Poem for 8/2/22 - [I seek for rhythmic whisperings] by Zinaida Gippius

 

[I seek for rhythmic whisperings]

Zinaida Gippius

translated by Babette Deutsch and Avrahm Yarmolinsky

For a recording in English and Russian, click here. 

I seek for rhythmic whisperings

Where noises bandy—

For life I listen wistfully

In footless banter.

I cast wide nets and tentative

In lakes of sorrow.

I go toward final tenderness

By pathways sordid.

I look for dewdrops glistering

In falsehood’s gardens.

I save truth’s globules glistening,

From dust-heaps garnered.

I fain would fathom fortitude

Through years of wormwood—

And pierce the mortal fortalice,

Yet live, a worldling.

My cup, through ways impassable,

To bear, untainted;

By tenebrous bleak passages

To joy attaining.

Зинаида Гиппиус

Неуместные рифмы

Ищу напевных шепотов

В несвязном шуме,

Ловлю живые шорохи

В ненужной шутке.

Закидываю неводы

В озера грусти,

Иду к последней нежности

Сквозь пыль и грубость.

Ищу росинок искристых

В садах неправды,

Храню их в чаше истины,

Беру из праха.

Хочу коснуться смелаго

Чрез горечь жизни.

Хочу прорезать смертное

И знать, что живя.

Меж цепкого и лепкого

Скользнуть бы с чашей.

По самой темной лестнице

Дойти до счастья.

Стихотворение Зинаиды Гиппиус «Неуместные рифмы»

Poem for 8/1/22 - Psalm 15, translated by Norman Fischer

Psalm 15, translated by Norman Fischer 

from Opening to You: Zen-inspired translations of the Psalms

Who can rest in your tent?
Who can stand on your mountain?

The one who walks upright
Does what is good
Utters true words of the heart
And does not deceive with the tongue
Who does no harm to a neighbor
And never reproaches others
Who sees crookedness for what it is
And honors the truth that flows from you
Whose word is firm even in difficulty
Who gives asking nothing in return
And does not seek advantage
At the expense of the innocent

The one who lives this way
Will never be shaken 

ט״ו

מִזְמ֗וֹר לְדָ֫וִ֥ד יְ֭הֹוָה מִי־יָג֣וּר בְּאׇהֳלֶ֑ךָ מִֽי־יִ֝שְׁכֹּ֗ן בְּהַ֣ר קׇדְשֶֽׁךָ׃

הוֹלֵ֣ךְ תָּ֭מִים וּפֹעֵ֥ל צֶ֑דֶק וְדֹבֵ֥ר אֱ֝מֶ֗ת בִּלְבָבֽוֹ׃

לֹֽא־רָגַ֨ל ׀ עַל־לְשֹׁנ֗וֹ לֹא־עָשָׂ֣ה לְרֵעֵ֣הוּ רָעָ֑ה וְ֝חֶרְפָּ֗ה לֹא־נָשָׂ֥א עַל־קְרֹבֽוֹ׃

נִבְזֶ֤ה ׀ בְּֽעֵ֘ינָ֤יו נִמְאָ֗ס וְאֶת־יִרְאֵ֣י יְהֹוָ֣ה יְכַבֵּ֑ד נִשְׁבַּ֥ע לְ֝הָרַ֗ע וְלֹ֣א יָמִֽר׃

כַּסְפּ֤וֹ ׀ לֹא־נָתַ֣ן בְּנֶשֶׁךְ֮ וְשֹׁ֥חַד עַל־נָקִ֗י לֹ֥א לָ֫קָ֥ח עֹֽשֵׂה־אֵ֑לֶּה לֹ֖א יִמּ֣וֹט לְעוֹלָֽם׃ {פ}

Poem for 7/21/22 - “As If to Demonstrate an Eclipse” by Billy Collins

 

“As If to Demonstrate an Eclipse” by Billy Collins

I pick an orange from a wicker basket

and place it on the table
to represent the sun.
Then down at the other end
a blue and white marble
becomes the earth
and nearby I lay the little moon of an aspirin.

I get a glass from a cabinet,
open a bottle of wine,
then I sit in a ladder-back chair,
a benevolent god presiding
over a miniature creation myth,

and I begin to sing
a homemade canticle of thanks
for this perfect little arrangement,
for not making the earth too hot or cold
not making it spin too fast or slow

so that the grove of orange trees
and the owl become possible,
not to mention the rolling wave,
the play of clouds, geese in flight,
and the Z of lightning on a dark lake.

Then I fill my glass again
and give thanks for the trout,
the oak, and the yellow feather,

singing the room full of shadows,
as sun and earth and moon
circle one another in their impeccable orbits
and I get more and more cockeyed with gratitude.

“As If to Demonstrate an Eclipse,” by Billy Collins from Nine Horses (Random House).

Poem for 7/20/22 - "To escape into direct crazy speech..." by Mikhail Aizenberg

 To hear my recording of this poem in English and Russian click here. 

Mikhail Aizenberg (trans. J. Kates)

To escape into direct crazy speech.

To break out into the straightaway.

Not to strain out the word

And not to swathe it in cotton

And not burn in the blue flame of cultural activity.

No, I be no great cultural asset.

I be no man of culture.

I am a man of profound yearning.

Ah, yearning...

My only weapon.

An everlasting vibration,

after long expectation cracking

the brick of existence.

Чтобы выйти в прямую безумную речь.

Чтобы вырваться напрямую.

Не отцеживать слово.

И не обкладывать ватой.

И не гореть синим пламенем культурной деятельности.

Нет, я не есть человек культуры. 

Я — человек тоски.

О, тоска. 

Единственное мое оружие. 

Вечная вибрация,

от которой кирпич существования  дает долгожданную трещину

from Say Thank You (2007)

Poem for 7/19/22 - Sea Breeze by Stephane Mallarme

I've included not only the translation I read on the voicemail, but also the original French as well as two other translations I found on the web...  Enjoy!

Sea Breeze, by Stéphane Mallarmé

(trans. Henry Weinfield)

The flesh is sad, alas, and there's nothing but words!

To take flight, far off! I sense that somewhere the birds

Are drunk to be amid strange spray and skies.

Nothing, not the old gardens reflected in the eyes,

Can now restrain this sea-drenched heart, O night,

Nor the lone splendor of my lamp on the white

Paper which the void leaves undefiled,

Nor the young mother suckling her child.

Steamer with gently swaying masts, depart!

Weigh anchor for a landscape of the heart!

Boredom made desolate by hope's cruel spells

Retains its faith in ultimate farewells!

And maybe the masts are such as are inclined

To shipwreck driven by tempestuous wind.

No fertile isle, no spar on which to cling...

But oh, my heart, listen to the sailors sing!

Brise marine

La chair est triste, hélas ! et j’ai lu tous les livres.

Fuir ! là-bas fuir ! Je sens que des oiseaux sont ivres

D’être parmi l’écume inconnue et les cieux !

Rien, ni les vieux jardins reflétés par les yeux

Ne retiendra ce cœur qui dans la mer se trempe

 

Ô nuits ! ni la clarté déserte de ma lampe

Sur le vide papier que la blancheur défend

Et ni la jeune femme allaitant son enfant.

Je partirai ! Steamer balançant ta mâture,

Lève l’ancre pour une exotique nature !

 

Un Ennui, désolé par les cruels espoirs,

Croit encore à l’adieu suprême des mouchoirs !

Et, peut-être, les mâts, invitant les orages

Sont-ils de ceux qu’un vent penche sur les naufrages

Perdus, sans mâts, sans mâts, ni fertiles îlots…

Mais, ô mon cœur, entends le chant des matelots !

Seabreeze (Translated from the French by Richard Wilbur)

The flesh grows weary. And books, I’ve read them all.

Off, then, to where I glimpse through spray and squall
Strange birds delighting in their unknown skies!
No antique gardens mirrored in my eyes
Can stay my sea-changed spirit, nor the light
Of my abstracted lamp which shines (O Night!)
On the guardian whiteness of the empty sheet,
Nor the young wife who gives the babe her teat.
Come, ship whose masts now gently rock and sway,
Raise anchor for a stranger world! Away!

How strange that Boredom, all its hopes run dry,
Still dreams of handkerchiefs that wave goodbye!
Those gale-inviting masts might creak and bend
In seas where many a craft has met its end,
Dismasted, lost, with no green island near it…
But hear the sailors singing, O my spirit!

—Stéphane Mallarmé

Sea Breeze (trans. A.M. Kline)

The flesh is sad, Alas! and I’ve read all the books.
Let’s go! Far off. Let’s go! I sense
That the birds, intoxicated, fly
Deep into unknown spume and sky!
Nothing – not even old gardens mirrored by eyes –
Can restrain this heart that drenches itself in the sea
O nights, or the abandoned light of my lamp,
On the void of paper, that whiteness defends,
No, not even the young woman feeding her child.
I shall go! Steamer, straining at your ropes
Lift your anchor towards an exotic rawness!
A Boredom, made desolate by cruel hope
Still believes in the last goodbye of handkerchiefs!
And perhaps the masts, inviting lightning,
Are those the gale bends over shipwrecks,
Lost, without masts, without masts, no fertile islands...
But, oh my heart, listen to the sailors’ chant!

Poem for 7/18/22 - "Mysteries, Yes" - by Mary Oliver

Mysteries, Yes

by Mary Oliver 

Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous
to be understood.

How grass can be nourishing in the
mouths of the lambs.
How rivers and stones are forever
in allegiance with gravity
while we ourselves dream of rising.
How two hands touch and the bonds will
never be broken.
How people come, from delight or the
scars of damage,
to the comfort of a poem.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those
who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say
“Look!” and laugh in astonishment,
and bow their heads.

Poem for 7/14/22 - "A Thing of Beauty is a Joy For Ever" by John Keats

 from Endymion

BY JOHN KEATS

A Poetic Romance

(excerpt)

BOOK I

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing

A flowery band to bind us to the earth,

Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,

Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways

Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall

From our dark spirits.