Poets Translate Poets: A Hudson Review Anthology (5 page)

Mary Jane White, with its ironic title considering the poem’s length and its

endlessly microscopic examination of how two lovers break apart and their

relationship slowly dissolves.

All of the salient interests of English and American poet-translators of

the past sixty-fi ve years and more are here in
Poets Translate Poets
: classical Greek and Latin; Medieval Chinese; Old and Medieval English; Medieval,

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I n t r o d u c t i o n

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Renaissance, and Modern European; and Southeast Asian. A complete

anthology of poems in translation from the
Hudson Review
could supply a book three or four times the length of this one. But this selection has been

made according to the advice Ezra Pound gave to Marianne Moore when

translating La Fontaine, and is an attempt to include only the best.

I n t roduc t ion
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Poets Tr anslate Poets

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B u l g a r i a n

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K r a ssin Him m ir sk y
(ca. 1939)

Th

e Cricket

In vain we tried to banish him.

Th

e roar of engines did not drive him away,

nor the asphalt with which we covered the fi elds.

We put up steel fences, walls of cement

and concrete.

Darkened the air with gas fumes

and shut ourselves in highrise buildings.

But he, like a password,

crossed every barrier unharmed.

And when we claimed victory

in the shade of a leaf, unseen

his fi ne string music started again.

Its tone reeled off our forgotten friends,

our forgotten homes,

our souls.

It recalled to mind

the world’s forgotten beauty.

Th

en we looked for him,

meaning to speak in friendship at last,

but in vain.

He was nowhere visible.

And only within us

still rang and rang his refrain.

Denise Levertov, 1983

K r a s si n H i m m i r sk y
3

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C h i n e s e

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T u Fu
(712–70)

Adviser to the Court

Working All Night in Springtime

When day begins to darken

Flowers along the wall

Merge into the shadows.

Skyward the birds chirp soft ly

Searching for a roost.

Ten thousand common households

Are illumined by the stars.

Th

e fi rmament of Heaven

Is drenched in all the moonlight

Of this most brilliant night.

So quiet! I hear keys turning

In gold locks of the Palace doors.

Th

e wind, a faint jingle, sounding

Like the Imperial horses

As they shake their pendants of jade.

I must present a memorial

To the Th

rone-room, in the morning.

Sleepless now, whether I work or not,

All night I measure the hours

Of all night, in my mind. . . .

Reply to a Friend’s Advice

Leaving the Audience by the quiet corridors,

Stately and beautiful, we pass through the Palace gates,

Turning in diff erent directions: you go to the West

With the Ministers of State. I, otherwise.

T u F u
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On my side, the willow-twigs are fragile, greening.

You are struck by scarlet fl owers over there.

Our separate ways! You write so well, so kindly,

To caution, in vain, a garrulous old man.

On the Way Out

Last year I rejoined the Emperor by this road

When the barbarians swarmed over the Western suburbs.

I’m so far from having recovered from my fear

Th

at shreds of my soul still dangle in the air.

Dangling and wandering, as I do now,

Close to the Th

rone, yet I am driven away

To a vast, distant province! Surely His Majesty

Could not have intended this. What, I, betrayed?

Ruin! As talent fails and I grow old.

My steadfastness in trying times has aged me.

I pull on my horse’s reins, and pausing,

Gaze for a fi nal time on the Palace walls.

Banishment

Too Much Heat, Too Much Work

It’s the fourteenth of August, and I’m too hot

To endure food, or bed. Steam and the fear of scorpions,

Keep me awake. I’m told the heat won’t fade with Autumn.

Swarms of fl ies arrive. I’m roped into my clothes.

In another moment I’ll scream down the offi

ce

As the paper mountains rise higher on my desk.

Oh those real mountains to the south of here!

I gaze at the ravines kept cool by pines.

If I could walk on ice, with my feet bare!

8
C h i n e s e

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Reunion

Joy in this meeting grieves our two white heads

Knowing they greet each other a fi nal time.

We nod through the long night watches, still resenting

Th

e speed with which the candle shrinks and pales.

I dread the hour the Milky Way dries up forever.

Let us fi ll our cups and drain them, over and over

While we can, before the world returns with dawn

When we blot our eyes and turn our backs on each other.

Carolyn Kizer, 1964

T u F u
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O l d E n g l i s h

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A non ymous

Th

e Fire-Drake, from
Beowulf

Lines 2510–2709

Now Beowulf spoke his last battle-boast:

“In boyhood I braved bitter clashes;

still in old age I would seek out strife

and gain glory guarding my folk

if the man-bane comes from his cave to meet me.”

Th

en he turned to his troop for the fi nal time,

bidding farewell to bold helmet-bearers,

fast in friendship: “No sword would I wear,

no weapon at all to ward off the worm

if I knew how to fi ght this fi endish foe

as I grappled with Grendel one bygone night.

But here I shall fi nd fi erce battle-fi re

and breath envenomed, therefore I bear

this mail-coat and shield. I shall not shy

from standing my ground when I greet the hoard-guard,

follow what will at the foot of his wall.

I shall face the fi end with a fi rm heart.

Let every man’s Ruler reckon my fate:

words are worthless against the war-fl yer.

Bide by the barrow, safe in your byrnies,

and watch, my warriors, which of us two

will better bear the brunt of our clash.

Th

is war is not yours; it is meted to me,

matching my strength, man against monster.

I shall do this deed undaunted by death

and shall get you gold or else get my ending,

borne off in battle, the bane of your lord.”

A non y mou s
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Th

e hero arose, helmed and hardy,

a war-king clad in shield and corslet.

He strode strongly under the stone-cliff :

no faint-hearted man, to face it unfl inching!

Stalwart soldier of so many marches,

unshaken when shields were crushed in the clash,

he saw between stiles an archway where steam

burst like a boiling tide from the barrow,

woeful for one close to the worm-hoard.

He would not linger long unburned by the lurker

or safely slip through the searing lair.

Th

en a battle-cry broke from Beowulf’s breast

as his rightful rage was roused for the reckoning.

His challenge sounded under stark stone

where the hateful hoard-guard heard in his hollow

the clear-voiced call of a man coming.

No quarter was claimed; no quarter given.

First the beast’s breath blew hot from the barrow

as battle-bellows boomed underground.

Th

e stone-house stormer swung up his shield

at the ghastly guardian. Th

en the dragon’s grim heart

kindled for confl ict. Uncoiling, he came

seeking the Stalwart; but the swordsman had drawn

the keen-edged blade bequeathed him for combat,

and each foe confronted the other with fear.

His will unbroken, the warlord waited

behind his tall shield, helm and hauberk.

With fi tful twistings the fi re-drake hastened

fatefully forward. His fender held high,

Beowulf felt the blaze blister through

hotter and sooner than he had foreseen.

So for the fi rst time fortune was failing

the mighty man in the midst of a struggle.

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Ol d E n g l i s h

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Wielding his sword he struck at the worm

and his fabled blade bit to the bone

through blazoned hide: bit and bounced back,

no match for the foe in this moment of need.

Th

e peerless prince was hard-pressed in response,

for his bootless blow had maddened the monster

and fatal fl ames shot further than ever,

lighting the land. No praise for the warlord’s

prowess in battle: the blade he brandished

had failed in the fray though forged from iron.

No easy end for the son of Ecgetheow:

against his will he would leave this world

to dwell elsewhere, as every man must

when his days are done. Swift ly the death-dealer

moved to meet him. From the murderous breast

bellows of breath belched fresh fl ames.

Enfolded in fi re, he who formerly

ruled a whole realm had no one to help him

hold off the heat, for his hand-picked band

of princelings had fl ed, fearing to face

the foe with their lord. Loving honor

less than their lives, they hid in the holt.

But one among them grieved for the Geats

and balked at quitting his kinsman, the king.

Th

is one was Wiglaf, son of Weostan,

beloved shield-bearer born in Scylf-land.

Seeing his liege-lord suff ering sorely

with war-mask scorched by the searing onslaught,

the thankful thane thought of the boons

his kinsman bestowed: the splendid homestead

and folk-rights his father formerly held.

No shirker could stop him from seizing his shield

A non y mou s
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of yellow linden and lift ing the blade

Weostan won when he slew Eanmund,

son of Othere. Spoils of that struggle,

sword and scabbard, smithwork of giants,

a byrnie of ring-mail and bright-burnished helm

were granted as gift s, a thane’s war-garb,