The Dictator in Prison by Adèlia Prado

The Dictator in Prison

 

The dictator is writing poetry,

poor fellow,

poor us for saying

poor fellow,

since he, too, has a memory

to conjure orange trees,

little bowls of pudding,

laughter and pleasant conversation—

a paradise of lowly delights.

The impatiens have barely opened

and the bees are already busy among them,

turning the day perfect.

Let’s not ridicule the bloodthirsty man

who, under the eyes of the guards,

pours his desire—equal to anyone’s—

into a notebook:

I want to be happy, I want an elastic body,

I want a horse, a sword and a good war!

The dictator is devout,

he observes his canonic hours

like the monks in the choir,

and dozes over the Koran.

I who live outside the walls

tremble for the fate

of a man who pounded the ground

with his iron boot.

Let no one interrupt the outcast’s prayer

or ridicule his verses.

God’s mercy is strange,

its mystery crushing.

For some unfathomable reason

I am not the prisoner.

My compassion is too large

to be my own.

He who invented hearts

loves this poor wretch with mine.

(translated by Ellen Doré Watson)

Hidden Things by Constantine P. Cavafy (Two Translations)

Hidden Things

 

From all I did and from all I said

they shouldn’t try to find out who I was.

An obstacle was there and it distorted

my actions and the way I lived my life.

An obstacle was there and it stopped me

on many occasions when I was going to speak.

The most unnoticed of my actions

and the most covert of all my writings:

from these alone will they come to know me.

But perhaps it’s not worth squandering

so much care and trouble on puzzling me out.

Afterwards –in some perfect society –

someone else who’s fashioned like me

will surely appear and be free to do as he pleases.

 

(Translated by Daniel Mendelsohn)

Hidden Things

 

From all I did and all I said

let no one try to find out who I was.

An obstacle was there that changed the pattern

of my actions and the manner of my life.

An obstacle was often there

to stop me when I’d begin to speak.

From my most unnoticed actions,

my most veiled writing—

from these alone will I be understood.

But maybe it isn’t worth so much concern,

so much effort to discover who I really am.

Later, in a more perfect society,

someone else made just like me

is certain to appear and act freely.

 

(translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard)

The Gods Abandon Antony by Constantine P. Cavafy (Two Translations)

The Gods Abandon Antony

When suddenly, at midnight, there comes the sound

of an invisible procession passing by

with exquisite music playing, with voices raised—

your good fortune, which now gives way; all your efforts’

ill-starred outcome; the plans you made for life,

which turned out wrong: don’t mourn them uselessly.

Like one who’s long prepared, like someone brave,

bid farewell to her, to Alexandria, who is leaving.

Above all do not fool yourself, don’t say

that it was a dream, that your ears deceived you;

don’t stoop to futile hopes like these.

Like one who’s long prepared, like someone brave

as befits a man who’s been blessed with a city like this,

go without faltering toward the window

and listen with deep emotion, but not

with the entreaties and the whining of a coward,

to the sounds—a final entertainment—

to the exquisite instruments of that initiate crew,

and bid farewell to her, to Alexandria, whom you are losing.

(Translated by Daniel Mendelsohn)

The Gods Abandon Antony

When suddenly, at midnight, you hear

an invisible procession going by

with exquisite music, voices,

don’t mourn your luck that’s failing now,

work gone wrong, your plans

all proving deceptive—don’t mourn them uselessly.

As one long prepared, and graced with courage,

say goodbye to her, the Alexandria that is leaving.

Above all, don’t fool yourself, don’t say

it was a dream, your ears deceived you:

don’t degrade yourself with empty hopes like these.

As one long prepared, and graced with courage,

as is right for you who proved worthy of this kind of city,

go firmly to the window

and listen with deep emotion, but not

with the whining, the pleas of a coward;

listen—your final delectation—to the voices,

to the exquisite music of that strange procession,

and say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing.  

(Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard)

Weather Forecast by Adélia Prado

Weather Forecast

 

The spirit of rebellion

also called hopelessness                                                              

has begun another sinister round.   

His dark and cold come straight from hell.

I was expecting happy days from May,

but so far the only sunny thing was Albertina’s news

that she was chosen to sing “Jesus is the bread of heaven.”

That’s bread without butter, Albertina,                                             

just so you know.

We eat it with bitter herbs

(Translated by Ellen Doré Watson)