Poems for Saint Andrew’s Day: Bruce & Neill & Thomson
Posted: November 30, 2014 Filed under: English, English: Scots, Gaelic: Scottish Comments Off on Poems for Saint Andrew’s Day: Bruce & Neill & ThomsonGeorge Bruce (Fraserburgh, Aberdeenshire, 1909-2002)
Why the Poet makes Poems
(written to my dentist, Dr. K. P. Durkacz,
to explain why I failed to keep an appointment)
.
When it’s all done and said
whether he is smithing away by the mad sea,
or, according to repute, silvering them in a garret
by moonlight, or in plush with a gold nib,
or plain bourgeois in a safe bungalow with a mortgage,
or in a place with a name, Paris, Warsaw, Edinburgh,
or sitting with his heart in the Highlands,
or taking time off at the office to pen a few words,
the whole business is a hang-over from the men in the trees,
when thunder and sun and quake and peas in a pod
were magic, and still is according to his book, admitting
botany is OK for the exposition of how the buds got there,
geology for how the rocks got just like that,
zoology for the how of the animals,
biology for us kind – but that’s not his game:
he’s after the lion playing around with the lamb for fun.
He doesn’t want to know the how, the why. It’s enough for him to say:
‘That’s what’s going on. The grass is jumping for joy,
and all the little fishes are laughing their heads off.’
. . .
William Neill (Prestwick, Ayrshire, 1922-2010)
Seasons
.
Skeich wes the hert i the spring o the year
whan the well-sawn yird begoud tae steer
an the plewlan’s promise gledened the ee
atween Balgerran an Balmaghie.
The lang het simmer cam an rowed
the haill Glenkens in a glent o gowd
an the gangan fit on the hill gaed free
atween Balgerran an Balmaghie.
Hairst an the cornriggs flisked i the wun
like a rinnan sea i the southan sun;
then ilka meeda peyed its fee
atween Balgerran an Balmaghie.
Nou the lang year’s dune, an the druim grows stey
an the snaa liggs caal ower Cairnsmore wey;
the crannreuch’s lyart on ilka tree
atween Balgerran an Balmaghie.
. . .
Distant Snow
.
I see in the distance today,
a cloak of snow atop Meall Liath,
Why do I not sae Millyea,
the more Lowland name?
Though there is many a Gaelic name
on the natives of this district
many generations have caused a separation.
Am I blessed or cursed
with too much vision?
. . .
Distant Snow – in the original Gaelic:
Sneachd Air Astar
.
Chi mi an diugh air astar
fallain sneachd air Meall Liath.
Carson nach theirinn Millyea
ainm is motha Gallda?
Ged that iomadh sloinneadh Gàidhlig
air muinntir dùthchasach an àite
rinn iomadh linn eadar-dhealachadh.
Am beannaichte mise no mallaichte
le tuilleadh ‘sa chòir de lèirsinn?
. . .
Larach*
.
On Drumconnard now, only the curlew calls.
Sadly a body may stand on that high place
beside bare gable end and scattered walls
to think of old magic tales and a vanished grace.
.
Foolish, they say, are the praisers of time past:
a wise man turns his face and hails the new,
but bricks of hucksters hall will turn to dust
while Drumconnard’s ruin whispers to the few.
.
*Larach – Gaelic word for ruin or foundation
. . .
Deodorant Advert
(inspired by Catullus’ Latin poem LXIX)
.
Don’t you know, Rufus, why those lovely creatures
won’t let you bed ’em for those gifts laid out
of diamonds, dresses, jewels – things that feature
much in your wooings? There’s a tale about
that says your armpits have a horrid pong
like something dead – and that’s what makes ’em scared.
There’s no good-looking bird will come along
to get her nose filled when your armpit’s bared
– so get some stuff to chase that stink today
or pretty darlings just won’t come your way.
. . .
Deodorant Advert – in Scots:
.
Weill, Roy ma laddie, hou can ye no see
nae bonnie lass will ligg aside yir thie,
for gifts o silen claith an glentin stanes
while yon reek frae yir oxters aye remains?
It stangs yir hairt, ye say, yon nestie tale
that says a gait wad hae a sweeter smell.
Gin oor nebs runkle at yer stink’s rebuff
whit douce wee thing can thole yir manky guff?
Sine oot yon ugsome yowder eidentlie
or dinnae wunner hou the weemin flee.
. . .
Derick Thomson (Lewis/Glasgow, 1921-2012)
Return from Death
.
When I came back from death
it was morning,
the back door was open
and one of the buttons of my shirt had disappeared.
.
I needed to count the grass-blades again,
and the flagstones,
and I got the taste of fresh butter on the potatoes.
.
The car needed petrol,
and love sat sedately on a chair,
and there was an itchy feeling at the back of my knee.
.
And if you believe, as I do,
that one who reads can understand half a word,
you can see that I’ve mentioned
Only a couple of things I felt then.
. . .
Return from Death – in the original Gaelic:
.
Tilleadh Bhon a’ Bhàs
.
Nuair a thàinig mi air ais bhon a bhàs
bha a’ mhadainn ann,
bha an doras-cùil fosgailte,
is bha putan dhe na bha ‘na mo lèine air chall.
.
B’ fheudar dhomh am feur a chùnntadh a-rithist,
is na leacan,
is dh’fhairich mi blas an ìm ùir air a’ bhuntàt’.
.
Bha ‘n càr ag iarraidh peatroil,
‘s an gaol ‘na shuidhe gu stòlda air seuthar,
is tachais anns an iosgaid agam.
.
‘S ma tha thu creidse mar tha mise
gun tuig fear-leughaidh leth-fhacal,
chì thu nach tug mi iomradh
ach air rud no dhà a dh’ fhairich mi.
. . . . .
Jane Kenyon: Poemas sobre el Invierno
Posted: November 25, 2014 Filed under: English, Jane Kenyon, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best Comments Off on Jane Kenyon: Poemas sobre el InviernoJane Kenyon (1947-1995)
Poemas sobre el Invierno / Poems about Winter
. . .
Indolencia durante un invierno temprano
.
Llega una carta de unos amigos –
¡Déjenlos divorciarse, todos,
pues casarse de nuevo y volver a divorciarse!
Perdóname si me quede frito…
.
Yo debería avivar el fogón de leña,
ojalá que lo había hecho la hora pasada.
La casa se volverá frío como la piedra.
¡Fabuloso – no tendrá que hacer el balance con mi chequera!
.
Hay un amontonamiento precario de correo sin respuesta
y el gato lo derrumba cuando viene por verme.
.
Y quedo aquí, en mi silla,
enterrado bajo los escombros
de matrimonios fallidos,
formularios para renovar suscripciones de revistas,
cuentas,
amistades caducadas…
.
Es el sol que provoca esta clase de consideración.
Parte del cielo más y más temprano cada día, y se va en algún lugar,
como un marido preocupado,
o como una esposa melancólica.
. . .
Indolence in early winter
.
A letter arrives from friends…
Let them all divorce, remarry
and divorce again!
Forgive me if I doze off in my chair.
.
I should have stoked the stove
an hour ago. The house
will go cold as stone. Wonderful!
I won’t have to go on
balancing my chequebook.
.
Unanswered mail piles up
in drifts, precarious,
and the cat sets everything sliding
when she comes to see me.
.
I am still here in my chair,
buried under the rubble
of failed marriages, magazine
subscription renewal forms, bills,
lapsed friendships…
.
This kind of thinking is caused
by the sun. It leaves the sky earlier
every day, and goes off somewhere,
like a troubled husband,
or like a melancholy wife.
. . .
Mientras estuvimos discutiendo
.
Cayó la primera nieve – o debería decir:
Voló oblicuamente y parecía como
la casa se movía descuidadamente por el espacio.
.
Las lágrimas salpicaron como abalorios en tu pulóver.
Pues, para unos largos momentos, no hablaste.
Ningún placer en las tazas de té que hice distraídamente a las cuatro.
.
El cielo se oscureció. Oí el arribo del periódico y salí.
La luna oteaba entre nubes disintegrandos.
Dije en voz alta:
“Mira, hemos hecho daño.”
. . .
While we were arguing
.
The first snow fell – or should I say
it flew slantwise, so it seemed
to be the house
that moved so heedlessly through space.
.
Tears splashed and beaded on your sweater.
Then for long moments you did not speak.
No pleasure in the cups of tea I made
distractedly at four.
.
The sky grew dark. I heard the paper come
and went out. The moon looked down
between disintegrating clouds. I said
aloud: “You see, we have done harm.”
. . .
La nieve y una mañana oscura
.
Cae sobre el topillo del campo que empujar con el hocico
en alguna parte de las malas hierbas;
cae en el ojo abierto del estanque.
Y hace venir tarde el correo.
.
El trepador hace espirales de frente/abajo en el árbol.
.
Estoy adormilada y benigna en la oscuridad.
No hay nada que quiero…
. . .
Dark morning: Snow
.
It falls on the vole, nosing somewhere
through weeds, and on the open
eye of the pond. It makes the mail
come late.
.
The nuthatch spirals head first
down the tree.
.
I’m sleepy and benign in the dark.
There’s nothing I want…
. . .
Invierno seco
.
Tan poco de nieve…
La hierba del campo es como
un pensamiento terrible que
nunca desapareció completamente…
. . .
Dry winter
.
So little snow that the grass in the field
like a terrible thought
has never entirely disappeared…
. . . . .
Jane Kenyon: poemas íntimos sobre un esposo
Posted: November 20, 2014 Filed under: English, Jane Kenyon, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best Comments Off on Jane Kenyon: poemas íntimos sobre un esposoJane Kenyon (1947-1995, poeta/traductor estadounidense)
. . .
The First Eight Days of the Beard
.
1. A page of exclamation points
2. A class of cadets at attention
3. A school of eels
4. Standing commuters
5. A bed of nails for the swami
6. Flagpoles of unknown countries
7. Centipedes resting on their laurels
8. The toenails of the face
. . .
Los Primeros Días de la Barba Incipiente
.
1. Una página de puntos de exclamación
.
2. Una clase de cadetes en posición de firmes
.
3. Una escuela de anguilas
.
4. Viajeros suburbanos en pie en la tren
.
5. Un lecho de clavos para un swami
.
6. Mástiles de paises desconocidos
.
7. Ciempieses descansando en sus laureles
.
8. Las uñas del pie de la cara
. . .
The Socks
.
While you were away
I matched your socks
and rolled them into balls.
Then I filled your drawer with
tight dark fists.
. . .
Los Calcetines
.
Mientras estabas fuera
emparejé tus calcetines
y los rodé en pelotas.
Pues llené tu cajón con
puños morenos apretados.
. . .
The Shirt
.
The shirt touches his neck
and smooths over his back.
It slides down his sides.
It even goes down below his belt
– down into his pants.
Lucky shirt.
. . .
La Camisa
.
La camisa toca su cuello
y alisa sobre su espalda.
Se desliza sus costados,
aun descende abajo de la cintura
– dentro de sus pantalones.
¡Qué camisa afortunada!
. . .
Alone for a week
.
I washed a load of clothes
and hung them out to dry.
Then I went up to town
and busied myself all day.
The sleeve of your best shirt
rose ceremonious
when I drove in; our night-
clothes twined and untwined in
a little gust of wind.
.