will find my dome as well:
They removed my head to more accurately test their swords’ temper.
When before their swords our relationship flees like a flighty lover,
Do you know that I am with you?
When men in fur hats are used for target practice in the marketplace
Where a dying man’s face embodies agony as a bullet cleaves his brain
While the executioner’s eyes fail to comprehend why his victim vanishes, ...
Seeing my form reflected in that bullet-pierced brain’s erratic thoughts,
Do you know that I am with you?
In those days when drinking wine was considered worse than drinking blood,
did you taste the flour ground out in that blood-turned churning mill?
Now, when you sip the wine Ali-Shir Nava’i imagined to be my blood
In that mystical tavern’s dark abyssal chambers,
Do you know that I am with you?
Perhat Tursun (1969-) is one of the foremost living Uyghur language poets. Born and raised in Atush, a city in China’s Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region, he began writing poetry in middle school, then branched into prose in college. Tursun has been described as a “self-professed Kafka character” and that comes through splendidly in poems of his like “Elegy.” Unfortunately, Tursun was “disappeared” into a Chinese “reeducation” concentration camp where extreme psychological torture is the norm. According to a disturbing report he has also been “hospitalized.” According to John Bolton, when Donald Trump learned of these “reeducation” concentration camps, he told Chinese President Xi Jinping it was “exactly the right thing to do.” Trump’s lame and inexcusable excuse? “Well, we were in the middle of a major trade deal.”
***
The Fog and the Shadows
adapted from a novel by Perhat Tursun
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
“I began to realize the fog was similar to the shadows.”
I began to realize that, just as the exact shape of darkness is a shadow,
even so the exact shape of fog is disappearance
and the exact shape of a human being is also disappearance.
At this moment it seemed my body was vanishing into the human form’s final state.
After I arrived here,
it was as if the danger of getting lost
and the desire to lose myself
were merging strangely inside me.
While everything in that distant, gargantuan city where I spent my five college years felt strange to me; and even though the skyscrapers, highways, ditches and canals were built according to a single standard and shape, so that it wasn’t easy to differentiate them, still I never had the feeling of being lost. Everyone there felt like one person and they were all folded into each other. It was as if their faces, voices and figures had been gathered together like a shaman’s jumbled-up hair.
Even the men and women seemed identical.
You could only tell them apart by stripping off their clothes and examining them.
The men’s faces were beardless like women’s and their skin was very delicate and unadorned.
I was always surprised that they could tell each other apart.
Later I realized it wasn’t just me: many others were also confused.
For instance, when we went to watch the campus’s only TV in a corridor of a building where the seniors stayed when they came to improve their knowledge. Those elderly Uyghurs always argued about whether someone who had done something unusual in an earlier episode was the same person they were seeing now. They would argue from the beginning of the show to the end. Other people, who couldn’t stand such endless nonsense, would leave the TV to us and stalk off.
Then, when the classes began, we couldn’t tell the teachers apart.
Gradually we became able to tell the men from the women
and eventually we able to recognize individuals.
But other people remained identical for us.
The most surprising thing for me was that the natives couldn’t differentiate us either.
For instance, two police came looking for someone who had broken windows during a fight at a restaurant and had then run away.
They ordered us line up, then asked the restaurant owner to identify the culprit.
He couldn’t tell us apart even though he inspected us very carefully.
He said we all looked so much alike that it was impossible to tell us apart.
Sighing heavily, he left.
***
FADWA TUQAN translations by Michael R. Burch
Enough for Me
by Fadwa Tuqan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Enough for me to lie in the earth,
to be buried in her,
to sink meltingly into her fecund soil, to vanish ...
only to spring forth like a flower
brightening the play of my countrymen's children.
Enough for me to remain
in my native soil's embrace,
to be as close as a handful of dirt,
a sprig of grass,
a wildflower.
Published by Palestine Today, Free Journal and Lokesh Tripathi
***
Existence
by Fadwa Tuqan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In my solitary life, I was a lost question;
in the encompassing darkness,
my answer lay concealed.
You were a bright new star
revealed by fate,
radiating light from the fathomless darkness.
The other stars rotated around you
—once, twice—
until I perceived
your unique radiance.
Then the bleak blackness broke
and in the twin tremors
of our entwined hands
I had found my missing answer.
Oh you! Oh you intimate and distant!
Don't you remember the coalescence
Of our spirits in the flames?
Of my universe with yours?
Of the two poets?
Despite our great distance,
Existence unites us.
Published by This Week in Palestine, Arabic Literature (ArabLit.org) and Art-in-Society (Germany)
***
Nothing Remains
by Fadwa Tuqan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Tonight, we’re together,
but tomorrow you'll be hidden from me
thanks to life’s cruelty.
The seas will separate us ...
Oh!—Oh!—If I could only see you!
But I'll never know
where your steps led you,
which routes you took,
or to what unknown destinations
your feet were compelled.
You will depart and the thief of hearts,
the denier of beauty,
will rob us of all that's dear to us,
will steal this happiness,
leaving our hands empty.
Tomorrow at dawn you'll vanish like a phantom,
dissipating into a delicate mist
dissolving quickly in the summer sun.
Your scent—your scent!—contains the essence of life,
filling my heart
as the earth gulps up the lifegiving rain.
I will miss you like the fragrance of trees
when you leave tomorrow,
and nothing remains.
Just as everything beautiful and all that's dear to us
is lost—lost!—and nothing remains.
Published by This Week in Palestine and Hypercritic (read in Arabic by Souad Maddahi with my translation as a reference)
***
Labor Pains
by Fadwa Tuqan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Tonight the wind wafts pollen through ruined fields and homes.
The earth shivers with love, with the agony of giving birth,
while the Invader spreads stories of submission and surrender.
O, Arab Aurora!
Tell the Usurper: childbirth’s a force beyond his ken
because a mother’s wracked body reveals a rent that inaugurates life,
a crack through which light dawns in an instant
as the blood’s rose blooms in the wound.
***
Hamza
by Fadwa Tuqan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Hamza was one of my hometown’s ordinary men
who did manual labor for bread.
When I saw him recently,
the land still wore its mourning dress in the solemn windless silence
and I felt defeated.
But Hamza-the-unextraordinary said:
“Sister, our land’s throbbing heart never ceases to pound,
and it perseveres, enduring the unendurable, keeping the secrets of mounds and wombs.
This land sprouting cactus spikes and palms also births freedom-fighters.
Thus our land, my sister, is our mother!”
Days passed and Hamza was nowhere to be seen,
but I felt the land’s belly heaving in pain.
At sixty-five Hamza’s a heavy burden on her back.
“Burn down his house!”
some commandant screamed,
“and slap his son in a prison cell!”
As our town’s military ruler later explained
this was necessary for law and order,
that is, an act of love, for peace!
Armed soldiers surrounded Hamza’s house;
the coiled serpent completed its circle.
The bang at his door came with an ultimatum:
“Evacuate, damn it!'
So generous with their time, they said:
“You can have an hour, yes!”
Hamza threw open a window.
Face-to-face with the blazing sun, he yelled defiantly:
“Here in this house I and my children will live and die, for Palestine!”
Hamza's voice echoed over the hemorrhaging silence.
An hour later, with impeccable timing, Hanza’s house came crashing down
as its rooms were blown sky-high and its bricks and mortar burst,
till everything settled, burying a lifetime’s memories of labor, tears, and happier times.
Yesterday I saw Hamza
walking down one of our town’s streets ...
Hamza-the-unextraordinary man who remained as he always was:
unshakable in his determination.
***
Postcard 1
by Miklós Radnóti, written August 30, 1944
translation by Michael R. Burch
Out of Bulgaria, the great wild roar of the artillery thunders,
resounds on the mountain ridges, rebounds, then ebbs into silence
while here men, beasts, wagons and imagination all steadily increase;
the road whinnies and bucks, neighing; the maned sky gallops;
and you are eternally with me, love, constant amid all the chaos,
glowing within my conscience—incandescent, intense.
Somewhere within me, dear, you abide forever—
still, motionless, mute, like an angel stunned to silence by death
or a beetle hiding in the heart of a rotting tree.
***
Postcard 2
by Miklós Radnóti, written October 6, 1944 near Crvenka, Serbia
translation by Michael R. Burch
A few miles away they're incinerating
the haystacks and the houses,
while squatting here on the fringe of this pleasant meadow,
the shell-shocked peasants sit quietly smoking their pipes.
Now, here, stepping into this still pond, the little shepherd girl
sets the silver water a-ripple
while, leaning over to drink, her flocculent sheep
seem to swim like drifting clouds.
***
Postcard 3
by Miklós Radnóti, written October 24, 1944 near Mohács, Hungary
translation by Michael R. Burch
The oxen dribble bloody spittle;
the men pass blood in their piss.
Our stinking regiment halts, a horde of perspiring savages,
adding our aroma to death's repulsive stench.
***
Postcard 4
by Miklós Radnóti, his final poem, written October 31, 1944 near Szentkirályszabadja, Hungary
translation by Michael R. Burch
I toppled beside him—his body already taut,
tight as a string just before it snaps,
shot in the back of the head.
"This is how you’ll end too; just lie quietly here,"
I whispered to myself, patience blossoming from dread.
"Der springt noch auf," the voice above me jeered;
I could only dimly hear
through the congealing blood slowly sealing my ear.
Translator's note: "Der springt noch auf" means something like "That one is still twitching."
“Postcard 4” was published by Poetry Super Highway in 2019 as part of their 21st Annual Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day)
***
Letter to My Wife
by Miklós Radnóti
translated by Michael R. Burch
This is a poem written during the Holocaust in Lager Heidenau, in the mountains above Zagubica, August-September, 1944
Deep down in the darkness hell awaits—silent, mute.
Silence screams in my ears, so I shout,
but no one hears or answers, wherever they are;
while sad Serbia, astounded by war,
and you are so far,
so incredibly distant.
Still my heart encounters yours in my dreams
and by day I hear yours sound in my heart again;
and so I am still, even as the great mountain
ferns slowly stir and murmur around me,
coldly surrounding me.
When will I see you? How can I know?
You who were calm and weighty as a Psalm,
beautiful as a shadow, more beautiful than light,
the One I could always find, whether deaf, mute, blind,
lie hidden now by this landscape; yet from within
you flash on my sight like flickering images on film.
You once seemed real but now have become a dream;
you have tumbled back into the well of teenage fantasy.
I jealously question whether you'll ever adore me;
whether—speak!—
from youth's highest peak
you will yet be my wife.
I become hopeful again,
as I awaken on this road where I formerly had fallen.
I know now that you are my wife, my friend, my peer—
but, alas, so far! Beyond these three wild frontiers,
fall returns. Will you then depart me?
Yet the memory of our kisses remains clear.
Now sunshine and miracles seem disconnected things.
Above me I see a bomber squadron's wings.
Skies that once matched your eyes' blue sheen
have clouded over, and in each infernal machine
the bombs writhe with their lust to dive.
Despite them, somehow I remain alive.
***
Earth’s least trace of life cannot be erased;
even when you lie underground, it encompasses you.
So, those of you who anticipate the shadows:
how long will the darkness remember you?
— by Mehmet Akif Ersoy, Turkish poet, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
***
Epitaph for the Child Erotion
by Marcus Valerius Martial
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lie lightly on her, grass and dew ...
So little weight she placed on you.
***
TRANSLATIONS OF PERSIAN POETRY
Two Insomnias
by Rumi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When I’m with you, we’re up all night;
when we’re apart, I can’t sleep.
Thank God for both insomnias
and their inspiration.
***
To the boy Elis
by Georg Trakl
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Elis, when the blackbird cries from the black forest,
it announces your downfall.
Your lips sip the rock-spring's blue coolness.
Your brow sweats blood
recalling ancient myths
and dark interpretations of birds' flight.
Yet you enter the night with soft footfalls;
the ripe purple grapes hang suspended
as you wave your arms more beautifully in the blueness.
A thornbush crackles;
where now are your moonlike eyes?
How long, oh Elis, have you been dead?
A monk dips waxed fingers
into your body's hyacinth;
Our silence is a black abyss
from which sometimes a docile animal emerges
slowly lowering its heavy lids.
A black dew drips from your temples:
the lost gold of vanished stars.
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: I believe that in the second stanza the blood on Elis's forehead may be a reference to the apprehensive bloody sweat of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. If my interpretation is correct, Elis hears the blackbird's cries, anticipates the danger represented by a harbinger of death, but elects to continue rather than turn back. From what I have been able to gather, the color blue had a special significance for Georg Trakl: it symbolized longing and perhaps a longing for death. The colors blue, purple and black may represent a progression toward death in the poem.
***
"How Long the Night" has been described as the oldest surviving secular song in the English language. It is either a late Old English (Anglo-Saxon) or early Middle English lyric, written by an unknown scop or minstrel, circa the early 13th century AD. However, while the poem/song may be construed to be primarily secular, it has a Christian "feel," because the speaker tells us that some grievous sin or error has caused him (or her) to suffer, mourn and fast. The poem's language retains traces of its Germanic roots with words like "ich" and "nicht."
How Long the Night
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts
with the mild pheasants' song ...
but now I feel the northern wind's blast—
its severe weather strong.
Alas! Alas! This night seems so long!
And I, because of my momentous wrong,
now grieve, mourn and fast.
The poem above is my modern English "interpretation" or "loose translation" of one of the very best lyrics written in the then-fledgling English language. This brief but magnificent poem displays both Anglo-Saxon and Christian sensibilities: the speaker sounds simultaneously pagan and Christian, with perhaps a touch of Norse thrown in.
***
This is my translation of a wonderful poem by an early Scottish master, William Dunbar. "Sweet Rose of Virtue" has been one of my favorite poems since I first read it. I decided to translate it myself, to make it more accessible to modern readers:
Sweet Rose of Virtue
by William Dunbar (c. 1460-1525)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness,
delightful lily of youthful wantonness,
richest in bounty and in beauty clear
and in every virtue that is held most dear―
except only that you are merciless.
Into your garden, today, I followed you;
there I saw flowers of freshest hue,
both white and red, delightful to see,
and wholesome herbs, waving resplendently―
yet nowhere one leaf nor petal of rue.
I fear that March with his last arctic blast
has slain my fair rose and left her downcast,
whose piteous death does my heart such pain
that I long to plant love's root again―
so comforting her bowering leaves have been.
If the tenth line seems confusing, it helps to know that rue symbolizes pity and also has medicinal uses; thus I believe the unrequiting lover is being accused of a lack of compassion and perhaps of withholding her healing attentions. The penultimate line can be taken as a rather naughty double entendre, but I will leave that interpretation up to the reader!
***
"Wulf and Eadwacer" is an anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem noted for its rich ambiguity and in all likelihood written by a female scop, circa 960-990 AD, if not earlier.
Wulf and Eadwacer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My clan's curs pursue him like crippled game;
they'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
Ungelīc is ūs! (It is otherwise with us!)
Wulf's on one island; I'm on another.
His island's a fortress, fastened by fens. (fastened=secured)
Here, bloodthirsty curs howl for carnage.
They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
Ungelīc is ūs! (It is otherwise with us!)
My hopes pursued Wulf like panting hounds,
but whenever it rained—how I wept!—
the boldest cur clutched me in his paws:
good feelings, to a point, but the end loathsome!
Wulf, O, my Wulf, my ache for you
has made me sick; your seldom-comings
have left me famished, deprived of real meat.
Have you heard, Eadwacer? Watchdog!
A wolf has borne our wretched whelp to the woods.
One can easily sever what never was one:
our song together.
***
This World's Joy
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Winter awakens all my care
as leafless trees grow bare.
For now my sighs are fraught
whenever it enters my thought:
regarding this world's joy,
how everything comes to naught.
***
I Have Labored Sore
(anonymous medieval lyric circa the fifteenth century)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I have labored sore and suffered death,
so now I rest and catch my breath.
But I shall come and call right soon
heaven and earth and hell to doom.
Then all shall know both devil and man
just who I was and what I am.
***
Pity Mary
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Now the sun passes under the wood:
I rue, Mary, thy face—fair, good.
Now the sun passes under the tree:
I rue, Mary, thy son and thee.
In the poem above, note how "wood" and "tree" invoke the cross while "sun" and "son" seem to invoke each other. Sun-day is also Son-day, to Christians. The anonymous poet who wrote the poem above may have been punning the words "sun" and "son." The poem is also known as "Now Goeth Sun Under Wood" and "Now Go'th Sun Under Wood."
***
Fowles in the Frith
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
The warblers in the wood,
the fishes in the flood
and I must go mad:
such sorrow I've had
for beasts of bone and blood!
2.
The fowls in the forest,
the fishes in the flood
and I must go mad:
such sorrow I've had
for beasts of bone and blood!
Sounds like an early animal rights activist! The use of "and" is intriguing ... is the poet saying that his walks in the wood drive him mad because he is also a "beast of bone and blood" and facing a similar fate?
***
I am of Ireland
(anonymous Medieval Irish lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I am of Ireland,
and of the holy realm of Ireland.
Gentlefolk, I pray thee:
for the sake of saintly charity,
come dance with me
in Ireland!
The original poem still smacks of German, with "Ich" for "I." But a metamorphosis was clearly in progress: English poetry was evolving to employ meter and rhyme, as well as Anglo-Saxon alliteration. And it's interesting to note that "ballad," "ballet" and "ball" all have the same root: the Latin ballare (to dance) and the Italian ballo/balleto (a dance). Think of a farm community assembling for a hoe-down, then dancing a two-step to music with lyrics. That is apparently how many early English poems originated. And the more regular meter of the evolving poems would suit music well.
***
The Maiden’s Song aka The Bridal Morn
anonymous Medieval lyric
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The maidens came to my mother’s bower.
I had all I would, that hour.
The bailey beareth the bell away;
The lily, the rose, the rose I lay.
Now silver is white, red is the gold;
The robes they lay in fold.
The bailey beareth the bell away;
The lily, the rose, the rose I lay.
Still through the window shines the sun.
How should I love, yet be so young?
The bailey beareth the bell away;
The lily, the rose, the rose I lay.
I take this to be a naughty, suggestive poem, but one that makes us feel sympathy for a young bride, quite possibly a child bride. Once upon a time there was a custom of people witnessing a marriage's consummation, called a “bedding ceremony,” which in this case might have taken place in the mother's "bower" (bedroom). If the witnesses didn't watch the act, they might have been just outside the door, drinking and telling coarse jokes at the bride’s expense. The "bailey" may be the bailiff, spreading the marriage bans that result in the "bell" (hymen/virginity) being borne away. The bride's attire has changed color from white and gold (both symbols of purity) to silver (not as pure) and red (hymeneal blood). The pure white lily has been replaced by a rose. "The rose I lay" and "they lay in fold" seem like suggestive wordplay to me. I take the sun shining through the window to be the following morning, with the young bride a bit nonplussed about the (probably) arranged and (possibly) premature affair. In any case, it's a fetching and thought-provoking little poem.
There are more Old English and Middle English translations later on this page.
***
Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926) was a Bohemian-Austrian poet generally considered to be a major poet of the German language. He also wrote more than 400 poems in French.
Archaischer Torso Apollos (“Archaic Torso of Apollo”)
by Rainer Maria Rilke
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
We cannot know the beheaded god
nor his eyes' forfeited visions. But still
the figure's trunk glows with the strange vitality
of a lamp lit from within, while his composed will
emanates dynamism. Otherwise
the firmly muscled abdomen could not beguile us,
nor the centering loins make us smile
at the thought of their generative animus.
Otherwise the stone might seem deficient,
unworthy of the broad shoulders, of the groin
projecting procreation's triangular spearhead upwards,
unworthy of the living impulse blazing wildly within
like an inchoate star—demanding our belief.
You must change your life.
***
Herbsttag ("Autumn Day")
by Rainer Maria Rilke
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lord, it is time. Let the immense summer go.
Lay your long shadows over the sundials
and over the meadows, let the free winds blow.
Command the late fruits to fatten and shine;
O, grant them another Mediterranean hour!
Urge them to completion, and with power
convey final sweetness to the heavy wine.
Who has no house now, never will build one.
Who's alone now, shall continue alone;
he'll wake, read, write long letters to friends,
and pace the tree-lined pathways up and down,
restlessly, as autumn leaves drift and descend.
There are more poems by Rilke later on this page.
***
HERMANN HESSE
This is my modern English translation of the poem "Stages" by the great German poet Hermann Hesse from his novel "The Glass Bead Game."
Stages
by Hermann Hesse
from his novel "The Glass Bead Game"
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
As every flower wilts and every youth
must wilt and exit life from a curtained stage,
so every virtue—even our truest truth—
blooms some brief time and cannot last forever.
Since life may summons death at any age
we must prepare for death’s obscene endeavor,
meet our end with courage and without remorse,
forego regret and hopes of some reprieve,
embrace death’s end, as life’s required divorce,
some new beginning, calling us to live.
Thus let us move, serene, beyond our fear,
and let no sentiments detain us here.
The Universal Spirit would not chain us,
but elevates us slowly, stage by stage.
If we demand a halt, our fears restrain us,
caught in the webs of creaturely defense.
We must prepare for imminent departure
or else be bound by foolish “permanence.”
Death’s hour may be our swift deliverance,
from which we speed to fresher, newer spaces,
and Life may summons us to bolder races.
So be it, heart! Farewell, and adieu, then!
***
Vera Pavlova (1963-) is a leading contemporary Russian poet. Born in Moscow, she is a graduate of the Schnittke College of Music and the Gnessin Academy of Music, where she specialized in music history. Vera has worked as a guide at the Shaliapin Museum in Moscow and has published several essays on music. She began writing poetry at age twenty, after the birth of her first daughter, while she was still at the maternity ward. Vera is the author of twenty collections of poetry, four opera librettos, and the lyrics to two cantatas. Her poetry has appeared in The New Yorker and other major literary publications.
I shattered your heart;
now I limp through the shards
barefoot.
―by Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I test the tightrope,
balancing a child
in each arm.
―by Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I test the tightrope,
balanced by a child
in each arm.
―by Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Winter―a beast.
Spring―a bud.
Summer―a bug.
Autumn―a bird.
Otherwise I'm a woman.
―by Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Immortalize me!
With your bare, warm palm
please sculpt and mold my malleable snow.
Polish me until I glow.
―by Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
God saw
it was good.
Adam saw
it was impressive.
Eve saw
it was improvable.
―by Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Scales:
on the one hand joy;
on the other sorrow.
Sorrow is weightier;
therefore joy
elevates.
―by Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A muse inspires when she arrives,
a wife when she departs,
a mistress when she’s absent.
Would you like me to manage all that simultaneously?
―by Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You, my dear, are my shielding stone:
to sing behind, or bash my head on.
―by Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Remember me as I am this instant: abrupt and absent,
my words fluttering like moths trapped in a curtain.
―by Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I have been dropped
and fell from such
immense heights
for so long that
perhaps I still
have enough
time to learn
how to
fly.
―by Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
***
Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin (1799-1837) was a Russian poet, playwright and novelist. He has been called Russia's greatest poet and the founder of modern Russian literature. These are my two translations of my favorite Pushkin poem ...
I Loved You
by Alexander Pushkin
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I loved you once ... perhaps I love you still ...
perhaps such erratic flickerings remain.
But please don’t let my feelings trouble you;
I do not wish to cause you further pain.
I loved you ... thus the hopelessness I knew ...
the jealousy, the shyness and the pain,
resulted in my hope that somehow you
might find the grace to fall in love again.
I Loved You
by Alexander Pushkin
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I loved you ... perhaps I love you still ...
perhaps for a while such emotions may remain.
But please don’t let my feelings trouble you;
I do not wish to cause you further pain.
I loved you ... thus the hopelessness I knew ...
The jealousy, the diffidence, the pain
resulted in two hearts so wholly true
the gods might grant us leave to love again.
***
Three Rondels by Geoffrey Chaucer
I. Merciles Beaute ("Merciless Beauty")
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain,
they wound me so, through my heart keen.
Unless your words heal me hastily,
my heart's wound will remain green;
for your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain.
By all truth, I tell you faithfully
that you are of life and death my queen;
for at my death this truth shall be seen:
your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain,
they wound me so, through my heart keen.
II. Rejection
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain;
For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain.
I'm guiltless, yet my sentence has been cast.
I tell you truly, needless now to feign,—
Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain.
Alas, that Nature in your face compassed
Such beauty, that no man may hope attain
To mercy, though he perish from the pain;
Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain;
For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain.
III. Escape
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count it not a bean.
He may question me and counter this and that;
I care not: I will answer just as I mean.
Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean.
Love strikes me from his roster, short and flat,
And he is struck from my books, just as clean,
Forevermore; there is no other mean.
Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count it not a bean.
The Canterbury Tales: General Prologue
by Geoffrey Chaucer (1343-1400)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When April with her sweet showers
has pierced the drought of March to the root,
bathing the vines’ veins in such nectar
that even sweeter flowers are engendered;
when the West Wind with his fragrant breath
has inspired life in every grove’s and glade’s
greenling leaves; and the young sun
has run half his course in Aries the Ram;
while small birds make melodies
after sleeping all night with open eyes
because Nature pierces them so, to their hearts―
then people long to go on pilgrimages ...
***
Tzŭ-Yeh (or Tzu Yeh) was a courtesan of the Jin dynasty era (c. 400 BC) also known as Lady Night or Lady Midnight. Her poems were pinyin ("midnight songs"). Tzŭ-Yeh was apparently a "sing-song" girl, perhaps similar to a geisha trained to entertain men with music and poetry. She has also been called a "wine shop girl" and even a professional concubine! Whoever she was, it seems likely that Rihaku (Li-Po) was influenced by the lovely, touching (and often very sexy) poems of the "sing-song" girl. Centuries later, Arthur Waley was one of her translators and admirers. Waley and Ezra Pound knew each other, and it seems likely that they got together to compare notes at Pound's soirees, since Pound was also an admirer and translator of Chinese poetry. Pound's most famous translation is his take on Li-Po's "The River Merchant's Wife: A Letter." If the ancient "sing-song" girl influenced Li-Po and Pound, she was thus an influence―perhaps an important influence―on English Modernism. The first Tzŭ-Yeh poem makes me think that she was, indeed, a direct influence on Li-Po and Ezra Pound.―Michael R. Burch
Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I heard my love was going to Yang-chou
So I accompanied him as far as Ch'u-shan.
For just a moment as he held me in his arms
I thought the swirling river ceased flowing and time stood still.
Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Will I ever hike up my dress for you again?
Will my pillow ever caress your arresting face?
Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Night descends ...
I let my silken hair spill down my shoulders as I part my thighs over my lover.
Tell me, is there any part of me not worthy of being loved?
Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I will wear my robe loose, not bothering with a belt;
I will stand with my unpainted face at the reckless window;
If my petticoat insists on fluttering about, shamelessly,
I'll blame it on the unruly wind!
Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When he returns to my embrace,
I’ll make him feel what no one has ever felt before:
Me absorbing him like water
Poured into a wet clay jar.
Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Bare branches tremble in a sudden breeze.
Night deepens.
My lover loves me,
And I am pleased that my body's beauty pleases him.
Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Do you not see
that we
have become like branches of a single tree?
Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I could not sleep with the full moon haunting my bed!
I thought I heard―here, there, everywhere―
disembodied voices calling my name!
Helplessly I cried "Yes!" to the phantom air!
Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I have brought my pillow to the windowsill
so come play with me, tease me, as in the past ...
Or, with so much resentment and so few kisses,
how much longer can love last?
Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When she approached you on the bustling street, how could you say no?
But your disdain for me is nothing new.
Squeaking hinges grow silent on an unused door
where no one enters anymore.
Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I remain constant as the Northern Star
while you rush about like the fickle sun:
rising in the East, drooping in the West.
***
Bertolt Brecht Translations
These are my modern English translations of poems written in German by Bertolt Brecht. After the poems I have translations of epigrams and quotations by Bertolt Brecht.
The Burning of the Books
by Bertolt Brecht
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When the Regime
commanded the unlawful books to be burned,
teams of dull oxen hauled huge cartloads to the bonfires.
Then a banished writer, one of the best,
scanning the list of excommunicated texts,
became enraged: he'd been excluded!
He rushed to his desk, full of contemptuous wrath,
to write fiery letters to the incompetents in power —
Burn me! he wrote with his blazing pen —
Haven't I always reported the truth?
Now here you are, treating me like a liar!
Burn me!
There are more Brecht translations later on this page.
***
Next are three English translations of Holocaust poems written in German by the Jewish poet Paul Celan. The first poem, "Todesfuge," is one of the most famous Holocaust poems, with its haunting refrain of a German "master of death" killing Jews by day and writing "Your golden hair Margarete" by starlight. The poem demonstrates how terrible things can become when one human being is granted absolute power over others. Paul Celan was the pseudonym of Paul Antschel. (Celan is an anagram of Ancel, the Romanian form of his surname.) Celan was born in Czernovitz, Romania in 1920. The son of German-speaking Jews, Celan spoke German, Romanian, Russian, French and understood Yiddish. During the Holocaust, his parents were deported and eventually died in Nazi labor camps; Celan spent eighteen months in a Nazi concentration camp before escaping.
Todesfuge ("Death Fugue")
by Paul Celan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Black milk of daybreak, we drink it come morning;
we drink it come midday; we drink it, come night;
we drink it and drink it.
We are digging a grave like a hole in the sky; there's sufficient room to lie there.
The man of the house plays with vipers; he writes
in the Teutonic darkness, "Your golden hair Margarete ..."
He writes poems by the stars, whistles hounds to stand by,
whistles Jews to dig graves, where together they'll lie.
He commands us to strike up bright tunes for the dance!
Black milk of daybreak, we drink you each morning;
we drink you at midday; we drink you at night;
we drink you and drink you.
The man of the house plays with serpents, he writes ...
he writes when the night falls, "Your golden hair Margarete ...
Your ashen hair Shulamith ..."
We are digging dark graves where there's more room, on high.
His screams, "You dig there!" and "Hey you, dance and sing!"
He grabs his black nightstick, his eyes pallid blue,
cries, "Hey you, dig more deeply! You others, keep dancing!"
Black milk of daybreak, we drink you each morning;
we drink you at midday, we drink you at night;
we drink you and drink you.
The man of the house writes, "Your golden hair Margarete ...
Your ashen hair Shulamith." He toys with our lives.
He screams, "Play for me! Death's a master of Germany!"
His screams, "Stroke dark strings, soon like black smoke you'll rise
to a grave in the clouds; there's sufficient room for Jews there!"
Black milk of daybreak, we drink you at midnight;
we drink you at noon; Death's the master of Germany!
We drink you come evening; we drink you and drink you ...
a master of Deutschland, with eyes deathly blue.
With bullets of lead our pale master will murder you!
He writes when the night falls, "Your golden hair Margarete ..."
He unleashes his hounds, grants us graves in the skies.
He plays with his serpents; he's a master of Germany ...
your golden hair Margarete ...
your ashen hair Shulamith.
***
O, Little Root of a Dream
by Paul Celan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O, little root of a dream
you enmire me here;
I'm undermined by blood —
no longer seen,
enslaved by death.
Touch the curve of my face,
that there may yet be an earthly language of ardor,
that someone else's eyes
may see yet see me,
though I'm blind,
here where you
deny me voice.
***
You Were My Death
by Paul Celan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You were my death;
I could hold you
when everything abandoned me —
even breath.
***
Here are two translations of poems by the Italian Jewish Holocaust survivor Primo Levi:
Shema
by Primo Levi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You who live secure
in your comfortable houses,
who return each evening to find
warm food,
welcoming faces ...
consider whether this is a man:
who toils in the mud,
who knows no peace,
who fights for crusts of bread,
who dies at another man's whim,
at his "yes" or his "no."
Consider whether this is a woman:
bereft of hair,
of a recognizable name
because she lacks the strength to remember,
her eyes as void
and her womb as frigid
as a frog's in winter.
Consider that such horrors have been:
I commend these words to you.
Engrave them in your hearts
when you lounge in your house,
when you walk outside,
when you go to bed,
when you rise.
Repeat them to your children,
or may your house crumble
and disease render you helpless
so that even your offspring avert their faces from you.
***
Buna
by Primo Levi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Wasted feet, cursed earth,
the interminable gray morning
as Buna smokes corpses through industrious chimneys.
A day like every other day awaits us.
The terrible whistle shrilly announces dawn:
"You, O pale multitudes with your sad, lifeless faces,
welcome the monotonous horror of the mud ...
another day of suffering has begun."
Weary companion, I see you by heart.
I empathize with your dead eyes, my disconsolate friend.
In your breast you carry cold, hunger, nothingness.
Life has broken what's left of the courage within you.
Colorless one, you once were a strong man,
A courageous woman once walked at your side.
But now you, my empty companion, are bereft of a name,
my forsaken friend who can no longer weep,
so poor you can no longer grieve,
so tired you no longer can shiver with fear.
O, spent once-strong man,
if we were to meet again
in some other world, sweet beneath the sun,
with what kind faces would we recognize each other?
(Buna was the largest Auschwitz sub-camp.)
***
Here's a translation of a poem by Wladyslaw Szlengel about his friend Janusz Korczak. Both were victims of the Nazis during the Holocaust...
Excerpts from "A Page from the Deportation Diary"
by Wladyslaw Szlengel
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I saw Janusz Korczak walking today,
leading the children, at the head of the line.
They were dressed in their best clothes—immaculate, if gray.
Some say the weather wasn't dismal, but fine.
They were in their best jumpers and laughing (not loud),
but if they'd been soiled, tell me—who could complain?
They walked like calm heroes through the haunted crowd,
five by five, in a whipping rain.
The pallid, the trembling, watched high overhead,
through barely cracked windows—pale, transfixed with dread.
And now and then, from the high, tolling bell
a strange moan escaped, like a sea gull's torn cry.
Their "superiors" looked on, their eyes hard as stone.
So let us not flinch, as they march on, to die.
Footfall . . . then silence . . . the cadence of feet . . .
O, who can console them, their last mile so drear?
The church bells peal on, over shocked Leszno Street.
Will Jesus Christ save them? The high bells career.
No, God will not save them. Nor you, friend, nor I.
But let us not flinch, as they march on, to die.
No one will offer the price of their freedom.
No one will proffer a single word.
His eyes hard as gavels, the silent policeman
agrees with the priest and his terrible Lord:
"Give them the Sword!"
At the town square there is no intervention.
No one tugs Schmerling's sleeve. No one cries
"Rescue the children!" The air, thick with tension,
reeks with the odor of vodka, and lies.
How calmly he walks, with a child in each arm:
Gut Doktor Korczak, please keep them from harm!
A fool rushes up with a reprieve in hand:
"Look Janusz Korczak—please look, you've been spared!"
No use for that. One resolute man,
uncomprehending that no one else cared
enough to defend them,
his choice is to end with them.
***
Ber Horvitz or Horowitz (1895-1942) was born to village people in the woods of Maidan in the West Carpathians. He served in the Austrian army during WWI, where he was a medic to Italian prisoners of war. Fluent in several languages, he translated Polish and Ukrainian into Yiddish and wrote poetry in Yiddish. A victim of the Holocaust, he was murdered in 1942 by the Nazis, although the details are not clear.
Der Himmel
"The Heavens"
by Ber Horvitz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
These skies
are leaden, heavy, gray ...
I long for a pair
of deep blue eyes.
The birds have fled
far overseas;
tomorrow I’ll migrate too,
I said ...
These gloomy autumn days
it rains and rains.
Woe to the bird
Who remains ...
Published by: Poetry in Hell, Knowable Family, Perpetual Self and Ella Roberts Music
***
Doctorn
"Doctors"
by Ber Horvitz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Early this morning I bandaged
the lilac tree outside my house;
I took thin branches that had broken away
and patched their wounds with clay.
My mother stood there watering
her window-level flower bed;
The morning sun, quite motherly,
kissed us both on our heads!
What a joy, my child, to heal!
Finished doctoring, or not?
The eggs are nicely poached
And the milk's a-boil in the pot.
***
Broit
“Bread”
by Ber Horvitz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Night. Exhaustion. Heavy stillness. Why?
On the hard uncomfortable floor the exhausted people lie.
Flung everywhere, scattered over the broken theater floor,
the exhausted people sleep. Night. Late. Too tired to snore.
At midnight a little boy cries wildly into the gloom:
“Mommy, I’m afraid! Let’s go home!”
His mother, reawakened into this frightful palace,
presses her frightened child even closer to her breast ...
“If you cry, I’ll leave you here, all alone!
A little boy must sleep ... this is now our new home.”
Night. Exhaustion. Heavy stillness all around,
exhausted people sleeping on the hard ground.
***
My Lament
by Ber Horvitz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Nothingness enveloped me
as tender green toadstools
are enveloped by snow
with its thick, heavy prayer shawl ...
After that, nothing could hurt me ...
***
Ben Sana Mecburum: “You are indispensable”
by Attila Ilhan
translation/interpretation by Nurgül Yayman and Michael R. Burch
You are indispensable; how can you not know
that you’re like nails riveting my brain?
I see your eyes as ever-expanding dimensions.
You are indispensable; how can you not know
that I burn within, at the thought of you?
Trees prepare themselves for autumn;
can this city be our lost Istanbul?
Now clouds disintegrate in the darkness
as the street lights flicker
and the streets reek with rain.
You are indispensable, and yet you are absent ...
Love sometimes seems akin to terror:
a man tires suddenly at nightfall,
of living enslaved to the razor at his neck.
Sometimes he wrings his hands,
expunging other lives from his existence.
Sometimes whichever door he knocks
echoes back only heartache.
A screechy phonograph is playing in Fatih ...
a song about some Friday long ago.
I stop to listen from a vacant corner,
longing to bring you an untouched sky,
but time disintegrates in my hands.
Whatever I do, wherever I go,
you are indispensable, and yet you are absent ...
Are you the blue child of June?
Ah, no one knows you—no one knows!
Your deserted eyes are like distant freighters ...
perhaps you are boarding in Yesilköy?
Are you drenched there, shivering with the rain
that leaves you blind, beset, broken,
with wind-disheveled hair?
Whenever I think of life
seated at the wolves’ table,
shameless, yet without soiling our hands ...
Yes, whenever I think of life,
I begin with your name, defying the silence,
and your secret tides surge within me
making this voyage inevitable.
You are indispensable; how can you not know?
***
Invitation to the Voyage
by Charles Baudelaire
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My child, my sister,
Consider the rapture
Of living together!
To love at our leisure
Till the end of all pleasure,
Then in climes so alike you, to die!
The misty sunlight
Of these hazy skies
Charms my spirit:
So mysterious
Your treacherous eyes,
Shining through tears.
There, order and restraint redress
Opulence, voluptuousness.
Gleaming furniture
Burnished by the years
Would decorate our bedroom
Where the rarest flowers
Mingle their fragrances
With vague scents of amber.
The sumptuous ceilings,
The limpid mirrors,
The Oriental ornaments …
Everything would speak
To our secretive souls
In their own indigenous language.
There, order and restraint redress
Opulence, voluptuousness.
See, rocking on these channels:
The sleepy vessels
Whose vagabond dream
Is to satisfy
Your merest desire.
They come from the ends of the world:
These radiant suns
Illuminating fields,
Canals, the entire city,
In hyacinth and gold.
The world falls asleep
In their warming light.
There, order and restraint redress
Opulence, voluptuousness.
***
Translations of Holocaust poems by Erich Fried
Hear, O Israel!
by Erich Fried
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
When we were the oppressed,
I was one with you,
but how can we remain one
now that you have become the oppressor?
Your desire
was to become powerful, like the nations
who murdered you;
now you have, indeed, become like them.
You have outlived those
who abused you;
so why does their cruelty
possess you now?
You also commanded your victims:
"Remove your shoes!"
Like the scapegoat,
you drove them into the wilderness,
into the great mosque of death
with its burning sands.
But they would not confess the sin
you longed to impute to them:
the imprint of their naked feet
in the desert sand
will outlast the silhouettes
of your bombs and tanks.
So hear, O Israel …
hear the whimpers of your victims
echoing your ancient sufferings …
"Hear, O Israel!" was written in 1967, after the Six Day War.
***
What It Is
by Erich Fried
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
It is nonsense
says reason.
It is what it is
says Love.
It is a dangerous
says discretion.
It is terrifying
says fear.
It is hopeless
says insight.
It is what it is
says Love.
It is ludicrous
says pride.
It is reckless
says caution.
It is impractical
says experience.
It is what it is
says Love.
***
An Attempt
by Erich Fried
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I have attempted
while working
to think only of my work
and not of you,
but I am encouraged
to have been so unsuccessful.
***
Humorless
by Erich Fried
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
The boys
throw stones
at the frogs
in jest.
The frogs
die
in earnest.
***
Bulldozers
by Erich Fried
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Israel's bulldozers
have confirmed their kinship
to bulldozers in Beirut
where the bodies of massacred Palestinians
lie buried under the rubble of their former homes.
And it has been reported
that in the heart of Israel
the Memorial Cemetery
for the massacred dead of Deir Yassin
has been destroyed by bulldozers ...
"Not intentional," it's said,
"A slight oversight during construction work."
Also the murder
of the people of Sabra and Shatila
shall become known only as an oversight
in the process of building a great Zionist power.
The villagers of Deir Yassin were massacred in 1948 by Israeli Jews operating under the command of future Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin.
Erich Fried (1921-1988) was born in Austria. His father died under interrogation by the Gestapo. He fled to London after Germany invaded Austria in 1938. During World War II he became one of the most eminent German poets. Fried’s experiences with racism and fascism led him to oppose Zionism and to support Palestinians, who, like himself, had been driven from their native land into exile.
***
Les Bijoux (The Jewels)
by Charles Baudelaire
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My lover nude and knowing my heart's whims
Wore nothing more than a few bright-flashing gems;
Her art was saving men despite their sins—
She ruled like harem girls crowned with diadems!
She danced for me with a gay but mocking air,
My world of stone and metal sparking bright;
I discovered in her the rapture of everything fair—
Nay, an excess of joy where the spirit and flesh unite!
Naked she lay and offered herself to me,
Parting her legs and smiling receptively,
As gentle and yet profound as the rising sea—
Till her surging tide encountered my cliff, abruptly.
A tigress tamed, her eyes met mine, intent...
Intent on lust, content to purr and please!
Her breath, both languid and lascivious, lent
An odd charm to her metamorphoses.
Her limbs, her loins, her abdomen, her thighs,
Oiled alabaster, sinuous as a swan,
Writhed pale before my calm clairvoyant eyes;
Like clustered grapes her breasts and belly shone.
Skilled in more spells than evil imps can muster,
To break the peace which had possessed my heart,
She flashed her crystal rocks’ hypnotic luster
Till my quietude was shattered, blown apart.
Her waist awrithe, her breasts enormously
Out-thrust, and yet... and yet, somehow, still coy...
As if stout haunches of Antiope
Had been grafted to a boy...
The room grew dark, the lamp had flickered out.
Mute firelight, alone, lit each glowing stud;
Each time the fire sighed, as if in doubt,
It steeped her pale, rouged flesh in pools of blood.
***
Le Balcon (The Balcony)
by Charles Baudelaire
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Paramour of memory, ultimate mistress,
source of all pleasure, my only desire;
how can I forget your ecstatic caresses,
the warmth of your breasts by the roaring fire,
paramour of memory, ultimate mistress?
Each night illumined by the burning coals
we lay together where the rose-fragrance clings;
how soft your breasts, how tender your soul!
Ah, and we said imperishable things,
each night illumined by the burning coals.
How beautiful the sunsets these sultry days,
deep space so profound, beyond life's brief floods...
then, when I kissed you, my queen, in a daze,
I thought I breathed the bouquet of your blood
as beautiful as sunsets these sultry days.
Night thickens around us like a wall;
in the deepening darkness our irises meet.
I drink your breath, ah! poisonous yet sweet! ,
as with fraternal hands I massage your feet
while night thickens around us like a wall.
I have mastered the sweet but difficult art
of happiness here, with my head in your lap,
finding pure joy in your body, your heart;
because you're the queen of my present and past
I have mastered love's sweet but difficult art.
O vows! O perfumes! O infinite kisses!
Can these be reborn from a gulf we can't sound
as suns reappear, as if heaven misses
their light when they sink into seas dark, profound?
O vows! O perfumes! O infinite kisses!
I have found adult sites and escort services using my Baudelaire translation, so the pros seem to like it!
***
Duellem (The Duel)
by Charles Baudelaire
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Two combatants charged! Their fearsome swords
brightened the air with fiery sparks and blood.
Their clashing blades clinked odd serenades,
reminding us: youth's inspired by overloud love.
But now their blades lie broken, like our hearts!
Still, our savage teeth and talon-like fingernails
can do more damage than the deadliest sword
when lovers lash about with such natural flails.
In a deep ravine haunted by lynxes and panthers,
our heroes roll around in a cozy embrace,
leaving their blood to redden the colorless branches.
This abyss is pure hell; our friends occupy the place.
Come, let us roll likewise here, cruel Amazon,
let our hatred's ardor NEVER be over and done!
***
The Perfect Courtesan
by Michael R. Burch
(after Baudelaire, for the courtesans)
She received me into her cavities,
indulging my darkest depravities
with such trembling longing, I felt her need...
Such was the dalliance to which we agreed—
she, my high rider;
I, her wild steed.
She surrendered her all and revealed to me—
the willing handmaiden, delighted to please,
the Perfect Courtesan of Ecstasy.
Keywords/Tags: Charles Baudelaire, France, French, translation, balcon, balcony, jewels, mistress, courtesan, invitation, voyage
***
Le Primtemps (“Spring” or “Springtime”)
by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Young lovers,
greeting the spring
fling themselves downhill,
making cobblestones ring
with their wild leaps and arcs,
like ecstatic sparks
drawn from coal.
What is their brazen goal?
They grab at whatever passes,
so we can only hazard guesses.
But they rear like prancing steeds
raked by brilliant spurs of need,
Young lovers.
***
Ballade: Oft in My Thought
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
So often in my busy mind I sought,
Around the advent of the fledgling year,
For something pretty that I really ought
To give my lady dear;
But that sweet thought's been wrested from me, clear,
Since death, alas, has sealed her under clay
And robbed the world of all that's precious here—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
For me to keep my manner and my thought
Acceptable, as suits my age's hour?
While proving that I never once forgot
Her worth? It tests my power!
I serve her now with masses and with prayer;
For it would be a shame for me to stray
Far from my faith, when my time's drawing near—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
Now earthly profits fail, since all is lost
and the cost of everything became so dear;
Therefore, O Lord, who rules the higher host,
Take my good deeds, as many as there are,
And crown her, Lord, above in your bright sphere,
As heaven's truest maid! And may I say:
Most good, most fair, most likely to bring cheer—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
When I praise her, or hear her praises raised,
I recall how recently she brought me pleasure;
Then my heart floods like an overflowing bay
And makes me wish to dress for my own bier—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
***
Rondel: Your Smiling Mouth
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample breasts and slender arms’ twin chains,
Your hands so smooth, each finger straight and plain,
Your little feet—please, what more can I say?
It is my fetish when you’re far away
To muse on these and thus to soothe my pain—
Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample breasts and slender arms’ twin chains.
So would I beg you, if I only may,
To see such sights as I before have seen,
Because my fetish pleases me. Obscene?
I’ll be obsessed until my dying day
By your sweet smiling mouth and eyes, bright gray,
Your ample breasts and slender arms’ twin chains!
***
The season has cast its coat aside
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
The season has cast its coat aside
of wind and cold and rain,
to dress in embroidered light again:
bright sunlight, fit for a bride!
There isn't a bird or beast astride
that fails to sing this sweet refrain:
"The season has cast its coat aside!"
Now rivers, fountains, springs and tides
dressed in their summer best
with silver beads impressed
in a fine display, now glide:
the season has cast its coat aside!
***
Winter has cast his cloak away
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Winter has cast his cloak away
of wind and cold and chilling rain
to dress in embroidered light again:
the light of day—bright, festive, gay!
Each bird and beast, without delay,
in its own tongue, sings this refrain:
“Winter has cast his cloak away!”
Brooks, fountains, rivers, streams at play,
wear, with their summer livery,
bright beads of silver jewelry.
All the Earth has a new and fresh display:
Winter has cast his cloak away!
This rondeau was set to music by Debussy in his “Trois chansons de France.”
***
Confession of a Stolen Kiss
by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My ghostly father, I confess,
First to God and then to you,
That at a window (you know how)
I stole a kiss of great sweetness,
Which was done out of avidness—
But it is done, not undone, now.
My ghostly father, I confess,
First to God and then to you.
But I shall restore it, doubtless,
Again, if it may be that I know how;
And thus to God I make a vow,
And always I ask forgiveness.
My ghostly father, I confess,
First to God and then to you.
Translator note: By "ghostly father" I take Charles d’Orleans to be confessing to a priest. If so, it's ironic that the kiss was "stolen" at a window and the confession is being made at the window of a confession booth. But it also seems possible that Charles could be confessing to his human father, murdered in his youth and now a ghost. There is wicked humor in the poem, as Charles is apparently vowing to keep asking for forgiveness because he intends to keep stealing kisses at every opportunity!
***
Charles d’Orleans has been credited with writing the first Valentine card, in the form of a poem for his wife. He wrote the poem in 1415 at age 21, in the first year of his captivity while being held prisoner in the Tower of London after having been captured by the British at the Battle of Agincourt. The Battle of Agincourt was the centerpiece of William Shakespeare’s historical play Henry V, in which Charles appears as a character.
At age 16, Charles had married the 11-year-old Bonne of Armagnac in a political alliance, which explains the age difference he mentions in his poem. (Coincidentally, I share his wife’s birthday, the 19th of February.) Unfortunately, Charles would be held prisoner for a quarter century and would never see his wife again, as she died before he was released.
Why did Charles call his wife “Valentine”? Well, his mother’s name was Valentina Visconti ...
My Very Gentle Valentine
by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My very gentle Valentine,
Alas, for me you were born too soon,
As I was born too late for you!
May God forgive my jailer
Who has kept me from you this entire year.
I am sick without your love, my dear,
My very gentle Valentine.
Published by: University of Gdansk (Poland)
***
In My Imagined Book
by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In my imagined Book
my heart endeavored to explain
its history of grief, and pain,
illuminated by the tears
that welled to blur those well-loved years
of former happiness's gains,
in my imagined Book.
Alas, where should the reader look
beyond these drops of sweat, their stains,
all the effort & pain it took
& which I recorded night and day
in my imagined Book?
***
Il pleure dans mon coeur (“It rains in my heart”)
by Paul Verlaine
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
for Lemuel Ibbotson
It rains in my heart
As it rains on the town;
Heavy languor and dark
Drenches my heart.
Oh, the sweet-sounding rain
cleansing pavements and roofs!
For my listless heart's pain
The pure song of the rain!
Still it rains without reason
In my overcast heart.
Can it be there's no treason?
That this grief's without reason?
As my heart floods with pain,
Lacking hatred, or love,
I've no way to explain
Such bewildering pain!
Published by Better Than Starbucks, Vector Borne (Thailand), Toronto Wraptors (Canada), Love Poems and Poets and The HyperTexts
***
Spleen
by Paul Verlaine
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The roses were so very red;
The ivy, impossibly black.
Dear, with a mere a turn of your head,
My despair’s flooded back!
The sky was too gentle, too blue;
The sea, far too windswept and green.
Yet I always imagined—or knew—
I’d again feel your spleen.
Now I’m tired of the glossy waxed holly,
Of the shimmering boxwood too,
Of the meadowland’s endless folly,
When all things, alas, lead to you!
***
Veronica Franco (1546-1591) was a Venetian courtesan who wrote literary-quality poetry and prose. Renaissance Venetian society recognized two very different classes of courtesans: the cortigiana onesta (intellectual courtesans) and the cortigiana di lume (lower-class prostitutes, often streetwalkers). Franco was perhaps the most celebrated cortigiana onesta, or “honest courtesan.” Thanks to her fine education and literary talents, she was able to mingle with Venice’s elites, befriending and sometimes bedding aristocrats and noblemen, even King Henry III of France, to whom she addressed two sonnets in her second book. She also became close friends with Domenico Venier, a patron of female poets, and was able to take advantage of the Venier palace library. Her poems display both passion and intelligence, and she sometimes engaged in witty poetic “duels” with the male poets she knew. For instance, Franco wrote the poem below in response to a poem by Marco Venier:
Capitolo 19: A Courtesan's Love Lyric (I)
by Veronica Franco
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
"I resolved to make a virtue of my desire."
My rewards will be commensurate with your gifts
If only you give me the one that lifts
Me, laughing. If it comes free,
Still, it is of immense value to me.
Your reward will be—not just to fly,
But to soar—so incredibly high
That your joys eclipse your desires
(As my beauty, to which your heart aspires
And which you never tire of praising,
I employ for your spirit’s raising).
Afterwards, lying docile at your side,
I will grant you all the delights of a bride,
Which I have more expertly learned.
Then you, who so fervently burned,
Will at last rest, fully content,
Fallen even more deeply in love, spent
At my comfortable bosom.
When I am in bed with a man I blossom,
Becoming completely free
With the man who freely enjoys me.
***
Free verse version:
Capitolo 19: A Courtesan's Love Lyric (II)
by Veronica Franco
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
"I resolved to make a virtue of my desire."
My rewards will be commensurate with your gifts
if only you give me the one that lifts
me laughing ...
And though it costs you nothing,
still it is of immense value to me.
Your reward will be
not just to fly
but to soar: so high
that your joys vastly exceed your desires.
And my beauty, to which your heart aspires
and which you never tire
of praising,
I will employ for the raising
of your spirits. Then, lying sweetly at your side,
I will shower you with all the delights of a bride,
which I have more expertly learned.
Then you who so fervently burned
will at last rest, fully content,
fallen even more deeply in love, spent
at my comfortable bosom.
When I am in bed with a man I blossom,
becoming completely free
with the man who freely loves and enjoys me.
Published by Sybarite’s Garden, Mimi von Tease
Franco published two books: Terze rime (a collection of poems) and Lettere familiari a diversi (a collection of letters and poems). She also collected the works of other writers into anthologies and founded a charity for courtesans and their children. And she was an early champion of women’s rights, one of the first ardent, outspoken feminists that we know by name today. For example ...
Capitolo 24
by Veronica Franco
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
(written by Franco to a man who had insulted a woman)
Please try to see with sensible eyes
how grotesque it is for you
to insult and abuse women!
Our unfortunate sex is always subject
to such unjust treatment, because we
are dominated, denied true freedom!
And certainly we are not at fault
because, while not as robust as men,
we have equal hearts, minds and intellects.
Nor does virtue originate in power,
but in the vigor of the heart, mind and soul:
the sources of understanding;
and I am certain that in these regards
women lack nothing,
but, rather, have demonstrated
superiority to men.
If you think us “inferior” to yourself,
perhaps it's because, being wise,
we outdo you in modesty.
And if you want to know the truth,
the wisest person is the most patient;
she squares herself with reason and with virtue;
while the madman thunders insolence.
The stone the wise man withdraws from the well
was flung there by a fool ...
Life was not a bed of roses for Venetian courtesans. Although they enjoyed the good graces of their wealthy patrons, religious leaders and commoners saw them as symbols of vice. Once during a plague, Franco was banished from Venice as if her “sins” had helped cause it. When she returned in 1577, she faced the Inquisition and charges of “witchcraft.” She defended herself in court and won her freedom, but lost all her material possessions. Eventually, Domenico Venier, her major patron died in 1582 and left her with no support. Her tax declaration of that same year stated that she was living in a section of the city where many destitute prostitutes ended their lives. She may have died in poverty at the age of forty-five.
Hollywood produced a movie based on her life: Dangerous Beauty.
When I bed a man
who—I sense—truly loves and enjoys me,
I become so sweet and so delicious
that the pleasure I bring him surpasses all delight,
till the tight
knot of love,
however slight
it may have seemed before,
is wound tightly to the core.
—Veronica Franco, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
We danced a youthful jig through that fair city—
Venice, our paradise, so pompous and pretty.
We lived for love, for primal lust and beauty;
To please ourselves became our only duty.
Floating there in a fog between heaven and earth,
We grew drunk on excesses and wild mirth.
We thought ourselves immortal poets then,
Our glory endorsed by God’s illustrious pen.
But paradise, we learned, is fraught with error,
and sooner or later love succumbs to terror.
—Veronica Franco, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I wish it were not considered a sin
to have liked fucking.
Women have yet to realize
the cowardice that presides.
And if they should ever decide
to fight the shallow,
I would be the first, setting an example for them to follow.
—Veronica Franco, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
***
Renée Vivien, born Pauline Mary Tarn (1877-1909), was a British poet and high-profile lesbian of the Belle Époque who wrote French poems in the style of the Symbolistes and Parnassiens.
“Undine” by Renée Vivien
loose translation/interpretation by Kim Cherub aka Michael R. Burch
Your laughter startles, your caresses rake.
Your cold kisses love the evil they do.
Your eyes—blue lotuses drifting on a lake.
Lilies are less pallid than your face.
You move like water parting.
Your hair falls in rootlike tangles.
Your words like treacherous rapids rise.
Your arms, flexible as reeds, strangle,
Choking me like tubular river reeds.
I shiver in their enlacing embrace.
Drowning without an illuminating moon,
I vanish without a trace,
lost in a nightly swoon.
***
“Song”
by Renée Vivien
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When the moon weeps,
illuminating flowers on the graves of the faithful,
my memories creep
back to you, wrapped in flightless wings.
It's getting late; soon we will sleep
(your eyes already half closed)
steeped
in the shimmering air.
O, the agony of burning roses:
your forehead discloses
a heavy despondency,
though your hair floats lightly ...
In the night sky the stars burn whitely
as the Goddess nightly
resurrects flowers that fear the sun
and die before dawn ...
***
Amazone
by Renée Vivien
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
the Amazon smiles above the ruins
while the sun, wearied by its struggles, droops to sleep.
murder’s aroma swells Her nostrils;
She exults in blood, death’s inscrutable lover.
She loves lovers who intoxicate Her
with their wild agonies and proud demises.
She despises the cloying honey of feminine caresses;
cups empty of horror fail to satisfy Her.
Her desire, falling cruelly on some wan mouth
from which she rips out the unrequited kiss,
awaits ardently lust’s supreme spasm,
more beautiful and more terrible than the spasm of love.
NOTE: The French poem has “coups” and I considered various words – “cuts,” “coups,” “coups counted,” etc. – but I thought because of “intoxicate” and “honey” that “cups” worked best in English.
***
“Nous nous sommes assises” (“We Sat Down”)
by Renée Vivien
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Darling, we were like two exiles
bearing our desolate souls within us.
Dawn broke more revolting than any illness...
Neither of us knew the native language
As we wandered the streets like strangers.
The morning’s stench, so oppressive!
Yet you shone like the sunrise of hope...
***
As night fell, we sat down,
Your drab dress grey as any evening,
To feel the friendly freshness of kisses.
No longer alone in the universe,
We exchanged lovely verses with languor.
Darling, we dallied, without quite daring to believe,
And I told you: “The evening is far more beautiful than the dawn.”
You nudged me with your forehead, then gave me your hands,
And I no longer feared uncertain tomorrows.
The sunset sashayed off with its splendid insolence,
But no voice dared disturb our silence...
I forgot the houses and their inhospitality...
The sunset dyed my mourning attire purple.
Then I told you, kissing your half-closed eyelids:
“Violets are more beautiful than roses.”
Darkness overwhelmed the horizon...
Harmonious sobs surrounded us...
A strange languor subdued the strident city.
Thus we savored the enigmatic hour.
Slowly death erased all light and noise,
Then I knew the august face of the night.
You let the last veils slip to your naked feet...
Then your body appeared even nobler to me, dimly lit by the stars.
Finally came the appeasement of rest, of returning to ourselves...
And I told you: “Here is the height of love…”
We who had come carrying our desolate souls within us,
like two exiles, like complete strangers.
***
HOMER TRANSLATIONS
Surrender to sleep at last! What an ordeal, keeping watch all night, wide awake. Soon you’ll succumb to sleep and escape all your troubles. Sleep. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Any moment might be our last. Earth’s magnificence? Magnified because we’re doomed. You will never be lovelier than at this moment. We will never pass this way again. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let’s hope the gods are willing. They rule the vaulting skies. They’re stronger than men to plan, execute and realize their ambitions.—Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Passage home? Impossible! Surely you have something else in mind, Goddess, urging me to cross the ocean’s endless expanse in a raft. So vast, so full of danger! Hell, sometimes not even the sea-worthiest ships can prevail, aided as they are by Zeus’s mighty breath! I’ll never set foot on a raft, Goddess, until you swear by all that’s holy you’re not plotting some new intrigue! — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Few sons surpass their fathers; most fall short, all too few overachieve. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Beauty! Ah, Terrible Beauty! A deathless Goddess, she startles our eyes! — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Many dread seas and many dark mountain ranges lie between us. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The lives of mortal men? Like the leaves’ generations. Now the old leaves fall, blown and scattered by the wind. Soon the living timber bursts forth green buds as spring returns. Even so with men: as one generation is born, another expires. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Since I’m attempting to temper my anger, it does not behoove me to rage unrelentingly on. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Overpowering memories subsided to grief. Priam wept freely for Hector, who had died crouching at Achilles’ feet, while Achilles wept himself, first for his father, then for Patroclus, as their mutual sobbing filled the house. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
“Genius is discovered in adversity, not prosperity.” — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ruin, the eldest daughter of Zeus, blinds us all with her fatal madness. With those delicate feet of hers, never touching the earth, she glides over our heads, trapping us all. First she entangles you, then me, in her lethal net. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Death and Fate await us all. Soon comes a dawn or noon or sunset when someone takes my life in battle, with a well-flung spear or by whipping a deadly arrow from his bow. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Death is the Great Leveler, not even the immortal gods can defend the man they love most when the dread day dawns for him to take his place in the dust.—Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
***
Lament for the Makaris (“Lament for the Makers, or Poets”)
by William Dunbar (c. 1460-1530)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
i who enjoyed good health and gladness
am overwhelmed now by life’s terrible sickness
and enfeebled with infirmity;
the fear of Death dismays me!
our presence here is mere vainglory;
the false world is but transitory;
the flesh is frail; the Fiend runs free;
how the fear of Death dismays me!
the state of man is changeable:
now sound, now sick, now blithe, now dull,
now manic, now devoid of glee;
and the fear of Death dismays me!
no state on earth stands here securely;
as the wild wind waves the willow tree,
so wavers this world’s vanity;
and the fear of Death dismays me!
Death leads the knights into the field
(unarmored under helm and shield)
sole Victor of each red mêlée;
and the fear of Death dismays me!
that strange, despotic Beast
tears from its mother’s breast
the babe, full of benignity;
and the fear of Death dismays me!
He takes the champion of the hour,
the captain of the highest tower,
the beautiful damsel in full flower;
how the fear of Death dismays me!
He spares no lord for his elegance,
nor clerk for his intelligence;
His dreadful stroke no man can flee;
and the fear of Death dismays me!
artist, magician, scientist,
orator, debater, theologist,
all must conclude, so too, as we:
“the fear of Death dismays me!”
in medicine the most astute
sawbones and surgeons all fall mute;
they cannot save themselves, or flee,
and the fear of Death dismays me!
i see the Makers among the unsaved;
the greatest of Poets all go to the grave;
He does not spare them their faculty,
and the fear of Death dismays me!
i have seen Him pitilessly devour
our noble Chaucer, poetry’s flower,
and Lydgate and Gower (great Trinity!);
how the fear of Death dismays me!
since He has taken my brothers all,
i know He will not let me live past the fall;
His next victim will be —poor unfortunate me!—
and how the fear of Death dismays me!
there is no remedy for Death;
we must all prepare to relinquish breath,
so that after we die, we may no more plead:
“the fear of Death dismays me!”
***
Ballad
by William Soutar
translation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
O, surely you have seen my love
Down where the waters wind:
He walks like one who fears no man
And yet his eyes are kind!
O, surely you have seen my love
At the turning of the tide:
For then he gathers in his nets
Down by the waterside!
Yes, lassie we have seen your love
At the turning of the tide:
For he was with the fisher folk
Down by the waterside.
The fisher folk worked at their trade
No far from Walnut Grove:
They gathered in their dripping nets
And found your one true love!
Keywords/Tags: William Soutar, Scottish, Scot, Scotsman, ballad, water, waterside, tide, nets, nets, fisher, fishers, fisher folk, fishermen, love, sea, ocean, lost, lost love, loss
***
Federico Garcia Lorca (1898-1936) was a Spanish poet, playwright and theater director. He was assassinated by Nationalist forces at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War and his body was never found.
Gacela of the Dark Death
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I want to sleep the dreamless sleep of apples
far from the bustle of cemeteries.
I want to sleep the dream-filled sleep of the child
who longed to cut out his heart on the high seas.
I don't want to hear how the corpse retains its blood,
or how the putrefying mouth continues accumulating water.
I don't want to be informed of the grasses’ torture sessions,
nor of the moon with its serpent's snout
scuttling until dawn.
I want to sleep awhile,
whether a second, a minute, or a century;
and yet I want everyone to know that I’m still alive,
that there’s a golden manger in my lips;
that I’m the elfin companion of the West Wind;
that I’m the immense shadow of my own tears.
When Dawn arrives, cover me with a veil,
because Dawn will toss fistfuls of ants at me;
then wet my shoes with a little hard water
so her scorpion pincers slip off.
Because I want to sleep the dreamless sleep of the apples,
to learn the lament that cleanses me of this earth;
because I want to live again as that dark child
who longed to cut out his heart on the high sea.
Gacela de la huida (“Ghazal of the Flight”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I have been lost, many times, by the sea
with an ear full of freshly-cut flowers
and a tongue spilling love and agony.
I have often been lost by the sea,
as I am lost in the hearts of children.
At night, no one giving a kiss
fails to feel the smiles of the faceless.
No one touching a new-born child
fails to remember horses’ thick skulls.
Because roses root through the forehead
for hardened landscapes of bone,
and man’s hands merely imitate
roots, underground.
Thus, I have lost myself in children’s hearts
and have been lost many times by the sea.
Ignorant of water, I go searching
for death, as the light consumes me.
***
La balada del agua del mar (“The Ballad of the Sea Water”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The sea
smiles in the distance:
foam-toothed,
heaven-lipped.
What do you sell, shadowy child
with your naked breasts?
Sir, I sell
the sea’s saltwater.
What do you bear, dark child,
mingled with your blood?
Sir, I bear
the sea’s saltwater.
Those briny tears,
where were they born, mother?
Sir, I weep
the sea’s saltwater.
Heart, this bitterness,
whence does it arise?
So very bitter,
the sea’s saltwater!
The sea
smiles in the distance:
foam-toothed,
heaven-lipped.
***
Paisaje (“Landscape”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The olive orchard
opens and closes
like a fan;
above the grove
a sunken sky dims;
a dark rain falls
on warmthless lights;
reeds tremble by the gloomy river;
the colorless air wavers;
olive trees
scream with flocks
of captive birds
waving their tailfeathers
in the dark.
***
Canción del jinete (“The Horseman’s Song” or “Song of the Rider”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Cordoba. Distant and lone.
Black pony, big moon,
olives in my saddlebag.
Although my pony knows the way,
I never will reach Cordoba.
High plains, high winds.
Black pony, blood moon.
Death awaits me, watching
from the towers of Cordoba.
Such a long, long way!
Oh my brave pony!
Death awaits me
before I arrive in Cordoba!
Cordoba. Distant and lone.
***
Arbolé, arbolé (“Tree, Tree”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sapling, sapling,
dry but green.
The girl with the lovely countenance
gathers olives.
The wind, that towering lover,
seizes her by the waist.
Four dandies ride by
on fine Andalusian steeds,
wearing azure and emerald suits
beneath long shadowy cloaks.
“Come to Cordoba, sweetheart!”
The girl does not heed them.
Three young bullfighters pass by,
slim-waisted, wearing suits of orange,
with swords of antique silver.
“Come to Sevilla, sweetheart!”
The girl does not heed them.
When twilight falls and the sky purples
with day’s demise,
a young man passes by, bearing
roses and moonlit myrtle.
“Come to Granada, sweetheart!”
But the girl does not heed him.
The girl, with the lovely countenance
continues gathering olives
while the wind’s colorless arms
encircle her waist.
Sapling, sapling,
dry but green.
***
Despedida (“Farewell”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
If I die,
leave the balcony open.
The boy eats oranges.
(I see him from my balcony.)
The reaper scythes barley.
(I feel it from my balcony.)
If I die,
leave the balcony open!
*
In the green morning
I longed to become a heart.
Heart.
In the ripe evening
I longed to become a nightingale.
Nightingale.
(Soul,
become the color of oranges.
Soul,
become the color of love.)
In the living morning
I wanted to be me.
Heart.
At nightfall
I wanted to be my voice.
Nightingale.
Soul,
become the color of oranges.
Soul,
become the color of love!
*
I want to return to childhood,
and from childhood to the darkness.
Are you going, nightingale?
Go!
I want return to the darkness
And from the darkness to the flower.
Are you leaving, aroma?
Go!
I want to return to the flower
and from the flower
to my heart.
Are you departing, love?
Depart!
(To my deserted heart!)
***
Sonnet: “A Vision of Love” or “Love’s Faithful Ones” from LA VITA NUOVA
by Dante Alighieri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
To every gentle heart true Love may move,
And unto whom my words must now be brought
For wise interpretation’s tender thought,
I greet you in our Lord's name, which is Love.
Through night’s last watch, as winking stars, above,
Kept their high vigil over men, distraught,
Love came to me, with such dark terrors fraught
As mortals may not casually speak of.
Love seemed a being of pure Joy and held
My heart, pulsating. On his other arm
My lady, wrapped in thinnest gossamers, slept.
He, having roused her from her sleep, then made
My heart her feast—devoured, with alarm.
Love then departed; as he left, he wept.
***
ALLAMA IQBAL
Withered Roses
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
What shall I call you,
but the nightingale's desire?
The morning breeze was your nativity,
an afternoon garden, your sepulchre.
My tears welled up like dew,
till in my abandoned heart your rune grew:
this memento of love,
this spray of withered roses.
CAMPION
Novelties
by Thomas Campion
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Booksellers laud authors for novel editions
as pimps praise their whores for exotic positions.
***
OVIDIU
This is my loose translation of a poem by the Romanian poet Stefan Ovidiu.
Under Water
by Stefan Ovidiu
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Even my dreams
cry
sometimes,
for the souls of transported soldiers
buried so deep
beneath
the water mark.
They lost
their fortunate stars,
far from home's capacious skies
and their lovers' eyes,
unborn to the womb
of the earth's great lies.
I awake in the night
hearing the sound of the sea
breathe with you,
sighing, distracted,
probing the declivities
of a land so full of tears and stars.
***
EPIGRAMS
My objective is not to side with the majority, but to avoid the ranks of the insane.—Marcus Aurelius, translation by Michael R. Burch
Cunt, while you weep and seep neediness all night,
ass has claimed what would bring you delight.
—Musa Lapidaria, #100A, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
***
RILKE (II)
Du im Voraus (“You who never arrived”)
by Rainer Maria Rilke
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You who never arrived in my arms, my Belovéd,
lost before love began...
How can I possibly know which songs might please you?
I have given up trying to envision you
in portentous moments before the next wave impacts...
when all the vastness and immenseness within me,
all the far-off undiscovered lands and landscapes,
all the cities, towers and bridges,
all the unanticipated twists and turns in the road,
and all those terrible terrains once traversed by strange gods—
engender new meaning in me:
your meaning, my enigmatic darling...
You, who continually elude me.
You, my Belovéd,
who are every garden I ever gazed upon,
longingly, through some country manor’s open window,
so that you almost stepped out, pensively, to meet me;
who are every sidestreet I ever chanced upon,
even though you’d just traipsed tantalizingly away, and vanished,
while the disconcerted shopkeepers’ mirrors
still dizzily reflected your image, flashing you back at me,
startled by my unwarranted image!
Who knows, but perhaps the same songbird’s cry
echoed through us both,
yesterday, separate as we were, that evening?
***
Der Panther ("The Panther")
by Rainer Maria Rilke
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
His weary vision's so overwhelmed by iron bars,
his exhausted eyes see only blank Oblivion.
His world is not our world. It has no stars.
No light. Ten thousand bars. Nothing beyond.
Lithe, swinging with a rhythmic easy stride,
he circles, his small orbit tightening,
an electron losing power. Paralyzed,
soon regal Will stands stunned, an abject thing.
Only at times the pupils' curtains rise
silently, and then an image enters,
descends through arrested shoulders, plunges, centers
somewhere within his empty heart, and dies.
***
Komm, Du (“Come, You”)
by Ranier Maria Rilke
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This was Rilke’s last poem, written ten days before his death. He died open-eyed in the arms of his doctor on December 29, 1926, in the Valmont Sanatorium, of leukemia and its complications. I had a friend who died of leukemia and he was burning up with fever in the end. I believe that is what Rilke was describing here: he was literally burning alive.
Come, you—the last one I acknowledge; return—
incurable pain searing this physical mesh.
As I burned in the spirit once, so now I burn
with you; meanwhile, you consume my flesh.
This wood that long resisted your embrace
now nourishes you; I surrender to your fury
as my gentleness mutates to hellish rage—
uncaged, wild, primal, mindless, outré.
Completely free, no longer future’s pawn,
I clambered up this crazy pyre of pain,
certain I’d never return—my heart’s reserves gone—
to become death’s nameless victim, purged by flame.
Now all I ever was must be denied.
I left my memories of my past elsewhere.
That life—my former life—remains outside.
Inside, I’m lost. Nobody knows me here.
***
Liebes-Lied (“Love Song”)
by Rainer Maria Rilke
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
How can I withhold my soul so that it doesn’t touch yours?
How can I lift mine gently to higher things, alone?
Oh, I would gladly find something lost in the dark
in that inert space that fails to resonate until you vibrate.
There everything that moves us, draws us together like a bow
enticing two taut strings to sing together with a simultaneous voice.
Whose instrument are we becoming together?
Whose, the hands that excite us?
Ah, sweet song!
***
Das Lied des Bettlers (“The Beggar’s Song”)
by Rainer Maria Rilke
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I live outside your gates,
exposed to the rain, exposed to the sun;
sometimes I’ll cradle my right ear
in my right palm;
then when I speak my voice sounds strange,
alien ...
I'm unsure whose voice I’m hearing:
mine or yours.
I implore a trifle;
the poets cry for more.
Sometimes I cover both eyes
and my face disappears;
there it lies heavy in my hands
looking peaceful, instead,
so that no one would ever think
I have no place to lay my head.
Translator's note: I believe the last line may be a reference to a statement made by Jesus Christ in the gospels: that foxes have their dens, but he had no place to lay his head. Rilke may also have had in mind Jesus saying that what someone does "to the least of these" they would also be doing to him.
***
This is my translation of the first of Rilke’s Duino Elegies. Rilke began the first Duino Elegy in 1912, as a guest of Princess Marie von Thurn und Taxis, at Duino Castle, near Trieste on the Adriatic Sea.
First Elegy
by Ranier Maria Rilke
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Who, if I objected, would hear me among the angelic orders?
For if the least One pressed me intimately against its breast,
I would be lost in its infinite Immensity!
Because beauty, which we mortals can barely endure, is the beginning of terror;
we stand awed when it benignly declines to annihilate us.
Every Angel is terrifying!
And so I restrain myself, swallowing the sound of my pitiful sobbing.
For whom may we turn to, in our desire?
Not to Angels, nor to men, and already the sentient animals are aware
that we are all aliens in this metaphorical existence.
Perhaps some tree still stands on a hillside, which we can study with our ordinary vision.
Perhaps the commonplace street still remains amid man’s fealty to materiality—
the concrete items that never destabilize.
Oh, and of course there is the night: her dark currents caress our faces ...
But whom, then, do we live for?
That longed-for but mildly disappointing presence the lonely heart so desperately desires?
Is life any less difficult for lovers?
They only use each other to avoid their appointed fates!
How can you fail to comprehend?
Fling your arms’ emptiness into this space we occupy and inhale:
may birds fill the expanded air with more intimate flying!
Yes, the springtime still requires you.
Perpetually a star waits for you to recognize it.
A wave recedes toward you from the distant past,
or as you walk beneath an open window, a violin yields virginally to your ears.
All this was preordained. But how can you incorporate it? ...
Weren't you always distracted by expectations, as if every event presaged some new beloved?
(Where can you harbor, when all these enormous strange thoughts surging within you keep
you up all night, restlessly rising and falling?)
When you are full of yearning, sing of loving women, because their passions are finite;
sing of forsaken women (and how you almost envy them)
because they could love you more purely than the ones you left gratified.
Resume the unattainable exaltation; remember: the hero survives;
even his demise was merely a stepping stone toward his latest rebirth.
But spent and exhausted Nature withdraws lovers back into herself,
as if lacking the energy to recreate them.
Have you remembered Gaspara Stampa with sufficient focus—
how any abandoned girl might be inspired by her fierce example
and might ask herself, "How can I be like her?"
Shouldn't these ancient sufferings become fruitful for us?
Shouldn’t we free ourselves from the beloved,
quivering, as the arrow endures the bowstring's tension,
so that in the snap of release it soars beyond itself?
For there is nowhere else where we can remain.
Voices! Voices!
Listen, heart, as levitating saints once listened,
until the elevating call soared them heavenward;
and yet they continued kneeling, unaware, so complete was their concentration.
Not that you could endure God's voice—far from it!
But heed the wind’s voice and the ceaseless formless message of silence:
It murmurs now of the martyred young.
Whenever you attended a church in Naples or Rome,
didn't they come quietly to address you?
And didn’t an exalted inscription impress its mission upon you
recently, on the plaque in Santa Maria Formosa?
What they require of me is that I gently remove any appearance of injustice—
which at times slightly hinders their souls from advancing.
Of course, it is endlessly strange to no longer inhabit the earth;
to relinquish customs one barely had the time to acquire;
not to see in roses and other tokens a hopeful human future;
no longer to be oneself, cradled in infinitely caring hands;
to set aside even one's own name,
forgotten as easily as a child’s broken plaything.
How strange to no longer desire one's desires!
How strange to see meanings no longer cohere, drifting off into space.
Dying is difficult and requires retrieval before one can gradually decipher eternity.
The living all err in believing the too-sharp distinctions they create themselves.
Angels (men say) don't know whether they move among the living or the dead.
The eternal current merges all ages in its maelstrom
until the voices of both realms are drowned out in its thunderous roar.
In the end, the early-departed no longer need us:
they are weaned gently from earth's agonies and ecstasies,
as children outgrow their mothers’ breasts.
But we, who need such immense mysteries,
and for whom grief is so often the source of our spirit's progress—
how can we exist without them?
Is the legend of the lament for Linos meaningless—
the daring first notes of the song pierce our apathy;
then, in the interlude, when the youth, lovely as a god, has suddenly departed forever,
we experience the emptiness of the Void for the first time—
that harmony which now enraptures and comforts and aids us?
***
Second Elegy
by Rainer Maria Rilke
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Every angel is terrifying. And yet, alas, I invoke you,
one of the soul’s lethal raptors, well aware of your nature.
As in the days of Tobias, when one of you, obscuring his radiance,
stood at the simple threshold, appearing ordinary rather than appalling
while the curious youth peered through the window.
But if the Archangel emerged today, perilous, from beyond the stars
and took even one step toward us, our hammering hearts
would pound us to death. What are you?
Who are you? Joyous from the beginning;
God’s early successes; Creation’s favorites;
creatures of the heights; pollen of the flowering godhead; cusps of pure light;
stately corridors; rising stairways; exalted thrones;
filling space with your pure essence; crests of rapture;
shields of ecstasy; storms of tumultuous emotions whipped into whirlwinds ...
until one, acting alone, recreates itself by mirroring the beauty of its own countenance.
While we, when deeply moved, evaporate;
we exhale ourselves and fade away, growing faint like smoldering embers;
we drift away like the scent of smoke.
And while someone might say: “You’re in my blood! You occupy this room!
You fill this entire springtime!” ... Still, what becomes of us?
We cannot be contained; we vanish whether inside or out.
And even the loveliest, who can retain them?
Resemblance ceaselessly rises, then is gone, like dew from dawn’s grasses.
And what is ours drifts away, like warmth from a steaming dish.
O smile, where are you bound?
O heavenward glance: are you a receding heat wave, a ripple of the heart?
Alas, but is this not what we are?
Does the cosmos we dissolve into savor us?
Do the angels reabsorb only the radiance they emitted themselves,
or sometimes, perhaps by oversight, traces of our being as well?
Are we included in their features, as obscure as the vague looks on the faces of pregnant women?
Do they notice us at all (how could they) as they reform themselves?
Lovers, if they only knew how, might mutter marvelous curses into the night air.
For it seems everything eludes us.
See: the trees really do exist; our houses stand solid and firm.
And yet we drift away, like weightless sighs.
And all creation conspires to remain silent about us: perhaps from shame, perhaps some inexpressible hope?
Lovers, gratified by each other, I ask to you consider:
You cling to each other, but where is your proof of a connection?
Sometimes my hands become aware of each other
and my time-worn, exhausted face takes shelter in them,
creating a slight sensation.
But because of that, can I still claim to be?
You, the ones who writhe with each other’s passions
until, overwhelmed, someone begs: “No more!...”;
You who swell beneath each other’s hands like autumn grapes;
You, the one who dwindles as the other increases:
I ask you to consider ...
I know you touch each other so ardently because each caress preserves pure continuance,
like the promise of eternity, because the flesh touched does not disappear.
And yet, when you have survived the terror of initial intimacy,
the first lonely vigil at the window, the first walk together through the blossoming garden:
lovers, do you not still remain who you were before?
If you lift your lips to each other’s and unite, potion to potion,
still how strangely each drinker eludes the magic.
Weren’t you confounded by the cautious human gestures on Attic gravestones?
Weren’t love and farewell laid so lightly on shoulders they seemed composed of some ethereal substance unknown to us today?
Consider those hands, how weightlessly they rested, despite the powerful torsos.
The ancient masters knew: “We can only go so far, in touching each other. The gods can exert more force. But that is their affair.”
If only we, too, could discover such a pure, contained Eden for humanity,
our own fruitful strip of soil between river and rock.
For our hearts have always exceeded us, as our ancestors’ did.
And we can no longer trust our own eyes, when gazing at godlike bodies, our hearts find a greater repose.
***
BERTOLT BRECHT (II)
Parting
by Bertolt Brecht
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
We embrace;
my fingers trace
rich cloth
while yours encounter only moth-
eaten fabric.
A quick hug:
you were invited to the gay soiree
while the minions of the 'law'
relentlessly pursue me.
We talk about the weather
and our friendship's eternal magic.
Anything else would be too bitter,
too tragic.
***
Radio Poem
by Bertolt Brecht
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You, little box, held tightly
to me
during my escape
so that your delicate tubes do not break;
carried from house to house, from ship to train,
so that my enemies may continue communicating with me
by land and by sea
and even in my bed, to my pain;
the last thing I hear at night, the first thing when I rise,
recounting their many conquests and my cares,
promise me not to go silent in a sudden
surprise.
***
The Mask of Evil
by Bertolt Brecht
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A Japanese woodcarving hangs on my wall —
the mask of an ancient demon, limned with golden lacquer.
Not unsympathetically, I observe
the forehead's bulging veins,
the strain
such malevolence requires.
***
Bertolt Brecht Epigrams and Quotations
Everyone chases the way happiness feels,
unaware how it nips at their heels.
—Bertolt Brecht, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The world of learning takes a crazy turn
when teachers are taught to discern!
—Bertolt Brecht, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Unhappy, the land that lacks heroes.
—Bertolt Brecht, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Hungry man, reach for the book:
it's a hook,
a harpoon.
—Bertolt Brecht, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Because things are the way they are,
things can never stay as they were.
—Bertolt Brecht, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
War is like love; true...
it finds a way through.
—Bertolt Brecht, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
What happens to the hole
when the cheese is no longer whole?
— loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
It is easier to rob by setting up a bank
than by threatening the poor clerk.
— loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Do not fear death so much, or strife,
but rather fear the inadequate life.
—Bertolt Brecht, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
***
ENHEDUANNA
Enheduanna, the daughter of the famous King Sargon the Great of Akkad, is the first ancient writer whose name remains known today. She appears to be the first named poet in human history and the first known author of prayers and hymns. Enheduanna, who lived circa 2285-2250 BCE, is also one of the first women we know by name. She was the entu (high priestess) of the goddess Inanna (Ishtar/Astarte/Aphrodite) and the moon god Nanna (Sin) in the Sumerian city-state of Ur.
Temple Hymn 15
to the Gishbanda Temple of Ningishzida
by Enheduanna (circa 2285-2250 BCE)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Most ancient and terrible shrine,
set deep in the mountain
like a mother's womb ...
Dark shrine,
like a mother's wounded breast,
blood-red and terrifying ...
Though approaching through a safe-seeming field,
our hair raises as we near you!
Gishbanda,
like a neck-stock,
like a fish net,
like a foot-shackled prisoner's manacles ...
your ramparts are massive,
like a trap!
But once we’re inside,
as the sun rises,
you yield widespread abundance!
Your prince
is the pure-handed priest of Inanna, heaven's holy one,
Lord Ningishzida!
Oh, see how his thick, lustrous hair
cascades down his back!
Oh Gishbanda,
he has built this beautiful temple to house your radiance!
He has placed his throne upon your dais!
***
Temple Hymn 7: an Excerpt
to the Kesh Temple of Ninhursag
by Enheduanna
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
O, high-situated Kesh,
form-shifting summit,
inspiring fear like a venomous viper!
O, Lady of the Mountains,
Ninhursag’s house was constructed on a terrifying site!
O, Kesh, like holy Aratta: your womb dark and deep,
your walls high-towering and imposing!
O, great lion of the wildlands stalking the high plains!...
***
Temple Hymn 17: an Excerpt
to the Badtibira Temple of Dumuzi
by Enheduanna
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
O, house of jeweled lapis illuminating the radiant bed
in the peace-inducing palace of our Lady of the Steppe!
***
Temple Hymn 22: an Excerpt
to the Sirara Temple of Nanshe
by Enheduanna
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
O, house, you wild cow!
Made to conjure signs of the Divine!
You arise, beautiful to behold,
bedecked for your Mistress!
***
Temple Hymn 26: an Excerpt
to the Zabalam Temple of Inanna
by Enheduanna
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
O house illuminated by beams of bright light,
dressed in shimmering stone jewels,
awakening the world to awe!
***
Temple Hymn 42: an Excerpt
to the Eresh Temple of Nisaba
by Enheduanna
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
O, house of brilliant stars
bright with lapis stones,
you illuminate all lands!
...
The person who put this tablet together
is Enheduanna.
My king: something never created before,
did she not give birth to it?
***
Lament to the Spirit of War
by Enheduanna (circa 2285-2250 BCE)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You hack down everything you see, War God!
Rising on fearsome wings
you rush to destroy our land:
raging like thunderstorms,
howling like hurricanes,
screaming like tempests,
thundering, raging, ranting, drumming,
whiplashing whirlwinds!
Men falter at your approaching footsteps.
Tortured dirges scream on your lyre of despair.
Like a fiery Salamander you poison the land:
growling over the earth like thunder,
vegetation collapsing before you,
blood gushing down mountainsides.
Spirit of hatred, greed and vengeance!
Dominatrix of heaven and earth!
Your ferocious fire consumes our land.
Whipping your stallion
with furious commands,
you impose our fates.
You triumph over all human rites and prayers.
Who can explain your tirade,
why you carry on so?
***
The Exaltation of Inanna: Opening Lines and Excerpts
by Enheduanna, the daughter of Sargon I of Akkad and the high priestess of the Goddess Inanna
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lady of all divine powers!
Lady of the resplendent light!
Righteous Lady adorned in heavenly radiance!
Beloved Lady of An and Uraš!
Hierodule of An, sun-adorned and bejeweled!
Heaven’s Mistress with the holy diadem,
Who loves the beautiful headdress befitting the office of her own high priestess!
Powerful Mistress, seizer of the seven divine powers!
My Heavenly Lady, guardian of the seven divine powers!
You have seized the seven divine powers!
You hold the divine powers in your hand!
You have gathered together the seven divine powers!
You have clasped the divine powers to your breast!
You have flooded the valleys with venom, like a viper;
all vegetation vanishes when you thunder like Iškur!
You have caused the mountains to flood the valleys!
When you roar like that, nothing on earth can withstand you!
Like a flood descending on floodplains, O Powerful One, you will teach foreigners to fear Inanna!
You have given wings to the storm, O Beloved of Enlil!
The storms do your bidding, blasting the unbelievers!
Foreign cities cower at the chaos You cause!
Entire countries cower in dread of Your deadly South Wind!
Men cower before you in their anguished implications,
raising their pitiful outcries,
weeping and wailing, beseeching Your benevolence with many wild lamentations!
But in the van of battle, everything falls before You, O Mighty Queen!
My Queen,
You are all-conquering, all-devouring!
You continue Your attacks like relentless storms!
You howl louder than the howling storms!
You thunder louder than Iškur!
You moan louder than the mournful winds!
Your feet never tire from trampling Your enemies!
You produce much wailing on the lyres of lamentations!
My Queen,
all the Anunna, the mightiest Gods,
fled before Your approach like fluttering bats!
They could not stand in Your awesome Presence
nor behold Your awesome Visage!
Who can soothe Your infuriated heart?
Your baleful heart is beyond being soothed!
Uncontrollable Wild Cow, elder daughter of Sin,
O Majestic Queen, greater than An,
who has ever paid You enough homage?
O Life-Giving Goddess, possessor of all powers,
Inanna the Exalted!
Merciful, Live-Giving Mother!
Inanna, the Radiant of Heart!
I have exalted You in accordance with Your power!
I have bowed before You in my holy garb,
I the En, I Enheduanna!
Carrying my masab-basket, I once entered and uttered my joyous chants ...
But now I no longer dwell in Your sanctuary.
The sun rose and scorched me.
Night fell and the South Wind overwhelmed me.
My laughter was stilled and my honey-sweet voice grew strident.
My joy became dust.
O Sin, King of Heaven, how bitter my fate!
To An, I declared: An will deliver me!
I declared it to An: He will deliver me!
But now the kingship of heaven has been seized by Inanna,
at Whose feet the floodplains lie.
Inanna the Exalted,
who has made me tremble together with all Ur!
Stay Her anger, or let Her heart be soothed by my supplications!
I, Enheduanna will offer my supplications to Inanna,
my tears flowing like sweet intoxicants!
Yes, I will proffer my tears and my prayers to the Holy Inanna,
I will greet Her in peace ...
O My Queen, I have exalted You,
Who alone are worthy to be exalted!
O My Queen, Beloved of An,
I have laid out Your daises,
set fire to the coals,
conducted the rites,
prepared Your nuptial chamber.
Now may Your heart embrace me!
These are my innovations,
O Mighty Queen, that I made for You!
What I composed for You by the dark of night,
The cantor will chant by day.
Now Inanna’s heart has been restored,
and the day became favorable to Her.
Clothed in beauty, radiant with joy,
she carried herself like the elegant moonlight.
Now to the Noble Hierodule,
to the Wrecker of foreign lands
presented by An with the seven divine powers,
and to my Queen garbed in the radiance of heaven ...
O Inanna, praise!
***
THE OLDEST LOVE POEM (?)
The Love Song Of Shu-Sin
(the earth's oldest love poem, Sumerian, circa 2,000 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Darling of my heart, my belovéd,
your enticements are sweet, far sweeter than honey.
Darling of my heart, my belovéd,
your enticements are sweet, far sweeter than honey.
You have captivated me; I stand trembling before you.
Darling, lead me swiftly into the bedroom!
You have captivated me; I stand trembling before you.
Darling, lead me swiftly into the bedroom!
Sweetheart, let me do the sweetest things to you!
My precocious caress is far sweeter than honey!
In the bedchamber, dripping love's honey,
let us enjoy life's sweetest thing.
Sweetheart, let me do the sweetest things to you!
My precocious caress is far sweeter than honey!
Bridegroom, you will have your pleasure with me!
Speak to my mother and she will reward you;
speak to my father and he will award you gifts.
I know how to give your body pleasure—
then sleep, my darling, till the sun rises.
To prove that you love me,
give me your caresses,
my Lord God, my guardian Angel and protector,
my Shu-Sin, who gladdens Enlil's heart,
give me your caresses!
My place like sticky honey, touch it with your hand!
Place your hand over it like a honey-pot lid!
Cup your hand over it like a honey cup!
This is a balbale-song of Inanna.
This may be earth's oldest love poem. It may have been written around 2000 BC, long before the Bible's "Song of Solomon, " which had been considered to be the oldest extant love poem by some experts. The poem was discovered when the archaeologist Austen Henry Layard began excavations at Kalhu in 1845, assisted by Hormuzd Rassam.
***
FAIZ AHMED FAIZ
Faiz Ahmed Faiz (1911-1984) was one of the most famous Urdu poets. In fact, his reputation is such that he has been called "the Poet of the East." His name is often spelled Faiz Ahmad Faiz in English. These are my modern English translations of Urdu poems by Faiz Ahmed Faiz.
Last Night
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Last night, your memory stole into my heart—
as spring sweeps uninvited into barren gardens,
as morning breezes reinvigorate dormant deserts,
as a patient suddenly feels better, for no apparent reason …
Published by Reader’s Digest (website) in "Best Romantic Poems"
***
Last Night (II)
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Last night, your memory stole into my heart ...
as spring steals uninvited into barren gardens,
as gentle breezes revive dormant deserts,
as a patient suddenly feels better, for no apparent reason ...
***
Last Night (III)
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Last night, your lost memory returned ...
as spring steals silently into barren gardens,
as gentle breezes stir desert sands,
as an ailing man suddenly recovers, for no apparent reason ...
Raat yunh dil mein teri khoee hui yaad aayee
Jaise veeraaney mein chupkey sey bahaar aayee
Jaisey sehra on mein howley se chaley baadey naseem
Jaisey beemaar ko bey wajhey Qaraar aaye.
***
The Desert of Solitude
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz, as performed by Iqbal Bano
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
In the wastelands of solitude, my love,
the echoes of your voice quiver,
the mirages of your lips waver.
In the deserts of alienation,
out of the expanses of distance and isolation's debris
the fragrant jasmines and roses of your presence delicately blossom.
Now from somewhere nearby,
the warmth of your breath rises,
smoldering forth an exotic perfume―gently, languorously.
Now far-off, across the distant horizon,
drop by shimmering drop,
fall the glistening dews of your beguiling glances.
With such tenderness and affection—oh my love!—
your memory has touched my heart's cheek so that it now seems
the sun of separation has set; the night of blessed union has arrived.
***
Speak!
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Speak, while your lips are still free.
Speak, while your tongue remains yours.
Speak, while you’re still standing upright.
Speak, while your spirit has force.
See how, in the bright-sparking forge,
cunning flames set dull ingots aglow
as the padlocks release their clenched grip
on the severed chains hissing below.
Speak, in this last brief hour,
before the bold tongue lies dead.
Speak, while the truth can be spoken.
Say what must yet be said.
***
Speak! (II)
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Speak, if your lips are free.
Speak, if your tongue's still your own.
And while you can still stand upright,
Speak if your mind is your own.
***
Tonight
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Do not strike the melancholy chord tonight! Days smoldering
with pain in the end produce only listless ashes...
and who the hell knows what the future may bring?
Last night’s long lost, tomorrow's horizon’s a wavering mirage.
And how can we know if we’ll see another dawn?
Life is nothing, unless together we make it ring!
Tonight we are love gods! Sing!
Do not strike the melancholy chord tonight!
Don’t harp constantly on human suffering!
Stop complaining; let Fate conduct her song!
Give no thought to the future, seize now, this precious thing!
Shed no more tears for temperate seasons departed!
All sighs of the brokenhearted soon weakly dissipate... stop dithering!
Oh, do not strike the same flat chord again! Sing!
***
Do Not Ask
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Do not ask, my love, for the love that we shared before:
You existed, I told myself, so existence shone.
For a moment the only light that I knew, alone,
was yours; worldly griefs remained dark, distant, afar.
Spring shone, as revealed in your face, but what did I know?
Beyond your bright eyes, what delights could the sad world hold?
Had I won you, cruel Fate would have ceded, no longer bold.
Yet all this was not to be, though I wished it so.
The world knows sorrows beyond love’s brief dreams betrayed,
and pleasures beyond all sweet, idle ideals of romance:
the dread dark spell of countless centuries and chance
is woven with silk and satin and gold brocade.
Bodies are sold everywhere for a pittance—it’s true!
Besmeared with dirt and bathed in bright oceans of blood,
Crawling from infested ovens, a gory cud.
My gaze returns to you: what else can I do?
Your beauty haunts me still, and will to the last.
But the world is burdened by sorrows beyond those of love,
By pleasures beyond romance.
So please do not demand a love that is over, and past.
***
When Autumn Came
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
So it was that autumn came to flay the trees,
to strip them nude,
to rudely abase their slender dark bodies.
Fall fell in vengeance on the dying leaves,
flung them down to the floor of the forest
where anyone could trample them to mush
undeterred by their sighs of protest.
The birds that herald spring
were exiled from their songs—
the notes ripped from their sweet throats,
they plummeted to the earth below, undone
even before the hunter strung his bow.
Please, gods of May, have mercy!
Bless these disintegrating corpses
with the passion of your resurrection;
allow their veins to pulse with blood again.
Let at least one tree remain green.
Let one bird sing.
***
Wasted
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
You have noticed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips...
In whose imagination I have lost everything.
***
Countless
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I recounted the world's countless griefs
by recounting your image countless times.
Keywords/Tags: Faiz Ahmed Faiz, translation, Urdu, Pakistan, Pakistani, speak, truth, love, life, memory, spring, mrburdu
ALLAMA IQBAL (II)
Ehad-e-Tifli (“The Age of Infancy”)
by Allama Iqbal aka Muhammad Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The earth and the heavens remained unknown to me,
My mother's bosom was my only world.
Her embraces communicated life's joys
While I babbled meaningless sounds.
During my infancy if someone alarmed me
The clank of the door chain consoled me.
At night I observed the moon,
Following its flight through distant clouds.
By day I pondered earth’s terrain
Only to be surprised by convenient explanations.
My eyes ingested light, my lips sought speech,
I was curiosity incarnate.
***
Excerpt from Rumuz-e bikhudi (“The Mysteries of Selflessness”)
by Allama Iqbal aka Muhammad Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Like a candle fending off the night,
I consumed myself, melting into tears.
I spent myself, to create more light,
More beauty and joy for my peers.
***
Longing
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Lord, I’ve grown tired of human assemblies!
I long to avoid conflict! My heart craves peace!
I desperately desire the silence of a small mountainside hut!
***
Life Advice
by Allama Iqbāl
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
This passive nature will not allow you to survive;
If you want to live, raise a storm!
***
Destiny
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Isn't it futile to complain about God's will,
When indeed you are your own destiny?
***
O, Colorful Rose!
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You are not troubled with solving enigmas,
O, beautiful Rose! Nor do you express sublime feelings.
You ornament the assembly, and yet still flower apart.
(Alas, I’m not permitted such distance.)
Here in my garden, I conduct the symphony of longing
While your life is devoid of passionate warmth.
Why should I pluck you from your lonely perch?
(I am not deluded by mere appearances.)
O, colorful Rose! This hand is not your abuser!
(I am no callous flower picker.)
I am no intern to analyze you with dissecting eyes.
Like a lover, I see you with nightingale's eyes.
Despite your eloquent tongues, you prefer silence.
What secrets, O Rose, lie concealed within your bosom?
Like me you're a bloom from the garden of Ñër.
We’re both far from our original Edens!
You are complete, content, but I’m a scattered fragrance,
Pierced by love’s sword in my errant quest.
This turmoil within might be a means of fulfillment,
This torment, a source of illumination.
My frailty might be the beginning of strength,
My envy mirror Jamshid’s cup of divination.
My constant vigil might light a world-illuminating candle
And teach this steed, the human intellect, to gallop.
***
Bright Rose
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You cannot loosen the heart's knot;
perhaps you have no heart,
no share in the chaos
of this garden, where I yearn (for what?)
yet harvest no roses.
Of what use to me is wisdom?
Having abandoned Eden,
you are at peace, while I remain anxious,
disconsolate in my terror.
Perhaps Jamshid's empty cup
foretold the future, but may wine
never satisfy my desire
till I find you in the mirror.
Jamshid's empty cup: Jamshid saw the reflection of future events in a wine cup.
***
Coal to Diamond
by Allama Iqbal, after Nietzsche
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I am corrupt, less than dust
while your brilliance out-blazes the brightest mirror.
My darkness defiles the chafing-dish
before my cremation; a miner's boot
crushes my cranium; I end up soot.
Do you acknowledge my life's bleak essence?
Condensations of smoke, black clouds stillborn from a single spark,
while you with your starlike nature triumphantly adorn monarchs—
gleam of the king's crown, the scepter's centerpiece.
"Please, kin-friend, be wise," the diamond replied,
"Assume a gemlike dignity! Carbon must harden
before it can fill a bosom with radiance. Burn
because you yield warmth. Brighten the darkness.
Be adamant as stone, be diamond."
Iqbal’s poem was written after a passage in Nietzsche’s Twilight of the Idols in which a kitchen coal and diamond discuss hardness versus softness.
***
OLD ENGLISH AND MIDDLE ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS
This is a splendid little poem that may predate Chaucer. Please note the introduction of end rhyme ...
Westron Wynde
(anonymous Middle English lyric, found in a partbook circa 1530 AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Western wind, when will you blow,
bringing the drizzling rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms,
and I in my bed again!
The original poem has "the smalle rayne down can rayne" which suggests a drizzle or mist, either of which would suggest a dismal day.
***
Excerpt from “Ubi Sunt Qui Ante Nos Fuerunt?”
(anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1275)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Where are the men who came before us,
who led hounds and hawks to the hunt,
who commanded fields and woods?
Where are the elegant ladies in their boudoirs
who braided gold through their hair
and had such fair complexions?
Once eating and drinking gladdened their hearts;
they enjoyed their games;
men bowed before them;
they bore themselves loftily ...
But then, in an eye’s twinkling,
they were gone.
Where now are their laughter and their songs,
the trains of their dresses,
the arrogance of their entrances and exits,
their hawks and their hounds?
All their joy has vanished;
their “well” has come to “oh, well”
and to many dark days ...
***
A Lyke-Wake Dirge
(anonymous medieval lyric circa the sixteenth century)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The Lie-Awake Dirge is “the night watch kept over a corpse.”
This one night, this one night,
every night and all;
fire and sleet and candlelight,
and Christ receive thy soul.
When from this earthly life you pass
every night and all,
to confront your past you must come at last,
and Christ receive thy soul.
If you ever donated socks and shoes,
every night and all,
sit right down and slip yours on,
and Christ receive thy soul.
But if you never helped your brother,
every night and all,
walk barefoot through the flames of hell,
and Christ receive thy soul.
If ever you shared your food and drink,
every night and all,
the fire will never make you shrink,
and Christ receive thy soul.
But if you never helped your brother,
every night and all,
walk starving through the black abyss,
and Christ receive thy soul.
This one night, this one night,
every night and all;
fire and sleet and candlelight,
and Christ receive thy soul.
***
"Sumer is icumen in" (also known as the "Summer Canon" and the "Cuckoo Song") is a medieval English round, or rota, or rondel, of the mid-13th century. "Rondel" means round or circular. The title translates approximately to "Summer Has Come In" or "Summer Has Arrived." The song was apparently composed in the Wessex dialect of Middle English and came complete with a musical score and instructions for the singing of rounds, in Latin, making it also a rondellus. Many scholars believe the "Cuckoo Song," one of the earliest English lyrics about the coming of spring and summer, was probably composed between 1240 and 1310, although some think it may date back earlier, to the 12th century. It was written down in a commonplace book kept over a number of years by the monks of Reading Abbey. The rondel is preceded by two lines that ask or command the cuckoo to sing (the first two lines below).
Sumer is icumen in
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1260 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sing now cuckoo! Sing, cuckoo!
Sing, cuckoo! Sing now cuckoo!
Summer is a-comin'!
Sing loud, cuckoo!
The seed grows,
The meadow blows,
The woods spring up anew.
Sing, cuckoo!
The ewe bleats for her lamb;
The cows contentedly moo;
The bullock roots;
The billy-goat poots ...
Sing merrily, cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo,
You sing so well, cuckoo!
Never stop, until you're through!
***
Sumer is icumen in
a modern English translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sumer is icumen in
Lhude sing achu!
Groweth sed
And bloweth hed
And buyeth med?
Cuccu!
***
Whan the turuf is thy tour
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
When the turf is your tower
and the pit is your bower,
your pale white skin and throat
shall be sullen worms' to grope.
What help unto you, then,
was all your worldly hope?
2.
When the turf is your tower
and the grave is your bower,
your pale white throat and skin
consumed by worms within ...
what hope of my help then?
***
Ech day me comëth tydinges thre
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th to 14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Each day I'm plagued by three doles,
These gargantuan weights on my soul:
First, that I must somehow exit this fen.
Second, because I cannot know when.
And yet it's the third that torments me so,
Having no way to know where the hell I will go!
***
Ich have y-don al myn youth
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th to 14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I have done it all my youth:
Often, often, and often!
I have loved long and yearned zealously ...
And oh what grief it has brought me!
***
A Proverb from Winfred's Time
anonymous Old English poem, circa 757-786
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
The procrastinator puts off purpose,
never initiates anything marvelous,
never succeeds, and dies alone.
2.
The late-deed-doer delays glory-striving,
never indulges daring dreams,
never succeeds, and dies alone.
3.
Often the deed-dodger avoids ventures,
never succeeds, and dies alone.
Winfrid or Wynfrith is better known as Saint Boniface (c. 675–754). The poem might better be titled "A Proverb Against Procrastination from Winfred's Time." This may be the second-oldest English poem, after "Caedmon's Hymn."
***
Franks Casket Runes
anonymous Old English poems, circa 700
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The fish flooded the shore-cliffs;
the sea-king wept when he swam onto the shingle:
whale's bone.
Romulus and Remus, twin brothers weaned in Rome
by a she-wolf, far from their native land.
***
"The Leiden Riddle" is an Old English translation of Aldhelm's Latin riddle Lorica ("Corselet").
The Leiden Riddle
anonymous Old English riddle poem, circa 700
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The dank earth birthed me from her icy womb.
I know I was not fashioned from woolen fleeces;
nor was I skillfully spun from skeins;
I have neither warp nor weft;
no thread thrums through me in the thrashing loom;
nor do whirring shuttles rattle me;
nor does the weaver's rod assail me;
nor did silkworms spin me like skillfull fates
into curious golden embroidery.
And yet heroes still call me an excellent coat.
Nor do I fear the dread arrows' flights,
however eagerly they leap from their quivers.
Solution: a coat of mail.
***
If you see a busker singing for tips, you are seeing someone carrying on an Anglo-Saxon tradition that goes back to the days of Beowulf ...
He sits with his harp at his thane's feet,
Earning his hire, his rewards of rings,
Sweeping the strings with his skillful nail;
Hall-thanes smile at the sweet song he sings.
—"Fortunes of Men" loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
***
Fairest Between Lincoln and Lindsey
(anonymous Middle English poem, circa late 13th century)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When the nightingale sings, the woods turn green;
Leaf and grass again blossom in April, I know,
Yet love pierces my heart with its spear so keen!
Night and day it drinks my blood. The painful rivulets flow.
I’ve loved all this year. Now I can love no more;
I’ve sighed many a sigh, sweetheart, and yet all seems wrong.
For love is no nearer and that leaves me poor.
Sweet lover, think of me — I’ve loved you so long!
***
A cleric courts his lady
(anonymous Middle English poem, circa late 13th century)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My death I love, my life I hate, because of a lovely lady;
She's as bright as the broad daylight, and shines on me so purely.
I fade before her like a leaf in summer when it's green.
If thinking of her does no good, to whom shall I complain?
***
Now skruketh rose and lylie flour
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 11th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Now skruketh rose and lylie flour, // Now the rose and the lily skyward flower,
That whilen ber that suete savour // That will bear for awhile that sweet savor:
In somer, that suete tyde; // In summer, that sweet tide;
Ne is no quene so stark ne stour, // There is no queen so stark in her power
Ne no luedy so bryht in bour // Nor any lady so bright in her bower
That ded ne shal by glyde: // That dead shall not summon and guide;
Whoso wol fleshye lust for-gon and hevene-blisse abyde // But whoever forgoes lust, in heavenly bliss will abide
On Jhesu be is thoht anon, that tharled was ys side. // With his thoughts on Jesus anon, thralled at his side.
skruketh = break forth, burst open; stour = strong, stern, hardy; tharled = thralled?, made a serf?, bound?
A similar poem to the one above, in time and language, is "Blow Northerne Wynd," which has been called the "most ancient love poem in the English language," perhaps composed during the reign of King John. But I prefer the lovely poem above, if not the Christian sentiments of the closing couplet.
***
Adam Lay Ybounden
(anonymous Medieval English lyric, circa early 15th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Adam lay bound, bound in a bond;
Four thousand winters, he thought, were not too long.
And all was for an apple, an apple that he took,
As clerics now find written in their book.
But had the apple not been taken, or had it never been,
We'd never have had our Lady, heaven's queen and matron.
So blesséd be the time the apple was taken thus;
Therefore we sing, "God is gracious!"
The poem has also been rendered as "Adam lay i-bounden" and "Adam lay i-bowndyn."
***
I Sing of a Maiden
(anonymous Medieval English Lyric, circa early 15th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I sing of a maiden
That is matchless.
The King of all Kings
For her son she chose.
He came also as still
To his mother's breast
As April dew
Falling on the grass.
He came also as still
To his mother's bower
As April dew
Falling on the flower.
He came also as still
To where his mother lay
As April dew
Falling on the spray.
Mother and maiden?
Never one, but she!
Well may such a lady
God's mother be!
***
LAYAMON
Brut (circa 1100 AD, written by Layamon, an excerpt)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Now he stands on a hill overlooking the Avon,
seeing steel fishes girded with swords in the stream,
their swimming days done,
their scales a-gleam like gold-plated shields,
their fish-spines floating like shattered spears.
Layamon's Brut is a 32,000-line poem composed in Middle English that shows a strong Anglo-Saxon influence and contains the first known reference to King Arthur in English. The passage above is a good example of Layamon's gift for imagery. It's interesting, I think, that a thousand years ago a poet was dabbling in surrealism, with dead warriors being described as if they were both men and fish.
***
SIR THOMAS WYATT
Whoever Longs to Hunt
by Sir Thomas Wyatt
modernization by Michael R. Burch
Whoever longs to hunt, I know the deer;
but as for me, alas!, I may no more.
This vain pursuit has left me so bone-sore
I'm one of those who falters, at the rear.
Yet friend, how can I draw my anguished mind
away from the doe?
Thus, as she flees before
me, fainting I follow.
I must leave off, therefore,
since in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Whoever seeks her out,
I relieve of any doubt,
that he, like me, must spend his time in vain.
For graven with diamonds, set in letters plain,
these words appear, her fair neck ringed about:
Touch me not, for Caesar's I am,
And wild to hold, though I seem tame.
***
SAINT GODRIC
Are the next poems the oldest rhyming poems in the English language? Reginald of Durham recorded four Anglo-Saxon/Old English verses of Saint Godric's: they are the oldest songs in English for which the original musical settings survive.
The first song is said in the Life of Saint Godric to have come to Godric when he had a vision of his sister Burhcwen, like him a solitary at Finchale, being received into heaven. She was singing a song of thanksgiving, in Latin, and Godric renders her song in English bracketed by a Kyrie eleison:
Led By Christ and Mary
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
By Christ and Saint Mary I was so graciously led
that the earth never felt my bare foot’s tread!
In the second poem, Godric puns on his name: godes riche means “God’s kingdom” and sounds like “God is rich” ...
A Cry to Mary
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I.
Saintë Marië Virginë,
Mother of Jesus Christ the Nazarenë,
Welcome, shield and help thin Godric,
Fly him off to God’s kingdom rich!
II.
Saintë Marië, Christ’s bower,
Virgin among Maidens, Motherhood’s flower,
Blot out my sin, fix where I’m flawed,
Elevate me to Bliss with God!
Godric also wrote a prayer to St. Nicholas:
Prayer to St. Nicholas
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Saint Nicholas, beloved of God,
Build us a house that’s bright and fair;
Watch over us from birth to bier,
Then, Saint Nicholas, bring us safely there!
***
THE RUIN in a Modern English Translation
"The Ruin" is one of the great poems of English antiquity. This modern English translation of one of the very best Old English/Anglo-Saxon poems is followed by footnotes, a summary and analysis, a discussion of the theme, and the translator's comments.
THE RUIN
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
well-hewn was this wall-stone, till Wyrdes wrecked it
and the Colossus sagged inward...
broad battlements broken;
the Builders' work battered;
the high ramparts toppled;
tall towers collapsed;
the great roof-beams shattered;
gates groaning, agape...
mortar mottled and marred by scarring hoar-frosts...
the Giants’ dauntless strongholds decaying with age...
shattered, the shieldwalls,
the turrets in tatters...
where now are those mighty Masons, those Wielders and Wrights,
those Samson-like Stonesmiths?
the grasp of the earth, the firm grip of the ground
holds fast those fearless Fathers
men might have forgotten
except that this slow-rotting siege-wall still stands
after countless generations!
for always this edifice, grey-lichened, blood-stained,
stands facing fierce storms with their wild-whipping winds
because those master Builders bound its wall-base together
so cunningly with iron!
it outlasted mighty kings and their claims!
how high rose those regal rooftops!
how kingly their castle-keeps!
how homely their homesteads!
how boisterous their bath-houses and their merry mead-halls!
how heavenward flew their high-flung pinnacles!
how tremendous the tumult of those famous War-Wagers...
till mighty Fate overturned it all, and with it, them.
then the wide walls fell;
then the bulwarks were broken;
then the dark days of disease descended...
as death swept the battlements of brave Brawlers;
as their palaces became waste places;
as ruin rained down on their grand Acropolis;
as their great cities and castles collapsed
while those who might have rebuilt them lay gelded in the ground:
those marvelous Men, those mighty master Builders!
therefore these once-decorous courts court decay;
therefore these once-lofty gates gape open;
therefore these roofs' curved arches lie stripped of their shingles;
therefore these streets have sunk into ruin and corroded rubble...
when in times past light-hearted Titans flushed with wine
strode strutting in gleaming armor, adorned with splendid ladies’ favors,
through this brilliant city of the audacious famous Builders
to compete for bright treasure: gold, silver, amber, gemstones.
here the cobblestoned courts clattered;
here the streams gushed forth their abundant waters;
here the baths steamed, hot at their fiery hearts;
here this wondrous wall embraced it all, with its broad bosom.
... that was spacious...
***
THE RHYMING POEM
"The Rhyming Poem" also known as "The Riming Poem" and "The Rhymed Poem" is perhaps the oldest English rhyming poem. It was included in the Exeter Book, which has been dated to circa 960-990 AD. However the poem may be older than the collection in which it was discovered.
The Rhymed Poem aka The Rhyming Poem and The Riming Poem
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem from the Exeter Book, circa 990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
He who granted me life created this sun
and graciously provided its radiant engine.
I was gladdened with glees, bathed in bright hues,
deluged with joy’s blossoms, sunshine-infused.
Men admired me, feted me with banquet-courses;
we rejoiced in the good life. Gaily bedecked horses
carried me swiftly across plains on joyful rides,
delighting me with their long limbs' thunderous strides.
That world was quickened by earth’s fruits and their flavors!
I cantered under pleasant skies, attended by troops of advisers.
Guests came and went, amusing me with their chatter
as I listened with delight to their witty palaver.
Well-appointed ships glided by in the distance;
when I sailed myself, I was never without guidance.
I was of the highest rank; I lacked for nothing in the hall;
nor did I lack for brave companions; warriors, all,
we strode through castle halls weighed down with gold
won from our service to thanes. We were proud men, and bold.
Wise men praised me; I was omnipotent in battle;
Fate smiled on and protected me; foes fled before me like cattle.
Thus I lived with joy indwelling; faithful retainers surrounded me;
I possessed vast estates; I commanded all my eyes could see;
the earth lay subdued before me; I sat on a princely throne;
the words I sang were charmed; old friendships did not wane ...
Those were years rich in gifts and the sounds of happy harp-strings,
when a lasting peace dammed shut the rivers’ sorrowings.
My servants were keen, their harps resonant;
their songs pealed, the sound loud but pleasant;
the music they made melodious, a continual delight;
the castle hall trembled and towered bright.
Courage increased, wealth waxed with my talent;
I gave wise counsel to great lords and enriched the valiant.
My spirit enlarged; my heart rejoiced;
good faith flourished; glory abounded; abundance increased.
I was lavishly supplied with gold; bright gems were circulated ...
Till treasure led to treachery and the bonds of friendship constricted.
I was bold in my bright array, noble in my equipage,
my joy princely, my home a happy hermitage.
I protected and led my people;
for many years my life among them was regal;
I was devoted to them and they to me.
But now my heart is troubled, fearful of the fates I see;
disaster seems unavoidable. Someone dear departs in flight by night
who once before was bold. His soul has lost its light.
A secret disease in full growth blooms within his breast,
spreads in different directions. Hostility blossoms in his chest,
in his mind. Bottomless grief assaults the mind's nature
and when penned in, erupts in rupture,
burns eagerly for calamity, runs bitterly about.
The weary man suffers, begins a journey into doubt;
his pain is ceaseless; pain increases his sorrows, destroys his bliss;
his glory ceases; he loses his happiness;
he loses his craft; he no longer burns with desires.
Thus joys here perish, lordships expire;
men lose faith and descend into vice;
infirm faith degenerates into evil’s curse;
faith feebly abandons its high seat and every hour grows worse.
So now the world changes; Fate leaves men lame;
Death pursues hatred and brings men to shame.
The happy clan perishes; the spear rends the marrow;
the evildoer brawls and poisons the arrow;
sorrow devours the city; old age castrates courage;
misery flourishes; wrath desecrates the peerage;
the abyss of sin widens; the treacherous path snakes;
resentment burrows, digs in, wrinkles, engraves;
artificial beauty grows foul;
the summer heat cools;
earthly wealth fails;
enmity rages, cruel, bold;
the might of the world ages, courage grows cold.
Fate wove itself for me and my sentence was given:
that I should dig a grave and seek that grim cavern
men cannot avoid when death comes, arrow-swift,
to seize their lives in his inevitable grasp.
Now night comes at last,
and the way stand clear
for Death to dispossesses me of my my abode here.
When my corpse lies interred and the worms eat my limbs,
whom will Death delight then, with his dark feast and hymns?
Let men’s bones become one,
and then finally, none,
till there’s nothing left here of the evil ones.
But men of good faith will not be destroyed;
the good man will rise, far beyond the Void,
who chastened himself, more often than not,
to avoid bitter sins and that final black Blot.
The good man has hope of a far better end
and remembers the promise of Heaven,
where he’ll experience the mercies of God for his saints,
freed from all sins, dark and depraved,
defended from vices, gloriously saved,
where, happy at last before their cheerful Lord,
men may rejoice in his love forevermore.
***
The Best Medieval Poems in Modern English Translations by Michael R. Burch
These are modern English translations of Old English/Anglo-Saxon poems and Middle English poems by Anonymous, Caedmon, Geoffrey Chaucer, Thomas Campion, Deor, William Dunbar, Godric of Finchale, Charles d'Orleans, Layamon and Sir Thomas Wyatt.
Welcome, Summer
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather
and driven away her long nights’ frosts.
Saint Valentine, in the heavens aloft,
the songbirds sing your praises together!
Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather.
We have good cause to rejoice, not scoff,
since love’s in the air, and also in the heather,
whenever we find such blissful warmth, together.
Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather
and driven away her long nights’ frosts.
CHARLES D'ORLEANS
Fair Lady Without Peer
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Fair Lady, without peer, my plea,
Is that your grace will pardon me,
Since I implore, on bended knee.
No longer can I, privately,
Keep this from you: my deep distress,
When only you can comfort me,
For I consider you my only mistress.
This powerful love demands, I fear,
That I confess things openly,
Since to your service I came here
And my helpless eyes were forced to see
Such beauty gods and angels cheer,
Which brought me joy in such excess
That I became your servant, gladly,
For I consider you my only mistress.
Please grant me this great gift most dear:
to be your vassal, willingly.
May it please you that, now, year by year,
I shall serve you as my only Liege.
I bend the knee here—true, sincere—
Unfit to beg one royal kiss,
Although none other offers cheer,
For I consider you my only mistress.
Chanson: Let Him Refrain from Loving, Who Can
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let him refrain from loving, who can.
I can no longer hover.
I must become a lover.
What will become of me, I know not.
Although I’ve heard the distant thought
that those who love all suffer,
I must become a lover.
I can no longer refrain.
My heart must risk almost certain pain
and trust in Beauty, however distraught.
For if a man does not love, then what?
Let him refrain from loving, who can.
Her Beauty
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Her beauty, to the world so plain,
Still intimately held my heart in thrall
And so established her sole reign:
She was, of Good, the cascading fountain.
Thus of my Love, lost recently,
I say, while weeping bitterly:
“We cleave to this strange world in vain.”
In ages past when angels fell
The world grew darker with the stain
Of their dear blood, then became hell
While poets wept a tearful strain.
Yet, to his dark and drear domain
Death took his victims, piteously,
So that we bards write bitterly:
“We cleave to this strange world in vain.”
Death comes to claim our angels, all,
as well we know, and spares no pain.
Over our pleasures, Death casts his pall,
Then without joy we “living” remain.
Death treats all Love with such disdain!
What use is this world? For it seems to me,
It has neither Love, nor Pity.
Thus “We cleave to this strange world in vain.”
Chanson: The Summer's Heralds
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The Summer’s heralds bring a dear
Sweet season of soft-falling showers
And carpet fields once brown and sere
With lush green grasses and fresh flowers.
Now over gleaming lawns appear
The bright sun-dappled lengthening hours.
The Summer’s heralds bring a dear
Sweet season of soft-falling showers.
Faint hearts once chained by sullen fear
No longer shiver, tremble, cower.
North winds no longer storm and glower.
For winter has no business here.
Traitorous Eye
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Traitorous eye, what’s new?
What lewd pranks do you have in view?
Without civil warning, you spy,
And no one ever knows why!
Who understands anything you do?
You’re rash and crass in your boldness too,
And your lewdness is hard to subdue.
Change your crude ways, can’t you?
Traitorous eye, what’s new?
You should be beaten through and through
With a stripling birch strap or two.
Traitorous eye, what’s new?
What lewd pranks do have you in view?
Cædmon's Hymn (Old English circa 658-680 AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Come, let us honour heaven-kingdom's Guardian,
the might of the Architect and his mind-plans,
the work of the Glory-Father. First he, the Everlasting Lord,
established the foundation of wonders.
Then he, the Primeval Poet, created heaven as a roof
for the sons of men, Holy Creator,
Maker of mankind. Then he, the Eternal Entity,
afterwards made men middle-earth: Master Almighty!
Deor's Lament
(Anglo Saxon poem, circa 10th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Weland knew the agony of exile.
That indomitable smith was wracked by grief.
He endured countless troubles:
sorrows were his only companions
in his frozen island dungeon
after Nithad had fettered him,
many strong-but-supple sinew-bonds
binding the better man.
That passed away; this also may.
Beadohild mourned her brothers' deaths
but even more, her own sad state
once she discovered herself with child.
She predicted nothing good could come of it.
That passed away; this also may.
We have heard that the Geat's moans for Matilda,
his lady, were limitless,
that his sorrowful love for her
robbed him of regretless sleep.
That passed away; this also may.
For thirty winters Theodric ruled
the Mæring stronghold with an iron hand;
many knew this and moaned.
That passed away; this also may.
We have also heard of Ermanaric's wolfish ways,
of how he held wide sway in the realm of the Goths.
He was a grim king! Many a warrior sat,
full of cares and maladies of the mind,
wishing constantly that his kingdom might be overthrown.
That passed away; this also may.
If a man sits long enough, sorrowful and anxious,
bereft of joy, his mind constantly darkening,
soon it seems to him that his troubles are endless.
Then he must consider that the wise Lord
often moves through the earth
granting some men honor, glory and fame,
but others only shame and hardship.
This I will say for myself:
that for awhile I was the Heodeninga's scop,
dear to my lord. My name was Deor.
For many winters I held a fine office,
faithfully serving a just lord. But now Heorrenda
a man skilful in songs, has received the estate
the protector of warriors gave me.
That passed away; this also may.
The Wife's Lament
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I draw these words from deep wells of my grief,
care-worn, unutterably sad.
I can recount woes I've borne since birth,
present and past, never more than now.
I have won, from my exile-paths, only pain.
First, my lord forsook his folk, left,
crossed the seas' tumult, far from our people.
Since then, I've known
wrenching dawn-griefs, dark mournings … oh where,
where can he be?
Then I, too, left—a lonely, lordless refugee,
full of unaccountable desires!
But the man's kinsmen schemed secretly
to estrange us, divide us, keep us apart,
across earth's wide kingdom, and my heart broke.
Then my lord spoke:
"Take up residence here."
I had few friends in this unknown, cheerless
region, none close.
Christ, I felt lost!
Then I thought I had found a well-matched man –
one meant for me,
but unfortunately he
was ill-starred and blind, with a devious mind,
full of murderous intentions, plotting some crime!
Before God we
vowed never to part, not till kingdom come, never!
But now that's all changed, forever –
our friendship done, severed.
I must hear, far and near, contempt for my husband.
So other men bade me, "Go, live in the grove,
beneath the great oaks, in an earth-cave, alone."
In this ancient cave-dwelling I am lost and oppressed –
the valleys are dark, the hills immense,
and this cruel-briared enclosure—an arid abode!
The injustice assails me—my lord's absence!
On earth there are lovers who share the same bed
while I pass through life dead in this dark abscess
where I wilt, summer days unable to rest
or forget the sorrows of my life's hard lot.
A young woman must always be
stern, hard-of-heart, unmoved,
opposing breast-cares and her heartaches' legions.
She must appear cheerful
even in a tumult of grief.
Like a criminal exiled to a far-off land,
moaning beneath insurmountable cliffs,
my weary-minded love, drenched by wild storms
and caught in the clutches of anguish,
is reminded constantly of our former happiness.
Woe be it to them who abide in longing.
The Husband's Message
anonymous Old English poem, circa 960-990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
See, I unseal myself for your eyes only!
I sprang from a seed to a sapling,
waxed great in a wood,
was given knowledge,
was ordered across saltstreams in ships
where I stiffened my spine, standing tall,
till, entering the halls of heroes,
I honored my manly Lord.
Now I stand here on this ship’s deck,
an emissary ordered to inform you
of the love my Lord feels for you.
I have no fear forecasting his heart steadfast,
his honor bright, his word true.
He who bade me come carved this letter
and entreats you to recall, clad in your finery,
what you promised each other many years before,
mindful of his treasure-laden promises.
He reminds you how, in those distant days,
witty words were pledged by you both
in the mead-halls and homesteads:
how he would be Lord of the lands
you would inhabit together
while forging a lasting love.
Alas, a vendetta drove him far from his feuding tribe,
but now he instructs me to gladly give you notice
that when you hear the returning cuckoo's cry
cascading down warming coastal cliffs,
come over the sea! Let no man hinder your course.
He earnestly urges you: Out! To sea!
Away to the sea, when the circling gulls
hover over the ship that conveys you to him!
Board the ship that you meet there:
sail away seaward to seek your husband,
over the seagulls' range,
over the paths of foam.
For over the water, he awaits you.
He cannot conceive, he told me,
how any keener joy could comfort his heart,
nor any greater happiness gladden his soul,
than that a generous God should grant you both
to exchange rings, then give gifts to trusty liege-men,
golden armbands inlaid with gems to faithful followers.
The lands are his, his estates among strangers,
his new abode fair and his followers true,
all hardy heroes, since hence he was driven,
shoved off in his ship from these shore in distress,
steered straightway over the saltstreams, sped over the ocean,
a wave-tossed wanderer winging away.
But now the man has overcome his woes,
outpitted his perils, lives in plenty, lacks no luxury,
has a hoard and horses and friends in the mead-halls.
All the wealth of the earth's great earls
now belongs to my Lord …
He only lacks you.
He would have everything within an earl's having,
if only my Lady will come home to him now,
if only she will do as she swore and honor her vow.
***
Tegner's Drapa
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I heard a voice, that cried,
“Balder the beautiful lies dead, lies dead …”
a voice like the flight of white cranes
intent on a sun sailing high overhead—
but a sun now irretrievably setting.
Then I saw the sun’s corpse
—dead beyond all begetting—
borne through disconsolate skies
as blasts from the Nifel-heim rang out with dread,
“Balder lies dead, our fair Balder lies dead! …”
Lost—the sweet runes of his tongue,
so sweet every lark hushed its singing!
Lost, lost forever—his beautiful face,
the grace of his smile, all the girls’ hearts wild-winging!
O, who ever thought such strange words might be said,
as “Balder lies dead, gentle Balder lies dead! …”
***
The Maiden Lay in the Wilds
circa the 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The maiden in the moor lay,
in the moor lay;
seven nights full,
seven nights full,
the maiden in the moor lay,
in the moor lay,
seven nights full and a day.
Sweet was her meat.
But what was her meat?
The primrose and the—
The primrose and the—
Sweet was her meat.
But what was her meat?
The primrose and the violet.
Pure was her drink.
But what was her drink?
The cold waters of the—
The cold waters of the—
Pure was her drink.
But what was her drink?
The cold waters of the well-spring.
Bright was her bower.
But what was her bower?
The red rose and the—
The red rose and the—
Bright was her bower.
But what was her bower?
The red rose and the lily flower.
***
The World an Illusion
circa 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This is the sum of wisdom bright:
however things may appear,
life vanishes like birds in flight;
now it’s here, now there.
Nor are we mighty in our “might”—
now on the bench, now on the bier.
However vigilant or wise,
in health it’s death we fear.
However proud and without peer,
no man’s immune to tragedy.
And though we think all’s solid here,
this world is but a fantasy.
The sun’s course we may claim to know:
arises east, sets in the west;
we know which way earth’s rivers flow,
into the seas that fill and crest.
The winds rush here and there, also,
it rains and snows without arrest.
Will it all end? God only knows,
with the wisdom of the Blessed,
while we on earth remain hard-pressed,
all bedraggled, or too dry,
until we vanish, just a guest:
this world is but a fantasy.
***
Trust Only Yourself
circa the 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Alas! Deceit lies in trust now,
dubious as Fortune, spinning like a ball,
as brittle when tested as a rotten bough.
He who trusts in trust is ripe for a fall!
Such guile in trust cannot be trusted,
or a man will soon find himself busted.
Therefore, “Be wary of trust!” is my advice.
Trust only yourself and learn to be wise.
***
See, Here, My Heart
circa the 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O, mankind,
please keep in mind
where Passions start:
there you will find
me wholly kind—
see, here, my heart.
***
How Death Comes
circa the 13th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When my eyes mist
and my ears hiss
and my nose grows cold
as my tongue folds
and my face grows slack
as my lips grow black
and my mouth gapes
as my spit forms lakes
and my hair falls
as my heart stalls
and my hand shake
as my feet quake:
All too late! All too late!
When the bier is at the gate.
Then I shall pass
from bed to floor,
from floor to shroud,
from shroud to bier,
from bier to grave,
the grave closed forever!
Then my house will rest on my nose.
This world’s not worth a farthing, Heaven knows!
***
To Rosemounde: A Ballade
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Madame, you’re a shrine to loveliness
And as world-encircling as trade’s duties.
For your eyes shine like glorious crystals
And your round cheeks like rubies.
Therefore you’re so merry and so jocund
That at a revel, when that I see you dance,
You become an ointment to my wound,
Though you offer me no dalliance.
For though I weep huge buckets of warm tears,
Still woe cannot confound my heart.
For your seemly voice, so delicately pronounced,
Make my thoughts abound with bliss, even apart.
So courteously I go, by your love bound,
So that I say to myself, in true penance,
"Suffer me to love you Rosemounde;
Though you offer me no dalliance.”
Never was a pike so sauce-immersed
As I, in love, am now enmeshed and wounded.
For which I often, of myself, divine
That I am truly Tristam the Second.
My love may not grow cold, nor numb,
I burn in an amorous pleasance.
Do as you will, and I will be your thrall,
Though you offer me no dalliance.
***
A Lady without Paragon
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Hide, Absalom, your shining tresses;
Esther, veil your meekness;
Retract, Jonathan, your friendly caresses;
Penelope and Marcia Catoun?
Other wives hold no comparison;
Hide your beauties, Isolde and Helen;
My lady comes, all stars to outshine.
Thy body fair? Let it not appear,
Lavinia and Lucretia of Rome;
Nor Polyxena, who found love’s cost so dear;
Nor Cleopatra, with all her passion.
Hide the truth of love and your renown;
And thou, Thisbe, who felt such pain;
My lady comes, all stars to outshine.
Hero, Dido, Laodamia, all fair,
And Phyllis, hanging for Demophon;
And Canace, dead by love’s cruel spear;
And Hypsipyle, betrayed along with Jason;
Make of your truth neither boast nor swoon,
Nor Hypermnestra nor Adriane, ye twain;
My lady comes, all stars to outshine.
***
“Cantus Troili” from Troilus and Criseide
by Petrarch
“If no love is, O God, what fele I so?” translation by Geoffrey Chaucer
modernization by Michael R. Burch
If there’s no love, O God, why then, so low?
And if love is, what thing, and which, is he?
If love is good, whence comes my dismal woe?
If wicked, love’s a wonder unto me,
When every torment and adversity
That comes from him, persuades me not to think,
For the more I thirst, the more I itch to drink!
And if in my own lust I choose to burn,
From whence comes all my wailing and complaint?
If harm agrees with me, where can I turn?
I know not, all I do is feint and faint!
O quick death and sweet harm so pale and quaint,
How may there be in me such quantity
Of you, ’cept I consent to make us three?
And if I so consent, I wrongfully
Complain, I know. Thus pummeled to and fro,
All starless, lost and compassless, am I
Amidst the sea, between two rending winds,
That in diverse directions bid me, “Go!”
Alas! What is this wondrous malady?
For heat of cold, for cold of heat, I die.
***
My lute and I
by Sir Thomas Wyatt, circa early 16th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
At most mischief
I suffer grief
Without relief
Since I have none;
My lute and I
Continually
Shall both apply
To sigh and moan.
Nought may prevail
To weep or wail;
Pity doth fail
In you, alas!
Mourning or moan,
Complaint, or none,
It is all one,
As in this case.
For cruelty,
Most that can be,
Hath sovereignty
Within your heart;
Which maketh bare
All my welfare:
Nought do you care
How sore I smart.
No tiger's heart
Is so perverse
Without desert
To wreak his ire;
And me? You kill
For my goodwill;
Lo, how I spill
For my desire!
There is no love
Your heart to move,
And I can prove
No other way;
Therefore I must
Restrain my lust,
Banish my trust
And wealth away.
Thus in mischief
I suffer grief,
Without relief
Since I have none,
My lute and I
Continually
Shall both apply
To sigh and moan.
***
What menethe this?
by Sir Thomas Wyatt, circa early 16th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
WHAT does this mean, when I lie alone?
I toss, I turn, I sigh, I groan;
My bed seems near as hard as stone:
What means this?
I sigh, I plain continually;
The clothes that on my bed do lie,
Always, methinks, they lie awry;
What means this?
In slumbers oft for fear I quake;
For heat and cold I burn and shake;
For lack of sleep my head doth ache;
What means this?
At mornings then when I do rise,
I turn unto my wonted guise,
All day thereafter, muse and devise;
What means this?
And if perchance by me there pass,
She, unto whom I sue for grace,
The cold blood forsaketh my face;
What means this?
But if I sit with her nearby,
With a loud voice my heart doth cry,
And yet my mouth is dumb and dry;
What means this?
To ask for help, no heart I have;
My tongue doth fail what I should crave;
Yet inwardly I rage and rave;
What means this?
Thus I have passed many a year,
And many a day, though nought appear,
But most of that which I most I fear;
What means this?
***
Yet ons I was
by Sir Thomas Wyatt, circa early 16th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Once in your grace I know I was,
Even as well as now is he;
Though Fortune hath so turned my case
That I am down and he full high;
Yet once I was.
Once I was he that did you please
So well that nothing did I doubt,
And though today ye think it ease
To take him in and throw me out;
Yet once I was.
Once I was he, in times past.
That as your own ye did retain:
And though ye have me now out-cast,
Showing untruth in you to reign;
Yet once I was.
Once I was he that knit the knot
The which ye swore not to unknit,
And though ye feign it now forgot,
In using your newfangled wit;
Yet once I was.
Once I was he to whom ye said,
“Welcome, my joy, my whole delight!”
And though ye are now well repaid
Of me, your own, your claim seems slight;
Yet once I was.
Once I was he to whom ye spake,
“Have here my heart! It is thy own.”
And though these words ye now forsake,
Saying thereof my part is none;
Yet once I was.
Once I was he that led the cast,
But now am he that must needs die.
And though I die, yet, at the last,
In your remembrance let it lie,
That once I was.
***
“Stafell Gynddylan” (“The Hall of Cynddylan”) belongs to the cycle of Welsh englynion (three-line stanzas) traditionally called “Canu Heledd” (“The Song of Heledd”).
The Welsh “dd” is pronounced “th.”
Cynddylan is pronounced KahN-THIHL-aeN.
Stafell Gynddylan (“The Hall of Cynddylan”)
Welsh englynion circa 1382-1410
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The hall of Cynddylan lies dark tonight.
Lacking fire and a bed,
I will weep awhile then lapse into silence.
The hall of Cynddylan lies dark tonight.
Lacking fire or a candle,
save God, who will preserve my sanity?
The hall of Cynddylan lies dark tonight.
Lacking fire, lacking light,
grief for you overwhelms me!
The hall of Cynddylan’s roof is dark.
After the blessed assembly,
still little the good that comes of it.
Hall of Cynddylan, you have become shapeless, amorphous.
Your shield lies in the grave.
While he lived, no one breached these gates.
The hall of Cynddylan mourns tonight,
mourns for its lost protector.
Alas death, why did you spare me?
The hall of Cynddylan trembles tonight,
atop the shivering rock,
lacking lord, lacking liege, lacking protector.
The hall of Cynddylan lies dark tonight.
Lacking fire, lacking mirth, lacking songs.
My cheeks are eroded by tears.
The hall of Cynddylan lies dark tonight.
Lacking fire, lacking heroes, lacking a warband.
Abundant, my tears’ rains.
The hall of Cynddylan offends my eyes,
lacking roof, lacking fire.
My lord lies dead, and yet I still live?
The hall of Cynddylan lies shattered tonight,
without her steadfast warriors,
Elfan, and gold-torqued Cynddylan.
The hall of Cynddylan lies desolate tonight,
no longer respected
without the men and women who maintained it.
The hall of Cynddylan lies quiet tonight,
stunned to silence by losing its lord.
Merciful God, what must I do?
The hall of Cynddylan’s roof is dark,
after the Saxons destroyed
shining Cynddylan and Elfan of Powys.
The hall of Cynddylan lies dark tonight:
lost, the race of the Cyndrwyn,
of Cynon and Gwion and Gwyn.
Hall of Cynddylan, you wound me, hourly,
having lost that great company
who once warmed hands at your hearth.
***
JAMES RYMAN
Farewell Advent!
by James Ryman
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Please note that “all and some” means “one and all.”
Farewell, Advent; Christmas has come;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
With patience thou hast us fed
Yet made us go hungry to bed;
For lack of meat, we were nigh dead;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
When you came, hasty, to our house,
We ate no puddings, no, nor souce, [pickled pork]
But stinking fish not worth a louse;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
There was no fresh fish, far nor near;
Salt fish and salmon were too dear,
And thus we’ve had but heavy cheer;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Thou hast fed us with servings thin,
Nothing on them but bone and skin;
Therefore our love thou shalt not win;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
With mussels gaping after the moon
Thou hast fed us, at night and noon,
But once a week, and that too soon;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Our bread was brown, our ale was thin;
Our bread was musty in the bin;
Our ale was sour, or we’d dive in;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Thou art of great ingratitude,
Good meat from us, for to exclude;
Thou art not kind but very rude;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Thou dwellest with us against our will,
And yet thou gavest us not our fill;
For lack of meat thou would’st us spill;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Above all things thou art most mean
To make our cheeks both bare and lean;
I would thou were at Boughton Bleane!
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Come thou no more, here, nor in Kent,
For, if thou dost, thou shalt be shent; [reviled, shamed, reproached]
It is enough to fast in Lent;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Thou mayest not dwell with heaven’s estate;
Therefore with us thou playest checkmate;
Go hence, or we will break thy pate!
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Thou mayest not dwell with knight nor squire;
For them thou mayest lie in the mire;
They love not thee, nor Lent, thy sire;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Thou mayest not dwell with laboring man,
For on thy fare no skill can he fan,
For he must eat every now and then;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Thus thou must dwell with monk and friar,
Canon and nun, once every year,
Yet thou shouldest make us better cheer;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
This time of Christ’s feast natal,
We will be merry, great and small,
While thou (haste!) exit from this hall;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Advent is gone; Christmas is come;
Now we are merry, all and some;
He is not wise that will be dumb;
In ortu Regis omnium. [At the birth of the King of all.]
***
JOHN AUDELAY
Dread of Death (excerpts)
by John Audelay
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lady, help! Jesu, mercy!
Timor mortis conturbat me. [The fear of death dismays me.]
Dread of death, sorrow for sin,
Trouble my heart, full grievously:
My soul wars with my lust then.
Passio Christi conforta me. [Passion of Christ, strengthen me.]
As I lay sick in my languor,
With sorrow of heart and teary eye,
This carol I made with great dolor:
Passio Christi conforta me.
A Carol for Saint Francis
by John Audelay
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I pray you, sirs, for charity,
Please read this carol reverently,
For I made it with a tearful eye:
Your brother John the Blind Awdley.
Saint Francis, to thee I say,
Save thy brethren both night and day!
The Three Living and the Three Dead Kings
by John Audelay
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Then the last king speaks; he looks at the hills;
Looks under his hands and holds his head;
But a dreadful blow coldly pierces his heart,
Like the knife or the key that chills the knuckle.
These are the three demons who stalk these hills;
May our Lord, who rules all, show us the quickest exit!
My heart bends with fright like a windblown reed,
Each finger trembles and grows weak with terror.
I'm forced to fear our fate;
therefore, let us flee, quickly!
I can offer no counsel but flight.
These devils make us cower,
For fear they will block our escape.
LAURENCE MINOT
Les Espagnols-sur-mer
by Laurence Minot
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I would not spare to speak, if I wished success,
of strong men with weapons in worthy armor,
who were driven to deeds and now lie dead.
Who sailed the seas, fishes to feed.
Fell fishes they feed now, for all their vaunting fanfare;
for it was with the waning of the moon that they came there.
They sailed forth into perils on a summer’s tide,
with trumpets and tabors and exalted pride. …
When they sailed westward, although they were mighty in war,
their bulwarks, their anchors were of no avail.
For mighty men of the west drew nearer and nearer
and they stumbled into the snare, because they had no fear.
For those who fail to flee become prey in the end
and those who once plundered, perish.
On the Siege of Calais, 1436
by Laurence Minot, possibly
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
On the 19th of July, 1436, the Duke of Burgundy laid siege to the city of Calais, but was forced to lift the siege just six days later.
The next morrow, while it was day,
Early, the Duke fled away,
And with him, they off Ghent.
For after Bruges and Apres both
To follow after they were not loath;
Thus they made their departure.
For they had knowledge
Of the Duke of Gloucester’s coming,
Calais to rescue.
Because they bode not there,
In Flanders, he sought them far and near,
That ever after they might rue it.
Exeter Book Gnomic Verses or Maxims
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The dragon dwells under the dolmen,
wizened-wise, hoarding his treasure;
the fishes bring forth their finned kind;
the king in his halls distributes rings;
the bear stalks the heath, shaggy and malevolent.
Frost shall freeze,
fire feast on firs;
earth breed blizzards;
brazen ice bridge waters;
waters spawn shields;
oxen axe
frost’s firm fetters,
freeing golden grain
from ice’s imprisonment.
Winter shall wane,
warm weather return
as sun-warmed summer!
Kings shall win
wise queens with largesse,
with beakers and bracelets;
both must be
generous with their gifts.
Courage must create
war-lust in a lord
while his woman shows
kindness to her people,
delightful in dress,
interpreter of rune-words,
roomy-hearted
at hearth-sharing and horse-giving.
The deepest depths
hold seas’ secrets the longest.
The ship must be neatly nailed,
the hull framed
from light linden.
But how loving
the Frisian wife’s welcome
when, floating offshore,
the keel turns homeward!
She hymns homeward
her own husband,
till his hull lies at anchor!
Then she washes salt-stains
from his stiff shirt,
lays out new clothes
clean and fresh
for her exhausted sailor,
her beloved bread-winner,
love’s needs well-met.
THE WANDERER
In Anglo-Saxon poems like “The Ruin” and “The Wanderer” the Wyrdes function like the Fates of ancient Greek mythology, controlling men’s destinies.
The Wanderer
ancient Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
“The one who wanders alone
longs for mercy, longs for grace,
knowing he must yet traverse
the whale-path’s rime-cold waters,
stirring the waves with his hands & oars,
heartsick & troubled in spirit,
always bending his back to his exile-ways.”
“Fate is inexorable.”
Thus spoke the wanderer, the ancient earth-roamer
mindful of life’s hardships,
of its cruel slaughters & deaths of dear kinsmen.
“Often I am driven, departing alone at daybreak,
to give my griefs utterance,
the muffled songs of a sick heart
sung to no listeners, to no living lord,
for now there are none left alive
to debate my innermost doubts.
Custom considers it noble indeed for a man
to harbor his thought-hoard,
keep it close to his chest,
slam the doors of his doubts shut,
bind sorrow to silence & be still.
But the weary-minded man cannot withstand Wyrdes,
nor may his shipwrecked heart welcome solace, nor any hope of healing.
Therefore those eager for fame often bind dark thoughts
& unwailed woes in their breast-coffers.
Thus, miserably sad, overcome by cares & separated from my homeland,
far from my noble kinsmen, I was forced to bind my thoughts with iron fetters,
to confine my breast-hoard to its cage of bone.
Long ago the dark earth covered my gold-lord & I was left alone,
winter-weary & wretched, to cross these winding waves friendless.
Saddened, I sought the hall of some new gold-giver,
someone who might take heed of me, welcome me,
hoping to find some friendly mead-hall
offering comfort to men left friendless by Fate.
Anyone left lordless, kinless & friendless
knows how bitter-cruel life becomes
to one bereft of protectors,
pale sorrows his only companions.
No one waits to welcome the wanderer!
His only rewards, cold nights & the frigid sea.
Only exile-paths await him,
not torques of twisted gold,
warm hearths & his lord’s trust.
Only cold hearts’ frozen feelings, not earthly glory.
Then he longingly remembers retainers, feasts & the receiving of treasure,
how in his youth his gold-friend recognized him at the table.
But now all pleasure has vanished & his dreams taste like dust!
The wanderer knows what it means to do without:
without the wise counsels of his beloved lord, kinsmen & friends.
The lone outcast, wandering the headlands alone,
where solitariness & sorrow sleep together!
Then the wretched solitary vagabond
remembers in his heart how he embraced & kissed his lord
& laid his hands & head upon his knee,
in those former days of grace at the gift-stool.
But the wanderer always awakes without friends.
Awakening, the friendless man confronts the murky waves,
the seabirds bathing, broadening out their feathers,
the hoar-frost, harrowing hail & snow eternally falling…
Then his heart’s wounds seem all the heavier for the loss of his beloved lord.
Thus his sorrow is renewed,
remembrance of his lost kinsmen troubles his mind,
& he greets their ghosts with exclamations of joy, but they merely swim away.
The floating ones never tarry.
Thus care is renewed for the one whose weary spirit rides the waves.
Therefore I cannot think why, surveying this world,
my mind should not contemplate its darkness.
When I consider the lives of earls & their retainers,
how at a stroke they departed their halls, those mood-proud thanes!,
then I see how this middle-earth fails & falls, day after day…
Therefore no man becomes wise without his share of winters.
A wise man must be patient,
not hot-hearted, nor over-eager to speak,
nor weak-willed in battles & yet not reckless,
not unwitting nor wanting in forethought,
nor too greedy for gold & goods,
nor too fearful, nor too cheerful,
nor too hot, nor too mild,
nor too eager to boast before he’s thought things through.
A wise man forbears boastmaking
until, stout-hearted, his mind sure & his will strong,
he can read the road where his travels & travails take him.
The wise man grasps how ghastly life will be
when all the world’s wealth becomes waste,
even as middle-earth already is, in so many places
where walls stand weather-beaten by the wind,
crusted with cold rime, ruined dwellings snowbound,
wine-halls crumbling, their dead lords deprived of joy,
the once-hale host all perished beyond the walls.
Some war took, carried them off from their courses;
a bird bore one across the salt sea;
another the gray wolf delivered to Death;
one a sallow-cheeked earl buried in a bleak barrow.
Thus mankind’s Maker laid waste to Middle Earth,
until the works of the giants stood idle,
all eerily silenced, the former joys of their halls.”
The wise man contemplates these ruins,
considers this dark life soberly,
remembers the blood spilled here
in multitudes of battles,
then says:
“Where is the horse now? Where, its riders?
Where, the givers of gifts & treasure, the gold-friend?
Where, the banquet-seats? Where, the mead-halls’ friendly uproars?
Gone, the bright cup! Gone, the mailed warrior!
Gone, the glory of princes! Time has slipped down
the night-dome, as if it never were!
Now all that remains is this wall, wondrous-high,
decorated with strange serpentine shapes,
these unreadable wormlike runes!
The strength of spears defeated the earls,
lances lusting for slaughter, some glorious victory!
Now storms rage against these rock-cliffs,
as swirling snows & sleet entomb the earth,
while wild winter howls its wrath
as the pale night-shadow descends.
The frigid north sends hailstones to harry warriors.
Hardships & struggles beset the children of men.
The shape of fate is twisted under the heavens
as the Wyrdes decree.
Life is on loan, wealth transitory, friendships fleeting,
man himself fleeting, everything transitory,
& earth’s entire foundation stands empty.”
Thus spoke the wanderer, wise-hearted, as he sat apart in thought.
Good is the man who keeps his word to the end.
Nor should a man manifest his breast-pangs before he knows their cure,
how to accomplish the remedy with courage.
The Dream of the Rood
anonymous Anglo-Saxon poem, circa the tenth century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Listen! A dream descended upon me at deep midnight
when sleepers have sought their beds and sweet rest:
the dream of dreams, I declare it!
It seemed I saw the most wondrous tree,
raised heaven-high, wound ’round with light,
with beams of the brightest wood. A beacon
covered in overlapping gold and precious gems,
it stood fair at the earth's foot, with five gemstones
brightening its cross-beam. All heaven’s angels
beheld it with wonder, for it was no felon's gallows…
Beowulf
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 8th-10th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
LO, praise the prowess of the Spear-Danes
whose clan-thanes ruled in days bygone,
possessed of dauntless courage and valor.
All have heard the honors the athelings won,
of Scyld Scefing, scourge of rebellious tribes,
wrecker of mead-benches, harrier of warriors,
awer of earls. He had come from afar,
first friendless, a foundling, till Fate intervened:
for he waxed under the welkin and persevered,
until folk, far and wide, on all coasts of the whale-path,
were forced to yield to him, bring him tribute.
A good king!
To him an heir was afterwards born,
a lad in his yards, a son in his halls,
sent by heaven to comfort the folk.
Knowing they'd lacked an earl a long while,
the Lord of Life, the Almighty, made him far-renowned.
Beowulf’s fame flew far throughout the north,
the boast of him, this son of Scyld,
through Scandian lands.
…
Grendel was known of in Geatland, far-asea,
the horror of him.
…
Beowulf bade a seaworthy wave-cutter
be readied to bear him to Heorot,
over the swan's riding,
to defense of that good king, Hrothgar.
Wise men tried to dissuade him
because they held Beowulf dear,
but their warnings only whetted his war-lust.
Yet still he pondered the omens.
The resolute prince handpicked his men,
the fiercest of his folk, to assist him:
fourteen men sea-wise, stout-hearted,
battle-tested. Led them to the land's edge.
Hardened warriors hauled bright mail-coats,
well-wrought war gear, to the foot of her mast.
At high tide she rode the waves, hard in by headland,
as they waved their last farewells, then departed.
Away she broke like a sea-bird, skimming the waves,
wind-borne, her curved prow plowing the ocean,
till on the second day the skyline of Geatland loomed.
…
The Finnesburg Fragment or The Fight at Finnsburg
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 10th-11th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Battle-bred Hnaef broke the silence:
"Are the eaves aflame, is there dawn in the east,
are there dragons aloft? No, only the flares of torches
borne on the night breeze. Evil is afoot. Soon the hoots of owls,
the weird wolf's howls, cries of the carrion crows, the arrow's screams,
and the shield's reply to the lance's shaft, shall be heard.
Heed the omens of the moon, that welkin-wanderer.
We shall soon feel in full this folk's fury for us.
Shake yourselves awake, soldiers! On your feet!
Who's with me? Grab your swords and shields. Loft your linden!"
The Battle of Brunanburh or The Battle of Brunanburgh
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 937 AD or later
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Her Aethelstan cyning, / Aethelstan the King,
eorla dryhten, / Lord over earls,
beorna beag-giefa, / bracelet-bestower,
and his brothor eac, / and with him his brother,
Eadmund aetheling, / Edmund the Atheling,
ealdor-lange tir / earned unending glory:
geslogon aet saecce / glory they gained in battle
sweorda ecgum / as they slew with the sword's edge
ymbe Brunanburh. / many near Brunanburgh…
The Battle of Maldon
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 991 AD or later
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
…would be broken.
Then he bade each warrior unbridle his horse,
set it free, drive it away and advance onward afoot,
intent on deeds of arms and dauntless courage.
It was then that Offa's kinsman kenned
their Earl would not accept cowardice,
for he set his beloved falcon free, let it fly woods-ward,
then stepped forward to battle himself, nothing withheld.
By this his men understood their young Earl's will full well,
that he would not weaken when taking up weapons.
Eadric desired to serve his Earl,
his Captain in the battle to come; thus he also advanced forward,
his spear raised, his spirit strong,
boldly grasping buckler and broadsword,
ready to keep his vow to stand fast in the fight.
Byrhtnoth marshalled his men,
teaching each warrior his task:
how to stand, where to be stationed…
Widsith, the Far-Traveler
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 680-950 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Widsith the wide-wanderer began to speak,
unlocked his word-hoard, manifested his memories,
he who had travelled earth's roads furthest
among the races of men—their tribes, peoples and lands.
He had often prospered in the mead-halls,
competing for precious stones with his tale-trove.
His ancestors hailed from among the Myrgings,
whence his lineage sprung, a scion of Ealhhild,
the fair peace-weaver. On his first journey, east of the Angles,
he had sought out the home of Eormanric,
the angry oath-breaker and betrayer of men.
Widsith, rich in recollections, began to share his wisdom thus:
I have learned much from mighty men, their tribes' mages,
and every prince must live according to his people's customs,
acting honorably, if he wishes to prosper upon his throne.
Hwala was the best, for awhile,
Alexander the mightiest, beyond compare,
his empire the most prosperous and powerful of all,
among all the races of men, as far as I have heard tell.
Attila ruled the Huns, Eormanric the Goths,
Becca the Banings, Gifica the Burgundians,
Caesar the Greeks, Caelic the Finns,
Hagena the Holmrigs, Heoden the Glomms,
Witta the Swæfings, Wada the Hælsings,
Meaca the Myrgings, Mearchealf the Hundings,
Theodric the Franks, Thyle the Rondings,
Breoca the Brondings, Billing the Wærns,
Oswine the Eowan, Gefwulf the Jutes,
Finn Folcwalding the Frisians,
Sigehere ruled the Sea-Danes for decades,
Hnæf the Hockings, Helm the Wulfings,
Wald the Woings, Wod the Thuringians,
Sæferth the Secgan, Ongendtheow the Swedes,
Sceafthere the Ymbers, Sceafa the Lombards,
Hun the Hætwera, Holen the Wrosnas,
Hringweald was king of the Herefara.
Offa ruled the Angles, Alewih the Danes,
the bravest and boldest of men,
yet he never outdid Offa.
For Offa, while still a boy, won in battle the broadest of kingdoms.
No one as young was ever a worthier Earl!
With his stout sword he struck the boundary of the Myrgings,
fixed it at Fifeldor, where afterwards the Angles and Swæfings held it.
Hrothulf and Hrothgar, uncle and nephew,
for a long time kept a careful peace together
after they had driven away the Vikings' kinsmen,
vanquished Ingeld's spear-hordes,
and hewed down at Heorot the host of the Heathobards.
Thus I have traveled among many foreign lands,
crossing the earth's breadth,
experiencing both goodness and wickedness,
cut off from my kinsfolk, far from my family.
Thus I can speak and sing these tidings in the mead-halls,
of how how I was received by the most excellent kings.
Many were magnanimous to me!
I was among the Huns and the glorious Ostrogoths,
among the Swedes, the Geats, and the South-Danes,
among the Vandals, the Wærnas, and the Vikings,
among the Gefthas, the Wends, and the Gefflas,
among the Angles, the Swabians, and the Ænenas,
among the Saxons, the Secgan, and the Swordsmen,
among the Hronas, the Danes, and the Heathoreams,
among the Thuringians and the Throndheims,
also among the Burgundians, where I received an arm-ring;
Guthhere gave me a gleaming gem in return for my song.
He was no gem-hoarding king, slow to give!
I was among the Franks, the Frisians, and the Frumtings,
among the Rugas, the Glomms, and the Romans.
I was likewise in Italy with Ælfwine,
who had, as I'd heard, commendable hands,
fast to reward fame-winning deeds,
a generous sharer of rings and torques,
the noble son of Eadwine.
I was among the Saracens and also the Serings,
among the Greeks, the Finns, and also with Caesar,
the ruler of wine-rich cities and formidable fortresses,
of riches and rings and Roman domains.
He also controlled the kingdom of Wales.
I was among the Scots, the Picts and the Scrid-Finns,
among the Leons and Bretons and Lombards,
among the heathens and heroes and Huns,
among the Israelites and Assyrians,
among the Hebrews and Jews and Egyptians,
among the Medes and Persians and Myrgings,
and with the Mofdings against the Myrgings,
among the Amothings and the East-Thuringians,
among the Eolas, the Ista and the Idumings.
I was also with Eormanric for many years,
as long as the Goth-King availed me well,
that ruler of cities, who gave me gifts:
six hundred shillings of pure gold
beaten into a beautiful neck-ring!
This I gave to Eadgils, overlord of the Myrgings
and my keeper-protector, when I returned home,
a precious adornment for my beloved prince,
after which he awarded me my father's estates.
Ealhhild gave me another gift,
that shining lady, that majestic queen,
the glorious daughter of Eadwine.
I sang her praises in many lands,
lauded her name, increased her fame,
the fairest of all beneath the heavens,
that gold-adorned queen, glad gift-sharer!
Later, Scilling and I created a song for our war-lord,
my shining speech swelling to the sound of his harp,
our voices in unison, so that many hardened men, too proud for tears,
called it the most moving song they'd ever heard.
Afterwards I wandered the Goths' homelands,
always seeking the halest and heartiest companions,
such as could be found within Eormanric's horde.
I sought Hethca, Beadeca and the Herelings,
Emerca, Fridlal and the Ostrogoths,
even the wise father of Unwen.
I sought Secca and Becca, Seafola and Theodric,
Heathoric and Sifeca, Hlithe and Ongentheow,
Eadwine and Elsa, Ægelmund and Hungar,
even the brave band of the Broad-Myrgings.
I sought Wulfhere and Wyrmhere where war seldom slackened,
when the forces of Hræda with hard-striking swords
had to defend their imperiled homestead
in the Wistla woods against Attila's hordes.
I sought Rædhere, Rondhere, Rumstan and Gislhere,
Withergield and Freotheric, Wudga and Hama,
never the worst companions although I named them last.
Often from this band flew shrill-whistling wooden shafts,
shrieking spears from this ferocious nation,
felling enemies because they wielded the wound gold,
those good leaders, Wudga and Hama.
Thus I have always found this to be true in my far-venturing:
that the dearest man among earth-dwellers
is the one God gives to rule ably over others.
But the makar's weird is to be a wanderer. [maker's/minstrel's fate]
The minstrel travels far, from land to land,
singing his needs, speaking his grateful thanks,
whether in the sunny southlands or the frigid northlands,
measuring out his word-hoard to those unstingy of gifts,
to those rare elect rulers who understand art's effect on the multitudes,
to those open-handed lords who would have their fame spread,
via a new praise-verse, thus earning enduring reputations
under the heavens.
Lent is Come with Love to Town
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1330
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Springtime comes with love to town,
With blossoms and with birdsong ’round,
Bringing all this bliss:
Daisies in the dales,
Sweet notes of nightingales.
Each bird contributes songs;
The thrush chides ancient wrongs.
Departed, winter’s glowers;
The woodruff gayly flowers;
The birds create great noise
And warble of their joys,
Making all the woodlands ring!
“Blow, northerne wind”
anonymous Middle English poem, circa late 13th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Blow, northern wind,
Send my love, my sweeting,
Blow, northern wind,
Blow, blow, blow,
Our love completing!
“What is he, this lordling, that cometh from the fight?”
by William Herebert, circa early 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Who is he, this lordling, who staggers from the fight,
with blood-red garb so grisly arrayed,
once appareled in lineaments white?
Once so seemly in sight?
Once so valiant a knight?
“It is I, it is I, who alone speaks right,
a champion to heal mankind in this fight.”
Why then are your clothes a bloody mess,
like one who has trod a winepress?
“I trod the winepress alone,
else mankind was done.”
“Thou wommon boute fere”
by William Herebert, circa early 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Woman without compare,
you bore your own father:
great the wonder
that one woman was mother
to her father and brother,
as no one else ever was.
“Marye, maide, milde and fre”
by William of Shoreham, circa early 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Mary, maid, mild and free,
Chamber of the Trinity,
This while, listen to me,
As I greet you with a song …
“My sang es in sihting”
by Richard Rolle, circa 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My song is in sighing,
My life is in longing,
Till I see thee, my King,
So fair in thy shining,
So fair in thy beauty,
Leading me into your light …
A hymn to Jesus
by Richard of Caistre, circa 1400
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Jesu, Lord that madest me
and with thy blessed blood hath bought,
forgive that I have grieved thee,
in word, work, will and thought.
Jesu, for thy wounds’ hurt
of body, feet and hands too,
make me meek and low in heart,
and thee to love, as I should do…
In Praise of his Ugly Lady
by Thomas Hoccleve, early 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Of my lady? Well rejoice, I may!
Her golden forehead is full narrow and small;
Her brows are like dim, reed coral;
And her jet-black eyes glisten, aye.
Her bulging cheeks are soft as clay
with large jowls and substantial.
Her nose, an overhanging shady wall:
no rain in that mouth on a stormy day!
Her mouth is nothing scant with lips gray;
Her chin can scarcely be seen at all.
Her comely body is shaped like a football,
and she sings like a cawing jay.
Lament for Chaucer
by Thomas Hoccleve, early 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Alas, my worthy master, honorable,
The very treasure and riches of this land!
Death, by your death, has done irreparable
harm to us: her cruel and vengeful hand
has robbed our country of sweet rhetoric…
Holly and Ivy
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Nay! Ivy, nay!
It shall not be, like this:
Let Holy have the mastery,
As the manner is.
Holy stood in the hall
Fair to behold;
Ivy stood outside the door,
Lonely and cold.
Holy and his merry men
Commenced to dance and sing;
Ivy and her maidens
Were left outside to weep and wring.
Ivy has a chilblain,
She caught it with the cold.
So must they all have, aye,
Whom with Ivy hold.
Holly has berries
As red as any rose:
The foresters and hunters
Keep them from the does.
Ivy has berries
As black as any ill:
There comes the owl
To eat them as she will.
Holly has birds,
A full fair flock:
The nightingale, the popinjay,
The gentle lark.
Good Ivy, good Ivy,
What birds cling to you?
None but the owl
Who cries, "Who? Who?'
Unkindness Has Killed Me
anonymous Middle English poem, 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Grievous is my sorrow:
Both evening and morrow;
Unto myself alone
Thus do I moan,
That unkindness has killed me
And put me to this pain.
Alas! what remedy
That I cannot refrain?
from The Testament of John Lydgate
15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Behold, o man! lift up your eyes and see
What mortal pain I suffer for your trespass.
With piteous voice I cry and say to thee:
Behold my wounds, behold my bloody face,
Behold the rebukes that do me such menace,
Behold my enemies that do me so despise,
And how that I, to reform thee to grace,
Was like a lamb offered in sacrifice.
Vox ultima Crucis
from The Testament of John Lydgate, 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
TARRY no longer; toward thine heritage
Haste on thy way, and be of right good cheer.
Go each day onward on thy pilgrimage;
Think how short a time thou hast abided here.
Thy place is built above the stars clear,
No earthly palace wrought in such stately wise.
Come on, my friend, my brother must enter!
For thee I offered my blood in sacrifice.
Inordinate Love
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I shall say what inordinate love is:
The ferocity and singleness of mind,
An inextinguishable burning devoid of bliss,
A great hunger, too insatiable to decline,
A dulcet ill, an evil sweetness, blind,
A right wonderful, sugared, sweet error,
Without any rest, contrary to kind,
Without quiet, a riot of useless labor.
Besse Bunting
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In April and May
When hearts be all a-merry,
Bessie Bunting, the miller’s girl,
With lips as red as cherries,
Cast aside remembrance
To pass her time in dalliance
And leave her misery to chance.
Right womanly arrayed
In petticoats of white,
She was undismayed
And her countenance was light.
The spring under a thorn
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
At a wellspring, under a thorn,
the remedy for an ill was born.
There stood beside a maid
Full of love bound,
And whoso seeks true love,
In her it will be found.
The Complaint of Cresseid against Fate
Robert Henryson, 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O sop of sorrow, sunken into care,
O wretched Cresseid, now and evermore
Gone is thy joy and all thy mirth on earth!
Stripped bare of blitheness and happiness,
No salve can save you from your sickness.
Fell is thy fortune, wicked thy fate.
All bliss banished and sorrow in bloom.
Would that I were buried under the earth
Where no one in Greece or Troy might hear it!
A lover left alone with his thoughts
anonymous Middle English poem, circa later 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Continuance
of remembrance,
without ending,
causes me penance
and great grievance,
for your parting.
You are so deeply
engraved in my heart,
God only knows
that always before me
I ever see you
in thoughts covert.
Though I do not explain
my woeful pain,
I bear it still,
although it seems vain
to speak against
Fortune’s will.
Go, hert, hurt with adversity
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Go, heart, hurt with adversity,
and let my lady see thy wounds,
then say to her, as I say to thee:
“Farewell, my joy, and welcome pain,
till I see my lady again.”
I love a flower
by Thomas Phillipps, circa 1500
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
“I love, I love, and whom love ye?”
“I love a flower of fresh beauty.”
“I love another as well as ye.”
“That shall be proved here, anon,
If we three
together can agree
thereon.”
“I love a flower of sweet odour.”
“Marigolds or lavender?”
“Columbine, golds of sweet flavor?”
“Nay! Nay! Let be:
It is none of them
that liketh me.”
(The argument continues…)
“I love the rose, both red and white.”
“Is that your perfect appetite?”
“To talk of them is my delight.”
“Joyed may we be,
our Prince to see
and roses three.”
“Now we have loved and love will we,
this fair, fresh flower, full of beauty.”
“Most worthy it is, so thinketh me.”
“Then may it be proved here, anon,
that we three
did agree
as one.”
The sleeper hood-winked
by John Skelton, circa late 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
With “Lullay! Lullay!” like a child,
Thou sleepest too long, thou art beguiled.
“My darling dear, my daisy flower,”
let me, quoth he, “lie in your lap.”
“Lie still,” quoth she, “my paramour,
Lie still, of course, and take a nap.”
His head was heavy, such his hap!
All drowsy, dreaming, drowned in sleep,
That of his love he took no keep. [i.e., he paid no notice]
The Corpus Christi Carol
anonymous Middle English poem, circa early 16th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
He bore him up, he bore him down,
He bore him into an orchard brown.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
In that orchard there stood a hall
Hanged all over with purple and pall.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
And in that hall there stood a bed
hanged all over with gold so red.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
And in that bed there lies a knight,
His wounds all bleeding both day and night.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
By that bed's side there kneels a maid,
And she weeps both night and day.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
And by that bedside stands a stone,
"Corpus Christi" written thereon.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
Love ever green
attributed to King Henry VIII, circa 1515
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
If Henry VIII wrote the poem, he didn’t quite live up to it! – MRB
Green groweth the holly,
so doth the ivy.
Though winter’s blasts blow never so high,
green groweth the holly.
As the holly groweth green
and never changeth hue,
so am I, and ever have been,
unto my lady true.
Adew! Mine own lady.
Adew! My special.
Who hath my heart truly,
Be sure, and ever shall.
Pleasure it is
by William Cornish, early 16th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Pleasure it is,
to her, indeed.
The birds sing;
the deer in the dale,
the sheep in the vale,
the new corn springing.
God’s allowance
for sustenance,
his gifts to man.
Thus we always give him praise
and thank him, then.
And thank him, then.
The Vision of Piers Plowman
by William Langland, circa 1330-1400
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In a summer season when the sun shone soft,
I clothed myself in a cloak like a shepherd’s,
In a habit like a hermit's unholy in works,
And went out into the wide world, wonders to hear.
Then on a May morning on Malvern hills,
A marvel befell me, of fairies, methought.
I was weary with wandering and went to rest
Under a broad bank, by a brook's side,
And as I lay, leaned over and looked on the waters,
I fell into a slumber, for it sounded so merry.
Soon I began to dream a marvellous dream:
That I was in a wilderness, I wist not where.
As I looked to the east, right into the sun,
I saw a tower on a knoll, worthily built,
With a deep dale beneath and a dungeon therein,
Full of deep, dark ditches and and dreadful to behold.
Then a fair field full of fond folk, I espied between,
Of all manner of men, both rich and poor,
Working and wandering, as the world demands.
Some put themselves to the plow, seldom playing,
But setting and sowing they sweated copiously
And won that which wasters destroyed by gluttony…
Pearl
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1400
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Pearl, the pleasant prize of princes,
Chastely set in clear gold and cherished,
Out of the Orient, unequaled,
Precious jewel without peer,
So round, so rare, so radiant,
So small, so smooth, so seductive,
That whenever I judged glimmering gems,
I set her apart, unimpeachable, priceless.
Alas, I lost her in earth’s green grass!
Long I searched for her in vain!
Now I languish alone, my heart gone cold.
For I lost my precious pearl without stain.
GILDAS
“Alas! The nature of my complaint is the widespread destruction of all that was good, followed by the wild proliferation of evil throughout the land. Normally, I would grieve with my motherland in her travail and rejoice in her revival. But for now I restrict myself to relating the sins of an indolent and slothful race, rather than the feats of heroes. For ten years I kept my silence, I confess, with much mental anguish, guilt and remorse, while I debated these things within myself…” — Gildas, The Ruin of Britain, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Gildas is also remembered for his “Lorica” (“Breastplate”):
“The Lorica of Loding” from the Book of Cerne
by Gildas
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Trinity in Unity, shield and preserve me!
Unity in Trinity, have mercy on me!
Preserve me, I pray, from all dangers:
dangers which threaten to overwhelm me
like surging sea waves;
neither let mortality
nor worldly vanity
sweep me away from the safe harbor of Your embrace!
Furthermore, I respectfully request:
send the exalted, mighty hosts of heaven!
Let them not abandon me
to be destroyed by my enemies,
but let them defend me always
with their mighty shields and bucklers.
Allow Your heavenly host
to advance before me:
Cherubim and Seraphim by the thousands,
led by the Archangels Michael and Gabriel!
Send, I implore, these living thrones,
these principalities, powers and Angels,
so that I may remain strong,
defended against the deluge of enemies
in life’s endless battles!
May Christ, whose righteous Visage frightens away foul throngs,
remain with me in a powerful covenant!
May God the Unconquerable Guardian
defend me on every side with His power!
Free my manacled limbs,
cover them with Your shielding grace,
leaving heaven-hurled demons helpless to hurt me,
to pierce me with their devious darts!
Lord Jesus Christ, be my sure armor, I pray!
Cover me, O God, with Your impenetrable breastplate!
Cover me so that, from head to toe,
no member is exposed, within or without;
so that life is not exorcized from my body
by plague, by fever, by weakness, or by suffering.
Until, with the gift of old age granted by God,
I depart this flesh, free from the stain of sin,
free to fly to those heavenly heights,
where, by the grace of God, I am borne in joy
into the cool retreats of His heavenly kingdom!
Amen
ANGELUS SILESIUS
Unholy Trinity
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Man has three enemies:
himself, the world, and the devil.
Of these the first is, by far,
the most irresistible evil.
True Wealth
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
There is more to being rich
than merely having;
the wealthiest man can lose
everything not worth saving.
The Rose
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The rose merely blossoms
and never asks why:
heedless of her beauty,
careless of every eye.
The Rose
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The rose lack “reasons”
and merely sways with the seasons;
she has no ego
but whoever put on such a show?
Eternal Time
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Eternity is time,
time eternity,
except when we
are determined to "see."
Visions
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Our souls possess two eyes:
one examines time,
the other visions
eternal and sublime.
Godless
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
God is absolute Nothingness
beyond our sense of time and place;
the more we try to grasp Him,
The more He flees from our embrace.
The Source
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Water is pure and clean
when taken at the well-head:
but drink too far from the Source
and you may well end up dead.
Ceaseless Peace
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Unceasingly you seek
life's ceaseless wavelike motion;
I seek perpetual peace, all storms calmed.
Whose is the wiser notion?
Well Written
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Friend, cease!
Abandon all pretense!
You must yourself become
the Writing and the Sense.
Worm Food
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
No worm is buried
so deep within the soil
that God denies it food
as reward for its toil.
Mature Love
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
New love, like a sparkling wine, soon fizzes.
Mature love, calm and serene, abides.
God's Predicament
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
God cannot condemn those with whom he would dwell,
or He would have to join them in hell!
Clods
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A ruby
is not lovelier
than a dirt clod,
nor an angel
more glorious
than a frog.
The original poem below is based on my teenage misinterpretation of a Latin prayer …
Elegy for a little girl, lost
by Michael R. Burch
… qui laetificat juventutem meam …
She was the joy of my youth,
and now she is gone.
… requiescat in pace …
May she rest in peace.
… amen …
Amen.
I was touched by this Latin prayer, which I discovered in a novel I read as a teenager. I later decided to incorporate it into a poem. From what I now understand, “ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meam” means “to the God who gives joy to my youth,” but I am sticking with my original interpretation: a lament for a little girl at her funeral. The phrase can be traced back to Saint Jerome's translation of Psalm 42 in the Vulgate Latin Bible (circa 385 AD).
Let all those love, who never loved before.
Let those who always loved, love all the more.
—ancient Latin saying, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
SAPPHO OF LESBOS
Sappho Translations by Michael R. Burch
These are Michael R. Burch's modern English translations of the immortal Sappho of Lesbos, the great lyric poet who was called The Tenth Muse by her ancient peers. The other nine muses were goddesses, so Sappho was held in the very highest regard!
A short revealing frock?
It's just my luck
your lips were made to mock!
—Sappho, fragment 177, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Eros harrows my heart:
wild winds whipping desolate mountains,
uprooting oaks.
—Sappho, fragment 47, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
That enticing girl's clinging dresses
leave me trembling, overcome by happiness,
as once, when I saw the Goddess in my prayers
eclipsing Cyprus.
—Sappho, fragment 22, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Gongyla, wear, I beg,
that revealing white dress …
—Sappho, fragment 22, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Bed the bride with the beautiful feet,
or bring her to me!
—Sappho, fragment 103b, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
That hayseed tart
bewitches your heart?
Hell, her most beguiling art's
hiking her dress
to seduce you with her ankles' nakedness!
—Sappho, fragment 57, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I long helplessly for love. Gazing into your eyes not even Hermione compares. Who is your equal? I compare you only to goldenhaired Helen among mortal women. Know your love would free me from every care, and keep me awake nightlong beside dewy deltas.
—Sappho, fragment 22, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Aphrodite, do you not love the windlike dances
of beautiful, apple-cheeked Abanthis?
—Sappho, fragment 301, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I am an acolyte
of wile-weaving
Aphrodite.
—Sappho, fragment 12, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sing, my sacred tortoiseshell lyre;
come, let my words
accompany your voice.
—Sappho, fragment 118, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
She keeps her scents
in a dressing-case.
And her sense?
In some undiscoverable place.
—Sappho, fragment 156, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Vain woman, foolish thing!
Do you base your worth on a ring?
—Sappho, fragment 36, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
May I lead?
Will you follow?
Foolish man!
Ears so hollow,
minds so shallow,
never can!
—Sappho, fragment 169, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
With my two small arms, how can I
think to encircle the sky?
—Sappho, fragment 52, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The black earth absorbed grief-stricken tears along with the interred sons of Atreus.
—Sappho, fragment 297, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Menelaus, son of Atreus, lies returned to the black earth, finally beyond agony.
—Sappho, fragment 27, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Gold does not rust,
yet my son becomes dust?
—Sappho, fragment 52, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Atthis, so charming in the bedroom, but otherwise hateful, proud and aloof, her teeth clicking like castanets.
—Sappho, fragment 87a, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I sought the Goddess in your body's curves and crevasses.
—attributed to Sappho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Mnemosyne was stunned into astonishment when she heard honey-tongued Sappho, wondering how mortal men merited a tenth Muse.
—Antipater of Sidon, translated by Michael R. Burch
Mere air,
my words' fare,
but intoxicating to hear.
—Sappho, cup inscription, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
What cannot be swept
------------------------------------- aside
must be wept.
—Sappho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Pain
drains
me
to
the
last
drop
.
—Sappho, fragment 37, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Mother, how can I weave,
so overwhelmed by love?
—Sappho, fragment 102, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Spartan girls wear short skirts
and are brazen.
—attributed to Sappho, translator unknown
Someone, somewhere
will remember us,
I swear!
—Sappho, fragment 147, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
No droning bee,
nor even the bearer of honey
for me!
—Sappho, fragment 146, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The moon has long since set;
the Pleiades are gone;
now half the night is spent
yet here I lie—alone.
—Sappho, fragment 168b, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sappho, fragment 136
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
after Aaron Poochigian
Nightingale,
how handsomely you sing
your desire,
sweet crier
of blossoming spring.
2.
Nightingale, enticing-songed harbinger of spring. Sing!
Sappho, fragment 130
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
Eros, the limb-shatterer,
rattles me,
an irresistible
constrictor.
2.
Eros, the limb-loosener,
rattles me,
an irresistible
constrictor.
Sappho, fragment 10
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I lust!
I crave!
F-ck me!
Sappho, fragment 93
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Gongyla, wear, I beg,
that revealing white dress
when you come,
so that desire surrounds you,
descending in circling flight as you dance
to the strains of Abanthis's lyre
while I compose hymns to your loveliness,
both of us stirred by your beauty
and that dress!
Wherefore I once prayed to Aphrodite: I want
and she reprimanded me.
Sappho, fragment 24
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
Don't you remember, in days bygone,
how we did such things, being young?
2.
Remember? In our youth
we too did such reckless things.
3.
Remember how we did such things in our youth? Many lovely and beautiful things in the city of dangerous enticements! We lived face-to-face with great daring amid those who inflict pain. Daring even to believe in golden-haired, slender-voiced Love …
The fragment below seems to be one of the most popular with translators …
Sappho, fragment 145
If you're squeamish, don't prod the beach rubble.―Mary Barnard
If you dont like trouble dont disturb sand.―Cid Corman
Don't move piles of pebbles.―Diane J. Rayor
Don't stir the trash.―Guy Davenport
If you're squeamish don't trouble the rubble!―Michael R. Burch
Let sleeping turds lie!―Michael R. Burch
Leave every stone unturned!―Michael R. Burch
Roll no stones, let them all gather moss!―Michael R. Burch
do not move stones―Anne Carson
Sappho, fragment 33
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Golden-crowned Aphrodite,
don't be a glory-hog!
Share a little of your luck with me!
Sappho, fragment 133 (Wharton 133, Barnard 31)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
Blushing bride, brimful of rose-petaled love,
brightest jewel of the Goddess of Paphos,
come to the bridal bed,
tenderly entice your bridegroom.
May Hesperus lead you starry-eyed
to stand awestruck before the silver throne of Hera,
Goddess of Marriage!
2.
Of all the stars the fairest,
Hesperus,
lead the maiden straight to her bridegroom's bed,
honoring Hera, the goddess of marriage.
3.
The evening star
is of all stars the brightest,
the fairest.
Sappho, fragment 160
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
I shall now sing skillfully
to please my companions.
2.
I shall sing these songs skillfully
to please my companions.
3.
Goddess,
let me sing skillfully
to please my companions.
Sappho, fragment 102 (Lobel-Page 102 / Diehl 114 / Bergk 90 / Cox 87 / Barnard 12)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
Mother, how can I weave,
so overwhelmed by love?
2.
Mother, how can I weave,
so overwhelmed by love?
Sly Aphrodite incited me!
Sappho, fragment 130
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
May the gods prolong the night
—yes, let it last forever!—
as long as you sleep in my sight.
2.
I prayed that blessed night
might be doubled for us.
Sappho, fragment 123
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Just now I was called,
enthralled,
by golden-sandalled
dawn…
Sappho, fragment 22
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I bid you, Abanthis, grab your lyre
and sing of Gongyla, while desire
surrounds you. Sing of the lovely one,
how her clinging white dress excited you
as she whirled. Meanwhile, I rejoice
although Aphrodite once chided me
for praying … and yet I still pray to have her.
Sappho, fragment 23
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I long helplessly for love.
Gazing into your eyes not even Hermione compares.
Who is your equal?
I compare you only to goldenhaired Helen among mortal women.
Know your love would free me from every care, and keep me awake nightlong beside dewy deltas.
Sappho, fragment 78
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
… nor were we without longing together,
as flowers long to delight …
Sappho, fragment 44
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The Wedding of Andromache and Hector
The herald arrived from Cyprus, Idaios, the fleetfooted Trojan messenger, whose ringing voice announced the wedding’s immortal fame to all Asia: “Hector and his companions deliver delightful-eyed delicate Andromache over the salt sea, on ships from holy Thebes and eternal-shored Plakia, with many gold bracelets, fragrant purple garments, iridescent adornments, and countless silver cups and ivory.” As he spoke, Hector’s beloved father sprang joyously to his feet and the report soon reached Hector's friends throughout the sprawling city. Immediately the sons of Ilos, Troy's founder, harnessed mules to smooth-wheeled carriages as throngs of women and slender-ankled virgins climbed aboard. Priam's daughters came in royal carriages. Elsewhere bachelors harnessed stallions to their chariots. From far and wide charioteers rode like gods toward the sacred gathering. Everyone of one accord they set out for Ilion accompanied by the melodies of sweet-voiced flutes, reed pipes and clacking castanets. The virgins sang sacred songs whose silvery echoes brightened the heavens. Everywhere in the streets wine bowls and cups were raised in jubilant toasts. The fragrances of myrrh, cassia and frankincense mingled together, perfuming the wind. The older women cried aloud for joy and the men's voices rang forcefully, calling on the archer Paion Apollo, master of the lyre, as all sang the praises of godlike Hector and Andromache.
Sappho, fragment 132
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
I have a delightful daughter
fairer than the fairest flowers, Cleis,
whom I cherish more than all Lydia and lovely Lesbos.
2.
I have a lovely daughter
with a face like the fairest flowers,
my beloved Cleis …
Sappho, fragment 295
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
I fluttered
after you
like a chick after its mother …
2.
I fluttered
after you
like a chick after its hen …
3.
I flew back like a chick to its hen.
4.
I flew back like a child to its mother.
Sappho, fragment 30
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Stay!
I will lay
out a cushion for you
with the plushest pillows …
Sappho, fragment 46
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My body descends
and my comfort depends
on your welcoming cushions!
From Herodian, according to Edwin Marion Cox.
Sappho, fragment 140
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
He is dying, Cytherea, the delicate Adonis.
What shall we women do?
Virgins, rend your garments, bare your breasts and abuse them!
Sappho, fragment 168
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Alas, Adonis!
Sappho, fragment 55
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
Lady,
soon you'll lie dead, disregarded,
as your worm-eaten corpse like your corpus degrades;
for those who never gathered Pieria's roses
must mutely accept how their memory fades
as they flit among the obscure, uncelebrated
Hadean shades.
2.
Lady,
soon you'll lie dead, disregarded,
as your worm-eaten corpse like your verse degrades;
for those who never gathered Pierian roses
must mutely accept how their reputation fades
among the obscure, uncelebrated
Hadean shades.
3.
Lady,
soon you'll lie dead, disregarded;
then imagine how quickly your reputation fades …
when you who never gathered the roses of Pieria
mutely assume your place
among the obscure, uncelebrated
Hadean shades.
4.
Death shall rule thee
eternally
now, my Lady,
for see:
your name lies useless, silent and forgotten
here and hereafter;
never again will you gather
the roses of Pieria, but only wander
misbegotten,
rotten
and obscure through Hades
flitting forlornly among the dismal shades.
Sappho, unnumbered fragment
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
All mixed up, I drizzled.
Sappho, fragment 34
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
Awed by the Moon's splendor,
the stars covered their undistinguished faces.
Even so, we.
2a.
You are,
of all the unapproachable stars,
the fairest.
2b.
You are,
of all the unapproachable stars,
the brightest.
2c.
You are,
of all the unapproachable stars,
by far
the fairest,
the brightest―
possessing the Moon's splendor.
2d.
You are,
compared to every star,
by far
the fairest,
the brightest―
surpassing the Moon's splendor.
3.
The stars lose their luster in the presence of the waxing moon when she graces the earth with her silver luminescence.
4.
The stars, abashed, hide their faces when the full-orbed moon floods the earth with her clear silver light.
5a.
Stars surrounding the brilliant moon pale whenever she lights the earth.
5b.
Stars surrounding the brilliant moon pale whenever she silvers the earth.
Sappho, fragment 39
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
We're merely mortal women,
it's true;
the Goddesses have no rivals
but You.
Sappho, fragment 5
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
We're eclipsed here by your presence—
you outshine all the ladies of Lydia
as the bright-haloed moon outsplendors the stars.
I suspect the fragment above is about Anactoria aka Anaktoria, since Sappho associates Anactoria with Lydia in fragment 16.
Sappho, fragment 16
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
Those I most charm
do me the most harm.
2.
Those I charm the most
do me the most harm.
Sappho, fragment 68a
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Apart from me they became like goddesses
in their unrestrained excesses.
Guilty Andromedas. Deceitful Megaras.
Sappho, fragment 62
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You lay in wait,
beautiful in your garments
beneath a sweet-scented laurel tree,
then ambushed me!
Sappho, fragment 154
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1a.
The moon rose and we women
thronged it like an altar.
1b.
As the full moon rose,
we women
thronged it like an altar.
1c.
Women thronged the altar at moonrise.
2.
All night long
lithe maidens thronged
at the altar of Love.
3.
Maidens throng
at the altar of Love
all night long.
4.
The moon shone, full
as the virgins ringed Love's altar …
Sappho, fragment 2
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Leaving your heavenly summit,
I submit
to the mountain,
then plummet.
Sappho, fragment 129
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
You forget me
or you love another more!
It's over.
2.
It's over!
Who can move
a hard heart?
Sappho, fragment 51
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
I'm undecided.
My mind? Torn. Divided.
2.
Unsure as a babe new-born,
My mind is divided, torn.
3.
I don't know what to do:
My mind is divided, two.
Sappho, fragment 78
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
… nor were we without longing together,
as flowers long to delight …
Sappho, fragment 68a
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Apart from me they became like goddesses
in their unrestrained excesses.
Guilty Andromedas. Deceitful Megaras.
Sappho, fragment 23
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I long helplessly for love. Gazing into your eyes not even Hermione compares. Who is your equal? I compare you only to goldenhaired Helen among mortal women. Know your love would free me from every care, and keep me awake nightlong beside dewy deltas.
Sappho, fragment 62
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You lay in wait,
beautiful in your garments
beneath a sweet-scented laurel tree,
then ambushed me!
Sappho, fragment 100
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When the bride comes
let her train rejoice!
Sappho, fragment 113
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Bridegroom,
was there ever a maid
so like a lovely heirloom?
Sappho, fragment 19
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You anoint yourself
with the most exquisite perfume.
Sappho, fragment 120
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
I'm no resenter;
I have a childlike heart …
2.
I'm not resentful;
I have a childlike heart …
3.
I'm not spiteful;
I have a childlike heart …
4.
I'm not one who likes to wound,
but have a calm disposition.
Sappho, fragment 126
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
May you sleep, at rest,
on your tender girlfriend’s breast.
2.
May your head gently rest
on the breast
of the tenderest guest.
3.
May your head gently rest
on the tender breast
of the girl you love best.
Sappho, fragment 107
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
Is there any good in maidenhood?
2.
Is there any synergy
in virginity?
Sappho, fragment 81
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Dica! Do not enter the presence of Goddesses ungarlanded!
First weave sprigs of dill with those delicate hands, if you desire their favor,
for the Blessed Graces disdain bareheaded girls.
Sappho, fragment 58
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1a.
I confess
that I love a gentle caress,
as I love the sun's ecstatic brilliance.
1b.
I confess
that I love her caresses;
for me Love blazes with the sun’s brilliance.
1c.
I love refinement
and for me Eros
blazes with the sun's beauty, brightness and brilliance.
2.
I love the sensual
as I love the sun's ecstatic brilliance.
3.
I love the sensual
as I love the sun's celestial splendor.
4.
I cherish extravagance,
intoxicated by Love's celestial splendor.
Sappho, fragment 127
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Assemble now, Muses, leaving golden landscapes!
Sappho, fragment 138
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
Darling, let me see your face;
unleash your eyes' grace.
2.
Turn to me, favor me
with your eyes' indulgence.
3.
Look me in the face,
smile,
reveal your eyes' grace …
4.
Turn to me, favor me
with your eyes' acceptance.
5.
Darling, let me see your smiling face;
favor me again with your eyes' grace.
Sappho, fragment 38
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
You inflame me!
2.
You ignite and inflame me …
You melt me.
Sappho, fragment 12
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I am an acolyte
of wile-weaving
Aphrodite.
Sappho, fragment 4
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
What can Sappho possibly offer
all-blessed Aphrodite?
Sappho, fragment 104a
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Hesperus, herdsman most blessed!,
you herd homeward the wayward guest,
herd sheep and goats back home to their rest,
herd children to snuggle at their mother's breast.
Sappho, fragment 105
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
Like the quince-apple ripening on the highest bough,
which the harvesters missed, or forgot—somehow—
or perhaps just couldn't reach, until now.
Like a mountain hyacinth rarely found,
which shepherds' feet trampled into the ground,
leaving purple stains on an unmourned mound.
2.
You're the sweetest apple reddening on the highest bough,
which the harvesters missed, or forgot—somehow—
or perhaps just couldn't reach, until now.
3.
You're the sweetest apple reddening on the highest bough,
which the harvesters missed … but, no, …
they just couldn't reach that high.
Sappho, fragment 145
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Prometheus the Fire-Bearer
robbed the Gods of their power
and so
brought mankind and himself to woe …
must you repeat his error?
Sappho, fragment 169
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
May I lead?
Will you follow?
Foolish man!
Ears so hollow,
minds so shallow,
never can!
Sappho, fragments 156
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
Your voice—
a sweeter liar
than the lyre,
more dearly bought
and sold,
than gold.
2.
Your voice?—
more melodious than the lyre,
more dearly bought and sold
than gold.
Sappho, fragment 100
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
She wrapped herself then in
most delicate linen.
2.
She wrapped herself in
her most delicate linen.
Sappho, fragment 57
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1a.
That country wench bewitches your heart?
Hell, her most beguiling art's
hiking her dress
to seduce you with her ankles' nakedness!
1b.
That country wench bewitches your heart?
Hell, her most beguiling art
is hiking her dress
to reveal her ankles' nakedness!
2.
That hayseed tart
bewitches your heart?
Hell, her most beguiling art's
hiking her dress
to seduce you with her ankles' nakedness!
Sappho, fragment 54
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
Eros
descended from heaven
clad in his imperial purple mantle.
2.
Eros
descends from heaven
wearing his imperial purple mantle.
Sappho, fragment 121
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
As a friend you're great,
but you need a much younger bedmate.
2.
Although you're very dear to me,
please don't be silly!
You need a much younger filly.
3.
Although you're very dear to me
you need a much younger filly;
I'm far too old for you,
and this old mare's just not that damn silly.
Sappho, after Anacreon
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Once again I dive into this fathomless ocean,
intoxicated by lust.
The Legend of Sappho and Phaon, after Menander
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Some say Sappho was an ardent maiden
goaded by wild emotion
to fling herself from the white-frothed rocks of Leukas
into this raging ocean
for love of Phaon …
but others reject that premise
and say it was Aphrodite, for love of Adonis.
Sappho, fragment 140
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Phaon ferried the Goddess across:
the Goddess of Love, so men say
who crowned him with kingly laurels.
Was he crowned for only a day?
Sappho, fragment 105c
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Shepherds trample the larkspur
whose petals empurple the heath,
foreshadowing shepherds' grief.
Sappho, fragment 100
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The softest pallors grace
her lovely face.
Sappho, fragment 36
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
I yearn for―I burn for―the one I miss!
2.
While you learn,
I burn.
3.
While you try to discern your will,
I burn still.
Sappho, fragment 30
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Virgins, keeping vigil all night long,
go, make a lovely song,
sing of the love you abide
for the violet-robed bride.
Or better yet―arise, regale!
Go entice the eligible bachelors
so that we shocked elders
can sleep less than the love-plagued nightingales!
Sappho, fragment 122
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1a.
A willowy girl plucking wildflowers.
1b.
A willowy girl picking wildflowers.
2.
A tender maiden plucking flowers
persuades the knave
to heroically brave
the world's untender hours.
Sappho, fragment 125
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Love, bittersweet Dispenser of pain,
Weaver of implausible fictions:
flourishes in prosperity,
weeps for life's perversity,
quails before adversity,
dies haggard, believing she's pretty.
Sappho, fragment 201
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
Death is evil;
so the Gods decreed
or they would die.
2.
Death is evil; the Gods all agree.
For, had death been good,
the Gods would
be mortal, like me.
Sappho, fragment 43
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Come, dear ones,
let us cease our singing:
morning dawns.
Sappho, fragment 14
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
Today
may
buffeting winds bear
all my distress and care
away.
2.
Today
may
buffeting winds bear
away
all my distress and care.
Sappho, fragment 69
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
I gladly returned
to soft arms I once spurned.
2.
Into the soft arms of the girl I once spurned,
I gladly returned.
Sappho, fragment 29
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Since my paps are dry and my barren womb rests,
let me praise lively girls with violet-scented breasts.
Sappho, fragment 1
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Beautiful swift sparrows
rising on whirring wings
flee the dark earth for the sun-bright air …
Sappho, fragment 10
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
Girls ripening for marriage wove flowers into garlands.
2.
Girls of the ripening maidenhead wove garlands.
3.
Girls of the ripening maidenhead wore garlands.
Sappho, fragment 94 & 98
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Listen, my dear;
by the Goddess I swear
that I, too,
(like you)
had to renounce my false frigidity
and surrender my virginity.
My wedding night was not so bad;
you too have nothing to fear, so be glad!
(But then why do I sometimes still think with dread
of my lost maidenhead?)
Sappho, fragment 114
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Maidenhead! Maidenhead!
So swiftly departed!
Why have you left me
forever brokenhearted?
Sappho, fragment 2
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch, after Sappho and Tennyson
I sip the cup of costly death;
I lose my color, catch my breath
whenever I contemplate your presence,
or absence.
Sappho, fragment 32
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
The Muses honored me by gifting me works.
2.
The Muses gave me their gifts and made me famous.
3.
They have been very generous with me,
the violet-strewing Muses of Olympus;
thanks to their gifts
I have become famous.
Sappho, fragment 3
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Stars ringing the lovely moon
pale to insignificance
when she illuminates the earth
with her magnificence.
Sappho, fragment 49
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You have returned!
You did well to not depart
because I pined for you.
Now you have re-lit the torch
I bear for you in my heart,
this flare of Love.
I bless you and bless you and bless you
because we're no longer apart.
Sappho, fragment 52
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Yesterday,
you came to my house
to sing for me.
Today,
I come to you
to return the favor.
Talk to me. Do.
Sweet talk,
I love the flavor!
Please send away your maids
and let us share a private heaven-
haven.
Sappho, fragment 94
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
There was no dance,
no sacred dalliance,
from which we were absent.
Sappho, fragment 152
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
… shot through
with innumerable hues …
Sappho, fragment 46
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You came and did well to come
because I desired you. You made
love blaze in my breast, thus I bless you …
but not the endless hours when you're gone.
Sappho, fragment 153
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
They call me the sweet-voiced girl, parthenon aduphonon.
Sappho, fragment 94
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You anointed yourself
with the most exquisite perfume.
Sappho, fragment 42
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
As their hearts froze,
their feathers molted.
2.
As their hearts grew chill
their wings grew still.
3.
Their hearts quieted,
they alighted.
Sappho, fragment 134
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Selene came to Endymion in the cave,
made love to him as he slept,
then crept away before the sun could prove
its light and warmth the more adept.
Sappho, fragment 47
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Eros harrows my heart:
wild winds whipping desolate mountains,
uprooting oaks.
Sappho, fragment 36
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Vain woman, foolish thing!
Do you base your worth on a ring?
Sappho, fragment 52
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
With my two small arms, how can I
think to encircle the sky?
Sappho, fragment 137
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Gold does not rust,
yet my son becomes dust?
Sappho, fragment 48
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You did well to come and I yearned for you.
Though I burned with desire, you cooled my fevered mind.
Mere air,
my words' fare,
but intoxicating to hear.
—loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sappho, fragment 9
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Mere breath,
words I command
are nevertheless immortal.
Sappho, fragment 118
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sing, my sacred tortoiseshell lyre;
come, let my words
accompany your voice.
My Religion
attributed to Sappho
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1a.
I discovered the Goddess in your body's curves and crevasses.
1b.
I found the Goddess in your body's curves and crevasses.
1c.
I sought the Goddess in your body's curves and crevasses.
2a.
My religion consists of your body's curves and crevasses.
2b.
My religion became your body's curves and crevasses.
2c.
I discovered my religion in your body's curves and crevasses.
Sappho, fragment 37
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
Pain
drains
me
to
the
last
drop
.
2.
Pain drains me;
may thunderstorms and lightning
strike my condemners.
Sappho, fragment 147
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Someone, somewhere
will remember us,
I swear!
Sappho, fragment 146
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1a.
No droning bee,
nor even the bearer of honey
for me!
1b.
No buzzing bee,
nor even the bearer of honey
for me!
2.
Neither the honey
nor the bee
for me!
Sappho, fragment 168b
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1a.
Midnight.
The hours drone on
as I moan here, alone.
1b.
Midnight.
The hours drone.
I moan,
alone.
2a.
The moon has long since set;
the Pleiades are gone;
now half the night is spent
yet here I lie—alone.
2b.
The moon has long since set;
the Pleiades are gone;
now half the night is spent
yet here I sleep, alone.
Sappho, fragment 119
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
We brought the urn aboard the barge, inscribed:
This is the dust of Timas,
whom Persephone received, unwed, into her bedchamber,
for whom her fellowmaidens in mourning
slashed their soft curls with sharpened blades.
2.
This is the dust of Timas, dead, unwed,
whom Persephone took to her dark bed,
for whom her fellowmaidens, mourning,
hacked off their locks like sheep at a shearing.
Sappho, fragment 21
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A purple scarf shadowed your face—
a cherished gift from Timas,
sent from Phocaea.
Sappho, fragment 290
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
Dancing rhythmically, with light feet,
the Cretan women thronged the altar,
trampling circles in the fine soft flowering grass.
2.
Dancing rhythmically, with light feet,
to the pulsating beat,
Cretan
women thronged the altar in their mass,
trampling circles in the fine soft flowering grass.
Sappho, fragment 128
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Come join us, tender Graces
and lovely-haired Muses,
in our ecstatic dances!
Sappho, fragment 93
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Our playmates are pink-ankled Graces
and golden Aphrodite!
Sappho, fragment 53
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Come, rosy-armed Graces,
Zeus's daughters,
in your perfection!
Sappho, fragment 111
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Raise the rafters, carpenters.
Hoist high the roof-beams!
Hymen Hymenaeus!
Here comes the bridegroom,
statuesque as Ares!
Hymen Hymenaeus!
Sappho, fragment 112
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lucky bridegroom,
your wedding day has finally arrived
and your alluring bride is your heart’s desire!
Sappho, fragment 32 (Barnard 32)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Virginity!
Alas my lost Virginity!
Sappho, fragment 57
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Heavy-lidded Slumber, child of Night, claimed them.
Sappho, fragment 57a
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Aphrodite's handmaid, resplendent in gold,
Hecate, Queen of Darkness untold!
Sappho, fragment 63
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Last night, Cyprian,
you and I clashed (s)words
in my dreams.
Sappho, fragment 48
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Now I know why Eros,
of all the gods’ offspring,
is most blessed.
Sappho, fragment 68
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
That was then, this is now!
In those days my maidenhead was in full bloom,
then you …
Sappho, fragment 135
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Golden Persuasion, Aphrodite's daughter,
how you deceive mortals!
Sappho, fragment 88
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Why, Procne,
delicate swallow, daughter of Pandīon,
why do you weary me with tales of woe?
Sappho, fragment 287
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I once instructed Hero of Gyara, the fleetfooted.
Sappho, fragment 15
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Cypris, may she find you a harsh mistress,
Doricha, the slut!
Put an end to her bragging,
nor let her boast that she fooled him twice,
my brother's embezzler!
Doricha was a courtesan who allegedly caused Sappho's brother Charaxus to lose considerable wealth. Doricha was also known by the pseudonym Rhodopis, which means "rosy-cheeked."
Sappho, fragment 7
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Doricha commands arrogantly,
like young men.
Sappho, fragment 148
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A vagabond friendship,
a public blessing …
repent Rhodopis!
Sappho, fragment 138
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The beautiful courtesan Rhodopis,
lies here entombed, more fair
than when she walked with white lilies
plaited in her dark hair,
but now she's as withered as they:
whose dust is more gray?
Sappho, fragment 5
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Revered Nereids, divine sea-daughters, please grant that my brother may return unharmed,
his heart's desires all fulfilled,
and may he show his sister more honor than in his indifferent past …
But you, O august Kypris, please keep him from unbearable dooms!
Sappho, fragment 148
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Wealth unaccompanied by Character
is a dangerous houseguest,
but together they invite happiness.
Sappho, fragment 201
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
Gold is indestructible.
2.
Gold is God's indestructible Child:
the One neither moth nor worm devours.
Sappho, fragment 66
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ares bragged he'd drag forge-master Hephaestus off by sheer force!
Sappho, fragment 120
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Over fisherman Pelagon's grave his father Meniscus left creel and oar, relics of a luckless life.
Sappho, fragment 143
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
How golden broom brightens riverbanks!
Sappho, fragment 94
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You remind me of a little girl
I once assisted picking flowers.
Sappho, fragment 95
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lord Hermes, you guide spirits to their final destination.
Now guide me, for I am despondent and wish only to die,
to see the lotus-lined shores of Acheron.
Sappho, fragment 150
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1
Cleis, daughter, don't cry!
Mourning is unbecoming a poet's household.
2.
For those who serve the Muses,
mourning is unbecoming.
Sappho, fragment 56
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
Will any woman
born under the sun
ever match your art?
2.
No woman
born under the sun
will ever have your wisdom.
Sappho, fragment 135
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Erinna, why does darkwinged Procne, King Pandion's daughter, beckon?
Sappho, fragment 17
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Hear me, Queen Hera, as your delightful festival nears,
you to whom the sons of Atreus performed vows,
those dazzling kings who did such amazing things,
first at Troy, then later at sea.
And yet, sailing the sea-road to our island,
those mighty kings still could not attain it
until they had called on you and Zeus,
the god of seekers and beseechers,
and Dionysus, alluring son of Semele.
Now we too perform the ancient rites,
O most holy and most beautiful Goddess,
we throngs of virgins, young women and wives.
Please allow us to arrive safely at the shrine.
Sappho, fragment 86
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In this quiet moment,
I beg a boon from Zeus,
the bearer of the aegis,
even as I implore, O Aphrodite,
the tenderness of your benevolent heart;
hear my prayer, as once before,
when, departing Cyprus,
you heeded my earnest cry
and chose not to be harsh.
Sappho, fragment 44a
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Golden-haired Phoebus was sired on Leto by the high-soaring son of Kronos. His sister, Artemis, swore a great oath to Zeus: “By your crown, I shall always be an unwed virgin hunting on remote mountaintops. Assent!” The father of the Blessed Ones nodded his consent. Now gods and mortals call her The Virgin Huntress and Eros, limb-loosener, dare never approach her!
Sappho, fragment 168c
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Gaia, rainbow-crowned, garbs herself in myriad hues.
Sappho, fragment 101a
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Undaunted by summer ablaze
the cicada emits its high, shrill song.
Sappho, fragment 103
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sing of the bride with shapely feet, fair as the violet-robed daughter of Zeus, Artemis. Let the violet-robed bride calm her bridegroom's anger. Come holy Graces and Pierian Muses, whose sweet-toned songs soothe the overwrought heart. Let the annoyed bridegroom complain to his companions as she redoes her hair, fiddles with her lyre, and tries on dawn-golden sandals!
Sappho, fragment 103b
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Bed the bride with the beautiful feet,
or bring her to me!
Sappho, fragment 141
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Hermes mixed ambrosia in a bowl,
then poured it for the gods
who, having lifted their cups, made libations,
then in one voice blessed the bridegroom.
Sappho, fragment 27
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Because you were once young and loved to dance and sing, come, think favorably of us and be gracious. You know we're off to a wedding, so quickly as possible please send the virgins away. And may the gods bless us here since there's no path yet for men to reach great Olympus.
Sappho, fragment 115
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Dear groom,
to whom
may I compare you?
To a slender sapling.
Sappho, fragment 103c
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
… remembering delightful Arheanassa,
her laughter lovely as any Lorelei's …
2.
… remembering delightful Arheanassa,
her laughter lovely as any water nymph's …
Sappho, fragment 76
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Fulfill?
At my age I'm just hanging on!
Sappho, fragment 45
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
As long as you desire, I do!
2.
As long as you command, I obey!
3.
As long as you will, I submit.
4.
As long as you want me, I'm yours.
Sappho, fragment 50
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A handsome man pleases the eyes
but a good man pleases.
Sappho, fragment 41
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
For you, O my Beautiful Ones,
my mind is unalterable.
Sappho, fragment 18
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Everyone extols my storytelling:
"better than any man's!"
Sappho, fragment 88
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Though you prefer not to get carried away
and may imagine someone sweeter to behold,
someone who may yet say "Yes!"
still I will love you as long as there's breath in me,
swallowing the bitter,
ever the faithful lover.
Sappho, fragment 158
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When anger floods your chest,
best to still a reckless tongue.
Sappho, fragment 129
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
They say Sappho's sweetest utterance
Was the hymeneal hymn of Love.
Sappho, fragment 153
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Queen Dawn,
solemn Dawn,
come!
Sappho, fragment 26
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Why, Mistress Aphrodite,
Dominatrix! Why do you
fill me with such lust? Why
inflict such suffering on me?
When I prayed to you in the past,
you never treated me with such indifference!
Sappho, fragment 132
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Love, the child of Aphrodite and heaven;
Sappho, of earth;
Who had the more divine birth?
In the following 101 short translations the fragment numbers are Lobel-Page unless otherwise noted. All translations are by Michael R. Burch and should be so credited if they are used in any way, shape or form.
I now, with all my heart, fully, as much as it is possible for me, blossom to see your lovely face, touching. (4)
Let's go ogle golden-armed Lady Dawn before our doom. (6b)
It's impossible to be happy and human; yet I still pray a share for myself, of happiness. (16a)
Even this pressed for time, tonight we can raise a toast to the stars. (18a)
Put on your finery and with any luck we'll make harbor — back to dry land, back to the black earth. (20)
Though I'm skilled in lament and trembling with wrinkle-skinned age, yet there is the chase. Strum your lyre and sing to us of violet-robed loveseekers, Abanthis! (21)
Left to our own devices, two pretty young things, we found our way to the bedroom. (25)
Menelaus, son of Atreus, lies returned to the black earth, finally beyond agony. (INCERT. 27)
Colorful Lydian sandals covered her feet. So beautiful! (39)
At your altar, unforgiving Mistress, I will sacrifice a white goat and offer libations. (40)
I and Archeanassa, Gorgo's wife … (42a)
Beauty brings peace when my mind is troubled. Come sit beside me, friends, for day draws nigh. (43)
Once fleeing, hounded and bitten by gods, you gave me a name, put fame in my mouth. (58a)
O darkwinged dream you soar on night's drafts to sleep with the gods, and I am in agony to sense such distant power for I expect to share nothing with the blessed. I would rather not be left with mere trinkets, yet may I have them all! (63)
Andromeda may have abandoned you, but I, Aphrodite, Queen of Cyprus, still love you, Sappho, as the sun illuminates everything, everywhere; even by the dewy banks of Acheron, I am with you. (65)
I come to join the harmonies of a joyful chorus: sweet-toned, clear-voiced. (70)
Aphrodite, goddess of sweet-sung desires, sits on her throne of blooms in the beautiful dew. (73)
Aphrodite, sweet-talking goddess of love, sits on her throne of blooms in the beautiful dew. (73)
Joy? What joy? You gave me nothing: though beautiful, always unsmiling. (77)
She was all hair, otherwise nothing. (80)
Mnasidika is more curvaceous than even our soft Gyrinno. (82a)
Wait here once again, because … I come! (84)
You enrich me, like listening to an old man. (85)
We, having left rumors behind, departed people in a frenzy, tearing out their hair. (87)
Atthis, so charming in the bedroom, but otherwise hateful, proud and aloof, her teeth clicking like castanets. (87a)
Though you caused my soul and my heart sorrow, here's a small truth: I will always say "I love you" with a true heart. (88a)
Persuasion, Aphrodite's fledgling, with her broad, arrogant wings, sped me to Gyrinno, then to graceful Atthis. (90)
Irana, you're the biggest pain I've ever met! (91)
… saffron-dyed Phrygian purple robes and rugs … (92)
Later Polyanaktidis takes the lyre, strums the chords till they vibrate softly, and yet the sound pierces bones and melts the marrow. (99a)
Sons of Zeus, come to your rites from wooded Gryneia, here to our oracle! Then let the ritual songs begin! (99b)
Expensive gifts, these scented purple headscarves Mnasis sent us from Phokaia. (101)
Gorgo took her many insignificant verses to Cyprus, to be admired by many. (103a)
Lesbos's singers reign supreme! (106)
Lesbian singers out-sing all others. (106)
… a most beautiful, graceful girl … (108)
The doorkeep’s feet are seven fathoms long, fill five oxhides, and it took ten cobblers to strap his sandals! (110)
Groom, to whom can I fairly compare you? To a slender sapling. (115)
Rejoice, most honored bride and groom! Rejoice! (116)
May the bride rejoice and her groom rejoice. Rejoice! (117)
The newlyweds appeared at the polished entryway. (117a)
Hesperus, star of the evening! Hymen, god of marriage! Adonis-like groom! (117b)
She stunned us in / wet linen. (119)
I'm talented, it's true, / but you / Calliope, remain unrivaled. (124)
I now wear garlands, who once wove them. (125)
Come again, Muses, leaving the golden heavens. (126)
Andromeda had a fine retort: "Sappho, why did Aphrodite so favor you? Did you seduce her?" (133)
We once spoke in a dream, Cyprian! (134)
Nightingale, enticing-songed harbinger of spring. Sing! (136)
The gods alone are above tears. (139)
They've all had their fill of Gorgo. (144)
Nightlong celebration wearies their eyes, then closes them. (149)
Our eyes embrace the black sleep of night. (151)
… many colors mingled … (152)
Women thronged the altar at moonrise. (154)
A hearty "Hello!" to the daughter of Polyanax. (155)
Lady Dawn, arise, / flood night's skies / with cerise. (157)
Imperial Aphrodite said: "You and Eros are my vassals. (159)
Imperial Aphrodite! bridegrooms bow down to Her! kings are Her bodyguards and squires. (161)
You "see" me? With whose eyes? (162)
Oh, my dearest darling, never depart/ or you'll wreck my heart! (163)
Leto summons her son, the Sun. (164)
To himself he seems godly, to us a boor. (165)
Leda, they said, once discovered a hidden, hyacinth-blue egg. (166)
Whiter than eggs, your unsunned breasts. (167)
She's fonder of children than cradlerobber Gello. (168a)
We ran like fawns from the symposium: me, Cleis and reckless Gongyla. (168d)
Destiny is from the Muses, / and thus I was destined to leave him / to become / Sappho, Mistress of Song. (168e,f)
Unknowing of evil, I was pure innocence. (171)
Eros, pain-inducer, desist! (172)
She grew like a trellis vine. (173)
Mighty Zeus, World-Holder! (180)
Little is learned with an easy passage, much by a hard. (181)
May I go, or must you? (182)
Eros gusting blew my heart to pieces. (183)
I live in danger of too much love. (184)
Men fell in love with my honeyed voice, but I fell for girls. (185)
Sappho: Let me be one of the Muses when I die! Aphrodite: Granted! (187)
Eros, story-weaver, never a happy ending? (188)
I was very wise, except in the ways of love. (190)
That girl grew curvy and curly, like celery. (191)
We raised golden goblets inlaid with ivory and toasted the stars. (192)
I once instructed Hero of Gyara, the fleetfooted runner. (287)
We collapsed, drenched in sweat on both sides. (288)
Dawn spilled down the high mountains. (289)
Trading rosy health for less heartache, I fled my girlish youth. (291)
Such a boy once drove his chariot to Thebes, while Malis spun his fate on her spindle. (292, Malis was a Lydian war goddess)
"Thorneater?" That doesn't offend irongutted Arcadians! (293)
Hecate, Aphrodite's golden-armored ally, Queen of the Underworld. (294)
Learn from Admetus to love the courageous and avoid cowards, who seldom show gratitude. (296)
The black earth absorbed grief-stricken tears along with the interred sons of Atreus. (297)
Nightingale, sing your song and I'll sing along. (298)
Aphrodite, my mind is troubled. I'm still your servant, but Atthis remains a headstrong child. (299)
As when before your light streamed like honey but I was in darkness still. (300)
She is lovely as before, but where now is Hope? (300a)
Aphrodite, do you not love the windlike dances / of beautiful, apple-cheeked Abanthis? (301)
Cyprian, how splendid your altar ablaze in blue, silver and gold. Yet you all the more amazing! (302)
The bride lovely as dawn's unfolding sky, the groom nearly as handsome. (303)
Cyprian, here we come, singing songs and offering libations! (304)
A graceful girl, shy as a fawn and as flighty. (305)
Glorious passions! Passions uproarious! (306)
Sappho, fragment 306a
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O most revered Queen of Heaven,
Golden Aphrodite!
Blessed above all mortal women,
and blessed by them …
Goddess, come!
Aphrodite, most beautiful,
enter with your train of elegant attendants!
Arise now for me,
honeysweet Aphrodite!
Meet me with greetings holy and divine!
Be mine!
What ecstasies, O my Queen,
shall we revel in at midnight?
THE LONGER POEMS OF SAPPHO
Unfortunately, the only completely intact poem left by Sappho is her "Ode to Aphrodite" or "Hymn to Aphrodite" (an interesting synchronicity since Sappho is best known as a love poet and Aphrodite was the ancient Greek goddess of love). However, "That man is peer of the gods" and the first poem below, variously titled “The Anactoria Poem,” “Helen’s Eidolon” and “Some People Say …” are largely intact. Was Sappho the author of the world's first "make love, not war" poem?
"Some Say"
Sappho, fragment 16
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Warriors on rearing chargers,
columns of infantry,
fleets of warships:
some call these the dark earth's redeeming visions.
But I say—
the one I desire.
Nor am I unique
because she who so vastly surpassed all other mortals in beauty
—Helen—
seduced by Aphrodite, led astray by desire,
departed for distant Troy,
abandoning her celebrated husband,
deserting her parents and child!
Her story reminds me of Anactoria,
who has also departed,
and whose lively dancing and lovely face
I would rather see than all Lydia's horsemen, war-chariots
and columns of infantry parading in flashing armor.
Sappho, fragment 31
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
To the brightness of Love
not destroying the sight—
sweet, warm noonday sun
lightening things dun:
whence comes the Night?
Ode to Anactoria
Sappho, fragment 31
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
How can I compete with that damned man
who fancies himself one of the gods,
impressing you with his "eloquence" …
when just the thought of basking in your radiant presence,
of hearing your lovely voice and lively laughter,
sets my heart hammering at my breast?
Hell, when I catch just a quick glimpse of you,
I'm left speechless, tongue-tied,
and immediately a blush like a delicate flame reddens my skin.
Then my vision dims with tears,
my ears ring,
I sweat profusely,
and every muscle twitches or trembles.
When the blood finally settles,
I'm paler and wetter than the limpest grass.
Then, in my exhausted madness,
I'm as dull as the dead.
And yet I must risk all, being bereft without you …
Ode to Anactoria
Sappho, fragment 31
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
To me that boy seems
blessed by the gods
because he sits beside you,
basking in your brilliant presence.
My heart races at the sound of your voice!
Your laughter?—bright water, dislodging pebbles
in a chaotic vortex. I can't catch my breath!
My heart bucks in my ribs. I can't breathe. I can't speak.
My breasts glow with intense heat;
desire's blush-inducing fires redden my flesh.
My ears seem hollow; they ring emptily.
My tongue is broken and cleaves to its roof.
I sweat profusely. I shiver.
Suddenly, I grow pale
and feel only a second short of dying.
And yet I must endure, somehow,
despite my poverty.
Sappho, fragment 31
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
… at the sight of you,
words fail me …
Sappho, fragment 31
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Your voice beguiles me.
Your laughter lifts my heart's wings.
If I listen to you, even for a moment, I am left stunned, speechless.
The following are Sappho's poems for Atthis aka Attis aka Athis …
Sappho, fragment 49
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
I loved you, Atthis, long ago …
even when you seemed a graceless child.
2.
I fell in love with you, Atthis, long ago …
You seemed immature to me then, and not all that graceful.
3.
I loved you, little monkey-faced Atthis, long ago …
when you still seemed a graceless child.
4.
I loved you Atthis, long ago,
when my girlhood was a heyday of flowers
and you seemed but an awkward adolescent.
Sappho, fragment 131
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
You desert me, Atthis,
as if you find me distasteful,
flitting off to Andromeda …
2.
Atthis, you forsake me
and flit off to Andromeda …
Ode to Anactoria or Ode to Atthis or Ode to Gongyla
Sappho, fragment 94
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
So my Atthis has not returned
and thus, let the truth be said,
I wish I were dead …
"Honestly, I just want to die!"
Atthis sighed,
shedding heartfelt tears,
inconsolably sad
when she
left me.
"How deeply we have loved,
we two,
Sappho!
Oh,
I really don't want to go!"
I answered her tenderly,
"Go as you must
and be happy,
trust-
ing your remembrance of me,
for you know how much
I loved you.
And if you begin to forget,
please try to recall
all
the heavenly emotions we felt
as with many wreathes of violets,
roses and crocuses
you sat beside me
adorning your delicate neck.
Once garlands had been fashioned of many woven flowers,
with much expensive myrrh
we anointed our bodies, like royalty
on soft couches,
then my tender caresses
fulfilled your desire …"
Sappho, fragment 96
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
Our beloved Anactoria dwells in distant Sardis, but her thoughts often return to the life we shared together here, when she saw you as a goddess incarnate, robed in splendor, and loved to hear you singing her praises. Now she surpasses all Sardinian women, as, rising at sunset the rosy-fingered moon outshines the surrounding stars, illuminating salt seas and flowering meadows alike. Thus the delicate dew sparkles, the rose revives, and the tender chervil and sweetclover blossom. Now oftentimes when our beloved wanders aimlessly, she is reminded of gentle Atthis; then her heart assaults her tender breast with painful pangs and she cries aloud for us to console her. Truly, we understand the distress she feels, because Night, the many-eared, calls to us from across the dividing sea. But to go there is not easy, nor to rival a goddess in her loveliness.
The following translation is based on an imaginative translation by Willis Barnstone. The source fragment has major gaps.
Sappho, fragment 96
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
How can mortal women rival the goddesses in beauty? But you may have come closest of all, or second to only Helen! With much love for you Aphrodite poured nectar from a gold decanter and with gentle hands Persuasion bade you drink. Now at the Geraistos shrine, of all the women dear to me, none compares to you.
Sappho, fragment 92
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
“Sappho, if you don’t leave your room,
I swear I’ll never love you again!
Get out of bed, rise and shine on us,
take off your Chian nightdress,
then, like a lily floating in a pond,
enter your bath. Cleis will bring you
a violet frock and lovely saffron blouse
from your clothes-chest. Then we’ll adorn
you with a bright purple mantle and crown
your hair with flowers. So come, darling,
with your maddening beauty,
while Praxinoa roasts nuts for our breakfast.
The gods have been good to us,
for today we’re heading at last to Mytilene
with you, Sappho, the loveliest of women,
like a mother among daughters.” Dearest
Atthis, those were fine words,
but now you forget everything!
Sappho, fragment 98
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
My mother said that in her youth
a purple ribband
was considered an excellent adornment,
but we were dark
and for blondes with hair brighter than torches
it was better to braid garlands of fresh flowers.
2.
My mother said that in her youth
to bind one's hair in back,
gathered together by a purple plaited circlet,
was considered an excellent adornment,
but for blondes with hair brighter than torches
it was better to braid garlands of fresh flowers,
or more recently, to buy colorful headbands from Sardis
and other Ionian cities.
But for you, my dearest Cleis,
I have no iridescent headband
to match your hair's vitality!
Sappho, fragment 41
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
For you, fair maidens, my mind does not equivocate.
Hymn to Aphrodite
by Sappho
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Immortal Aphrodite, throned in splendor!
Wile-weaving daughter of Zeus, enchantress and beguiler!
I implore you, dread mistress, discipline me no longer
with such vigor!
But come to me once again in kindness,
heeding my prayers, as you did so graciously before;
O, come Divine One, descend once more
from heaven's golden dominions!
Then, with your chariot yoked to love's
white consecrated doves,
their multitudinous pinions aflutter,
you came gliding from heaven's shining heights,
to this dark gutter.
Swiftly they came and vanished, leaving you,
O my Goddess, smiling, your face eternally beautiful,
asking me what unfathomable longing compelled me
to cry out.
Asking me what I sought in my bewildered desire.
Asking, "Who has harmed you, why are you so alarmed,
my poor Sappho? Whom should Persuasion
summon here?"
"Although today she flees love, soon she will pursue you;
spurning love's gifts, soon she shall give them;
tomorrow she will woo you,
however unwillingly!"
Come to me now, O most Holy Aphrodite!
Free me now from my heavy heartache and anguish!
Graciously grant me all I request!
Be once again my ally and protector!
"Hymn to Aphrodite" is the only poem by Sappho of Lesbos to survive in its entirety.
Sappho, fragment 2
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Come, Cypris, from Crete
to meet me at this holy temple
where a lovely grove of apples awaits our presence
bowering altars
fuming with frankincense.
Here brisk waters babble beneath apple branches,
the grounds are overshadowed by roses,
and through their trembling leaves
deep sleep descends.
Here the horses will nibble flowers
as we gorge on apples
and the breezes blow
honey-sweet with nectar…
Here, Cypris, we will gather up garlands,
pour the nectar gratefully into golden cups
and with gladness
commence our festivities.
The Brothers Poem
by Sappho
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
… but you’re always prattling about Kharaxos
returning with his ship's hold full. As for that,
Zeus and the gods alone know, so why indulge
idle fantasies?
Rather release me, since I am commending
numerous prayers to mighty Queen Hera,
asking that his undamaged ship might safely return
Kharaxos to us.
Then we will have serenity. As for
everything else, leave it to the gods
because calm seas often follow
sudden squalls
and those whose fortunes the gods transform
from unmitigated disaster into joy
have received a greater blessing
than prosperity.
Furthermore, if Larikhos raises his head
from this massive depression, we shall
see him become a man, lift ours and
stand together.
Sappho, fragment 58
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Virgins, be zealous for the violet-scented Muses' lovely gifts
and those of melodious lyre …
but my once-supple skin sags now;
my arthritic bones creak;
my ravenblack hair's turned white;
my lighthearted heart's grown heavy;
my knees buckle;
my feet, once fleet as fawns, fail the dance.
I often bemoan my fate … but what's the use?
Not to grow old is, of course, not an option.
I am reminded of Tithonus, adored by Dawn with her arms full of roses,
who, overwhelmed by love, carried him off beyond death's dark dominion.
Handsome for a day, but soon withered with age,
he became an object of pity to his ageless wife.
And yet I still love life's finer things and have been granted brilliance, abundance and beauty.
And now, in closing, these are poems dedicated to the Divine Sappho:
Sappho's Rose
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The rose is—
the ornament of the earth,
the glory of nature,
the archetype of the flowers,
the blush of the meadows,
a lightning flash of beauty.
Sappho’s Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Hushed yet melodic, the hills and the valleys
sleep unaware of the nightingale's call
as the dew-laden lilies lie
listening,
glistening …
this is their night, the first night of fall.
Son, tonight, a woman awaits you;
she is more vibrant, more lovely than spring.
She'll meet you in moonlight,
soft and warm,
all alone …
then you'll know why the nightingale sings.
Just yesterday the stars were afire;
then how desire flashed through my veins!
But now I am older;
night has come,
I’m alone …
for you I will sing as the nightingale sings.
ERINNA
Erinna is widely regarded, at least by those who have read her, as second only to Sappho among the ancient Greek female poets. Little is known about her life; Erinna has been called a contemporary of Sappho and her most gifted student, but she may have lived up to a few hundred years later.
Excerpts from "Distaff"
by Erinna
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
… the moon rising …
… leaves falling …
… waves lapping a windswept shore …
… and our childish games, Baucis, do you remember? ...
... Leaping from white horses into the deeper waves,
running on reckless feet through the great courtyard.
"You're it! ' I cried, ‘You're the Tortoise now! "
But when your turn came to pursue your pursuers,
you darted beyond the courtyard,
dashed out deep into the waves,
splashing far beyond us …
… My poor Baucis, these tears I now weep are your warm memorial,
these traces of embers still smoldering in my heart
for our silly amusements, now that you lie ash …
… Do you remember how, as girls,
we played at weddings with our dolls,
pretending to be brides in our innocent beds? ...
... How sometimes I was your mother,
allotting wool to the weaver-women,
calling for you to unreel the thread? ...
… Do you remember our terror of the monster Mormo
with her huge ears, her forever-flapping tongue,
her four slithering feet, her shape-shifting face? ...
... Until you mother called for us to help with the salted meat...
... But when you mounted your husband's bed,
dearest Baucis, you forgot your mothers' warnings!
Aphrodite made your heart forgetful...
... Desire becomes oblivion...
... Now I lament your loss, my dearest friend.
I can't bear to think of that dark crypt.
I can't bring myself to leave the house.
I refuse to profane your corpse with my tearless eyes.
I refuse to cut my hair, but how can I mourn with my hair unbound?
I blush with shame at the thought of you! …
... But in this dark house, O my dearest Baucis,
My deep grief is ripping me apart.
Wretched Erinna! Only nineteen,
I moan like an ancient crone, eying this strange distaff...
O Hymen! ... O Hymenaeus! ...
Alas, my poor Baucis!
Translator’s note: Baucis is also spelled Baukis. Keywords/Tags: elegy, eulogy, child, childhood, death, death of a friend, lament, lamentation, epitaph, grave, funeral
Here only a voice’s useless echo reaches Hades
where there is not an ear among the unseeing dead.
—Erinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This portrait is the work of sensitive, artistic hands.
See, noble Prometheus, you have human equals!
For if whoever painted this girl had only added a voice,
she would have been Agatharkhis entirely.
—Erinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Passing by, passing by my oft-bewailed pillar,
shudder, my new friend to hear my tragic story:
of how my pyre was lit by the same fiery torch
meant to lead the procession to my nuptials in glory!
O Hymenaeus, why did you did change
my bridal song to a dirge? Strange!
—Erinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You, my tall Columns, and you, my small Urn,
receptacle of Hades’ tiny pittance of ash—
remember me to those who pass by
my grave, as they dash.
Tell them my story, sad as it is:
that this grave sealed a young bride’s womb;
that my name was Baucis and Telos my land;
and that Erinna, my friend, etched this poem on my Tomb.
—Erinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Stele, inscription and lamentable urn
containing my meager remains, now property of Hades,
tell passersby my story, sad as it is:
how this mausoleum sealed a young bride’s womb;
that my name was Baucis,
Telos my land;
and that my friend Erinna etched this epigram on my Tomb.
—Erinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Erinna engraved this epigram on my tombstone.
—Erinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
On a Betrothed Girl
by Erinna
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I sing of Baucis the bride.
Observing her tear-stained crypt
tell Death who dwells underground:
"Thou art envious, O Death!"
Her monument reminds passersby
of the bitter misfortune of Baucis —
how her father-in-law burned the poor girl on a pyre
lit by bright torches meant to light her marriage train home.
While thou, O Hymenaeus, transformed her harmonious bridal song into the mournful wail of the threnos.
Hymen! O Hymenaeus!
threnos: threnody, a wailing ode, song, hymn or poem of mourning composed and/or performed as a memorial to a dead person.
ANYTE
Anyte of Tegea (fl. 300 BC) was a Hellenistic poet from Tegea in Arcadia. Little is known of her life, but 24 epigrams attributed to her appeared in the Greek Anthology, with 19 generally considered authentic. Anyte was one of nine outstanding ancient female poets listed by Antipater of Thessalonica in the Palatine Anthology. Anyte has been credited with inventing the pastoral epigram and her invention may have influenced Theocritus and was adapted by later poets, including Ovid.
Stranger, rest your weary legs beneath the elms;
hear how coolly the breeze murmurs through their branches;
then take a bracing draught from the mountain-fed fountain;
for this is welcome shade from the burning sun.
—Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Here I stand, Hermes, in the crossroads
by the windswept elms near the breezy beach,
providing rest to sunburned travelers,
and cold and brisk is my fountain’s abundance.
—Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sit here, quietly shaded by the luxuriant foliage,
and drink cool water from the sprightly spring,
so that your weary breast, panting with summer’s labors,
may take rest from the blazing sun.
—Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This is the grove of Cypris,
for it is fair for her to look out over the land to the bright deep,
that she may make the sailors’ voyages happy,
as the sea trembles, observing her brilliant image.
—Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
For her grasshopper, the night-fiddler,
and her tiny oak-dwelling cicada,
little Myro built a funeral mound
then shed a maidenly tear,
for unpersuadable Hades had made off with her playmates!
—Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Often lamenting at the tomb of her daughter,
Cleina, the mother, cried out for her dear dead child,
departed too soon.
Entreating the soul of understanding Philaenis,
who had crossed the pale Acheron unmarried.
—Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
According to Nicole Loraux, no public comment on a woman’s death was considered acceptable in classical Athens. The standard of public silence for an unmarried woman who died would have been even more severe.
I mourn the maiden Antiba, for whom many men
came courting to her father’s house,
attracted by her beauty and wisdom,
but alas annihilating Fate hurled her beyond their reach.
—Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Forgoing a bedchamber and marriage’s warm rites,
your mother placed upon this cold albescent tomb
a maiden statue, having your form and likeness,
so that you, Thersis, can yet be remembered and saluted.
—Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You perished beside a deeply-rooted bush,
Locris, swiftest of the ebullient noisesome puppies,
as a speckle-necked snake injected its cruel poison
into your nimble limb.
—Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The young men buried you, their captain, Pheidias.
Dying, you doomed them to dark grief,
like children for their mother.
And yet your headstone sings this beautiful song …
That you died fighting for your beloved country.
—Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Here “noisesome” is a bit of a coinage as I mean both noisy and bothersome, although I’m sure Anyte would have been glad to get that bit of frisky trouble back.
NOSSIS
Nossis (fl. 300 BC) was a Hellenistic poet from Epizephyrian Locris in Magna Graecia. Probably well-educated and from a noble family, she had twelve epigrams in the Greek Anthology, with one possibly written by another poet in imitation of her style, which would have made her a poet of note at that time.
There is nothing sweeter than love.
All other delights are secondary.
Thus, I spit out even honey.
This is what Gnossis says:
Whomever Aphrodite does not love,
Is bereft of her roses.
—Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Most reverend Hera, the oft-descending from heaven,
attend your Lacinian shrine fragrant with incense
and there receive the linen mantle your noble child Nossis,
daughter of Theophilis and Cleocha, has woven for you.
—Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Apparently Theophilis was Nossis's mother and Cleocha her grandmother.
Stranger, if you sail to Mitylene, her homeland of beautiful dances,
to indulge in the most exquisite graces of Sappho,
remember I also was loved by the Muses, who bore me and reared me in Locris.
My name, never forget it!, is Nossis. Now go!
—Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Pass me by with ringing laughter, then award me
an appreciative word: I am Rhinthon, scion of Syracuse,
the Muses’s smallest nightingale; yet with my tragic burlesques
I was able to pluck an ivy, uniquely my own.
—Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Rhinthon was a parodist in an age when the laurels went to dramatists like Aeschylus, Euripides and Sophocles.
Let’s visit Aphrodite’s shrine to see her statue,
finely wrought and embellished with gold,
which Polyarchis the courtesan dedicated to her,
having made a fortune from her body’s splendor!
—Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Aphrodite will receive this gift, joyfully, I think,
it being Samthya’s own headdress,
for it’s elaborate and fragrantly perfumed.
With it she also anoints the beautiful Adonis.
—Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sabaethis’s image is known from afar
due to its stature and beauty.
Even here we recognize her prudence, her kindness.
Godspeed, blessed lady!
—Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This tablet portrays Thaumareta, aptly conveying
the ripeness and pride of the tender-eyed girl.
Even your watchdog would wag its tail,
thinking her its mansion’s mistress!
—Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Melinna is finely wrought. Her tender face!
See how she seems to gaze at us benignly!
How splendidly the daughter resembles her mother!
Isn’t it nice when children duplicate their parents?
—Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The Bruttians flung these shields aside
as they fled from the fleet-footed Locrians.
Now hung from temple ceilings, the shields
praise the Locrians’ valor. Nor do they desire
the arms of the cowards they deserted.
—Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
CALLO
In the next poem Callo, a female poet, dedicates her picture to Aphrodite:
Callo placed this tablet in blonde Aphrodite’s temple,
a portrait she painted, faithful in every regard.
See how tenderly she stands! See how her charm blossoms!
May she flourish, for her conduct is blameless.
—Callo, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
CORINNA
Corinna or Korinna was an ancient Greek poet who lived in Tanagra, Boeotia, where she wrote in the Boeotian dialect of Greek and achieved wide fame sometime between the fifth and third centuries BC. Her work survives only in fragments and in several shorter pieces quoted by ancient grammarians. She wrote primarily about Boeotian mythology. According to one source, she defeated Pindar in five poetry competitions!
I come to sing of heroes' and heroines' courageous deeds.—Corinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Mount Helicon, father of fair offspring, friend of the wayfarer, beloved of the Muses!—Corinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Terpsichora calls me to sing beautifully of heroes
for Tanagra's white-clad daughters and my city rejoices,
hearing my clear, evocative voice.
—Corinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Terpsichora was the Muse associated with the choral dance.
I indeed censure even sweet-voiced Myrtis,
for, having been born a woman,
she chose to compete against Pindar!
—Corinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
THE SINGING CONTEST OF HELICON AND CITHAERON
by Corinna
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The text in brackets was missing and has been filled in imaginatively.
The chorus gathered well-garlanded atop Olympus as the musicians tuned their lyre-strings to the mountains’ great height and rarefied air, while tribes of asses brayed and jockeyed for position, as always a discordant family. Then Cithaeron sang of how the Curetes had sheltered the goddess’s sacred offspring in a cave without the knowledge of crooked-minded Cronus, since blessed Rhea had stolen him away, winning great honor from the Immortals. Such was Cithaeron’s song that, when it was done, the Muses immediately instructed the Blessed Ones to cast their secret ballot-stones into gleaming gold urns. Then they all rose together, declaring Cithaeron the winner, whereupon Hermes heartily proclaimed Cithaeron victorious with a loud cry, and the Blessed Ones, rejoicing, decorated him with garlands as he danced with joy. But Helicon hurled down ten thousand boulders in disgust!
According to Greek mythology, the Curetes (aka Korybantes, Corybantes, Corybants and Kurbantes) were armed and crested dancers who worshipped the Phrygian goddess Cybele with drumming and dancing. The holy babe stolen by Rhea was Zeus.
MOERO
Moero or Myro (fl. 300 BC) was a Byzantine poet who was highly regarded in antiquity. Meleager mentioned her with Sappho and Anyte in the opening catalogue of his Garland, while Antipater of Thessalonica ranked her among the top nine ancient female poets.
You lie here, grapes, beneath Aphrodite’s golden portico,
full to the brim with Dionysus’s nectar,
but your mother-vine can no longer lovingly wrap her branches around you,
nor protect you beneath her tender leaves.
—Moero, Greek Anthology 6.119, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Hamadryad Nymphs, river-daughters, ambrosial beings
treading the depths with rose-petaled feet,
hail!, and may you always remember and safeguard Kleonymos,
who placed these lovely votive images beneath the pines for you, O goddesses!
—Moero, Greek Anthology 6.189, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Mnemosyne
by Moero
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Zeus was nursed to manhood on Crete where none of the Blessed Ones knew him, yet he continued to grow in strength and vigor. Secure inside a sacred cave, he was nurtured by timid doves bearing ambrosia from the Ocean streams. Meanwhile a great eagle drawing nectar from a rock brought it continually in its beak for prudent Zeus to drink. Thus after he had conquered his father Cronus, victorious Zeus made the eagle immortal, bequeathing him heaven. He likewise bestowed honour on the timid doves, making them heralds of summer and winter.
Moero seems to be alluding to an observation by Circe in the Odyssey:
No winged creatures passed through the way of the Clashing Rocks, not even timid doves bearing ambrosia to father Zeus! —Homer, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
SULPICIA TRANSLATIONS
Sulpicia is one of the few female poets of ancient Rome whose work survives, and she is arguably the most notable.
I. At Last, Love!
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it
It's come at last! Love!
The kind of love that, had it remained veiled,
would have shamed me more than baring my naked soul.
I appealed to Aphrodite in my poems
and she delivered my beloved to me,
placed him snugly, securely against my breast!
The Goddess has kept her promises:
now let my joy be told,
so that it cannot be said no woman enjoys her recompense!
I would not want to entrust my testimony
to tablets, even those signed and sealed!
Let no one read my avowals before my love!
Yet indiscretion has its charms,
while it's boring to conform one’s face to one’s reputation.
May I always be deemed worthy lover to a worthy love!
A signatis tabellis was a letter written on wooden tablets and sealed with sealing-wax.
II. Dismal Journeys, Unwanted Arrivals
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it
My much-hated birthday's arrived, to be spent mourning
in a wretched countryside, bereft of Cerinthus.
Alas, my lost city! Is it suitable for a girl: that rural villa
by the banks of a frigid river draining the fields of Arretium?
Peace now, Uncle Messalla, my over-zealous chaperone!
Arrivals of relatives aren't always welcome, you know.
Kidnapped, abducted, snatched away from my beloved city,
I’d mope there, prisoner to my mind and emotions,
this hostage coercion prevents from making her own decisions!
Arretium is a town in Tuscany, north of Rome. It was presumably the site of, or close to, Messalla’s villa. Sulpicia uses the term frigidus although the river in question, the Arno, is not notably cold. Thus she may be referring to another kind of lack of warmth! Apparently Sulpicia was living with her overprotective (in her eyes) Uncle Messalla after the death of her father, and was not yet married.
III. The Thankfully Abandoned Journey
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it
Did you hear the threat of that wretched trip’s been abandoned?
Now my spirits soar and I can be in Rome for my birthday!
Let’s all celebrate this unexpected good fortune!
IV. Thanks for Everything, and Nothing
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it
Thanks for revealing your true colors,
thus keeping me from making further fool of myself!
I do hope you enjoy your wool-basket whore,
since any female-filled toga is much dearer to you
than Sulpicia, daughter of Servius!
On the brighter side, my guardians are much happier,
having feared I might foolishly bed a nobody!
Upper-class Roman women did not wear togas, but unfree prostitutes, called meretrices or ancillae, did. Here, Sulpicia is apparently contrasting the vast difference in her station to that of a slave who totes heavy wool baskets when not sexually servicing her masters. Spinning and wool-work were traditional tasks for virtuous Roman women, so there is a marked contrast here. Sulpicia doesn’t mention who is concerned about her, but we can probably intuit Messalla was one of them.
V. Reproach for Indifference
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it
Have you no kind thoughts for your girl, Cerinthus,
now that fever wilts my wasting body?
If not, why would I want to conquer this disease,
knowing you no longer desired my existence?
After all, what’s the point of living
when you can ignore my distress with such indifference?
VI. Her Apology for Errant Desire
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it
Let me admit my errant passion to you, my love,
since in these last few days
I've exceeded all my foolish youth's former follies!
And no folly have I ever regretted more
than leaving you alone last night,
desiring only to disguise my desire for you!
Sulpicia on the First of March
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
“One might venture that Sulpicia was not over-modest.” – MRB
Sulpicia's adorned herself for you, O mighty Mars, on your Kalends:
come admire her yourself, if you have the sense to observe!
Venus will forgive your ogling, but you, O my violent one,
beware lest your armaments fall shamefully to the floor!
Cunning Love lights twin torches from her eyes,
with which he’ll soon inflame the gods themselves!
Wherever she goes, whatever she does,
Elegance and Grace follow dutifully in attendance!
If she unleashes her hair, trailing torrents become her train:
if she braids her mane, her braids are to be revered!
If she dons a Tyrian gown, she inflames!
She inflames, if she wears virginal white!
As stylish Vertumnus wears her thousand outfits
on eternal Olympus, even so she models hers gracefully!
She alone among the girls is worthy
of Tyre’s soft wool dipped twice in costly dyes!
May she always possess whatever rich Arabian farmers
reap from their fragrant plains’ perfumed fields,
and whatever flashing gems dark India gathers
from the scarlet shores of distant Dawn’s seas.
Sing the praises of this girl, Muses, on these festive Kalends,
and you, proud Phoebus, strum your tortoiseshell lyre!
She'll carry out these sacred rites for many years to come,
for no girl was ever worthier of your chorus!
An Ancient Egyptian Love Lyric (circa 1085-570 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Is there anything sweeter than these hours of love,
when we're together, and my heart races?
For what is better than embracing and fondling
when you visit me and we surrender to delights?
If you reach to caress my thigh,
I will offer you my breast also —
it's soft; it won't jab you or thrust you away!
Will you leave me because you're hungry?
Are you ruled by your belly?
Will you leave me because you need something to wear?
I have chests full of fine linen!
Will you leave me because you're thirsty?
Here, suck my breasts! They're full to overflowing, and all for you!
I glory in the hours of our embracings;
my joy is incalculable!
The thrill of your love spreads through my body
like honey in water,
like a drug mixed with spices,
like wine mingled with water.
Oh, that you would speed to see your sister
like a stallion in heat, like a bull to his heifer!
For the heavens have granted us love like flames igniting straw,
desire like the falcon's free-falling frenzy!
The Best Medieval Poems in Modern English Translations by Michael R. Burch
This collection includes modern English translations of Old English poems and Middle English poems by Anonymous, John Audelay, Caedmon, Charles d'Orleans, Geoffrey Chaucer, William Cornish, Deor, William Dunbar, Godric of Finchale, King Henry VIII, Robert Henryson, William Herebert, Thomas Hoccleve, William Langland, Layamon, John Lydgate, The Pearl Poet, Thomas Phillipps, Richard of Caistre, Richard Rolle, James Ryman, John Skelton and William of Shoreham. There are also modernizations of late Medieval poems by Thomas Campion, Sir Thomas Wyatt and Johann Angelus Silesius.
***
I Have a Noble Cock
circa early 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I have a gentle cock
who crows in the day;
he bids me rise early,
my matins to say.
I have a gentle cock,
he comes with the great;
his comb is of red coral,
his tail of jet.
I have a gentle cock,
kind and laconic;
his comb is of red coral,
his tail of onyx.
His legs are pale azure,
so gentle and so slender;
his spurs are silver-white,
so pretty and so tender!
His eyes are like fine crystal
set deep in golden amber,
and every night he perches
in my lady’s chamber.
***
Trust Only Yourself
circa the 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Alas! Deceit lies in trust now,
dubious as Fortune, spinning like a ball,
as brittle when tested as a rotten bough.
He who trusts in trust is ripe for a fall!
Such guile in trust cannot be trusted,
or a man will soon find himself busted.
Therefore, “Be wary of trust!” is my advice.
Trust only yourself and learn to be wise.
***
See, Here, My Heart
circa the 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O, mankind,
please keep in mind
where Passions start:
there you will find
me wholly kind—
see, here, my heart.
***
Beowulf
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 8th-10th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
LO, praise the prowess of the Spear-Danes
and the clan-thanes who ruled them in days bygone
with dauntless courage and valor.
All have heard of the honors the athelings won,
of Scyld Scefing, scourge of rebellious tribes,
wrecker of mead-benches, worrier of warriors,
awer of earls. He had come from afar,
first friendless, a foundling, but Fate intervened:
for he waxed under the welkin and persevered,
until folk, far and wide, on all coasts of the whale-path,
were forced to yield to him, bring him tribute.
A good king!
To him an heir was afterwards born,
a lad in his yards, a son in his halls,
sent by heaven to comfort the folk.
Feeling their pain because they had lacked an earl
for a long while, thus the Lord of Life,
the Almighty, made him far-renowned.
Beowulf’s fame flew far throughout the north,
the boast of him, this son of Scyld,
through Scandian lands.
***
Lent is Come with Love to Town
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1330
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Springtime comes with love to town,
With blossoms and with birdsong ’round,
Bringing all this bliss:
Daisies in the dales,
Sweet notes of nightingales.
Each bird contributes songs;
The thrush chides ancient wrongs.
Departed, winter’s glowers;
The woodruff gayly flowers;
The birds create great noise
And warble of their joys,
Making all the woodlands ring!
***
“Blow, northerne wind”
anonymous Middle English poem, circa late 13th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Blow, northern wind,
Send my love, my sweeting,
Blow, northern wind,
Blow, blow, blow,
Our love completing!
***
“What is he, this lordling, that cometh from the fight?”
by William Herebert, circa early 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Who is he, this lordling, who staggers from the fight,
with blood-red garb so grisly arrayed,
once appareled in lineaments white?
Once so seemly in sight?
Once so valiant a knight?
“It is I, it is I, who alone speaks right,
a champion to heal mankind in this fight.”
Why then are your clothes a bloody mess,
like one who has trod a winepress?
“I trod the winepress alone,
else mankind was done.”
***
“Thou wommon boute fere”
by William Herebert, circa early 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Woman without compare,
you bore your own father:
great the wonder
that one woman was mother
to her father and brother,
as no one else ever was.
***
“Marye, maide, milde and fre”
by William of Shoreham, circa early 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Mary, maid, mild and free,
Chamber of the Trinity,
This while, listen to me,
As I greet you with a song ...
***
“My sang es in sihting”
by Richard Rolle, circa 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My song is in sighing,
My life is in longing,
Till I see thee, my King,
So fair in thy shining,
So fair in thy beauty,
Leading me into your light ...
***
A hymn to Jesus
by Richard of Caistre, circa 1400
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Jesu, Lord that madest me
and with thy blessed blood hath bought,
forgive that I have grieved thee,
in word, work, will and thought.
Jesu, for thy wounds’ hurt
of body, feet and hands too,
make me meek and low in heart,
and thee to love, as I should do...
***
In Praise of his Ugly Lady
by Thomas Hoccleve, early 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Of my lady? Well rejoice, I may!
Her golden forehead is full narrow and small;
Her brows are like dim, reed coral;
And her jet-black eyes glisten, aye.
Her bulging cheeks are soft as clay
with large jowls and substantial.
Her nose, an overhanging shady wall:
no rain in that mouth on a stormy day!
Her mouth is nothing scant with lips gray;
Her chin can scarcely be seen at all.
Her comely body is shaped like a football,
and she sings like a cawing jay.
***
Lament for Chaucer
by Thomas Hoccleve, early 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Alas, my worthy master, honorable,
The very treasure and riches of this land!
Death, by your death, has done irreparable
harm to us: her cruel and vengeful hand
has robbed our country of sweet rhetoric...
***
Holly and Ivy
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Nay! Ivy, nay!
It shall not be, like this:
Let Holy have the mastery,
As the manner is.
Holy stood in the hall
Fair to behold;
Ivy stood outside the door,
Lonely and cold.
Holy and his merry men
Commenced to dance and sing;
Ivy and her maidens
Were left outside to weep and wring.
Ivy has a chilblain,
She caght it with the cold.
So must they all have, aye,
Whom with Ivy hold.
Holly has berries
As red as any rose:
The foresters and hunters
Keep them from the does.
Ivy has berries
As black as any ill:
There comes the owl
To eat them as she will.
Holly has birds,
A full fair flock:
The nightingale, the popinjay,
The gentle lark.
Good Ivy, good Ivy,
What birds cling to you?
None but the owl
Who cries, "Who? Who?'
***
Unkindness Has Killed Me
anonymous Middle English poem, 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Grievous is my sorrow:
Both evening and morrow;
Unto myself alone
Thus do I moan,
That unkindness has killed me
And put me to this pain.
Alas! what remedy
That I cannot refrain?
***
from The Testament of John Lydgate
15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Behold, o man! lift up your eyes and see
What mortal pain I suffer for your trespass.
With piteous voice I cry and say to thee:
Behold my wounds, behold my bloody face,
Behold the rebukes that do me such menace,
Behold my enemies that do me so despise,
And how that I, to reform thee to grace,
Was like a lamb offered in sacrifice.
***
Vox ultima Crucis
from The Testament of John Lydgate, 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
TARRY no longer; toward thine heritage
Haste on thy way, and be of right good cheer.
Go each day onward on thy pilgrimage;
Think how short a time thou hast abided here.
Thy place is built above the stars clear,
No earthly palace wrought in such stately wise.
Come on, my friend, my brother must enter!
For thee I offered my blood in sacrifice.
***
Inordinate Love
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I shall say what inordinate love is:
The ferocity and singleness of mind,
An inextinguishable burning devoid of bliss,
A great hunger, too insatiable to decline,
A dulcet ill, an evil sweetness, blind,
A right wonderful, sugared, sweet error,
Without any rest, contrary to kind,
Without quiet, a riot of useless labor.
***
Besse Bunting
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In April and May
When hearts be all a-merry,
Bessie Bunting, the miller’s girl,
With lips as red as cherries,
Cast aside remembrance
To pass her time in dalliance
And leave her misery to chance.
Right womanly arrayed
In petticoats of white,
She was undismayed
And her countenance was light.
***
The spring under a thorn
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
At a wellspring, under a thorn,
the remedy for an ill was born.
There stood beside a maid
Full of love bound,
And whoso seeks true love,
In her it will be found.
***
The Complaint of Cresseid against Fate
Robert Henryson, 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O sop of sorrow, sunken into care,
O wretched Cresseid, now and evermore
Gone is thy joy and all thy mirth on earth!
Stripped bare of blitheness and happiness,
No salve can save you from your sickness.
Fell is thy fortune, wicked thy fate.
All bliss banished and sorrow in bloom.
Would that I were buried under the earth
Where no one in Greece or Troy might hear it!
***
A lover left alone with his thoughts
anonymous Middle English poem, circa later 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Continuance
of remembrance,
without ending,
causes me penance
and great grievance,
for your parting.
You are so deeply
engraved in my heart,
God only knows
that always before me
I ever see you
in thoughts covert.
Though I do not explain
my woeful pain,
I bear it still,
although it seems vain
to speak against
Fortune’s will.
***
Go, hert, hurt with adversity
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Go, heart, hurt with adversity,
and let my lady see thy wounds,
then say to her, as I say to thee:
“Farewell, my joy, and welcome pain,
till I see my lady again.”
***
I love a flower
by Thomas Phillipps, circa 1500
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
“I love, I love, and whom love ye?”
“I love a flower of fresh beauty.”
“I love another as well as ye.”
“That shall be proved here, anon,
If we three
together can agree
thereon.”
“I love a flower of sweet odour.”
“Marigolds or lavender?”
“Columbine, golds of sweet flavor?”
“Nay! Nay! Let be:
It is none of them
that liketh me.”
(The argument continues...)
“I love the rose, both red and white.”
“Is that your perfect appetite?”
“To talk of them is my delight.”
“Joyed may we be,
our Prince to see
and roses three.”
“Now we have loved and love will we,
this fair, fresh flower, full of beauty.”
“Most worthy it is, so thinketh me.”
“Then may it be proved here, anon,
that we three
did agree
as one.”
***
The sleeper hood-winked
by John Skelton, circa late 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
With “Lullay! Lullay!” like a child,
Thou sleepest too long, thou art beguiled.
“My darling dear, my daisy flower,
let me, quoth he, “lie in your lap.”
“Lie still,” quoth she, “my paramour,”
“Lie still, of course, and take a nap.”
His head was heavy, such was his hap!
All drowsy, dreaming, drowned in sleep,
That of his love he took no keep. [paid no notice]
***
The Corpus Christi Carol
anonymous Middle English poem, circa early 16th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
He bore him up, he bore him down,
He bore him into an orchard brown.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
In that orchard there stood a hall
Hanged all over with purple and pall.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
And in that hall there stood a bed
hanged all over with gold so red.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
And in that bed there lies a knight,
His wounds all bleeding both day and night.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
By that bed's side there kneels a maid,
And she weeps both night and day.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
And by that bedside stands a stone,
"Corpus Christi" written thereon.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
***
Love ever green
attributed to King Henry VIII, circa 1515
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
If Henry VIII wrote the poem, he didn’t quite live up to it! – MRB
Green groweth the holly,
so doth the ivy.
Though winter’s blasts blow never so high,
green groweth the holly.
As the holly groweth green
and never changeth hue,
so am I, and ever have been,
unto my lady true.
Adew! Mine own lady.
Adew! My special.
Who hath my heart truly,
Be sure, and ever shall.
***
Pleasure it is
by William Cornish, early 16th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Pleasure it is,
to her, indeed.
The birds sing;
the deer in the dale,
the sheep in the vale,
the new corn springing.
God’s allowance
for sustenance,
his gifts to man.
Thus we always give him praise
and thank him, then.
And thank him, then.
***
The Vision of Piers Plowman
by William Langland, circa 1330-1400
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Incipit liber de Petro Plowman prologus
In a summer season when the sun shone soft,
I clothed myself in a cloak like a shepherd’s,
In a habit like a hermit's unholy in works,
And went out into the wide world, wonders to hear.
Then on a May morning on Malvern hills,
A marvel befell me, of fairies, methought.
I was weary with wandering and went to rest
Under a broad bank, by a brook's side,
And as I lay, leaned over and looked on the waters,
I fell into a slumber, for it sounded so merry.
Soon I began to dream a marvellous dream:
That I was in a wilderness, I wist not where.
As I looked to the east, right into the sun,
I saw a tower on a knoll, worthily built,
With a deep dale beneath and a dungeon therein,
Full of deep, dark ditches and and dreadful to behold.
Then a fair field full of fond folk, I espied between,
Of all manner of men, both rich and poor,
Working and wandering, as the world demands.
Some put themselves to the plow, seldom playing,
But setting and sowing they sweated copiously
And won that which wasters destroyed by gluttony...
***
Pearl
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1400
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Pearl, the pleasant prize of princes,
Chastely set in clear gold and cherished,
Out of the Orient, unequaled,
Precious jewel without peer,
So round, so rare, so radiant,
So small, so smooth, so seductive,
That whenever I judged glimmering gems,
I set her apart, unimpeachable, priceless.
Alas, I lost her in earth’s green grass!
Long I searched for her in vain!
Now I languish alone, my heart gone cold.
For I lost my precious pearl without stain.
***
VOLTAIRE
These are English translations of Voltaire, one of the world's most prolific, best and most influential writers. Voltaire, born François-Marie Arouet (1694-1778), was an amazingly prolific writer who produced works in nearly every literary genre, including poems, plays, novels and novellas, satires, parodies, essays, histories, Bible criticism, and even early science fiction!
Les Vous et Les Tu (“You, then and now”)
by Voltaire
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Phyllis, whatever became of those days
We spent riding in your carriage,
Lacking both lackeys and trappings,
Accompanied only by your graceful charms
And content with a humble supper
Which you (of course) transformed into ambrosia …
Days when you abandoned yourself in your folly
To the happily deceived lover
Who so earnestly pledged you his life?
Heaven had bequeathed you, then,
In lieu of prestige and riches,
The enchanting enticements of youth:
A tender heart, an adventurous mind,
An alabaster breast and exquisite eyes.
Well, with so many luring allurements,
Ah! what girl would have not been mischievous?
And so you were, graceful creature.
And thus (and may Love forgive me!)
You know I desired you all the more.
Ah, Madame! How your life,
So filled with honors today,
Differs from those lost enchantments!
This hulking guardian with the powdered hair
Who lies incessantly at your door,
Phyllis, is the very avatar of Time:
See how he dismisses the escorts
Of tender Love and Laughter;
Those orphans no longer dare show their faces
Beneath your magnificent paneled ceilings.
Alas! in happier days I saw them
Enter your home through a glassless window
To frolic in your hovel.
No, Madame, all these carpets
Spun at the Savonnerie
And so elegantly loomed by the Persians;
And all your golden jewelry;
And all this expensive porcelain
Germain engraved with his divine hand;
And all these cabinets in which Martin
Surpassed the art of China;
And all your white vases,
Such fragile Japanese wonders!;
And the twin chandeliers of diamonds
Dangling from your ears;
And your costly chokers and necklaces;
And all this spellbinding pomp;
Are not worth a single kiss
You blessed me with when you were young.
TRANSLATIONS OF VOLTAIRE EPIGRAMS AND QUOTES
Once fanaticism has gangrened brains
the incurable malady invariably remains.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Love is a canvas created by nature
and completed by imagination.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
If God did not create us, it was necessary for us to create him.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My only prayer to God was, “Lord, make my enemies ridiculous.” And he granted it.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
God is a jester performing for an audience too frightened to laugh.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Doubt is an undesirable condition, but preferable to ludicrous certainty.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Faith is believing what reason cannot countenance.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Life is a shipwreck, yet we must sing in the lifeboats.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Every man is a product of his age and few are able to rise above its misconceptions.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Judge a man by his doubts rather than his certainties.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The secret of being a bore is to reveal everything.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Common sense is uncommon.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Once fanaticism has gangrened brains the malady is usually incurable.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
***
Johann Scheffler (1624-1677), also known as Johann Angelus Silesius, was a German Catholic priest, physician, mystic and religious poet. He's a bit later than most of the other poets on this page, but seems to fit in …
Unholy Trinity
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Man has three enemies:
himself, the world, and the devil.
Of these the first is, by far,
the most irresistible evil.
True Wealth
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
There is more to being rich
than merely having;
the wealthiest man can lose
everything not worth saving.
The Rose
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The rose merely blossoms
and never asks why:
heedless of her beauty,
careless of every eye.
The Rose
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The rose lack “reasons”
and merely sways with the seasons;
she has no ego
but whoever put on such a show?
Eternal Time
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Eternity is time,
time eternity,
except when we
are determined to "see."
Visions
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Our souls possess two eyes:
one examines time,
the other visions
eternal and sublime.
Godless
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
God is absolute Nothingness
beyond our sense of time and place;
the more we try to grasp Him,
The more He flees from our embrace.
The Source
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Water is pure and clean
when taken at the well-head:
but drink too far from the Source
and you may well end up dead.
Ceaseless Peace
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Unceasingly you seek
life's ceaseless wavelike motion;
I seek perpetual peace, all storms calmed.
Whose is the wiser notion?
Well Written
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Friend, cease!
Abandon all pretense!
You must yourself become
the Writing and the Sense.
Worm Food
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
No worm is buried
so deep within the soil
that God denies it food
as reward for its toil.
Mature Love
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
New love, like a sparkling wine, soon fizzes.
Mature love, calm and serene, abides.
God's Predicament
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
God cannot condemn those with whom he would dwell,
or He would have to join them in hell!
Clods
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A ruby
is not lovelier
than a dirt clod,
nor an angel
more glorious
than a frog.
***
The original poem below is based on my teenage misinterpretation of a Latin prayer …
Elegy for a little girl, lost
by Michael R. Burch
… qui laetificat juventutem meam …
She was the joy of my youth,
and now she is gone.
… requiescat in pace …
May she rest in peace.
… amen …
Amen.
I was touched by this Latin prayer, which I discovered in a novel I read as a teenager. I later decided to incorporate it into a poem. From what I now understand, “ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meam” means “to the God who gives joy to my youth,” but I am sticking with my original interpretation: a lament for a little girl at her funeral. The phrase can be traced back to Saint Jerome's translation of Psalm 42 in the Vulgate Latin Bible (circa 385 AD).
Rag Doll
by Michael R. Burch, age 17
On an angry sea a rag doll is tossed
back and forth between cruel waves
that have marred her easy beauty
and ripped away her clothes.
And her arms, once smoothly tanned,
are gashed and torn and peeling
as she dances to the waters’
rockings and reelings.
She’s a rag doll now,
a toy of the sea,
and never before
has she been so free,
or so uneasy.
She’s slammed by the hammering waves,
the flesh shorn away from her bones,
and her silent lips must long to scream,
and her corpse must long to find its home.
For she’s a rag doll now,
at the mercy of all
the sea’s relentless power,
cruelly being ravaged
with every passing hour.
Her eyes are gone; her lips are swollen
shut to the pounding waves
whose waters reached out to fill her mouth
with puddles of agony.
Her limbs are limp; her skull is crushed;
her hair hangs like seaweed
in trailing tendrils draped across
a never-ending sea.
For she’s a rag doll now,
a worn-out toy
with which the waves will play
ten thousand thoughtless games
until her bed is made.
Keywords/Tags: Enheduanna, Sumer, Sumerian, Akkad, Akkadian, Sargon, Ur, Nanna, Inanna, Ishtar, Astarte, Aphrodite, Anglo-Saxon, Old English, England, elegy, lament, lamentation, ruin, Bath, Roman, Miklos Radnoti, William Dunbar, Rilke, Georg Trakl, English translation, German, Scottish, Elis, blackbird, black forest, birds, brow, blood, grapes, monk, body, dew, stars
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Comments and suggestions are
Comments and suggestions are always welcome. - Michael R. Burch
Michael R. Burch
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Comments and suggestions are always welcome and very much appreciated.
Michael R. Burch
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Any feedback, whether in the
Any feedback, whether in the form of comments or recommendations, is always very appreciated.
https://slopegame3d.org/
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I have made some minor
I have made some minor revisions to this translation page.
Michael R. Burch
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