Poets Translate Poets: A Hudson Review Anthology (10 page)

Th

e Beautiful Helmet Maker to the Daughters of Joy

“Beautiful Glove Girl, consider.

Blanche the Shoemaker, black or tan,

It’s time to think what the future

Holds for both of you. Spare no man!

Grab all the money that you can,

To right and left . Now! Don’t wait!

F r a nç oi s V i l l on
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Old women have no more value than

A coin that doesn’t circulate.

Sausage Seller, graceful dancer,

And Guillemette for Tapestry,

Don’t give your boss a back answer.

Without the shop where’ll you be?

With some old priest. All you’ll see

For wages—and he’ll hate to pay it,

Th

e Lord’s work should be done for free—

A coin that doesn’t circulate.

You, Bonnet Maker, bonny Jean,

Don’t let your boy friend pin you down.

Don’t be so choosy, Catherine.

If you want a man all of your own,

Try smiling for a change, don’t frown.

A plain girl can always get a date,

But what’ll you be when youth has fl own?

A coin that doesn’t circulate.

Girls, be warned! Th

e reason why

I weep and cry at such a rate,

Is that I’ll be like this till I die,

A coin that doesn’t circulate.”

Th

is was the lesson that she taught

Who once was beautiful and good,

And there it is, well said or not.

I’ve dictated as well as I could

To Fremin. I hope he understood

And the fool doesn’t spoil my work.

He may—his head is made of wood.

People judge the master by the clerk.

Louis Simpson, 1998

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Villon’s Epitaph

(Ballade of the Hanged Men)

O brother men who aft er us remain,

Do not look coldly on the scene you view,

For if you pity wretchedness and pain,

God will the more incline to pity you.

You see us hang here, half a dozen who

Indulged the fl esh in every liberty

Till it was pecked and rotted, as you see,

And these our bones to dust and ashes fall.

Let no one mock our sorry company,

But pray to God that He forgive us all.

If we have called you brothers, don’t disdain

Th

e appellation, though alas it’s true

Th

at not all men are equal as to brain,

And that our crimes and blunders were not few.

Commend us, now that we are dead, unto

Th

e Virgin Mary’s son, in hopes that He

Will not be sparing of His clemency,

But save our souls, which Satan would enthrall.

We’re dead now, brothers; show your charity

And pray to God that He forgive us all.

We have been rinsed and laundered by the rain,

And by the sunlight dried and blackened too.

Magpie and crow have plucked our eyeballs twain

And cropped our eyebrows and the beards we grew.

Nor have we any rest at all, for to

And fro we sway at the wind’s fantasy,

Which has no object, yet would have us be

(Pitted like thimbles) at its beck and call.

Do not aspire to our fraternity,

But pray to God that He forgive us all.

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Prince Jesus, we implore Your Majesty

To spare us Hell’s distress and obloquy;

We want no part of what may there befall.

And, mortal men, let’s have no mockery,

But pray to God that He forgive us all.

Richard Wilbur, 2012

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Joachim du Bell ay
(ca. 1522–60)

Les Amours XIII

As oft en a fi re that’s laid too close by ferns

Fastens at whim among the fern-bushes,

Or, fi nding wheatfi elds where a wind runs loose,

In fury of light limbs hurdles and burns,

As the attendant youngsters of his race

Will fi lter all the wood in fi nding out

Where, gnarled in bole or root, the pastor heat

Holds separate from their less canny pace:

So will love tindered in close innocence

Leap oft en boundless past its own surprise,

And it were wiser my pen here should stop

Th

an, running, semble a man small of sense

Who in the play and boredom of his house

Spurred off a fl ame that he could not rein up.

W. S. Merwin, 1949

Joac h i m du Be l l ay
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Je a n -A n toine de Ba ïf
(1532–89)

I, that for letting a smile’s favor

Loose from my youth in a light hour

Would with suitors’ press and fervor

Find my doorway darkened over,

Now to Venus, for her to keep,

Th

e promised mirror tender up,

For the shape which of late I wear

Is such as will not bear review

And the face once this surface knew

Stirs no such shadows any more.

W. S. Merwin, 1949

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Je a n Pa sser at
(1534–1602)

Sonnet

Addressed to Henry III on the death of Th

ulène, the King’s fool

Th

ulène is dead, my lord. I saw his funeral.

But it is in your power to bring him back again.

Appoint some poet to inherit his domain.

Poet and fool are of the same material.

One scorns advancement. One has nowhere to advance.

In both accounts the gain is smaller than the loss.

Both kinds are quick to anger, diffi

cult to cross.

One speaks on impulse, one leaves everything to chance.

One is light-headed, but the other one is seen

wearing a pretty cap and bells, yellow and green.

One sings his rhymes, the other capers to his chimes.

Yet we are diff erent in one important way.

Fortune has always favored fools, or so they say.

She’s seldom favored poets in the best of times.

Richmond Lattimore, 1973

J e a n Pa s se r at
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Pier r e Cor neille
(1606–84)

From
Le Cid

Cast of Characters

d on f e r na n d, fi rst King of Castile

d oña u r r aqu e , Infanta of Castile

d on di è gu e , Father of Don Rodrigue

d on g om e s , Count of Gormas, father of Chimène

d on rodr igu e , in love with Chimène; her beloved

d on s a nc h e , in love with Chimène

d on a r i a s , Castilian noble

d on a l onse , Castilian noble

c h i m è n e , daughter of Don Gomes

l é onor , the Infanta’s lady in waiting

e lv i r e , Chimène’s lady in waiting

a pag e

Act II, Scene 3

i n fa n ta

Chimène, my dear, don’t grieve and suff er so;

Don’t let yourself be shattered by this blow.

Calm will return soon, aft er this little squall;

A passing cloud has dimmed your bliss, that’s all,

And you’ll lose nothing by a brief delay.

c h i m è n e

My heart has lost all hope in its dismay.

Th

e sudden storm that shook my calm has made

Me certain of our shipwreck, and afraid

Th

at we shall founder in the port, indeed.

I loved, was loved, our fathers were agreed,

And I was giving you that happy word

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Just at the moment when their quarrel occurred.—

Which, when the news was brought you, made it plain

Th

at all sweet expectations were in vain.

Cursèd ambition, lunacy which rules

In noblest hearts, and turns men into fools!

Honor, which wrests from me my dearest prize,

What shall you cost me now in tears and sighs!

i n fa n ta

Th

eir quarrel’s nothing to be troubled by:

’Twas a moment’s fl are-up, and as soon will die.

It’s made a stir that quickly will be ended.

Th

e King already bids the breach be mended;

And you well know that I, who feel your grief,

Will spare no pains to bring your heart relief.

c h i m è n e

Such things won’t vanish at the King’s behest,

A mortal insult cannot be redressed.

Neither to force nor reason will men yield;

Only in semblance can the wound be healed.

Th

e hatred that men’s hearts contrive to hide

Grows hotter still for being kept inside.

i n fa n ta

Your sacred tie with Don Rodrigue will be

Th

e solvent of your fathers’ enmity,

And you will feel your love the stronger for

Its power to make them harbor hate no more.

c h i m è n e

I wish for that, yet doubt it can be so.

Don Diègue’s too proud; my father’s mind I know.

Pi e r r e C or n e i l l e
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I can’t hold back these tears of grief I shed.

I mourn the past; the future’s full of dread.

i n fa n ta

Is it a frail old man’s revenge you fear?

c h i m è n e

Rodrigue’s courageous.

i n fa n ta

He’s too young, my dear.

c h i m è n e

Brave men, at any age, are always such.

i n fa n ta

You mustn’t fret about Rodrigue too much.

He loves you, and he’ll do as you require.

A word from you, and he’ll suppress his ire.

c h i m è n e

How crushed I’d be, if he did not obey!

And if he obeyed me, what would people say?

Would a good son suff er such indignity?

Whether he heeded or resisted me,

I’d either be ashamed of his compliance

Or deeply troubled by his just defi ance.

i n fa n ta

Your soul, Chimène, is noble, and in spite

Of your own interest, sees with honest sight.

But, till the quarrel’s settled, what if I were

To make your perfect knight my prisoner,

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And stand between his courage and his foe?

Would you be happy if I acted so?

c h i m è n e

Oh, Madam! I would then be free of fear.

Act II, Scene 7

d on a l onse

Sire, the Count is dead.

Don Diègue has taken vengeance through his son.

d on f e r na n d

I feared this outcome when the wrong was done,

And bade the Count make peace then with Don Diègue.

d on a l onse

Chimène is coming here in tears to beg

For justice, Sire, and clasp your royal knees.

d on f e r na n d

Th

ough in her grief she has my sympathies,

What the Count did seems richly to deserve

Th

is just chastisement of his pride and nerve.

And yet, however just his death may be,

I grieve to lose a champion such as he.

Aft er the loyal, long career he led,

And all the blood that for my throne he shed,

Th

ough he was arrogant, his passing yet

Weakens my power and fi lls me with regret.

Act III, Scene 6

d on di è gu e

Rodrigue! Th

ank heaven I’ve found you, my dear boy!

Pi e r r e C or n e i l l e
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d on rodr igu e

Alas!

d on di è gu e

Let’s have no sighs to mar my joy.

When I’ve caught my breath, I’ll praise you, for you’ve shown

A valor that’s the equal of my own.

You’ve learned your trade, and in your derring-do

A race of heroes lives again in you.

Th

rough me, you stem from that intrepid line;

Your fi rst great sword-blow equaled all of mine,

And by your youthful ardor you became

At once the rival of your father’s fame.

Prop of my age, fi ne son of whom I dreamed,

Touch these white hairs whose honor you’ve redeemed,

And kiss this cheek, the once-insulted place

Whose shame you’ve had the courage to erase.

d on rodr igu e

Sir, I could do no less; it was your due

From one who was begot and raised by you;

And I rejoice that he to whom I owe