Amy Lowell, Charles Cros, João Teixeira: “Lilacs” / “Lilas”

Extracto de “Lilas” por Amy Lowell (poetisa estadounidense, 1874-1925)
Versión de Michael Toora (2011)
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Lilacs / Lilas

False blue, / De un falso azul,
White, / Blancas,
Purple, / Moradas,
Colour of lilac, / De color lila,
You have forgotten your Eastern origin, / Habéis olvidado vuestro origen oriental,
The veiled women with eyes like panthers, / A las mujeres con velo y ojos de pantera,
The swollen, aggressive turbans of jeweled pashas. / A los hinchados y agresivos turbantes de enjoyados pachás.
Now you are a very decent flower,  / Ahora sois una flor muy decente,
A reticent flower, / Una flor reticente,
A curiously clear-cut, candid flower,  / Una flor curiosamente clara y candida,
Standing beside clean doorways, / De pie junto a  portales limpios,
Friendly to a house-cat and a pair of spectacles, / Amiga del gato doméstico, y de un par de anteojos,
Making poetry out of a bit of moonlight / Convirtiendo en poesía un cachito de luz de luna
And a hundred or two sharp blossoms. / Y  cien o doscientos flores estilosas.

. . .

Charles Cros (poète français, 1842-1888)
Lilas
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Ma maîtresse me fait des scènes.
Paradis fleuri de lilas
Se viens humer tes odeurs saines.
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Les moribonds disent : Hélas !
Les vieux disent des mots obscènes
Pour couvrir le bruit de leurs glas.
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Dans le bois de pins et de chênes
Les obus jettent leurs éclats.
Victoire ? Défaite ? Phalènes.
Pluie améthyste les lilas,
Sans souci d’ambitions vaines,
Offrent aux plus gueux leurs galas.
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La mer, les montagnes, les plaines,
Tout est oublié. Je suis las,
Las de la bêtise et des haines.
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Mais mon coeur renaît aux lilas.

. . .
João de Sousa Teixeira (Brasil)
Lilás (2011)
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Que flor é esta, assim-assim,
com o nome da coloração?
Os lilases deste jardim,
cores ou flores, o que são?
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Neste enigma aparente
entre o ser e o que assemelha,
as dúvidas ficam p’ra gente
e todo o mel para a abelha…
. . . . .

Patti Masterman (contemporary U.S. poet)
The Lilac Tree
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One day a lavender sheen appeared
Just across the worn out fence,
And thus she met the Lilac bush,
And she was then possessed of it.
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That fall, at its earthly altar,
She did her sacrifice;
The corpse of hare and linnet,
And the unlucky field mice.
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Come spring, she reaped the harvest;
The blooms were heavy, strong:
The odour of fresh Lilacs
About the breeze were blown.
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Twelve years she served the Lilac,
No matter what the weather,
And at its gnarly feet were laid
Remains of bone and feather.
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The twelfth year came, and she was ill,
She dragged herself beneath its leaves.
That spring was the most splendid yet;
In brilliant blooms, the branches grieved.
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The Lilac never bloomed again,
It shut its face for fear of sun,
And those who’d thought to steal a bloom
In spring, found always there was none.
. . .

Walt Whitman (1819-1892)
When Lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d
(Excerpt)
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Passing the visions, passing the night,
Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades’ hands,
Passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying song of my soul,
Victorious song, death’s outlet song, yet varying ever-altering song,
As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night,
Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy,
Covering the earth and filling the spread of the heaven,
As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses,
Passing, I leave thee lilac with heart-shaped leaves,
I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring.
. . . . .