Αργοπορημένοι κι αμετανόητοι επιστρέφουμε για πέμπτη φορά στον τόπο του εγκλήματος, αυτή τη φορά για να εστιάσουμε σε 5 ποιήματα του 19ου αιώνα που «μας μπήκαν στο μάτι». Ελπίζουμε να μας κάνετε την τιμή να στείλετε τη δική σας μεταφραστική εκδοχή στη διεύθυνση που υπάρχει στην ταυτότητα του ιστολογίου.
Επειδή δεν τα πάω καλά με τις προθεσμίες (εξάλλου είχα προαναγγείλει αυτή την Ιστοσυνάντηση πριν από αρκετούς μήνες…), να ξέρετε ότι αυτή τη φορά δεν υπάρχει βία: το καλοκαίρι είναι δικό σας — η ανάρτηση των μεταφράσεων θα ξεκινήσει αρχές Σεπτέμβρη.
Καλή ανάγνωση, καλή απόλαυση, καλές διακοπές, και καλή μετάφραση…
1. John Keats (1795-1821) - This living hand (1819)
This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calmed—see here it is—
I hold it towards you.
2. Walt Whitman (1819-1892) - I Sit and Look Out (1860)
I sit and look out upon all the sorrows of the world, and upon all oppression and shame,
I hear secret convulsive sobs from young men at anguish with themselves, remorseful after deeds done,
I see in low life the mother misused by her children, dying, neglected, gaunt, desperate,
I see the wife misused by her husband, I see the treacherous seducer of young women,
I mark the ranklings of jealousy and unrequited love attempted to be hid, I see these sights on the earth,
I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny, I see martyrs and prisoners,
I observe a famine at sea, I observe the sailors casting lots who shall be kill'd to preserve the lives of the rest,
I observe the slights and degradations cast by arrogant persons upon laborers, the poor, and upon negroes, and the like;
All these--all the meanness and agony without end I sitting look out upon,
See, hear, and am silent.
3. Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) - I died for Beauty — but was scarce (1890)
I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.
He questioned softly why I failed?
"For beauty", I replied.
"And I for truth -- the two are one;
We brethren, are," he said.
And so, as kinsmen, met a night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.
4. Christina Rossetti (1830-1894) – Remember (1862)
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more, day by day,
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
5. Thomas Moore (1779-1852) - Farewell!—but whenever you welcome the hour (1813)
Farewell! but whenever you welcome the hour
Which awakens the night-song of mirth in your bow'r,
Then think of the friend who once welcom'd it too,
And forgot his own grief to be happy with you.
His griefs may return, not a hope may remain,
Of the few that have brighten'd his pathway of pain,
But he ne'er will forget his short vision that threw
Its enchantment around him, while ling'ring with you.
And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup,
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,
My soul, happy friends! shall be with you that night;
Shall join in your revels, your sports and your wiles,
And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles! --
Too blest, if it tells me, that, 'mid the gay cheer,
Some kind voice had murmur'd, I wish he were here!
Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy;
Which come, in the night-time of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features that joy us'd to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd!
Like the vase in which roses have once been distill'd --
You may break, you may ruin the vase if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.