Sedulia's Translations

Sabine Sicaud: Speak to you? No. I cannot.

Speak to you? No. I cannot.
I prefer to suffer like a plant,
like the bird that says nothing on the linden tree.
They wait. That's fine. Since they aren't tired
of waiting, I'll wait, with the same waiting.

They suffer alone. One should learn how to suffer alone.
I don't want indifferent people ready to smile
nor friends groaning. No one should come.

The plant says nothing. The bird is silent. What would they say?
This pain is alone in the world, whatever one wants.
It is not the pain of others, it is mine.

A leaf has its ache that the other leaf ignores.
And the bird's ache-- the other bird knows nothing about it.

One doesn't know. One doesn't know. Who is like another?
And if they were, what matter. This evening
I don't want to hear a single vain word.

I wait-- like the old motionless tree
and the mute finch behind the window...
A drop of pure water, a little wind, who knows?
What are they waiting for? We will wait for it together.
The sun has told them it will come back, perhaps....

      --Sabine Sicaud (1913-1928) died at age 15 after much suffering.

Vous parler? Non. Je ne peux pas.
Je préfère souffrir comme une plante,
comme l'oiseau qui ne dit rien sur le tilleul.
Ils attendent. C'est bien. Puisqu'ils ne sont pas las
d'attendre, j'attendrai, de cette même attente.

Ils souffrent seuls. On doit apprendre à souffrir seul.
Je ne veux pas d'indifférents prêts à sourire
ni d'amis gémissants. Que nul ne vienne.

La plante ne dit rien. L'oiseau se tait. Que dire?
Cette douleur est seule au monde, quoi qu'on veuille.
Elle n'est pas celle des autres, c'est la mienne.

Une feuille a son mal qu'ignore l'autre feuille.
Et le mal de l'oiseau, l'autre oiseau n'en sait rien.

On ne sait pas. On ne sait pas. Qui se ressemble ?
Et se ressemblât-on, qu'importe. Il me convient
de n'entendre ce soir nulle parole vaine.

J'attends - comme le font derrière la fenêtre
le vieil arbre sans geste et le pinson muet...
une goutte d'eau pure, un peu de vent, qui sait ?
Qu'attendent-ils ? Nous l'attendrons ensemble.
Le soleil leur a dit qu'il reviendrait, peut-être...          

Luis de Góngora y Argote: The hours that are filing down the days, the days that are gnawing down the years

Of the deceitful brevity of life

The arrow goes less quickly to its target,
that it bites sharply; the straining chariot
does not race more silently
over the mute sand to the finish line,

than hastily and secretly our age
runs to its end. To whomever doubts this,
proud as he may be of naked reason,
each repeated Sun is a comet.

Carthage admits this, and you don't know it?
You risk danger, Licio, if you keep on
following shadows and embracing illusions.

The hours will not pardon you easily;
the hours that are filing down the days,
the days that are gnawing down the years.

--Luis de Góngora y Argote (1561-1627). This is one of the most famous poems in the Spanish language.

De la brevedad engañosa de la vida

Menos solicitó veloz saeta
destinada señal, que mordió aguda;
agonal carro por la arena muda
no coronó con más silencio meta,

que presurosa corre, que secreta,
a su fin nuestra edad. A quien lo duda,
fiera que sea de razón desnuda,
cada Sol repetida es un cometa.

¿Confiésalo Cartago, y tú lo ignoras?
Peligro corres, Licio, si porfías
en seguir sombras y abrazar engaños.

Mal te perdonarán a ti las horas;
las horas que limando están los días,
los días que royendo están los años.

Sabine Sicaud: Speak to you? No. I cannot.

Speak to you? No. I cannot.
I prefer to suffer like a plant,
like the bird that says nothing on the linden tree.
They wait. That's fine. Since they aren't tired
of waiting, I'll wait, with the same waiting.

They suffer alone. One should learn how to suffer alone.
I don't want indifferent people ready to smile
nor friends groaning. No one come.

The plant says nothing. The bird is silent. What would they say?
This pain is alone in the world, whatever one wants.
It is not the pain of others, it is mine.

A leaf has its ache that the other leaf ignores.
And the bird's ache-- the other bird knows nothing about it.

One doesn't know. One doesn't know. Who is like another?
And if they were, what matter. This evening
I don't want to hear a single vain word.

I wait-- like the old motionless tree
and the mute finch behind the window...
A drop of pure water, a little wind, who knows?
What are they waiting for? We will wait for it together.
The sun has told them it will come back, perhaps....

      --Sabine Sicaud (1913-1928)

Vous parler ? Non. Je ne peux pas.
Je préfère souffrir comme une plante,
Comme l'oiseau qui ne dit rien sur le tilleul.
Ils attendent. C'est bien. Puisqu'ils ne sont pas las
D'attendre, j'attendrai, de cette même attente.

Ils souffrent seuls. On doit apprendre à souffrir seul.
Je ne veux pas d'indifférents prêts à sourire
Ni d'amis gémissants. Que nul ne vienne.

La plante ne dit rien. L'oiseau se tait. Que dire ?
Cette douleur est seule au monde, quoi qu'on veuille.
Elle n'est pas celle des autres, c'est la mienne.

Une feuille a son mal qu'ignore l'autre feuille.
Et le mal de l'oiseau, l'autre oiseau n'en sait rien.

On ne sait pas. On ne sait pas. Qui se ressemble ?
Et se ressemblât-on, qu'importe. Il me convient
De n'entendre ce soir nulle parole vaine.

J'attends - comme le font derrière la fenêtre
Le vieil arbre sans geste et le pinson muet...
Une goutte d'eau pure, un peu de vent, qui sait ?
Qu'attendent-ils ? Nous l'attendrons ensemble.
Le soleil leur a dit qu'il reviendrait, peut-être...          

Sabine Sicaud: Pain, I hate you

[Written in response to L'Honneur de souffrir * by  Anna de Noailles]

Pain, I hate you! Oh! How I hate you!
Suffering, I hate you, I fear you, I loathe
your insidious surveillance, that shudder that stays
after you, in my flesh, in my heart...

After you, sometimes before you,
I have felt this inexpressible horrible thing:
an invisible animal with tiny teeth
who comes like a mole and fumbles and bites and digs
into my beautiful confident health-- while
the air is blue, the sun calm, the water so cool!

Oh! "The honor of suffering"? ...Suffering with dry lips,
ugly suffering, whatever they say, whatever
your disguise is-- suffering
like a thunderbolt or tenacious or both at the same time--

I see you as a sin, as an offense
against the cheerful sweetness of living, of being healthy
among the shining fruit, the green leaves,
among gardens gesturing through the open windows....

Lively ducks run towards the pools,
pigeons swim over the town, crazy in space.
Swim, run, struggle with the wind that blows,
isn't it my right, then, since life there is 
so simple in appearance-- in appearance!

Must we be these defeated bodies, these weary minds,
because we meet you one day, Suffering,
or believe in that honor of belonging to you
and saying that it is great, perhaps, to suffer?

Great? Who is sure of it and what do I care?
What do I care for the name of the illness,
great or small, if I no longer have in myself, frank and strong,
joy with its clear face? He lies, he lies to himself,
the poet who, to ennoble you, sings of you.... I hate you.

You are cowardly, unfair, criminal, ready for
the worst betrayals! I know
that you will be my tireless enemy
from now on... From now on, since it cannot be
that the tenderest park fragrant with lilac,
the most secret path of weeds or of sand,
will allow me to flee you or forget you!

Dear ignorance in your little pinafore,
barefoot ignorance, bare-armed, bare-headed,
through the seasons, innocent ignorance
whose laugh rang so high. My Ignorance,
from Before, when you were a stranger to me,
what have you done, what have you done with her, old Suffering?

Forgive you for this that changes the world for me?
I hate you too much! I hate you too much for having killed
that little blond girl
whom I see in the depths of a fogged-up mirror...
An Other is there, pale, so different!

I cannot, I cannot get used to
knowing that you stand between us, always there,
a sinister  godmother against whom the young fairies
vainly oppose their powers of rescue!

Once upon a time...
Once upon a time-- poor suffocated voices!
Who will bring them back to life, who will give me back the voice
of that spring, a fairy among all the fairies,
where all ills are curable?

    --Sabine Sicaud (1913-1928) was a French girl who became known for her remarkable poetry at an early age.  Anna de Noailles wrote the preface to a collection of Sabine's poems published when she was thirteen years old. Sabine died of a bone disease at fifteen. According to Robert Sabatier, "she wrote the most beautiful poems there are on suffering and death."

Douleur, je vous déteste ! Ah ! que je vous déteste !
Souffrance, je vous hais, je vous crains, j'ai l'horreur
De votre guet sournois, de ce frisson qui reste
Derrière vous, dans la chair, dans le coeur...

Derrière vous, parfois vous précédant,
J'ai senti cette chose inexprimable, affreuse :
Une bête invisible aux minuscules dents
Qui vient comme la taupe et fouille et mord et creuse
Dans la belle santé confiante - pendant
Que l'air est bleu, le soleil calme, l'eau si fraîche !

Ah ! " l'Honneur de souffrir " ?... Souffrance aux lèvres sèches,
Souffrance laide, quoi qu'on dise, quel que soit
Votre déguisement - Souffrance
Foudroyante ou tenace ou les deux à la fois -

Moi je vous vois comme un péché, comme une offense
A l'allègre douceur de vivre, d'être sain
Parmi des fruits luisants, des feuilles vertes,
Des jardins faisant signe aux fenêtres ouvertes...

De gais canards courent vers les bassins,
Des pigeons nagent sur la ville, fous d'espace.
Nager, courir, lutter avec le vent qui passe,
N'est-ce donc pas mon droit puisque la vie est là
Si simple en apparence... en apparence !

Faut-il être ces corps vaincus, ces esprits las,
Parce qu'on vous rencontre un jour, Souffrance,
Ou croire à cet Honneur de vous appartenir
Et dire qu'il est grand, peut-être, de souffrir ?

Grand ? Qui donc en est sûr et que m'importe !
Que m'importe le nom du mal, grand ou petit,
Si je n'ai plus en moi, candide et forte,
La Joie au clair visage ? Il s'est menti,
Il se ment à lui-même, le poète
Qui, pour vous ennoblir, vous chante... Je vous hais.

Vous êtes lâche, injuste, criminelle, prête
Aux pires trahisons ! Je sais
Que vous serez mon ennemie infatigable
Désormais... Désormais, puisqu'il ne se peut pas
Que le plus tendre parc embaumé de lilas,
Le plus secret chemin d'herbe folle ou de sable,
Permettent de vous fuir ou de vous oublier !

Chère ignorance en petit tablier,
Ignorance aux pieds nus, aux bras nus, tête nue
A travers les saisons, ignorance ingénue
Dont le rire tintait si haut. Mon Ignorance,
Celle d'Avant, quand vous m'étiez une inconnue,
Qu'en a-t-on fait, qu'en faites-vous, vieille Souffrance ?

Vous pardonner cela qui me change le monde ?
Je vous hais trop ! Je vous hais trop d'avoir tué
Cette petite fille blonde
Que je vois comme au fond d'un miroir embué...
Une Autre est là, pâle, si différente !

Je ne peux pas, je ne veux pas m'habituer
A vous savoir entre nous deux, toujours présente,
Sinistre Carabosse à qui les jeunes fées
Opposent vainement des Pouvoirs secourables !

Il était une fois...
Il était une fois - pauvres voix étouffées !
Qui les ranimera, qui me rendra la voix
De cette Source, fée entre toutes les fées,
Où tous les maux sont guérissables ?

["The honor of suffering"; a book published in 1927 by Anna de Noailles]

Màiri Mhór: I am weary of the speakers of English

I am weary of the speakers of English
I long for some warmth and music
I am truly tired of the speakers of English

I dreamt I saw soldiers
closing in around me
in my nightmare, the Captain Turner
and the ladies: I jumped up in terror

They gave me stone slabs
to walk on, a board for a pillow
A clear conscience helped me then
protected me, kept out all harm

It was good that I felt no guilt
My conscience wasn't choking me
That was what kept me going
when I was in my deep despair

Our land is defiled by sheep
coming up from the South like a plague
There's not a creature that moves
not tormented and torn apart

That was not what I was used to
from the kindly people I knew
They helped each other
They found warmth in being together

Now they're driven over the ocean
by hard-hearted men
No cattle to be heard in the pasture
no herdsmen to call them home

Gone are the kindest of people,
their joys, their songs, their ceilidhs
Where their homes were
now deer run

Where the people lived
now sheep--
a shepherd on every hill
and barking dogs on the moor.

     --Màiri Mhór (Mary MacPherson) (1821-1898) was a Gaelic-speaking woman from the Isle of Skye, in Scotland, at a time when the local Gaelic-speaking crofters were being forced to emigrate en masse while the English-speaking landlords put sheep on what had been the common land. She was left a widow with five small children to support, and although she claimed to be innocent, she was thrown into prison for 42 days for petty theft. This was her first song, written there, but she wrote many more and became a well-known poet. Thanks to Donncha for the Gaelic words. The translation is by John McGrath (1935-2002) and Simon MacKenzie (1949-2008), in the liner notes to Catherine-Ann MacPhee Sings Mairi Mhor, issued by Greentrax Recordings, 1994. Perfect photo of abandoned croft in Cabrach by Retsum at Flickr.

Tha mi sgìth de luchd na Beurla,
Tha mi sgìth dhiubh cheart da rìreadh,
'S ann leam fhéin gur fhada 'n céilidh --
Tha mi sgìth de luchd na Beurla.

Chunnaic mise ann am bruadar,
Saighdearan a' tighinn mun cuairt dhomh,
Caiptin Turner's dà mhnaoi uasail,    
'S ghabh mi uamhas 's rinn mi éirigh.

Chuir iad mi air leacan fuara,
'S chuir iad bòrd fo m' cheann mar chluasaig,
'S b'fheumail cogais shaor dhomh 'n uair sin --
Chùm i suas mi 's rinn i m'éideadh.

Bu mhath dhòmhsa mar a thachair,
Nach robh chogais 'ga mo thacadh,
Sud an nì a chùm an taic rium,
Nuair a thachair dhomh bhith 'm éiginn.

Tha ar dùthaich air a truailleadh,
Leis a' ghràisg tha tighinn mu thuath òirnn;
Chan eil creutair bochd a ghluaiseas,
Nach téid a chuaradh 's a reubadh.

Cha b'e sud a bha mi faicinn,
Aig na daoine còir' a chleachd mi,
Ach bhith blàth ann an caidreamh,
'S a bhith cumail taic ri chéile.

Tha iad a nis air am fuadach,
Aig an naimhdean thar nan cuantan,
Chan eil geum aig mart air buaile,
'S chan eil buachaille 'nan déidh ann.

Gum b'iad sud na daoine còire,
'S ann 'nam measg a gheibht' a' chòisir;
Far am b'àbhaist daibh bhith còmhnaidh,
'S ann tha ròidean aig na féidh ann.

Far an robh móran de dhaoine,
'S ann a tha e 'n diugh fo chaoraich,
Cìobair am mullach gach maoile,
Coin 'san aonach 's iad ag éigheach.

Arno Holz: The flower-seller's child starves to death

Night Piece

A long time ago the last leaf
fell from the trees,
now in sleep and dreams
the city lies;
the windows go dark
in house after house,
and overhead
the stars sparkle;
there is a cold breeze from the stream,
the icy walkway cracks,
and over there from the cathedral
midnight booms.

What use is it that I
ran through the alleys wailing
and giving up all hope of pity
called out "Roses here!
Buy your roses, roses!
Come buy a bouquet!"
But the studious gentlemen
just laughed at me.
And no one, no one.... O God have mercy!
O people like us
are far too poor!
My knees wobble, my heart's blood drains out--
O God, my child, my poor child!

In the pitch-black room,
starving like an animal!
Soon the whining begins:
"Ach, mama, I'm freezing!
Ach, please, please,
one little piece of bread!"
It feels the same to me as if
I am suffering death myself!
It feels the same to me, as if
I have to scream: "Curses!"
O how I kissed you
through the shroud!
Then it was over, and they scraped you into the ground,
and I had to bear it alone, O God, alone!

       --Arno Holz (1863-1929), in Arme Lieder (Poor Songs).
No more in Germany, but children are still starving today.

Nachtstück

Längst fiel von den Bäumen
Das letzte Blatt,
In Schlaf und Träumen
Liegt nun die Stadt;
Die Fenster verdunkeln
Sich Haus an Haus
Und drüberhin funkeln
Die Sterne sich aus;
Kalt weht es vom Strom her,
Der Eisgang kracht,
Und drüben vom Dom her
Dröhnt's Mitternacht.
Ich aber schleppe mich zitternd nach Haus -
Der Nordwind bläst die Laternen aus!

Was half's, dass ich klagend
Die Gassen durchlief
Und mitleidverzagend
"Hier Rosen!" ausrief?
"Hier Rosen, o Rosen!
Wer kauft einen Strauss?"
Doch die Herren Studiosen
Lachten mich aus!
Und keiner, keiner ....
Dass Gott erbarm!
O unsereiner
Ist gar zu arm!
Mir wanken die Knien, mein Herzblut gerinnt -
O Gott, mein Kind, mein armes Kind!

In stockdunkler Kammer,
Verhungert, verthiert!
Schon packt mich der Jammer:
"Ach Müttchen, mich friert!
Ach bitte, bitte
Ein Stückchen Brot!"
Mir ist es, als litte
Ich gleich den Tod!
Mir ist es, als müsste
Ich schreien: "Fluch!" -
O dass ich dich küsste
Durchs Leichentuch!
Dann wär es vorbei und sie scharrten dich ein
Und ich trüg es allein, o Gott, allein...

Goethe: The Elf King

Who rides so late through night and wind?
It is the father with his child.
He has the boy close in his arms,
he holds him safe, he keeps him warm.

My son, why are you hiding your face in such fear?
Father, don't you see the Elf King?
The Elf King, with crown and tail?
My son, that is a wisp of cloud.

You darling child, come, go with me!
Such nice games I'll play with you,
there are many bright flowers on the beach,
my mother has many golden robes.

My father, my father, and don't you hear
what the Elf King is softly promising me?
Be still, be still, my child,
in the dry leaves the wind is rustling.

Would the young master like to come with me?
My daughters shall wait on you beautifully,
my daughters lead the nightly lines
and they'll rock and dance and sing you in.

My father, my father, and don't you see
the Elf King's daughters in that gloomy place?
My son, my son, I see it quite well:
it's the old willows shining so gray.

I love you, I'm drawn by your handsome form,
and if you aren't willing, I'll take you by force!
My father, my father, he's grabbing me now,
the Elf King has hurt me.

The father shudders, he rides like the wind,
he holds in his arms the moaning child,
reaches the yard with the utmost pains,
in his arms the child was dead.

           --Johann Wolfgang Goethe (1749-1832)

Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind?
Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind.
Er hat den Knaben wohl in dem Arm,
Er faßt ihn sicher, er hält ihn warm.

Mein Sohn, was birgst du so bang dein Gesicht?
Siehst Vater, du den Erlkönig nicht!
Den Erlenkönig mit Kron' und Schweif?
Mein Sohn, es ist ein Nebelstreif.

Du liebes Kind, komm geh' mit mir!
Gar schöne Spiele, spiel ich mit dir,
Manch bunte Blumen sind an dem Strand,
Meine Mutter hat manch gülden Gewand.

Mein Vater, mein Vater, und hörest du nicht,
Was Erlenkönig mir leise verspricht?
Sei ruhig, bleibe ruhig, mein Kind,
In dürren Blättern säuselt der Wind.

Willst feiner Knabe du mit mir geh'n?
Meine Töchter sollen dich warten schön,
Meine Töchter führen den nächtlichen Reihn
Und wiegen und tanzen und singen dich ein.

Mein Vater, mein Vater, und siehst du nicht dort
Erlkönigs Töchter am düsteren Ort?
Mein Sohn, mein Sohn, ich seh'es genau:
Es scheinen die alten Weiden so grau.

Ich lieb dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt,
Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt!
Mein Vater, mein Vater, jetzt faßt er mich an,
Erlkönig hat mir ein Leids getan.

Dem Vater grauset's, er reitet geschwind,
Er hält in den Armen das ächzende Kind,
Erreicht den Hof mit Mühe und Not,
In seinen Armen das Kind war tot.

Christine de Pisan: The great pain that I bear

The great pain that I bear
is so harsh and so very strong
that there is nothing that could
comfort me or bring me happiness,
so I would like to be dead.

Since I am losing my loves,
my friend, my hope,
who is going away, in a few days,
out of the kingdom of France

to stay, alas! he takes with him
my heart which is disconsolate;
well might it be disconsolate
since I cannot counsel joy to myself
being deprived by
the great pain that I bear.

If I never have help
for this illness that exhausts
my tired heart, drowning in tears
because his leaving is so hard

who is opening the door
of my death and who exhorts me to
despair, who comes to bring me
mourning and to carry off
my joy, and mourning brings me
the great pain that I bear.

        --Christine de Pisan (1363-1431)

La grant doulour que je porte
est si aspre et si tres forte
qu'il n'est riens qui conforter
me peüst ne aporter
joye, ains vouldroie estre morte.

Puis que je pers mes amours,
mon ami, mon esperance
qui s'en va, dedens briefs jours,
hors du royaume de France

demourer, lasse ! il emporte
mon cuer qui se desconforte ;
bien se doit desconforter,
car jamais joye enorter
ne me peut, dont se deporte
la grant doulour que je porte.

Si n'aray jamais secours
du mal qui met a oultrance
mon las cuer, qui noye en plours
pour la dure departance

de cil qui euvre la porte
de ma mort et que m'enorte
desespoir, qui raporter
me vient dueil et emporter
ma joye, et dueil me raporte
la grant doulour que je porte.

The Old Woman of Beara

‘Tis many a day
since I sailed on youth’s bay
year on year has scored my flesh
since my fresh sweet strength went grey.

Many a day
I have been as cold as they;
even in the sun I wear my shawl;
age has put me too away….

A poor old woman, let me be;
the eyes are dark that were so fair;
the glittering ones I slept with pass
and leave me to the dark and prayer….

Happy island of the main,
to you the tide returns again,
but to me it comes no more
over the deserted shore.

Seeing, I can scarcely say
“Here is such a place”; today
what was water far and wide
changes with the ebbing tide.

        --From "The Lament of the Old Woman of Beara", anonymous, ca 10th century. Translated by Frank O'Connor (1903-1966), pseudonym of Michael O'Donovan, in A Short History of Irish Literature. The Old Woman of Beara, whom O'Connor calls "the Nun of Beare" and who is also called "the Hag of Beare", is probably an ancient goddess-figure from pre-Celtic Ireland, but the poem can also be interpreted as a Christian allegory.This is the part of the poem in which the old woman denounces her old age. "There is nothing greater in Irish," says O'Connor.

Caillech Bhérri

Is mó láu
nád muir n-oíted imam-ráu;
testa már mblíadnae dom chruth
dáig fo-rroimled mo chétluth.

Is mó dé
damsa in-diu cen buith té;
gaibthi m’étach cid fri gréin
do-fil aes dom aithgin féin….

Am minecán, mon-úar dam,
cach derc cáin is erchraide,
iar feis fri caindlea sorchai
bíthum dorchae derthaige….

Céinmar insi mora máir,
dosn-ic tuile íarna tráig ;
os mé, ní frescu dom-í
tuile tar ési n-aithbi.

Is súaill mo mennat in-diu
ara taibrinnse aithgniu:
an-í ro boí for tuiliu
a-tá uile for aithbiu.

Nerval: They will come back, those gods you still mourn!

They will come back, those gods you still mourn!
Time will bring back the ancient order;
the Earth has shivered at a prophetic gust...

        --Gérard de Nerval (1805-1855), in Delfica (1853)

Ils reviendront, ces dieux que tu pleures toujours!
Le temps va ramener l'ordre des anciens jours;
la terre a tressailli d'un souffle prophétique...