Death Fugue by Paul Celan (two translations)

Death Fugue

Black milk of morning we drink you at dusktime

we drink you at noontime and dawntime we drink you at night

we drink and drink

we scoop out a grave in the sky where it’s roomy to lie

There’s a man in this house who cultivates snakes and who writes

who writes when it’s nightfall nach Deutschland your golden hair Margareta 

he writes it and walks from the house and the stars all start flashing he whistles his

     dogs to draw near

whistles his Jews to appear starts us scooping a grave out of sand

he commands us to play for the dance 

Black milk of morning we drink you at night

we drink you at dawntime and noontime we drink you at dusktime

we drink and drink

There’s a man in this house who cultivates snakes and who writes

who writes when it’s nightfall nach Deutschland your golden hair Margareta

your ashen hair Shulamite we scoop out a grave in the sky where it’s roomy to lie

He calls jab it deep in the soil you lot there you other men sing and play

he tugs at the sword in his belt he swings it his eyes are blue

jab your spades deeper you men you other men you others play up again for the

     dance 

Black milk of morning we drink you at night

we drink you at noontime and dawntime we drink you at dusktime

we drink and drink

there’s a man in this house your golden hair Margareta

your ashen hair Shulamite he cultivates snakes 

He calls play that death thing more sweetly Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland

he calls scrape that fiddle more darkly then hover like smoke in the air

then scoop out a grave in the clouds where it’s roomy to lie 

Black milk of morning we drink you at night

we drink you at noontime Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland

we drink you at dusktime and dawntime we drink and drink

Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland his eye is blue

he shoots you with leaden bullets his aim is true

there’s a man in this house your golden hair Margareta

he sets his dogs on our trail he gives us a grave in the sky

he cultivates snakes and he dreams Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland   

your golden hair Margareta

your ashen hair Shulamite

(Translated by Jerome Rothenberg)

Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundown
we drink it at noon in the morning we drink it at night
we drink and we drink it
we dig a grave in the breezes there one lies unconfined
A man lives in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when dusk falls to Germany your golden hair Margarete
he writes it and steps out of doors and the stars are flashing he whistles his pack out
he whistles his Jews out in earth has them dig for a grave
he commands us strike up for the dance

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink in the morning at noon we drink you at sundown
we drink and we drink you
A man lives in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when dusk falls to Germany your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith we dig a grave in the breezes there one lies unconfined.

He calls out jab deeper into the earth you lot you others sing now and play
he grabs at the iron in his belt he waves it his eyes are blue
jab deeper you lot with your spades you others play on for the dance

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at noon in the morning we drink you at sundown
we drink you and we drink you
a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith he plays with the serpents

He calls out more sweetly play death death is a master from Germany
he calls out more darkly now stroke your strings then as smoke you will rise into air
then a grave you will have in the clouds there one lies unconfined

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at noon death is a master from Germany
we drink you at sundown and in the morning we drink and we drink you
death is a master from Germany his eyes are blue
he strikes you with leaden bullets his aim is true
a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete
he sets his pack on to us he grants us a grave in the air
he plays with the serpents and daydreams death is a master from Germany
your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith 

(Translated by Michael Hamburger)

The Wrong Way Home by James Tate

The Wrong Way Home

All night a door floated down the river.

It tried to remember little incidents of pleasure

from its former life, like the time the lovers

leaned against it kissing for hours

and whispering those famous words.

Later, there were harsh words and a shoe

was thrown and the door was slammed.

Comings and goings by the thousands,

the early mornings and late nights, years, years.

O they've got big plans, they'll make a bundle.

The door was an island that swayed in its sleep.

The moon turned the doorknob just slightly,

burned its fingers and ran,

and still the door said nothing and slept.

At least that's what they like to say,

the little fishes and so on.

Far away, a bell rang, and then a shot was fired.

A Song in the Front Yard by Gwendolyn Brooks

A Song in the Front Yard

I've stayed in the front yard all my life.

I want a peek at the back

Where it's rough and untended and hungry weed grows.

A girl gets sick of a rose.

I want to go in the back yard now

And maybe down the alley,

To where the charity children play.

I want a good time today.

They do some wonderful things.

They have some wonderful fun.

My mother sneers, but I say it's fine

How they don't have to go in at quarter to nine.

My mother, she tells me that Johnnie Mae

Will grow up to be a bad woman.

That George'll be taken to Jail soon or late

(On account of last winter he sold our back gate). 

But I say it's fine. Honest, I do.

And I'd like to be a bad woman, too,

And wear the brave stockings of night-black lace

And strut down the streets with paint on my face.

 

Comprehension by Constantine P. Cavafy

Comprehension

The years of my youth, my pleasure-bent existence—

how plainly do I see their meaning now.

What useless, foolish regrets …

But I didn’t see their meaning then.

In the dissolute life I led in my youth

my poetry’s designs took shape;

the boundaries of my art were drawn.

That is why the regrets were never firm.

And my resolutions—to master myself, to change—

would keep up for two weeks at the most.

(Translated by Daniel Mendelsohn) 

Thanks by W. S. Merwin

Thanks

Listen 

with the night falling we are saying thank you 

we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings 

we are running out of the glass rooms 

with our mouths full of food to look at the sky 

and say thank you 

we are standing by the water thanking it 

smiling by the windows looking out 

in our directions  

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging 

after funerals we are saying thank you 

after the news of the dead 

whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you 

over telephones we are saying thank you 

in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators 

remembering wars and the police at the door 

and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you  

in the banks we are saying thank you 

in the faces of the officials and the rich

and of all who will never

change we go on saying thank you thank you 

with the animals dying around us 

our lost feelings we are saying thank you 

with the forests falling faster than the minutes

 of our lives we are saying thank you 

with the words going out like cells of a brain 

with the cities growing over us 

we are saying thank you faster and faster 

with nobody listening we are saying thank you 

we are saying thank you and waving 

dark though it is

Cat and I by May Swenson

Cat and I

Heat of the sun on wood of the deck. Spread flat,

my body accommodates to hardness on the worn boards.

Cat fools with my foot, trying to make my big toe

stay in her ear. She gets bored when you’re not here.

House feels hollow, without vibration, asleep.

No sudden bumps or door-slams, no shuffled dishes,

no water rushing in the tub, or outside from the hose.

Vacuum’s snarling inhale, hedge clipper’s chatter—

any welcome racket would make the little cat leap up,

land four-footed like a springbok, and race downstairs

to see what you are making happen. Instead, all is

neat and peaceful. Phone never rings. Or, if it does,

receiver waits long to be raised.

If you were here, I wouldn’t be this flat, sunbathing

a whole morning on the deck, half hearing the far

gargle of a helicopter over the bay. I get lazy when

you’re away. I have to feel guilty that I don’t do

all the Things To Do on today’s list.

Whether I ought, or not, I’m blaming it on you

that kitten doesn’t spring. Slow, from inside, wags

the old Seth Thomas pendulum. And from below I hear

the suspended slaps of the tide.

Kitten has quit fooling with my toe. She’s collapsed

in the shade under the overhang, her blond belly-frill

barely moving with her breath, heavy little bucket-head

dropped on paws. The crossed blue eyes are shut.

En Route by Adam Zagajewski

En Route

1.  Without Baggage

    To travel without baggage, sleep in the train

    on a hard wooden bench,

    forget your native land,

    emerge from small stations

    when a gray sky rises

    and fishing boats head to sea.

2.  In Belgium

    It was drizzling in Belgium

    and the river wound between hills.

    I thought, I'm so imperfect.

    The trees sat in the meadows

    like priests in green cassocks.

    October was hiding in the weeds.

    No, ma'am, I said,

    this is the nontalking compartment.

3.  A Hawk Circles Above the Highway

    It will be disappointed if it swoops down

    on sheet iron, on gas,

    on a tape of tawdry music,

    on our narrow hearts.

4.  Mont Blanc

    It shines from afar, white and cautious,

    like a lantern for shadows.

5.  Segesta

    On the meadow a vast temple—

    a wild animal

    open to the sky.

6.  Summer

    Summer was gigantic, triumphant—

    and our little car looked lost

    on the road going to Verdun.

7.  The Station in Bytom

    In the underground tunnel

    cigarette butts grow,

    not daisies.

    It stinks of loneliness.

8.  Retired People on a Field Trip

    They're learning to walk

    on land.

9.  Gulls

    Eternity doesn't travel,

    eternity waits.

    In a fishing port

    only the gulls are chatty.

10.  The Theater in Taormina

    From the theater in Taormina you spot

    the snow on Etna's peak

    and the gleaming sea.

    Which is the better actor?

11.  A Black Cat

    A black cat comes out to greet us

    as if to say, look at me

    and not some old Romanesque church.

    I'm alive.

12.  A Romanesque Church

    At the bottom of the valley

    a Romanesque church at rest:

    there's wine in this cask.

13.  Light

    Light on the walls of old houses,

    June.

    Passerby, open your eyes.

14.  At Dawn

    The world's materiality at dawn—

    and the soul's frailty.

  

(Translated by Clare Cavanagh)