Regeneration (Vol. 4)

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Editorial

Chastely to write these eclogues I need to lie, like the astrologers, in an attic next the sky where, high among church spires, I can dream and hear their grave hymns wind-blown to my ivory tower.

—Derek Mahon, The Yellow Book The art of literary translation holds a curious position within a university structure, caught between being a creative output, an academic endeavour, and often employed as a tool of cultural transference. This year’s editorial board have extensively debated where we, as a journal of literary translation, operate within this matrix. The Creative Writing Supplement of Vol. III has been incorporated into the main edition of the volume. The academic translations do not take precedence over the creative—nor vice versa— they are but two parts of the same thing.

Vol. IV continues to provide a platform for translations of literature with a capital ‘L’, along with opening out the potential reach of contemporary creative writing by facilitating exemplary translations of new texts. This year has seen a movement towards a greater online presence of JoLT, with a special issue of Cyrus Cassells’ translations of Francesc Parcerisas’ Catalan poetry released only in a digital format. ‘Regenerating Yeats’, a year-long exploration of W.B. Yeats’s canon and responses to his works in translation, was released in online serials before being collected in this edition. Whilst endeavouring to cultivate a sense of tradition from our four year history, JoLT is also looking to future mediums of engagement with literary translation.

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The theme of Vol. IV is ‘Regeneration’ and features an exciting array of texts including translation triptychs, and an ever increasing diversity of languages. Our network of language editors stretches across the globe, and for their diligence and professionalism I am eternally grateful; without their help this publication would cease to exist. The Editorial Board have also worked tirelessly to facilitate JoLT’s expanding enterprises over the last twelve months. I also wish to extend my sincere thanks to our generous sponsors, the Turkish Embassy, Trinity Publications Committee, and Trinity College’s School of English.

Thomas Rodgers Endersby Chief Editor

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Editorial

But language is restless. ­ — Lyn Hejinian, from My Life The initiation of the Creative Writing supplement into the Trinity JoLT project last year marked a crucial progression in the young journal’s participation in the immediate goings-on of contemporary verbal arts. With this JoLT extended its function to become a site for the interaction of contemporary translation with current creative writing practices.

This year’s section has materialised from JoLT inviting submissions of original writing or all genres and modes under the theme of Regeneration, and also in response to Yeats’s “The Second Coming” for the ongoing Regenerating Yeats project. The unique significance of this enterprise is the appearance of original pieces and their solicited translation in print for the first time simultaneously. It is our hope that this facilitates a stimulating compound reading experience in which the creative processes of verbal composition and literary translation, and the complexity of their interaction, might be attended to at the same time. We also hope that this endeavour has encouraged writers and readers of emerging literature to engage with a consideration of translation where they may not have before, as a process that forces a cultural collaboration and opens creative ideas into other linguistic spheres, allowing them to touch other minds and evolve in disparate mediums.

I am immensely grateful to all writers, translators and language editors who have contributed this year. Their creative drive, willingness to collaborate, and cooperation with the complicated interchanges involved this project are

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what have made its realisation possible. Here we present a selection of dynamic encounters between creation and translation, generation and regeneration.

Susanna Galbraith Creative Editor

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Editorial

Ba mhór an onóir dom bheith i mo phríomheagarthóir Gaeilge le JoLT i mbliana. Tá an iris ceithre bliana ar an bhfód anois, agus is dóigh liom gur mór an dul chun cinn atá déanta againn ó shin ó thaobh na Gaeilge de. Tá roinnt mhaith aistriúchán Gaeilge i gcló san eagrán seo, chomh maith le saothar cruthaitheach a scríobhadh sa teanga.

Cé go raibh mé féin ag plé leis an saothar seo ar fad, agus cé gur mór an taitneamh a bhain mé as eagarthóireacht a dhéanamh air, ní mór dom a aithint nach raibh ach ról beag agamsa sa phróiseas seo. Ar ndóigh, is de bharr obair na n-aistritheoirí agus na scríbhneoirí féin atá muid in ann ábhar i nGaeilge a chur i gcló, agus ba mhaith liom mo bhuíochas a ghabháil leo siúd go príomha. Tá mé fíorbhuíoch freisin den bhord eagarthóireachta ar fad, a d’oibrigh go dian chun an t-eagrán seo den iris a chur le chéile. Ní mór dom aitheantas speisialta a thabhairt do Thomas Rodgers Endersby, óir murach an tsárobair a rinne seisean, agus murach an tacaíocht a thug sé don fhoireann uile, ní dóigh liom go mbeadh JoLT leath chomh snasta dea-dhéanta is atá sé.

Tá súil agam go mbainfidh an léitheoir an sult céanna as a bhfuil idir dhá chlúdach na hirise seo is a bhain mé féin as.

Peter Weakliam Príomheagarthóir Gaeilge

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Contents

Academic

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Creative

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Fragment 16 Εἲς Διοσκούρους Ezekiel 36 [untitled] Fritz Leiber Relee Algunos de sus Cuentos [untitled] Tardes de Barcelona Entre las Moscas San Roberto de Troya Campaign Die Löwin aus Cinque Terre Spazio La Petite Auto Lasair Ag Léamh Ban Morning Song Transmutaciones Little Hawk Shalott The Morning 蛍 Merdream Tilting Rebuild Adelheid Harmony #1 (Planetarium) Harmony #2 (Shake: The Cryptic Wood)

12 14 16 22 26 28 30 32 34 36 38 54 58 66 72 74 78 80 82 84 92 98 100 102 112 114 116

Ancient Greek/ Irish Ancient Greek Latin Arabic Spanish Spanish Spanish Spanish Spanish Irish German Italian French Irish Irish Irish Spanish German French Italian Japanese Irish Irish Turkish Spanish French French

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Regenerating Yeats

Brown Penny Purgatory No Second Troy The White Birds Some Revelation (after Yeats) Geometric Dasein Time for Ashes He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven The Cap and Bells The Pity of Love A Coat Down by the Salley Gardens

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120 122 146 150 152 154 158 160 162 166 168 170

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Turkish Czech German/Farsi German Italian German Mandarin Mandarin Polish Polish Polish Japanese

Academic

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Fragment 16 Sappho Οἰ μὲν ἰππήων στρότον, οἰ δὲ πέσδων, οἰ δὲ νάων φαῖσ’ ἐπὶ γᾶν μέλαιναν ἔμμεναι κάλλιστον, ἐγὼ δὲ κῆν’ ὄττω τις ἔραται πάγχυ δ’ εὔμαρες σύνετον πόησαι πάντι τοῦτ’· ἀ γὰρ πολὺ περσκέθοισα κάλλος ἀνθρώπων Ἐλένα τὸν ἄνδρα τὸν πανάριστον καλλίποισ’ ἔβας ‘ς Τροίαν πλέοισα κωὐδὲ παῖδος οὐδὲ φίλων τοκήων πάμπαν ἐμνάσθη, ἀλλὰ παράγαγ’ αὔταν οὐκ ἀέκοισαν Κύπρις· εὔκαμπτον γὰρ ἔφυ βρότων κῆρ ] κούφως τ . . . οη . . . ν κἄμε νῦν Ἀνακτορίας ὀνέμναισ’ οὐ παρεοίσας τᾶς κε βολλοίμαν ἔρατόν τε βᾶμα κἀμάρυχμα λάμπρον ἴδην προσώπω ἢ τὰ Λύδων ἄρματα κἀν ὄπλοισι πεσδομάχεντας.

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Táthar ann a dhéarfadh (Blúire 16) trans. Clare Ní Cheallaigh Táthar ann a dhéarfadh nach bhfuil ní níos áille ar an domhan dubh seo ná marcshlua nó coisithe nó cabhlach.

Ach dar liomsa, an ní is áille dá bhfuil ann ná cibé rud a bhfuil grá agat dó.

Agus tuigtear é seo mar gheall ar Helen bhreá, a sháraigh áilleacht na mban daonna, is a thréig scoth na bhfear le seoladh trasna na farraige, gan cuimhne ar a páiste nó a tuismitheoirí dil, an Grá á stiúradh chuig an Traí.

Is dar ndóigh cuirtear Anactóiria i gcuimhne dom arís…

Mar b’fhearr liom breathnú athuair ar a coiscéim shéimh is glioscarnach gheal a haghaidhe ná ar charbaid uile na Lidia agus saighdiúirí breá faoi airm.

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Εἲς Διοσκούρους

ἀμφὶ Διὸς κούρους, ἑλικώπιδες ἔσπετε Μοῦσαι, Τυνδαρίδας, Λήδης καλλισφύρου ἀγλαὰ τέκνα, Κάστορά θ᾽ ἱππόδαμον καὶ ἀμώμητον Πολυδεύκεα, τοὺς ὑπὸ Ταϋγέτου κορυφῇ ὄρεος μεγάλοιο μιχθεῖσ᾽ ἐν φιλότητι κελαινεφέι Κρονίωνι σωτῆρας τέκε παῖδας ἐπιχθονίων ἀνθρώπων ὠκυπόρων τε νεῶν, ὅτε τε σπέρχωσιν ἄελλαι χειμέριαι κατὰ πόντον ἀμείλιχον: οἳ δ᾽ ἀπὸ νηῶν εὐχόμενοι καλέουσι Διὸς κούρους μεγάλοιο ἄρνεσσιν λευκοῖσιν, ἐπ᾽ ἀκρωτήρια βάντες πρύμνης: τὴν δ᾽ ἄνεμός τε μέγας καὶ κῦμα θαλάσσης θῆκαν ὑποβρυχίην: οἳ δ᾽ ἐξαπίνης ἐφάνησαν ξουθῇσι πτερύγεσσι δι᾽ αἰθέρος ἀίξαντες, αὐτίκα δ᾽ ἀργαλέων ἀνέμων κατέπαυσαν ἀέλλας, κύματα δ᾽ ἐστόρεσαν λευκῆς ἁλὸς ἐν πελάγεσσι, σήματα καλά, πόνου ἀπονόσφισιν: οἳ δὲ ἰδόντες γήθησαν, παύσαντο δ᾽ ὀιζυροῖο πόνοιο. χαίρετε, Τυνδαρίδαι, ταχέων ἐπιβήτορες ἵππων: αὐτὰρ ἐγὼν ὑμέων τε καὶ ἄλλης μνήσομ᾽ ἀοιδῆς.

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from an Elegy by Mimnermus trans. Claudio Sansone We are as nascent leaves in the many-blossomed season of spring, when they rapidly accrete beneath the sunbeams— for a brief moment we enjoy the bloom of youth, knowing neither evil nor good from the gods.

But the black goddesses of death stand at our side; one proffers the atrocious fate of old age, and the other, death. Short-lived is youth’s fruit, like the sun at dawn, spreading its light across the earth.

But when this season comes to its end, at once it will be better to be dead than alive.

For many troubles reach the heart: a house may be thrown into ruin, and poverty’s bitter miseries arise; a man who is in need of heirs is sent with his desires into the earth, to Hades.

Another yet is struck by a soul-wrenching disease. There is no man to whom Zeus may not give many struggles.

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Ezekiel 36

22 Idcirco dices domui Israël : Hæc dicit Dominus Deus : Non propter vos ego faciam, domus Israël, sed propter nomen sanctum meum, quod polluistis in gentibus ad quas intrastis.

23 Et sanctificabo nomen meum magnum quod pollutum est inter gentes, quod polluistis in medio earum : ut sciant gentes quia ego Dominus, ait Dominus exercituum, cum sanctificatus fuero in vobis coram eis.

24 Tollam quippe vos de gentibus, et congregabo vos de universis terris, et adducam vos in terram vestram.

25 Et effundam super vos aquam mundam, et mundabimini ab omnibus inquinamentis vestris, et ab universis idolis vestris mundabo vos.

26 Et dabo vobis cor novum, et spiritum novum ponam in medio vestri : et auferam cor lapideum de carne vestra, et dabo vobis cor carneum.

27 Et spiritum meum ponam in medio vestri : et faciam ut in præceptis meis ambuletis, et judicia mea custodiatis et operemini.

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Ezekiel 36 trans. Bernard Mackey 22 Therefore you will say to the house of Israel: Thus says the Lord God: By no means on account of you will I bring this to pass, house of Israel, but on account of my sacred name, which amongst the nations you have entered you have defiled.

23 And I will sanctify my mighty name which is defiled amid the nations, which you have defiled in the midst of them: so that the nations may know that I am the Lord, affirms the Lord of multitudes, because I will be sanctified in you before their eyes.

24 By all means I will lift you up away from the nations, and I will assemble you together away from all lands, and I will lead you into your land.

25 And I will pour forth over you clean water, and you will be made clean from all of your filthiness, and from the entirety of your idols I will cleanse you.

26 And I will bestow to you a new heart, and a new breath I will place in the midst of you: and I will remove the heart of stone away from your flesh, and I will bestow to you a heart of flesh.

27 And my breath I will place in the midst of you: and I will make so that you may walk in my commandments,

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28 Et habitabitis in terra quam dedi patribus vestris : et eritis mihi in populum, et ego ero vobis in Deum.

29 Et salvabo vos ex universis inquinamentis vestris : et vocabo frumentum et multiplicabo illud, et non imponam vobis famem.

30 Et multiplicabo fructum ligni, et genimina agri, ut non portetis ultra opprobrium famis in gentibus.

31 Et recordabimini viarum vestrarum pessimarum, studiorumque non bonorum : et displicebunt vobis iniquitates vestrĂŚ et scelera vestra.

32 Non propter vos ego faciam, ait Dominus Deus, notum sit vobis : confundimini, et erubescite super viis vestris, domus IsraĂŤl.

33 HĂŚc dicit Dominus Deus : In die qua mundavero vos ex omnibus iniquitatibus vestris, et inhabitari fecero urbes, et instauravero ruinosa,

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and you may defend and carry out my judgements.

28 And you will dwell in the land that I delivered to your fathers: and you will be as my people, and I will be as your God. 29 And I will deliver you out from all of your filthiness: and I will summon the grain and I will augment it, and by no means will I inflict hunger on you.

30 And I will augment the fruit of the tree, and the produce of the pasture, so that by no means may you suffer again the disgrace of hunger amongst the nations.

31 And you will be mindful of your treacherous ways, and eagerness for unrighteousness: and your iniquities and your sins will displease you.

32 By no means on account of you will I perform this, affirms the Lord God, may it be known to you: be confounded, and ashamed through your ways, house of Israel.

33 Thus says the Lord God: In the day that I will make you clean from all of your iniquities, and I will make the cities to be settled,

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34 et terra deserta fuerit exculta, quæ quondam erat desolata in oculis omnis viatoris, 35 dicent : Terra illa inculta facta est ut hortus voluptatis : et civitates desertæ, et destitutæ atque suffossæ, munitæ sederunt.

36 Et scient gentes quæcumque derelictæ fuerint in circuitu vestro, quia ego Dominus ædificavi dissipata, plantavique inculta : ego Dominus locutus sim, et fecerim.

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and I will renew the ruins, 34 and deserted land will be cultivated, that was formerly desolate in the eyes of all wayfarers, 35 They will say: That land was uncultivated is now become a garden of satisfaction: and deserted cities, forsaken and overthrown, are secured and established.

36 And all the nations that around you remain will know, that I the Lord have established what was dispersed, planted what was uncultivated: I the Lord have spoken, and have accomplished.

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[untitled] Abu’l-`Ala’ al-Ma`

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[untitled] trans. Kevin Mark Blankship You ache darkly in mind and faith,

So come! Hear these sound truths: Don’t eat what’s snatched sharply at sea

Nor seek fare in the newly slain, Or mothers’ eggs, laid to bear babes,

Purer stock than highborn maids.

Don’t harm carefree birds, for

Cruelty is the basest of evils; And shun thick, white honey, struck fresh

5 On bee limbs in fragrant blooms — The hive didn’t guard it to lavish you,

Nor gather just to give it away.

I’ve washed my hands of all this! If only I’d Heeded before the grey tugged at my brow. * * * Sons of the age! Know you the secrets

I’ve learned but don’t lightly betray?

You fell into blight, though guided

By what faultless creatures avow.

The tempter to fault beckoned you;

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Why was your answer so eager?

When faith’s truths come out, so

Does the guilt of shame’s proctors; As you are guided, don’t bloody swords

Nor make twigs into probes for wounds. * * * I joy in those who hate their food

To be reckoned the toil of misers.

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Those liberal in stuff and substance Also seek virtue among fate’s turns — Christ hoarded not his soul for God,

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But roamed with the step of a hermit. * * * I’m covered in earth — when death’s Trace quits me not — by one loathe to, One wary to touch bones like

Those of perished cast-asides; Among the ill deeds of man are the Wail of burial callers, the slap of mourners. * * * I pardon wrongs of friend and foe,

To tarry deep in the house of truth.

Reluctant even to laud the unsullied,

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How could I bear to praise pretenders?

Souls are firm like riding mounts, Till gaunt, they fade to haggard beasts; A mortal gains not from gushing Rainclouds when capped in dirt, And if people wanted water, they’d Rush to flat graves of moist earth.

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Fritz Leiber Relee Algunos de sus Cuentos Roberto Bolaño El gato que ayer me era simpático hoy ya habla Supangamos que los pensameintos negros también son nave heliocéntricas El anhelo siempra escapa de las pérfidas emboscadas pavlovianas Hacia el núcleo de la revolución Bebiendo un resplandor llamado whisky Pregúntale al escritor: ¿qué va a ser de toda esta gente?

A vesce soy inmensamente feliz No importa lo que yo te diga

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Fritz Leiber Re-reads Some of his Stories trans. Leo Dunsker The cat who was nice to me yesterday is already talking today We suppose that the black thoughts are also heliocentric vessels Desire always escapes from treacherous Pavlovian ambushes Towards the nucleus of revolution Drinking a splendour called whiskey Ask the writer: What’s to become of all these people?

Sometimes I’m immensely happy It doesn’t matter what I tell you

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[untitled] Roberto BolaĂąo Nadie te manda cartas ahora Debajo del faro en el atardecer Los labios partidos por el viento Hacia el Este hacen lea revoluciĂłn Un gato duerme entre tus brazos A veces eres inmensamente feliz

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[untitled] trans. Leo Dunsker Nobody sends you letters now Beneath the lighthouse at dusk Lips parted by the wind To the East they’re making a revolution A cat sleeps in your arms Sometimes you’re immensely happy

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Tardes de Barcelona Roberto BolaĂąo En el centro del texto estĂĄ la lepra.

Estoy bien. Escribo mucho. Te quiero mucho

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Barcelona Afternoons trans. Leo Dunsker At the center of the text is leprosy.

I’m well. I write a lot. I love you a lot.

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Entre las Moscas Roberto Bolaño Poetas Troyanos Ya nada de lo que podía ser vuestro Existe Ni templos ni jardines Ni poesía Sois libres Admirables poetas troyanos

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Among the Flies trans. Leo Dunsker Poets of Troy Already nothing that could have been yours Exists Neither temples nor gardens Nor poetry You are free Admirable poets of Troy

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San Roberto de Troya Roberto Bolaño Admirables troyanos En la veteranía de la peste y de lepra Sin dudo vivas En el grado cero de la fidelidad Admirables troyanos que lucharon por Belleza Recorriendo los caminos sembrados de máquinas inservibles Mi métrica mis instuiciones mi soledad al cabo de la jornada (¿Qué rimas son éstas? dije sosteniendo la espada) Regalos que avanzan por el desierto: ustedes mismos Admirables ciudadanos de Troya

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Saint Robert of Troy trans. Leo Dunsker Admirable Trojans In the dignity of plague and of leprosy Without a doubt you live At the degree zero of fidelity Admirable Trojans who fought for Beauty Traversing roads strewn with machines now defunct My meter my intuitions my solitude after the workday (What rhymes are these? I said holding a sword) Gifts that advance through the desert: yourselves Admirable citizens of Troy

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Campaign Ciaran Carson They had questioned him for hours. Who exactly was he?

And when He told them, they questioned him again. When they accepted who he was, as Someone not involved, they pulled out his fingernails. Then They took him to a waste-ground somewhere near the Horseshoe Bend, and told him What he was. They shot him nine times.

A dark umbilicus of smoke was rising from a heap of burning tyres.

The bad smell he smelt was the smell of himself. Broken glass and knotted Durex.

The knuckles of a face in a nylon stocking. I used to see him in the Gladstone Bar, Drawing pints for strangers, his almost perfect fingers flecked with scum.

‘Campaign’ by Ciaran Carson from Collected Poems (2008) by kind permission of the author and The Gallery Press.

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Feachtas trans. Emer Ó Cearbhaill Bhíodar á cheistiú ar feadh uaireanta an chloig. Cérbh é go díreach? A luaithe A d’inis sé dóibh, cheistíodar arís é. Nuair a ghlacadar leis cérbh é, duine Nach raibh páirteach ann, stoitheadar ingne a lámh. Ansin Thugadar leo é chuig screabán in aice Chor an Chrú Capaill, is d’insíodar dó Cén rud é. Chaitheadar naoi n-urchar leis.

Bhí imleacán dorcha deataigh ag éirí as carnán rothaí dóite.

An boladh bréan a bholaigh sé ba é a bholadh féin é. Gloine bhriste is Durex snaidhmthe.

Ailtíní aghaidhe i stoca níolóin. D’fheicinn féin é sa Ghladstone Bar, Ag tarraingt piontaí do strainséirí, a mhéaracha – beagnach foirfe – breac le screamh.

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Die Löwin aus Cinque Terre Felicitas Mayall Sehr Langsam, beinahe lautlos, bewegte sie ihre Füße über die blauen und schmutzig weißen Kacheln, die den Boden des Vorraums bedeckten. Als sie die Treppe erreichte, hielt sie sich am Geländer fest, legte den Kopf in den Nacken, folgte mit den Augen dem gewundenen Handlauf, der weit oben im Dämmerlicht verschwand. Sie könnte das Licht anmachen, auf den leuchtenden Knopf an der Wand drücken, ließ es aber bleiben. Tastend stellte sie einen Fuß auf die erste Holzstufe, verlagerte prüfend ihr Gewicht. Es knarrte ein wenig, klang beinahe wie Stöhnen. Sie dachte kurz darüber nach, ob Holz stöhnen konnte. Hielt es für wahrscheinlich, weil sie ein paar Mal den stöhnenden Aufschrei von stürzenden Bäumen gehört hatte.

Sie zählte die Stufen, nahm die winzige Vertiefung in deren Mitte wahr, Spur Hunderttausender Schritte in hundert Jahren, ging dicht an der Wand, dort, wo das Knarren kaum hörbar war, erreichte sie den ersten Stock.

Trockenblumenkränze an beiden Wohnungstüren, an der linken ein großes Pappherz: «Hier wohnt die Familie Herzberg» stand da in unregelmäßigen bunten Buchstaben neben vier Strichmännchen. Ein paar Sekunden lang blieb sie stehen, schaute das Herz an, dann den Fußabstreifer.

Elefant mit erhobenem Rüssel auf rotem Grund. Überlegte, ob jemand, der im Begriff war, sich umzubringen, solche Botschaften von Hoffnung wahrnehmen würde.

Zehn Stufen bis zum nächsten Treppenabsatz. Zwei zerrupfte Palmen. Wieder zehn Stufen. Zweiter Stock. Wohnungstüren ohne Kränze. Eine Rechtsanwaltskanzlei und ein winziges Namensschild, das sie im Dämmerlicht nicht

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The Lioness from Cinque Terre trans. Maria Poglitsch Bauer She moved her feet very slowly, almost without sound, across the blue and off-white tiles covering the floor of the entry hall. When she reached the stairs, she held on to the railing, and tilted back her head, her eyes following the spiral handrail disappearing far above in the twilight. She could have turned on the light, pressed the glowing button on the wall, but she did not. Tentatively touching the first wooden step with one foot, she shifted her weight. The step creaked a little. It sounded like a groan. She briefly contemplated whether wood could groan and thought it possible since she had heard about the groaning of falling trees before.

She counted the steps and noticed the tiny hollow in their middle, the remnant of hundreds of thousands of footsteps in a hundred years. Walking close to the wall where the creaking was hardly audible, she reached the second floor.

There were wreaths of dried flowers on both apartment doors and on the left one a large cardboard heart too.

“Home of the Herzberg family,” it said on it in irregular multi-colored letters next to four stick figures. She stopped for a few seconds, looking at the heart and then at the doormat: an elephant with raised trunk on a red background, and pondered whether someone about to commit suicide would notice such messages of hope.

Ten steps to the next landing. Two tattered palm trees.

Another ten steps. Third floor. Apartment doors without wreaths. One was an attorney’s office and the other had a tiny name plate which she was unable to read in the twi-

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lesen konnte. Es roch nach Bohnerwachs.

Weiter. Die Stufen knarrten jetzt auch am Rand. Überlaut.

Alle in diesem Haus konnten sie hören. Aber das spielte keine Rolle, denn es war schließlich normal, dass Menschen dieses Treppenhaus benutzten.

Auf dem nächsten Zwischenstockwerk keine Palme, nichts.

Dritter Stock. Dunkle Türen, große Messingschilder. Ein Steuerberater, eine Consulting-Firma. Keine Erfolgsadressen. Ohne Lift. Wieso dachte sie so etwas?

Sie ging jetzt an der Außenseite der Treppe. Der Handlauf war glatt und prall wie der Körper einer Riesenschlange.

Lindenholz? Vermutlich. Sie versuchte normal zu atmen, doch irgendwelche verkrampften Muskeln zwischen ihren Rippen hinderten sie daran. Der nächste Treppenabsatz, das Fenster. Auf dem Sims Töpfe mit halb vertrockneten Geranien, die trotzdem zu treiben begannen. Weil Frühling war. Lange blasse Verzweiflungstriebe.

Vierter Stock. Namenschilder an den Türen. Aber plötzlich ein Teppich auf den Stufen, die weiter nach oben führten.

Dunkelrot. Einladend. Der Teppich dämpfte das Knarren.

Sie konnte sich jetzt beinahe lautlos nach oben bewegen, ging plötzlich schneller, sah das Fenster. Es stand weit offen. Sie verharrte, wandte ganz langsam den Kopf, ließ den Blick über die Wand gleiten, dann hinauf zur Decke und wieder zum Fenster.

Das ist es also, was man als Letztes sieht, dachte sie, ging zum Fenster, lehnte sich hinaus, vermied jede Berührung.

Pulsierender Schmerz zog über ihre Wirbelsäule, schien von der Herzgegend auszugehen, kroch hinunter in ihr

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light. It smelled of floor polish.

She went on. The steps now creaked even at their edges and so overly loud that everyone in this house could hear them. Not that it mattered. It was normal, after all, that people would use the staircase.

There was no palm tree on the next landing. Nothing.

Fourth floor: dark doors with large brass plates. A tax advisor and a consulting firm. This was not an address suggestive of success. No elevator. Why was she thinking about such things?

She was now walking on the outer edge of the staircase. The handrail was smooth and firm like the body of a giant snake.

Lime wood? Most likely. She tried to breathe normally, but some tense muscle between her ribs made it impossible. The next landing. A window. It had pots with geraniums on its sill, half-dried but sprouting nevertheless − it was spring, after all – long pale shoots of despair.

Fifth floor. The doors had nameplates and the steps leading further up were suddenly covered with a carpet. Dark red. Inviting. The carpet muffled the creaks. She could now move upwards almost without a sound, and when she saw the window, she suddenly walked faster. It stood wide open. She paused, slowly turned her head and cast a glance along the wall, to the ceiling, and to the window again.

So that’s what one sees at the very end, she thought as she went to the window and leaned out, trying not to touch anything.

A pulsating pain moved along her spine, seemingly coming from the heart and crawling down towards her pelvis. Down below she noticed the light green blossoms of tall maple trees

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Becken. Unter sich nahm sie die hellgrünen Blütenbüschel der hohen Ahornbäume wahr, atmete ihren feinen frischen Duft ein. Erste Sonnenstrahlen berührten die Dächer der umliegenden Häuser. Auf der Dachrinne gegenüber saß eine Amsel und sang so heftig, dass ihr kleiner Körper vor Anstrengung bebte. Der Verkehrslärm wurde vom Wall der hohen alten Häuser fern gehalten. Hier war er nicht mehr als Hintergrundrauschen für das Lied des Vogels.

Langsam ließ sie den Blick nach unten wandern, in den schwarzen Schacht im Schatten der Bäume. Dort unten war noch Nacht. Der Schmerz in ihrer Wirbelsäule verstärkte sich. Wie lange hatte es wohl gedauert? Sechs Sekunden oder eher zehn?

Sie zuckte zusammen, als tief unten plötzlich Licht aufflammte, den Hinterhof grell erleuchtete. In der Mitte des Hofes lag sie, zerbrochen, das lange Haar weit ausgebreitet, die Glieder schlaff und irgendwie falsch am Körper befestigt.

«Bist du da oben?» Eine kräftige Männerstimme drang aus dem Schacht herauf.

Hauptkommissarin Laura Gottberg trat ins Treppenhaus zurück und schloss die Augen. Es war gut, die Stimme ihres Kollegen zu hören. Und doch spürte sie, dass Kommissar Baumann eine Art Erkenntnisprozess unterbrochen hatte.

«Ja, ich bin hier oben!», rief sie zurück und dachte, dass diese ganze Geschichte ein Jammer war.

Wenn der heftige warme Südwind gegen die ligurische Küste anstürmte, das Meer zum Kochen brachte, bis es die Felsen mit weißer Gischt überspülte, donnernd in die Dörfer eindrang, Tag und Nacht wie ein alles verschlingendes

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and inhaled their fresh delicate scent. First rays of sunshine touched the roofs of neighboring houses. On the opposite gutter, a blackbird was singing with such abandon that its little body trembled with exertion. The adjacent wall of high old houses kept traffic noises at bay. They were no more than background noise for the bird’s song.

She slowly turned her gaze further down, into the black shaft shadowed by trees. There it was still night. The pain in her spine increased. How long had it taken? Six seconds, or maybe ten?

She gave a start when suddenly lights flared up deep below casting the small courtyard into glaring light. She lay in the middle of the yard − broken, her long hair spread out, her limbs limp and somehow unnaturally attached to the body.

“Are you up there?” A strong male voice came up through the shaft.

Chief Detective Laura Gottberg stepped back into the staircase and closed her eyes. It was good to hear the voice of her colleague. Yet at the same time she sensed that Detective Baumann had interrupted a journey of discovery.“Yes, I’m up here,” she called back and thought that this entire case was such a shame.

Whenever the violent warm southern wind stormed against the Ligurian coast, brought the sea to a boil until its white foam washed over the cliffs, thundered into the coastal villages, and roared day and night like an all-devouring mon-

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Ungeheuer brüllte, dann ging Maria Valeria Cabun früh am Morgen in die Kirche. Der Sturm raubte ihr den Schlaf.

Das war schon immer so gewesen, doch je länger sie lebte, desto mehr litt sie darunter. Nachtmare suchten sie dann heim, bevölkerten die beiden kleinen Zimmer, die wie Bienenwaben an das Haus ihres ältesten Sohnes angeklebt waren. Alle Toten des Dorfes versammelten sich um Maria Valeria, und das waren eine Menge, denn sie hatte gerade ihr achtundachtzigstes Lebensjahr erreicht. Alle waren sie da: Männer, die das Meer genommen hatte, die Gefallenen der Kriege, Partisanen, Kinder, junge und alte Frauen.

Maria Valeria Cabun hatte sich an sie gewöhnt, sprach mit ihnen, zündete Kerzen an, deren Flammen zitterten, wenn der Sturm durch alle Ritzen drang. Das Kerzenlicht beruhigte die Geister der Toten, sie machten sich unsichtbar, drängten sich nicht mehr auf. Manchmal aber fühlte sich Maria Valeria stark genug, sie anzusehen, dann wäre sie am liebsten eine von ihnen, vereint mit all den alten Freunden und Feinden, von denen viele ihr näher standen als die vermeintlich Lebenden. Doch aus irgendeinem unerfindlichen Grund des Schicksals war es ihr beschieden, in der anderen Welt zu bleiben, die man Leben nennt. Maria Valeria war sich inzwischen fast sicher, dass die beiden Welten zusammengehörten, die der Toten und die der Lebenden, dass der Übergang eher fließend war.

Sie sprach mit niemandem darüber, schon gar nicht mit dem Pfarrer. Nur mit Gott sprach sie, und auch das war nicht ganz richtig. Sie hatte sich Johannes den Täufer als Ansprechpartner ausgesucht, was vor allem an dem alten Gemälde in der Pfarrkirche San Giovanni Battista lag. Sie

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ster, Maria Valeria Cabun would attend church early in the morning. The storm deprived her of sleep. It had not always been like that, but the longer she lived, the stronger the suffering had become. She was visited by nightmares that inhabited the two small rooms glued like honeycomb to the house of her oldest son. All the dead of the village congregated around Maria Valeria, and there were many since she just had entered her eighty-eighth year. They were all here: men taken by the sea, soldiers killed in action, partisans, children, and young and old women. Maria Valeria had gotten used to them, spoke to them, and lit candles whose flames flickered when the storm penetrated through cracks in the walls. The light of the candles calmed the spirits of the dead. They became invisible and no longer forced their company on her. Sometimes, however, Maria Valeria felt strong enough to look at them, almost wanting to be one of them, united with old friends and foes to many of whom she felt closer than to those supposedly alive. But for some inexplicable whim of fortune she was destined to remain in this other world, the one called life. By now Maria Valeria was almost certain that the two worlds belonged together, the one of the dead and the one of the living, and that crossing over was a fluid process.

She did not talk about this to anyone, least of all to the priest. She only spoke to God, but that was not quite true either. She had chosen John the Baptist as her conversation partner, probably because of the old painting in the parish church of San Giovanni Batista. She liked this solitary man

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mochte diesen einsamen Mann, der in der Wüste Erleuchtung suchte. Sie selbst suchte die Einsamkeit, war sich nicht sicher über die Erleuchtung, aber die Einsamkeit liebte sie.

Vor ihrem winzigen Wabenheim, das sich an die Felsen über dem Meer schmiegte, gab es einen ebenso winzigen Garten, gerade groß genug für eine Bank, einen Lavendelbusch, ein paar Rosen, Tomaten, Zucchini, Zwiebeln und Kräuter. Im Frühsommer warf der Mispelbaum der Nachbarn seine Früchte auf sie herab, im Herbst konnte sie köstliche Kaktusfeigen pflücken, die von den Klippen zu ihr heraufwuchsen.

In ihrem winzigen Garten saß Maria Valeria beinahe das ganze Jahr über und schaute aufs Meer hinaus und auf den Himmel. Nie wurde ihr langweilig dabei, denn das Meer war niemals gleich. Gemeinsam mit dem Himmel spielte es dramatische Opern, zeigte alle Farben und Formen, spielte alle Töne des Lebens.

Der Winter jedoch wurde Maria Valeria inzwischen sehr lang. Die feuchte Kälte setzte ihr zu. Aber auch dann schaute sie aufs Meer, vom Küchenfenster aus, das immerzu beschlug, sodass sie es alle paar Minuten blank wischen musste.

Bis vor ein paar Jahren war sie beinahe jeden Tag hinunter ins Dorfzentrum gegangen, hatte sich neben andere alte Frauen auf eine Bank gesetzt und zugeschaut, wie die Touristenströme vorbeizogen. Die Fremden hatten sie an das Meer erinnert, wenn es in die Dörfer der Cinque Terre einbrach. Sie kamen schon lange, diese Fremden, doch früher, als es die Panoramastraße noch nicht gab und die

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who was seeking enlightenment in the desert. She looked for solitude herself, was not sure about enlightenment, but loved solitude. In front of her tiny home nestling against the rocks above the sea, there was an equally tiny garden, just large enough for a bench, a lavender bush, a few roses, tomatoes, zucchini, onions and herbs. The neighbor’s medlar tree dropped its fruit on her in early summer and in autumn she could pick delicious prickly pears which wound their way up to her from the cliffs.

Maria Valeria sat in her tiny garden almost all year round, looking out over the sea and up to the sky. She never grew bored since the sea was never the same. Together with the sky it offered dramatic operas, exhibited every color and form imaginable, and played all the chords of life.

Winters, however, had become very long for Maria Valeria.

She was plagued by the humid coldness. Yet even then she looked out at the sea, from her kitchen window, on which condensation formed all the time so she had to wipe it clean every few minutes.

Until a few years ago, she had walked down to the village center almost daily, had sat on a bench next to the other old women, and had watched the hordes of tourists streaming by. The foreigners reminded her of the sea flooding the villages of the Cinque Terre. Tourists had been coming for a long time, but in the past, before the scenic route had been built and most foreigners came by train, there had not been that many.

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meisten den Zug benutzen mussten, waren es nicht so viele gewesen.

Seit zwei Jahren ging Maria Valeria nicht mehr ins Dorf – ihrer Familie gegenüber behauptete sie, dass ihre Beine sie nicht mehr recht trügen und ihr die vielen Stufen zu beschwerlich seien. Aber es stimmte nicht. Eigentlich war sie noch ganz gut zu Fuß, so gut, dass sie manchmal mitten in der Nacht zur alten Burg hinaufstieg, um näher bei den Sternen zu sein. In Wahrheit ging sie nicht mehr ins Dorf hinunter, weil die Menschen, die ihr nahe standen, inzwischen gestorben waren und sie die vielen Fremden nicht sehen wollte, die das Leben der Einheimischen immer mehr veränderten.

Die Cabuns hatten über Generationen hinweg vom Weinbau und Fischfang gelebt. Ein Teil der Familie hatte in den steilen Feldern der Berghänge gearbeitet, die Mauern in Stand gehalten, die den kleinen Weingärten Halt gaben.

Der andere Teil war hinausgefahren und hatte die Früchte des Meeres geerntet. Das Gemüse hatten die Frauen selbst angebaut, und so war es ihnen über all die Jahre manchmal besser, manchmal schlechter ergangen, ehe man immer mehr brauchte und all das nicht genug war.

Für Maria Valeria war es genug gewesen, hatte ihrer Familie stets Rang und Macht in der Gemeinschaft der andern verschafft. Nichts ging ohne die Cabuns, Maria Valerias Vater war sogar Bürgermeister gewesen. Sie selbst hatte die Familie noch zusammengehalten, sie, Maria Valeria, als sie noch Mutter war und nicht Großmutter oder gar Urgroßmutter, der niemand zuhören wollte.

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Maria Valeria had stopped going down to the village these past two years. She justified this to her family by claiming that her legs no longer carried her and that all those steps were too exhausting. This was not true. She was actually still quite a good walker, good enough to sometimes climb up to the old castle in the middle of the night to be closer to the stars. The truth why she no longer went down to the village was that those to whom she felt close had all died, and she did not want to see the many visitors who kept on changing the daily lives of the locals.

The Cabuns had been wine growers and fishermen for generations. One part of the family worked on the fields of the steep mountain slopes and tended the walls which supported their small vineyards. The other part went out to sea to harvest its fruit. The women grew all the vegetables they needed and had weathered good and bad times over the years until people needed more and more and all that was no longer enough.

It had been enough for Maria Valeria and always secured her family’s prestige and power within the community.

Nothing happened without the Cabuns. Her father had even been mayor. And she herself had kept the family together, when she was still a mother and not a grandmother or even great-grandmother to whom nobody wanted to listen.

It made her unhappy that her sons now went out to fish just for fun and thought about giving up the vineyards and

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Es machte sie unglücklich, dass ihre Söhne nur noch aus Spaß zum Fischen hinausfuhren, dass sie darüber nachdachten, den Weinbau aufzugeben und die Felder zu verkaufen. Die Cabuns lebten inzwischen vom Tourismus, vermieteten Zimmer und kleine Wohnungen.

Die weniger geschickten und intelligenten Mitglieder der Familie machten die Betten, wuschen die Bettwäsche der Fremden, bereiteten das Frühstück. Die Klügeren organisierten die Vermietungen, betrieben einen Andenkenladen, ein Weingeschäft und eine Pizzeria. Die Cabuns hatten durch diese Aktivitäten durchaus nicht an Einfluss verloren, aber Maria Valeria empfand diese Anpassung an die lärmende Zeit als Abstieg.

Es fiel ihr auch schwer, die jungen Frauen in ihrer Familie zu verstehen. Sie sahen kaum anders aus als die Touristinnen, kleideten sich ähnlich, fanden junge Männer aus Amerika oder Australien interessanter als die einheimischen Männer. Tranken Wein mit diesen Kerlen, nachts auf den Felsen am Hafen.

Maria Valeria war der Ansicht, dass nur durch kluge Heirat die Zukunft der Familien gesichert werden konnte.

Kluge Heirat, kluge Frauen und Kinder – das war nach Maria Valerias Überzeugung noch immer die Basis der italienischen Gesellschaft und im Besonderen der kleinen Gemeinden in den Cinque Terre. Aber die jungen Frauen versuchten das Land ihrer Vorfahren zu verlassen, jedenfalls wenn sie hübsch und gescheit waren. Und sie wollten keine Kinder, sondern einen Beruf. Manche wollten nicht einmal mehr heiraten. Alles Dinge, die Maria Valeria nicht verstehen konnte, denn sie hatte – bei aller Mühsal – ihren

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selling the fields. The Cabuns now made their living from tourism, renting out rooms and small apartments.

The less skillful and intelligent members of the family made the beds, washed the visitor’s bed linen, and cooked breakfast. The cleverer ones organized the rentals and ran a souvenir kiosk, a wine shop, and a pizzeria. While these activities had by no means decreased the Cabuns’ influence, Maria Valeria considered this adaptation to the demands of the time a decline.

She also found it difficult to understand the young women of her family. They looked hardly different from tourists, dressed similarly, and considered young men from America or Australia more interesting than local boys. At night, they drank wine with those fellows on the cliffs in the harbor.

It was Maria Valeria’s opinion that only a wise marriage could secure the future of families. A wise marriage, intelligent women and children – this was still the basis of Italian society, she thought, and specifically of the small communities in the Cinque Terre. However, young women now tried to leave the land of their ancestors, at least those who were pretty and smart. They did not want children but a career.

Some of them did not even want to get married. Those were all things Maria Valeria failed to understand because she had always considered her position within the family a powerful one, despite all kinds of hardship. She was more in control than her husband though she never robbed him of the illusion that he was in charge.

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Platz in der Familie immer als mächtig empfunden. Sich selbst mächtiger als ihren Mann, obwohl sie ihm niemals die Illusion genommen hatte, dass er der Mächtigere war.

In dieser stürmischen Aprilnacht war der Südwind noch kalt, und doch saß Maria Valeria auf der Bank in ihrem winzigen Garten und starrte auf das schwarze Meer hinaus. Ab und zu trat der Mond hinter den Wolken hervor, dann tanzten plötzlich silberne Lichter übers Wasser, öffneten den Raum bis in die Unendlichkeit. Maria Valeria zog das dicke Wolltuch fest um ihre Schultern, zuckte zusammen, als eine riesige Welle mit dumpfem Knall gegen die Felsen unterhalb ihres Gärtchens schlug, wie ein Erdstoß das Land erschütternd. Sie schloss die Augen, wusste in diesem Moment, dass etwas geschehen war, das sie nicht hatte erleben wollen. Wusste, dass sie schon zu lange lebte, dass sie keinen neuen Schmerz aushalten wollte.

Blieb sitzen, bis sie sich vor Kälte kaum noch erheben konnte, kroch endlich gegen Morgen ins Haus und zündete eine Kerze an. Für die Seele, die auf dem Weg in die andere Welt war. Dann setzte sie sich neben die kleine Figur der Heiligen Jungfrau – ein Geschenk ihres ältesten Sohnes – und wartete auf die Nachricht.

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The southern wind was still cold during this stormy April night, nevertheless Maria Valeria sat on her bench in her tiny garden and stared out across the black sea. Every now and then the moon emerged from behind the clouds and silvery lights were suddenly dancing on the water, opening a view into infinity. Maria Valeria wrapped her thick woolen shawl tightly around her shoulders. She shuddered when a huge wave smashed against the rocks below her little garden with a muffled thud, like a tremor shaking the earth. She closed her eyes and knew that very moment that something had happened, something she had not wanted to experience. Maria Valeria knew she had lived too long and did not want to suffer yet another pain. She sat there until she was almost too frozen to rise. Toward morning she finally crawled into the house and lit a candle for the soul that was on its way to the other world. Then she sat down next to the little statue of the Virgin Mary, a present of her oldest son, and awaited the news.

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Spazio Italo Calvino Ci sono dei ragazzi – io – che sanno un gioco tremendo: pensare all’infinito.

Meglio se casa mia cancella i monti e se la balaustra del piazzale del mio giardino vola sulla città.

Catapultato dalla sedia a sdraio annegherò nello spavento azzurro dello sbadiglio stupido del cielo.

Precipitare lento tra lontani impassibili mondi; sentirmi avanti dietro sopra sotto pesare opache eternità di vuoto; ed all’inesorabile voragine senza pareti chiedere la salvezza di un fondo di burrone per sfracellarmi in pace.

Poter tendere fino all’estremo il cervello che – pavido – s’impenna sulle rive del nulla, riuscire – soltanto per un attimo – a immaginarmi fuori dallo spazio!

Poi correre: e spalancare gli occhi perché le cose entrino di forza

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Space trans. Molly A. Flynn There are some children –me– who know a terrible game: thinking about the infinite.

Even better if my house erases the mountains and if the balustrade from the piazza of my garden flies over the city.

Catapulted from the lawn chair I will drown in the blue fear of the dumb yawn of the sky.

To plummet slowly among distant impassible worlds; feel before behind over under me weigh opaque eternities of void; and at the unrelenting abyss without walls ask for the salvation of the depths of a ravine so I may crash in peace.

To be able to stretch out to the extreme the mind that – timidly – bucks on the shores of nothingness, to manage – just for a moment – to imagine myself beyond space!

Then running: and opening my eyes so that things can come by force

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tutt’e insieme; e urlare per riempire la vertigine delle mie orecchie.

Ma sapere serbare in tutte le piccole cose (c’è chi le chiama «vita») un poco di quello sgomento. *** Dopo viene chi chiude il mondo intorno e mette ostacoli impensabili al gioco.

Forse credeva di placare angoscie?

Andiamocene, tristi prigionieri, curve le spalle sotto il curvo spazio e soffochiamo i folli bisogni d’infinito. *** Giacomo non lo sa.

Sull’ermo colle Attende arcani brividi.

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all together; and scream to fill the vertigo of my ears.

Yet to know how to keep in all the small things (there are those who call it “life”) a bit of that dismay. *** Afterwards comes he who closes the world around him and places unthinkable obstacles to the game.

Perhaps he believed to be placating anxieties?

Let’s go, sad prisoners, our shoulders bent under bent space and let us suffocate the insane need for the infinite. *** Giacomo doesn’t know it.

On that lonely hill await arcane shivers.

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La Petite Auto Guillaume Apollinaire Le 31 du mois d’Août 1914 Je partis de Deauville un peu avant minuit Dans la petite auto de Rouveyre Avec son chauffeur nous étions trois Nous dîmes adieu à toute une époque Des géants furieux se dressaient sur l’Europe Les aigles quittaient leur aire en attendant le soleil Les poissons voraces montaient des abîmes Les peuples accouraient pour se connaître à fond Les morts tremblaient de peur dans leurs sombres demeures Les chiens aboyaient vers là-bas où étaient les frontières Je m’en allais portant en moi toutes ces armées qui se battaient Je les sentais monter en moi et s’étaler les contrées où elles serpentaient Avec les forêts les villages heureux de la Belgique Francorchamps avec l’Eau Rouge et les pouhons Région par où se font toujours les invasions Artères ferroviaires où ceux qui s’en allaient mourir Saluaient encore une fois la vie colorée Océans profonds où remuaient les monstres Dans les vieilles carcasses naufragées Hauteurs inimaginables où l’homme combat Plus haut que l’aigle ne plane L’homme y combat contre l’homme Et descend tout à coup comme une étoile filante Je sentais en moi des êtres neufs pleins de dextérité Bâtir et aussi agencer un univers nouveau

Un marchand d’une opulence inouïe et d’une taille prodigieuse

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The Small Car trans. Julie Irigaray On 31st August 1914 I left Deauville a little bit before midnight In Rouveyre’s small car With his chauffeur we were three We bid adieu to an entire epoch Furious giants were looming over Europe The eagles left their eyrie waiting for the sun Voracious fish ascended from the abyss Nations rushed to know each other thoroughly The dead trembled with fear in their gloomy dwellings Dogs hurled their howls towards the borders I was leaving with all these fighting armies carried within me I felt them mounting in me and the land which they meandered with was spreading With the forests the merry villages of Belgium Francorchamps with the Eau Rouge stream and the sparkling springs Region where invasions always start Railway arteries where those who went away to die Saluted one more time the colourful life Deep oceans where monsters waved In the ancient shipwrecked carcasses Unthinkable heights where man fights Higher than the eagle glides There man fights against man And suddenly falls like a shooting star I felt inside me new beings full of dexterity Building and organizing a new universe A merchant of an incredible wealth and of a prodigious size

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Disposait un étalage extraordinaire Et des bergers gigantesques menaient De grands troupeaux muets qui broutaient les paroles Et contre lesquels aboyaient tous les chiens sur la route Je n’oublierai jamais ce voyage nocturne où nul de nous ne dit un mot. Ô départ sombre où mouraient nos 3 phares Ô nuit tendre d’avant la guerre Ô villages où se hâtent Maréchaux-ferrants rappelés Entre minuit et une heure du matin Vers Lisieux la très bleue Ou bien Versailles d’or Et 3 fois nous nous arrêtâmes pour changer un pneu qui avait éclaté.

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Was arranging an extraordinary stall And gigantic shepherds were leading Great mute flocks grazing the words And all the dogs on the road were barking after them I shall never forget this night-time journey where none of us said a word.

O dark departure where our three headlights died O tender night before the war O villages where farriers rushed Called back between midnight and one in the morning Near the very blue Lisieux Or even Golden Versailles And we stopped three times to change a burst tyre.

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Et quand après avoir passé l’après-midi Par Fontainebleau Nous arrivâmes à Paris Au moment où l’on affichait la mobilisation Nous comprîmes mon camarade et moi Que la petite auto nous avait conduits dans une époque Nouvelle Et bien qu’étant déjà tous deux des hommes mûrs Nous venions cependant de naître

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And after having passed the afternoon Around Fontainebleau We arrived in Paris As the mobilisation was posted We understood my comrade and I That the small car had driven us to a New age And even though we were already mature men We were however just to be born

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Lasair Féilim Ó Brádaigh I stare into the fire on this late, silent Sunday, Mouthless, does it breathe?

Life to all the flames?

Budding from their roots of ash, Sprouting from unliving seeds?

The orange glow exudes a promise, Looms with cool satisfaction of birth – Its yellow flickering children abound Mocking the black of coal mountain, Soon to be chewed and consumed.

Rise, lasair, shoot through the air From parental bow in shroud of shadow – Curse and mutate the air in madness Yet coloured, coloured and mesmeric.

Divine your creation if not at all human.

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Lasair trans. Féilim Ó Brádaigh Stánaim isteach sa tine ar an Domhnach déanach, ciúin seo, Gan bhéal, an ndéanann sí análú? ’Bhfuil beocht ar bith sna lasracha?

Ag bachlú as fréamhacha luatha, Ag péacadh as síolta neamhbheo?

Sceitheann an luisne oráiste geallúint, Taibhsíonn le sásamh réchúiseach na breithe – A páistí eiteallacha buí chuile áit Ag magadh faoi dhuibhe shliabh an ghuail, Le bheith loiscthe is coganta go luath. Éirigh, a lasair, scinn trín aer Ó bhogha tuistí faoi fholach scátha – Déan eascaine is sóchán ar an aer le báiní Ach daite, daite is draíochtúil.

Diaga do chruthú munar daonna.

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Fire, flames, God’s second son, Your hum: low, steady and assured.

The laughter of earth’s ignorance Will rise and fall to dust – Your hum eternal, forever living, Proud when ignorance crumbles and fades.

Your ash-pit only your night-fall; Your light each morning’s blooming rise.

When dies fire? When the end?

When ends the dry wood’s pregnancy?

When ends you, when eternal sleep . . .

Restless flames, unending, (The soul, the soul is unending) Exhausting, Consuming –

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Tine, lasracha, dara mac Dé, Do chrónán: íseal, socair is cinnte, Éireoidh gáire aineolas an domhain Go hard, is titfidh go cré – Do chrónán síoraí, beo go brách.

Bródúil nuair a mheathann aineolas ina chrithir.

Do pholl luatha mar bheadh titim na hoíche; Do sholas éirí bláfar gach maidine.

Cathain a éagann tine? Cathain atá an deireadh?

Cathain a chríochnaíonn toircheas adhmaid thirim?

Cathain atá do dheireadh, is codladh síoraí . . .

Lasracha corracha, buana, (An t-anam, tá ’n t-anam buan) Cloíteach, Ag loscadh –

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Yet burning the brutalities Of black on lifeless black.

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Ach ag dó brúidiúlachtaí Duibhe ar dhuibhe neamhbheo.

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Reading Women Brónach Rafferty Woman was not born, woman was made I Have been constructed in the image of a great Grandmother, with my mother’s eyes, I am told.

But I think That it is only read Into me, these Insinuations of a past, Of women who came before, So that they might make familiar That which is unknown, Of women who were someone else before marriage, Of women who after marriage no longer exist.

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Ag Léamh Ban trans. Féilim Ó Brádaigh Níor rugadh bean, déanadh bean Cuireadh I dtoll a chéile mé In íomhá shin-seanmháthar, Le súile mo mháthar, deirtear liom.

Ach sílim Nach bhfuil ann Ach gur léadh isteach ionam Leathfhocail ama chaite Is na mban a tháinig romhainn, Ionas go gcruthóidís muintearas As an rud atá aineoil, Leathfhocail Faoi mhná ar dhaoine eile iad roimh phósadh, Faoi mhná nach ann dóibh a thuilleadh ina dhiaidh.

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Morning Song Sylvia Plath Love set you going like a fat gold watch.

The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.

In a drafty museum, your nakedness Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.

I’m no more your mother Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow Effacement at the wind’s hand.

All night your moth-breath Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen: A far sea moves in my ear.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral In my Victorian nightgown.

Your mouth opens clean as a cat’s. The window square Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try Your handful of notes; The clear vowels rise like balloons.

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Amhrán Maidine trans. Féilim Ó Brádaigh Chuir an grá ar cois thú mar uaireadóir ramhar óir.

Bhuail an bhean ghlúine boinn do chos, is ghlac Do scread lom a háit i measc na ndúl.

Déantar macalla dár nguthanna, ag formhéadú do theachta.

Dealbh nua.

In iarsmalann análach, caitheann do nochtacht Scáth ar ár sábháilteacht. Seasaimid timpeall chomh leamh le ballaí.

Ní mise do mháthair Ach oiread leis an scamall a shileann scáthán Chun a scriosadh mall féin faoi lámh na gaoithe a fhrithchaitheamh.

An oíche ar fad creathann do leamhan-anáil I measc na rósanna maola bándearga. Dúisím Is éistim: gluaiseann farraige i bhfad uaim im’ chluas.

Scread amháin, is tuislím ón leaba, bó-throm is bláthach I mo chulaith oíche Victeoiriach.

Osclaíonn do bhéal chomh glan le béal cait. Bánaíonn Cearnóg na fuinneoige is slogann a réaltaí marbhánta.

Is anois tugann tú faoi do mhám nótaí; Éiríonn na gutaí glana ina n-éadromáin.

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Creative

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Transmutaciones Atenea Acevedo Y me transformé en topo. Encogida de brazos y piernas, dediqué las lunas a contemplar aquel ombligo, cicatriz y prueba irrefutable de mi ser mamífera, de haber salido de un vientre cálido y nutricio que de pronto se revelaba como irrepetible madriguera inofensiva. Afiancé las garras inseguras a otro nido, albergue desnudo, deseoso de acoger ilusiones chamuscadas y gestar capullos de luciérnagas.

Hiberné cuanto pude, pero la voz de la vida exigía el alborozo de mis párpados. Cedí no sin desgana, paladeé el reflejo de la luz y advertí una renovada libertad de movimiento.

Falsas habían sido las paredes escarpadas de la guarida, invisibles como toda encrucijada que no es tal. Recobré las manos y el aliento, me rendí a la lenta recuperación del placer. Aún mitad roedora, me deslicé discreta al interior de una librería, reconocí la textura de las páginas, suspiré ante la posibilidad del retorno a la palabra. La mirada, todavía deslumbrada, devoró ocho o nueve fragmentos, hasta dar con la historia capaz de conjurar el regreso a mi ser humana.

Despierta y alerta, trazo principios, ando un sendero de verdes y azules, hago un alto cuando amenaza la sed de emprender la carrera hacia ninguna parte. Agradezco estas nuevas ventanas: en ellas descansan las plumas de mis alas.

Tendidas al sol, esperan remontar el vuelo un poco más sabias. Mi corazón es un barco de sueños.

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Transmutations trans. Ursula Meany Scott And I turned into a mole. Arms and legs shrunk, I devoted the moons to contemplating that navel, scar and irrefutable proof of my mammal being, of having emerged from a warm and nourishing belly, which was suddenly proving to be a uniquely safe lair. I secured uncertain claws to another nest, a bare shelter, eager to take refuge in scorched illusions and to hatch fireflies.

I hibernated as much as I could, but life called to me, demanding my eyelids open to delight. I yielded, not without indifference; I relished the light’s reflection and noticed a renewed freedom of movement. The sheer walls of the den had been false, as invisible as every bind that is not what it seems. I rediscovered my hands and breath, surrendered to the slow recovery of pleasure. Still half rodent, I slipped cautiously into a bookshop, recognised the texture of the pages, sighed at the possibility of a return to the word. My gaze, still dazzled, devoured eight or nine fragments before stumbling upon the story capable of conjuring my return to human form.

Awake and alert, I sketch beginnings, I tread a trail of greens and blues, I pause when the desire to set out on the race to nowhere threatens. I am grateful for these new clearings: in them I lay the feathers of my wings down to rest.

Stretched out beneath the sun, they hope to soar into flight a little wiser. My heart is a boat of dreams.

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Little Hawk Will Fleming Here turns the eye: Her yellow look did not,

in my mind, Yield a feeling so profound As when her wings shook

subtle admonition, And she—

little Prometheus— Put feathers to the wind, And wound my gaze

around the clouds.

She would, I found, Return; alight And mesh her claws

like roots Into the earth; Yet in the undergrowth she would ignite, A flame: She, to give it justice; say it right, Despite the rain That swells the soil, And from the depths divine all: But that rare rose of guiltless white.

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Kleiner Habicht trans. Tiana Fischer Hier wendet sich das Auge: Ihr gelber Blick hatte

in meinem Geist Kein solch tiefes Gefühl geweckt Wie ihre schlagenden Flügel

in leisem Memento, Und sie—

kleiner Prometheus— Mit ihren Federn dem Wind strotzend Ließ meinen Blick

in den Wolken weilen.

Sie würde, wie ich fand, Zurückkehren; landen Und ihre Krallen

wie Wurzeln In die Erde schlagen; Doch im Unterholz würde sie ein Feuer zünden, Eine Flamme; Sie, um ihr gerecht zu werden; sag‘ es richtig, Trotz des Regens, Der den Boden verquillt, Und weissag‘ alles aus seinen Tiefen: Doch nicht die selt’ne Rose in unbeflecktem Weiß.

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Shalott Will Fleming

Desolate, in river tumult,

stringing simulacra in a wheel;

reeling, Midas-touched, the images Of imagined worlds, as yet unknown: Lancelot (née Astolat) envisions lives,

each inviolate— Her own, captive in the glimmer

from a lighthouse, there before; behind;

light brigades before—illumination Winds a stairwell, down, and to a river: Shores—a void of boats for ventures intrepid,

she drifts Lethe-ward; Disseminates among the ether,

dissipates as fevers chase their breath,

plucking, meanwhile, petals of her sisters, Stealing, all the while, a season’s bounties.

The glimmer crack’d before, cracks to set anew

a lily drifting.

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Escalot trans. Emilie Mamode-Issop Désolée, dans le tumulte de la rivière, défilant le simulacre dans un rouage; en bobinant, Midas-touché, les images De mondes imaginés, toujours inconnus: Lancelot (née Astolat) envisage les vies, chacune inviolable, La sienne, captive dans la lueur d’un phare, du tout devant; derrière; brigade légère devant, l’illumination Abaisse une cage d’escalier à terre jusqu’à une rivière: Rives, néant de bateaux pour aventures intrépides, elle dérive dans les profondeurs du Léthé; Se diffuse parmi l’éther puis se dissipe puisque les fièvres chassent leurs souffles, alors Cueillant, entre-temps, les pétales de ses sœurs, Tout en dérobant les bontés d’une saison.

La lueur se brisa auparavant, se brise pour mettre à nouveau un lys à la dérive.

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The Morning Michela Esposito It was that blue-grey pause before the sun cracks the horizon, touching the rooftops, a fig or a peach, moving along vines and sweetening grapes. In this pale light before day August gathered its bearings. A full moon now faded and dissolved with the gathering light. Rosary beads were clutched. Low prayer in a whisper, tools taken up by a heavy gate. The acrid scent of scorched, charred earth clung to the breeze which drifted through the main street of the town, to the men setting up carts who shook their heads and asked come dobbiamo fare. The children of Lucania slept. [Benedica] Wild dogs were hidden in the land. An aged woman cupping her hands in the water of a fontana savoured the aria fresca of this moment poised before sunlight and shared with the stirring birds.

The grandmother sat by the table in the dim halflight of the early morning mumbling rhythmic prayers and thoughts which came and went as her hands moved rhythmically before her. These thoughts like small waves lapping against the morning breeze rose in her mind only to dissolve, unanswered, in the quiet of this early hour. To this tempo she worked. The dough was kneaded and stretched across the table, and she followed a pattern of cutting and pressing, cutting and pressing, until she had enough cups to fill ten plates at dinner. The soft ticking of the clock on the wall eased this pulse into place, driving the old woman on with the morning’s work. The image of the moon on

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Il Mattino trans. Lorenzo Mandalis Prima dell’incresparsi del sole all’orizzonte, una luce grigioblu continuava ad indugiare sui tetti, sul pèsco e sul fico, districandosi tra i pampini e gli acini succosi delle vigne.

Agosto si esprimeva tutto in quella pallida luce del mattino.

Una luna piena scoloriva e scioglieva il suo grumo di luce.

C’era chi stringeva forte i grani del rosario. C’era chi sussurrando pronunciava, piano piano, una preghiera. Gli attrezzi se ne stavano appoggiati ad un cancello.

Il vento raccoglieva l’acro profumo della terra bruciacchiata e carbonizzata. Si trascinava fino alla strada principale del paese, fino agli uomini che montando su un carretto scrollavano la testa e si domandavano che facimm’.

I bambini lucani dormivano. [Benedica] I cani selvatici si nascondevano nella terra. Una vecchia signora immergeva a conchetta le sue mani in una fontana e godeva di quell’attimo d’aria fresca prima che arrivasse un altro giorno pieno di luce. Un attimo condiviso dagli uccelli che impazzavano nel cielo.

La nonna, seduta accanto al tavolo nella penombra della fievole luce del primo mattino, borbottava ritmando una qualche preghiera o un qualche pensiero che ora veniva e ora se ne andava esattamente come facevano le sue mani lasciate dondolare ora in avanti ora indietro.

Come piccole onde, questi pensieri, lambivano quel vento mattiniero e si sollevano nella sua mente, per sciogliersi poco dopo, ignorati, nella calma di quell’alba. Lavorava a quel ritmo. Sopra il tavolo aveva preparato e steso così tanto impasto - seguendo il suo modello di taglio e pressatura, taglio e pressatura – che poteva riempirci almeno dieci piatti per la cena. Il dolce ticchettio dell’orologio appeso alla

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the clock face was almost completely gone, chased by the image of the sun. It pleased her that after these years it still worked, changing between sun and moon, moon and sun, attuned to her routine.

The curtain dividing this room from the next twitched and a child appeared sleepily in her vest and pants. She had been disturbed by her grandmother’s mutterings and could no longer sleep. Well, it was better she got some cool air now before another hot day.

‘Bella! Buongiorno,’ the grandmother cooed, cupping the young girl’s face in her hands and kissing her cheeks.

‘Latte?’ she asked, the young girl nodded, and she fixed her a cup of stale bread crusts soaked in warm milk. The young girl sat by her grandmother’s side and watched her making the shapes for the pasta that afternoon. Sometimes Nonna would allow her to steal a piece of raw dough from the table and other times she would try to teach her how to make the shapes for the orecchiette with her thumb, although her hands were too small, and the rhythm too complicated.

‘Did you say your prayers last night Rosa?’ the older woman asked. ‘Gesù knows if you did so no lies please.’

Rosa thought of the picture above her bed of Mary whose

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parete scandiva il ritmo, accompagnando la vecchia donna durante quel lavoro mattiniero. L’immagine della luna sul quadrante dell’orologio era quasi svanita del tutto. Ecco che iniziava a venir fuori l’immagine del sole. La allietava il fatto che dopo tutti quegli anni, quell’orologio funzionasse ancora, alternandosi tra sole e luna, luna e sole, in sintonia con la sua routine.

La tenda che divideva quella stanza da quella accanto, venne tirata via bruscamente. Apparse all’improvviso una bambina ancora mezz’addormentata, in canotta e mutandine. L’avevano svegliata tutti quei borbottii della nonna e non riusciva più a riaddormentarsi. Meglio così. Poteva godersi almeno un po’ d’aria fresca prima che il caldo torrido del nuovo giorno arrivasse.

“Bedda! Bongiornu!” cinguettò la nonna, avvolgendole con le mani la giovane faccina e baciandole le guance.

“Latt?” domandò. La bambina fece cenno di sì con la testa e la nonna le portò una ciotola di latte caldo con una crosta di pane raffermo da inzuppare. La bambina sedeva al fianco della vecchia donna. La osservava attentamente prepare le forme da dare alla pasta quel pomeriggio. Qualche volta la nonna le permetteva di rubare un pezzo di pasta cruda dal tavolo. Di tanto in tanto le insegnava anche come formare un’orecchietta con il pollice, anche se le sue manine erano troppo piccole e il ritmo da seguire troppo complicato da seguire.

“U dicesti i tue preghierine a’ nuttàda scursa, Rosettina?” le chiese la nonna “Gesù u’ savé se tu me dice na buscìa”.

Rosa pensò all’immagine di Maria sopra il suo letto, i cui occhi potevano fissarti in qualsiasi parte della stanza, non

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eyes followed you around the room no matter where you stood. (She had hid under the covers all night.)

‘Sì Nonna I said my prayers and I prayed for you and Nonno, Mama and Papa, the kittens that live behind the big bins, and that it might rain today.’

‘And Zia in heaven?’

[Benedica] The girl thought of Zia Alba whom she had been brought to say goodbye to some weeks ago, the old wrinkled woman who was at least one hundred, sleeping in her bed in that dusty room that was too hot. Manuela had whispered to her to pinch the back of her hand if she felt like laughing because she would get into trouble with Papa. She looked at her hands now; the red marks where she had dug her nails in were fading. She had told her parents that she had cut them picking the thorns off roses with her sisters. She now threw herself on the ground to cling her grandmother’s legs.

‘Are you a bambina? Rosa is a young lady now, a big girl, not a bambina!’ her grandmother teased, tickling her on the chest and under her arms.

‘She is a bambina, she is!’ Rosa insisted, her head on the lap of the old woman.

‘No no, Rosa is a young woman now and Nonna is una vecchietta.’ Una vecchietta; her hands hurt, blue veins visible under the thin skin as she worked, her rings heavy.

The long white curtains billowed inwards with a gust of wind.

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importava dove tu fossi. (Lei si era tenuta nascosta sotto le coperte tutta la notte).

“Sì Nonna. Le ho dette le mie preghierine. Ho pregato per te e per nonno, per mamma e papà, per i gattini che vivono dietro ai grandi bidoni e ho pure pregato che oggi piovesse”.

“E per la zia in Paradiso, pregasti per la zia in Paradiso?”

[Benedica] La bambina pensò alla zia Alba, quella vecchia rugosa di almeno cent’anni dalla quale era stata portata per dirle addio qualche settiamana fa. Dormiva nel suo letto in una caldissima stanza piena di polvere. Manuela le aveva bisbigliato all’orecchio di pizzicarsi forte il dorso della mano, se le fosse venuto da ridere alla vista di quella scena, perché se no sarebbe finita nei guai con papà. Ora si guardava le mani; i segni rossi dove aveva affondato le sue unghie stavano svanendo. Aveva detto ai suoi genitori che se li era procurati pungendosi mentre toglieva le spine alle rose con sua sorella. Ora si gettò a terra, stringendosi alle gambe della nonna.

“Ma allur si na uagninella? Ma no...Rosa è na signorinetta ora, na granne signorinetta, mica na uagninella!” la canzonava la nonna, facendole il solletico sul petto e sotto le ascelle.

“Sì sì, Rosa è na uagninella, è na uagninella sì!” insisteva Rosa con la testa appoggiata al grembo della nonna.

“Nu nu, Rosettina è na piccula dunn e nonna tua è na vecchiett” Na vecchiett; aveva le mani doloranti, le vene blu ben visibili sotto quella pelle sottile. Lo vedevi subito che erano le mani di chi aveva lavorato una vita. Quelle mani.

Gli anelli pesanti.

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‘Nonna!’ Rosa gasped, feeling a draught down her back.

The kitchen floor was cool on her bare legs, and she suddenly felt it. ‘Ho paura-’ The older woman jumped in her seat and swatted the air.

‘Those flies! We have to shut the curtains or we’ll be eaten alive!’

A faint cry was carried on the breeze through the streets of the town and to the woman and child by the kitchen table; a distant cockerel on Giglio’s farm. The sun was up.

Soon the men by the carts would call out the morning’s prices, and soon they would dress to buy peaches and grapes for the table at midday. The older woman peeled a fig for the child and sent her away into the dark rooms of the house to wake her siblings. Kissing the cross around her neck she gave thanks and began her day. [Benedica]

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Una folata di vento gonfiò le lunghe tende bianche.

“Nonna!” Rosa rimase a bocca aperta, sentendo un brivido scorrerle lungo la schiena. Il pavimento della cucina era fresco sulle sue gambe nude, e lei se ne accorse improvvisamente. “Ho paura” La vecchia donna balzò sulla sedia e iniziò a colpire l’aria “Quelle muscacc! Megli nghiur a tànna o chille ce magnerannu vivi ancora!”

Il vento si trascinò via un debole grido per le strade del paese fino alla nonna e alla bambina sedute accanto al tavolo della cucina; il canto lontano del galletto della fattoria dei Giglio. Il sole era alto nel cielo. A breve gli uomini vicino al carro avrebbero iniziato a gridare i prezzi delle merci del mattino, e presto si sarebbero vestiti per comprare le pesche e l’uva da mettere a tavola a mezzogiorno. La donna più anziana iniziò a pelare un fico per la bambina e la mandò nelle stanze ancora buie della casa a svegliare i fratelli. Dopo aver baciato la croce al collo, rese grazia e iniziò la sua giornata.

[Benedica]

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蛍 Hitomi Nakamura

高梁（たかはし）の福地小学校というところに蛍を見 に行こうという話になった。縁起のよい校名である が、地名は「しろち」 と読むらしい。そこで毎年神無月 のはじめに、ほたるまつりが開催され、地域の子ども たちが神楽を舞って、蛍の群生を愛でるのだという。 甲虫を見ることを目的とした小旅行などそうそうある ものではない。一年に一度、二度あるかないかであ る。 日本のひとは季節感や儚さを感じさせるものが好 きだ、 とつくづく思う。一週間という短い命が燃え尽き るさまを見たいなどというのは、考えてみれば残酷な 欲なのかもしれない。かつて京都に住んでいた頃は 下鴨神社の蛍火の茶会に足を運んだものだが、その 人の多さと蒸し暑さにげんなりしたものだ。おまけに 籠から放たれる蛍があまりに生気を失っていたので、 思わず同情してしまうほどだった。わたしは美しい田 園風景のなかで力強く舞う、本来の蛍の姿が見たか ったのだろう。そして、それに励まされたかったのかも しれない。 福地川の周辺にはゲンジボタルが多く棲息している という。ヘイケボタルよりも少し体長が長く、産卵数も 多いが、汚染に弱く、河川流水を好む。到着したのは 夜8時半頃で、遠くから来たのだろう観光客たちは帰 途に着きはじめていた。広場ではまだまだ元気な地 元の子どもたちが、眠気を忘れて走り回っている。そ の姿がまるで曲線的に舞う蛍の光そのもののようだ った。 こうしたお祭りが、今も昔も変わらず、地域の人 の交流の場になっているのだろう。春と夏のあいだを 縫うかのように、蛍が与えてくれたお祭りなのである。

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Fireflies trans. Jason Morgan It was decided to go to Shirochi Elementary School in Takahashi to see the fireflies. “Shirochi” is written with characters meaning “lucky place,” so it would seem to be an auspicious name for a school, although the pronunciation, “shirochi,” is not what one would expect. Shirochi Elementary is where a firefly festival is held every year at the start of kannazuki, the tenth month of the old lunar calendar whose name literally means, “the month of no gods.” The children who live around Shirochi dance to ancient Japanese court music—kagura, or “music to please the gods”—and admire the swarms of fireflies.

Taking a short trip to go see insects is not something one does every day, but perhaps once or maybe twice a year. I am thoroughly convinced that Japanese people like things that make them feel the seasons and the transience of life.

When one thinks about it, it may be a cruel desire to want to see a life that burns itself out in the short span of a single week. When I lived in Kyoto, I went to the Firefly Light gathering at Shimogamo Shrine, but there were so many people there, and the weather was so hot and sticky, that I was completely worn out. There was a special arrangement whereby some fireflies would be set free from a cage, but those fireflies had so lost their vitality that one found oneself unexpectedly feeling sorry for them instead. I suppose I wanted to see fireflies as they were intended to be, flitting about vigorously amidst the beauty of a rural landscape.

And, I suppose, I wanted to glean some kind of encouragement from it all, too.

The firefly called genjibotaru in Japanese (Luciola cruciata) is said to live in large numbers along the Shirochi River. The

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蒸した初夏の匂い、夜の川のせせらぎ、屋台の焼き 鳥、 フランクフルト、 りんご飴、それに臨時トイレ。なぜ か感じる懐かしさに、胸がうずく。 ひとしきり空気に酔ったあと、福地川沿いに出てみ た。夜の草むらと、明滅する蛍たちの光が一体となり、 地上にひとつの宇宙をこしらえていた。息を呑むとい うよりは、共にゆっくりと呼吸したくなるような、穏や かで美しい明滅である。緑とも、金とも言えないような 不思議な色だ。一つとして同じ光はなく、オーケストラ のようにひとしきり盛り上がる群れもあれば、 どこへい くともあてのないような個体もいる。期待していたよ うな力強い瞬きもあれば、ひと仕事を終えたから寝床 に帰ろうとでも言いたげな背中もある。 見上げると、数え切れないほどの蛍の上に、 さらに数 え切れないほどの星空があった。何億光年か後には 燃え尽きてしまう恒星たちと比べると、地上の生き物 たちが放つ光などほんとうに儚いものだと思う。だか らこそ一瞬一瞬を見逃したくはない。 その一つひとつ に意味があると思いたい。甲虫の光、恒星の光。神さ まがいない間の、静かな瞬きであった。

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genjibotaru has a slightly longer body than the heikebotaru (Luciola lateralis) and lays more eggs, but the genjibotaru can’t tolerate pollution and so prefers the headwaters of rivers and streams. I arrived at Shirochi around 8:30 in the evening, when the other tourists, whom I supposed had come from far away, were beginning to head home. In the square there were some local children who had forgotten all about being tired and were still running about in a lively way. The children were running about in arcs in just the same way that the fireflies’ light danced as they flew. This kind of festival is probably now exactly as it was long ago, a place where people who live nearby can gather and interact.

This is a festival that the fireflies give us, as though sewing up the breach between spring and summer. Perhaps it’s the smells of the humid early summer, the gurgling of the river at night, the stalls selling yakitori skewers, sausages, and candied apples, or maybe, even, the portable latrines brought in for the festival, but my heart aches with nostalgia over something I cannot quite explain After being intoxicated by the fresh air for a spell, I went down to the banks of the Shirochi River. The bushes and the flickering firefly lights blended into one, making a single earthly universe. More than breathtaking, the gentle and beautiful flickering rather made me want to breathe slowly in and out in tandem. The color was otherworldly, neither green nor gold. There was not one uniform light, but some swarms that flared up in unison for a time, like an orchestra, and some solitary fireflies that wandered about aimlessly here and there. There was a vigorous twinkling in places, just as I had expected, and there were also some fireflies

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who flew away as though eager to get to bed after finishing their one task.

When I looked up, there was a sky of countless stars above the countless fireflies. Compared with the stars that will go on burning for untold hundreds of millions of light years more [this makes no sense], the living things here on earth flicker for but a fleeting moment of time. This is precisely why I don’t want to let a single moment slip away. I want to believe that each moment means something. Insect light, starlight. It was a quiet moment in the absence of the gods.

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Merdream Kanya Kanchana I swam and I paused, looking around.

At eye-level, the water was completely clear in the white rock temple pool.

“I am being like a fish”, I said, eyes wide.

“You are being like a fish”, they affirmed.

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Merdream trans. Peter Weakliam Shnámh mé is stad mé, ag féachaint thart.

Ag leibhéal na súl, bhí an t-uisce gléigeal i linn theampall na gcarraigeacha bána.

‘Tá mé ar nós éisc,’ a dúirt mé, mó shúile ar leathadh.

‘Tá tú ar nós éisc,’ ar siadsan, ag aontú liom.

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Tilting Seymore Mayne Are these your ancient grandmother’s molecules tilting the tip of the leaf in sunlight?

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Ag claonadh trans. Peter Weakliam An iad seo móilíní do sheanmháthar ársa ag claonadh rinn na duilleoige faoin ngréin?

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Rebuild Katie Frazer Dust motes swirled in the light that filtered through the blinds as I kicked a plank that lay abandoned on the floor. I couldn’t see any gaps in the roof but it seemed unfortunate that the builder’s so clearly had an extra plank unaccounted for.

‘It’s alright really isn’t it? We’ve been luckier than most, or so I gather,’ I saw the pleading in dad’s eyes and heard the catch in his voice.

I nodded. The house itself did seem to be sound and there was no furnishing or decorations to distract us from faults if it had any. Outside it was a calm October day. No telling what would happen when the colder weather began to really test the house. There were four walls, a bare concrete floor, and a window that provided a view of the row of identikit houses extending down New Street. Compared to how we had been living for the last three years, it was a palace.

Dad rubbed his hands on the front of his patched trousers and licked his lips. He barely had enough hair to pull at but the nervous tick remained. Running his left hand through his hair his eyes turned to me.

‘I’ll need to go and see the guys about the furniture they promised us. It won’t be much but…’

We both let the sentence trail off and it hovered between us in the silence. It wouldn’t amount to much. Even when we had two beds in here, maybe a table, whatever materials Dad would be given, could scrounge, or trade for, it wouldn’t be much. I didn’t know what else to say to him, so I said nothing and left.

The door swung shut behind me and I stood blinking in the low afternoon sun. The rain had stopped an hour before and

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Yenilemek trans. Damla Senlik Yerde usulca yatan kalasa basmamla toz zerreleri jaluzinin arasından giren ışıkta uçuşmaya başladı. Çatıda hiç boşluk olmasa da müteahhitin hesaba katmadığı fazladan bir kalas vardı.

‘Her şey yolunda, değil mi? Çoğu insandan daha şanslıyız.’

Babamın gözlerindeki müdafaayı ve sesindeki hileyi farkettim.

Başımı salladım. Evin kendisi sessizdi ve etrafta dikkatimizi dağıtacak hiçbir mobilya ve dekorasyon yoktu. Dışarısı sakin bir Ekim günüydü. Soğuklar başladığında neler olur söylemeye gerek yok. Dört duvar, beton yerler ve New Street’e uzayan bir sıra benzer evleri gösteren bir pencere vardı. Son üç yılda nasıl yaşadığımıza kıyasla burası bir saraydı.

Babam yamalı pantolonunun önünde ellerini ovuşturup dudaklarını ıslattı. Pek saçı kalmamıştı ama tedirgin bir kısmı kalmıştı. Sol eliyle saçlarını gererek gözlerini bana çevirdi.

‘Bize söz verdikleri mobilyalar için gidip oğlanları göreceğim. Fazla bir şey değildir ama…’ İkimiz de cümlenin sessizlikte yitip gitmesine izin verdik. Çok fazla değildi. Burada iki yatak, belki bir masa, babama verecekleri ne olursa olsun fazla değildi. Başka ne diyeceğimi bilemedim ve hiçbir şey diyemeden gittim.

Kapı arkamdan kapandı ve kendimi öğleden sonra parıldayan güneşe bakarken buldum. Yağmur bir saat

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the glow of the reflected water on the roads was blinding.

The whole shanty town looked like some kind of mirage.

The rows of houses had all been constructed together so it was a simple walk to go straight down, turn left and continue on until I got to the centre. I thought back to times when there had been roundabouts continually surrounded by a carousel of cars and secret alleyways that ran between backyards. Inattentive gardeners had let trees and hedges grow until they toppled over fences and as children we pretended we were lost in a jungle.

New Town doesn’t have grass anymore. There’s projects going on to reintroduce plant life but it’s all focused on growing edible vegetation. The farmers form a procession each morning, shuffling like zombies as they gather before dawn to walk for an hour out towards the workable fields.

Dad volunteered to help but his back was too bad. They chose the young men and women of New Town. The ones whose muscles would grow quickly and backs would hold up against the unfamiliar and intense labour of farm work.

Dad’s skills had been deployed elsewhere, mostly in the Town Hall. It had been presented to him as a privilege and I know he tried to think of it as such. Even so, the glaze on his eyes was taking longer and longer to disappear each time he got back from work. His shoulders were now permanently slumped as if he really had been part of the city’s labour teams.

As I reached the centre I saw Mr White walking along the road as well. Hard to imagine that there had been a time that he had been the city’s beloved mayor. His white hair still rose above his head like a cloud and his eyebrows grew

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önce durmuş ve yollardaki yansıyan suyun parıltısı göz kamaştırıcıydı. Tüm bu gecekondu mahallesi bir tür serap gibi göründü. Sıralı evler hep birlikte inşa edilmişti ve bu nedenle dümdüz aşağı yürümek, sola dönmek ve şehir merkezine kadar devam etmek kolaydı. Yollarda kavşakların olduğu eski günleri düşündüm, arabalarla dolu kavşakları ve arka bahçelerden geçen gizli daracık yolları. Dikkatsiz bahçıvanlar ağaçları çitlerden fışkırırcasına uzamalarına izin vermiş ve biz de çocukken ormanda kaybolduğumuzu hayal etmiştik.

Yeni şehirde artık çimen yoktu. Tekrar köy yaşamına geçiş için projeler varsa da hepsi sebze yetiştirmeye odaklıydı. Çiftçiler her sabah şafak vaktinden önce toplandıkları için çalışma alanlarına birer saat zombi gibi yürüyorlardı. Babam gönüllü olarak yardımlarına gitti ama sırtı çok ağrıdı.

Gönüllü olarak Yeni şehrin genç erkekleri ve kızlarını seçtiler. Onların kasları çabucak gelişip sırtları alışılmadık çiftçilik işlerine karşı dayanabilirdi. Babamın yetenekleri başka yerlerde, genellikle Şehir merkezine transfer oldu.

Bu, ona bir ayrıcalıkmış gibi sunuldu ve sanırım o da böyle bilmek istedi. Yine de, her işten döndüğünde gözlerindeki ışıltının kaybolması her defasında daha uzun sürdü. Omuzları artık gerçekten şehrin işçi takımındanmış gibi kalıcı olarak çökmüştü. Şehir merkezine ulaştığımda Bay White’ı da yol boyunca yürürken gördüm. Bir zamanlar şehrin sevilen belediye başkanı olduğunu düşünmek zor. Beyaz saçları hala başının üzerinde bir bulut gibi duruyordu ve kaşları derin

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with wild abandon above his dark deep-set eyes. The memory of him wearing formal attire and a shining gold medal was fading. It was difficult to reconcile with the thin grey clothes he wore now. That we all wore.

At first my mother had smiled brightly. She had bitten off her thread and gotten to work. When her fingers grew red and swollen with arthritic pain though, that was the end of her customisation. I shook my head when people asked about it and eventually they stopped. It was nothing though – she could have lived with that pain. It was when the water supply was contaminated that she succumbed. Fever came overnight, as it did for so many, and she lay shivering on a camp bed under a scratchy cotton sheet. The fever patients were all herded together at one end of the old school hall. It was their terrible luck that the following night so many were injured by the shootings. The medical staff ’s attention was consumed by the blood and bullets and screaming. They couldn’t catch the ones slowly slipping away into strange dreams and troubled sleeps.

After her death my father had tried to sign up for the fighting posts but was pointed instead to the administrative tasks. He was somewhat consoled when they advised him, ‘Your daughter will be old enough to volunteer in a couple of years.’

Against so many expectations and predictions though, it had all been over before I was old enough to sign up. We were left instead to try and piece together what parts of civilised lives we could remember. No one had homes of course. The building took up everyone’s time and energies.

While the building teams had got to work, others farmed,

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kara gözlerinin üzerinde yabani bir şekilde büyümekteydi.

Resmi kıyafetler içinde parlak altın bir madalya takarkenki hatırası yitip gidiyordu. Onu şuan giymekte olduğu gri ince kıyafetlerle hatırlamak zordu. Hepimizin giydiği o kıyafetle. İlk başta, annem parlak bir tebessüm etti. İpliği koparıp işe başlardı. Parmakları eklem ağrısından kızarıp şiştiği vakit dizaynı bitti demekti. İnsanlar sorduklarında kafamı sallardım ve nihayet sormayı bıraktılar. Aslında hiçbir şeydi – o ağrıyla yaşayabilirdi. Suya enfeksiyon bulaştığı zaman hastalığa yenik düştü. Bir gece ateşi çıktı, sonraki geceler gibi ve derme çatma yatakta bir örtünün altında titreyerek yattı. Ateşli hastalar eski okulun salonunda hep beraber toplandılar. O kadar şanssızdılar ki ertesi gece birçoğu ateş açılması sonucu yaralandı. Tıbbi ekibin ilgisi akan kanla, mermilerle ve çığlıklarla tükendi. Usulca garip rüyalara dalanları yakalayamadılar.

Onun ölümünden sonra babam gönüllü orduya yazılmaya çalıştıysa da yönetimde görevlendirildi. Her nasılsa ‘Birkaç yıl sonra kızınız gönüllü olmak için yeterli yaşa gelecektir.’

Sözü onu teselli etti.

Birçok beklenti ve tahmine karşı, ben yeterince yaş alana kadar aynı şekilde sonuçlandı. Artık onun yerine, hatırlayabildiğimiz medeni hayatların parçalarını birleştirmeye çalıştık. Hiç kimsenin evi yoktu tabi. Binalar herkesin vaktini ve enerjisini alıyordu. İnşa takımları çalışırken, diğerleri çiftçilik yaptı ve benim gibi gençler de temizliği.

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while teenagers like me were on clean-up detail.

The higher-ups still preferred ‘detail’ and ‘task’ to ‘duty’.

‘Time for a new vocabulary’ they had said. As if language changes what had happened or would affect would could happen next.

I had been so lost in my own thoughts that I didn’t notice the crowd at first. More and more people were joining it.

They wandered over – no one ran anymore, everything was done at a much slower pace – and murmured to one another as they began to constitute a grey mass in the town’s centre. Drawn to it, I stood a few paces outside the crowd for a moment. There was a strange sound coming from the middle but I couldn’t make out what anyone was saying.

Despite myself, I began pushing. People parted easily and I quickly made it to the first row within the circle’s inner ring.

Two people were engaged in a noiseless fight. They were pushing and pulling at each other. It was becoming more vicious. They were biting and kicking and scratching. One of them let out a grunt and the other one screamed. No one in the crowd moved to stop them or ask what was happening.

I opened my own mouth but the question died on my lips.

By the two pairs of scuffling feet was a dusty loaf of bread. I turned and thrust my way through the crowd. If any of the other spectators were surprised, they didn’t show it.

Crying, I turned a corner and was confronted with a ragged bunch of children. They were engaged in a game that involved throwing a small dark object and trying to catch it from wider and wider distances. However, they got a fright when they saw me. They must have thought that they were breaking a Rule. Dropping their object, the children

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Üst düzeydekiler hala ‘detayı’ ve ‘vazifeyi’ ‘iş’e tercih ediyordu. ‘Şimdi yeni kelime dağarcığını yeni baştan yaratma vakti’ dediler. Sanki yeni kelimeler geçmişi değiştirebilirmiş ya da sıradakini etkileyebilirmiş gibi.

Kendi düşüncelerimde o denli kaybolmuştum ki kalabalığı ilk başta farketmedim. Her defasında daha çok insan katılıyordu. Geziniyorlardı – artık kimse koşmuyordu, her şey daha yavaş bir hızda seyrediyordu – ve şehir merkezinde gri bir kalabalık oluştururken birbirlerine mırıldanıyorlardı.

O tarafa gittim, bir anlığına kalabalığın dışında birkaç adım uzakta dikildim. Tam ortadan gelen tuhaf bir ses vardı fakat kimin ne dediğini çıkaramıyordum. Birdenbire itmeye başladım. İnsanlar çabucak katılıp halkanın içindeki ilk sıraya girdi. İki kişi sessiz bir kavgaya başladı. Birbirlerini itip çekiyorlardı. Daha da vahşileşmeye başladı. Isırıyor, tekmeliyor ve yoluyorlardı. Bir tanesi inliyor diğeri çığlık atıyordu.

Kalabalıktaki kimse onları durdurmadı veya ne olduğunu sormadı. Ben ağzımı açtım ama soru dudaklarımda can Verdi. İtişip kakışan ayaklardan ikisi ekmek tozuna bulanmıştı. Dönüp kalabalığın arasında sıkış tıkış geçmeye çalıştım. Diğer izleyiciler şaşırdılarsa belli etmediler.

Ağlayarak köşeyi döndüm ve bir grup bakımsız çocuk gördüm. Küçük bir nesneyi uzağa atıp yakalama oyunu oynuyorlardı. Fakat beni görünce dehşete kapıldılar. Bir kuralı çiğnediklerini düşünmüş olmalılar. Nesneyi yere bırakıp fareler gibi kaçıştılar ve ortadan kayboldular. Gözlerimi silerek yerdeki oyuncaklarını dürtükledim. Hafızamdaki bir şeyi canlandırdı. Yerden alırken pürüzsüz dokusunu hisset-

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scattered like mice and were soon gone. Wiping my eyes, I walked over and nudged their toy with my foot. It stirred something in my memory. Picking it up I felt the smooth varnished skin. It was a sorry affair with pieces scraped off and it bore teeth marks. There was a little stalk as well and I found the word for it. It looked like an acorn.

One of their parents must be a farmer. There was nowhere in New Town that this could have come from. Presumably it was brought back as a curiosity for them. No value had been attached to it – even the children had abandoned it.

Nonetheless a strange sense of purpose came over me. At the edge of town, it could often feel as though you were totally alone. Houses had been hastily thrown up round here and they weren’t finished. Even though people were staying in them the entire area was pervaded with a sense of abandonment. Aluminium walls had planks of wood nailed atop them to serve as roofs. There were no windows but still it felt as though there were eyes on my back.

Crouching down I scrabbled in the dry earth until I had a fairly deep hole in the ground. Beneath the dusty surface there were some moisture in the soil. Gently placing the acorn at the base I buried it. I stood, not daring to hope, and walked away.

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tim. Üzerinde diş izleri vardı ve kazınmıştı. Üstünde bir de sapı vardı ve sonunda aradığım kelimeyi buldum. Meşe palamuduna benziyordu.

Ailelerinden biri çiftçi olmalıydı. Yeni şehrin hiçbir yerinden gelmiş olamazdı.Tahminen onlar için bir merak unsuru olarak getirilmişti. Hiçbir değeri yoktu – çocuklar bile onu terketmişti.

Yine de garip bir amaç hissi beni sardı. Şehrin bir köşesinde, tamamen yalnız hissedebilirdiniz. Buralarda evler alelacele şekilde inşa edilmiş ve henüz bitirilmemişti. Hala içinde kalan insanlar olmasına rağmen, bu alan terkedilme hissiyle dolmuştu. Aliminyum duvarların üzerine tahta levhalar çatı olarak kaplanmıştı. Hiç pencere yoktu ama yine de arkamda gözler varmış gibi hissederdim. Çömelip yerde derin bir çukur açana kadar kuru toprağı eşeledim. Tozlu yüzeyin altında nemli toprak vardı. Meşe palamudunu nazikçe oraya koyup gömdüm. Dikildim, ümit etmeye cüret etmeden uzaklaştım.

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Adelheid Eleonora González Se arrodilló en la nieve y allí mismo allí donde caía brotó verde la hierba tierna como si fuera verano cuando el verde es más perfecto, si en vez de invierno julio un día de septiembre.

Era hierba y crecía sin semilla.

Estaba blanca nieve lívida mordida por el frío y respiraba apenas un aire tibio, yerto entre los dientes.

Las yemas de los dedos secas, los labios muertos, las rodillas rotas manchadas por la savia de esas hojas recién nacidas de una fuerza innominada.

No sé quién era Dios, si era, pero noche y día corro en círculos concéntricos su mano blanca, su rodilla verde forman una oración que no comprendo.

La hierba ya no crece.

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Adelheid trans. Patricia Gonzalez She knelt on the snow and right there where it fell green blossomed the grass tender as if it were summer when the green is more perfect, as if instead of a winter July, a day of September.

It was grass and it grew without a seed.

She was livid white snow bitten by the cold and barely breathing the tepid air, stiff between the teeth.

The fingertips were dry, the lips dead, the knees broken stained by the sap of those leaves newly born from a force that had no name.

I don’t know who God was, if he was, but day and night I run in concentric circles his white hand, his green knee form a prayer I can’t understand.

The grass grows no more.

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Harmony #1 (Planetarium) Niall McCabe Geist in cranial waters. Systems arise in wild colours and levitate sidelong from mesoderm to meteorite.

Child-wonder. Holy nexus. Exhilaration of earth-chaos.

I pray for manna to fall to the page. I pray what divides happens in the assembly of my thoughts.

Moonjar, split-screen avatar you are a syllable in the throat of space. Central vertebra blazing I enter avian silence: rare orbits of tear-mark and backscatter in the amniotic dark.

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Harmonie #1 (Planétarium) trans. Emilie Mamode-issop Esprit dans les eaux crâniennes. Les systèmes naissent dans les couleurs vives et lévitent en dérivant du mésoderme à la météorite.

Enfant prodige. Lien sacré. Euphorie du chaos sur Terre.

Je prie pour que la manne Tombe sur la page. Je prie ce qui divise arrive dans l’assemblement de mes pensées.

Vase de la lune, avatar d’un écran partagé tu es une syllabe dans la gorge de l’espace. Une vertèbre centrale enflammée J’entre le silence aviaire : orbites rares de griffures et de rétrodiffusion dans les ténèbres amniotiques.

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Harmony #2 (Shake: The Cryptic Wood) Niall McCabe

She is motion and moves all things. She is the moment the foetus begins to stir.

She is green and full of juice.

Or exorcism, extracellular equinox of elastin nectar -bone of density scattering spine and fire flame-licked incunabulum star —

a burst of violent noise though the liver waking the insects sleeping in the earth.

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Harmonie #2 (Agiter: Le Bois Cryptique) trans. Emilie Mamode-issop

Elle est mouvement et bouge toutes choses. Elle est le moment où le fœtus commence à remuer.

Elle est verte et pleine de jus.

Ou d’exorcisme, un nectar d’équinoxe d’élastine extra-cellulaire, un os de densité épandant la colonne vertébrale et l’étoile de feu incunable faiblement humectée, l’éclat d’un bruit violent alors que le foie les insectes endormis réveille sous terre.

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118

Regenerating Yeats

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Brown Penny W. B. Yeats

I whispered, ‘I am too young,’ And then, ‘I am old enough’; Wherefore I threw a penny To find out if I might love.

‘Go and love, go and love, young man, If the lady be young and fair.’

Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny, I am looped in the loops of her hair.

O love is the crooked thing, There is nobody wise enough To find out all that is in it, For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon.

Ah penny, brown penny, brown penny, One cannot begin it too soon.

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Bronz Peni trans. Damla Senlik Fısıldadım, ‘Çok gencim daha’, ‘Yaşım da geldi’ dedim sonra; Bu yüzden bir peni attım havaya Aşık olacak mıyım diye bakmaya.

‘Durma sev, durma sev, genç adam, Genç ve güzel birisini bulursan.’

Ah, peni, bronz peni, bronz peni, Yarin buklelerinde düğümlendim kaldım.

Ah aşk ne aldatıcı bir şeydir, Tümüyle çözebilecek kadar bilge Kimse yoktur yeryüzünde, Çünkü aşkı düşünecektir Yıldızlar kaçıp gidene Gölgeler ayı yutuncaya dek Ah peni, bronz peni, bronz peni, Çok erken başlayamaz kimse.

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Purgatory W. B. Yeats Scene: A ruined house and a bare tree in the background.

Boy: Half door, hall door Hither and thither day and night Hill or hollow, shouldering this pack.

Hearing you talk.

Old Man: Study that house.

I think about its jokes and stories; I try to remember what the butler Said to a drunken gamekeeper In mid-October, but I cannot, If I cannot, none living can.

Where are the jokes and stories of a house Its threshold gone to patch a pig-sty?

Boy: So you have come this path before?

Old Man: The moonlight falls upon the path, The shadow of a cloud upon the house And that’s symbolical; study that tree, What is it like?

Boy:

A silly old man.

Old Man: It’s like—no matter what it’s like.

I saw it a year ago stripped bare as now, I saw it fifty years ago

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Očistec trans. Martin Světlík Scéna. – Pobořený dům, v pozadí holý strom.

Chlapec. Vrátky i branami, sem a tam, nocí i dnem, strží či strání, na zádech vak, a jenom tebe poslouchat.

Starý muž. Prohlédni si tamten dům.

Přemýšlím o jeho žertech a příbězích; Snažím se vzpomenout, co že to povídal komorník opilému hajnému v půli října, ale nemohu. A když ne já, tak nikdo z živých nemůže.

Kdeže jsou žerty a příběhy domů, když jejich prahem stloukli chlívek?

Chlapec. Tak ty užs touhle cestou šel?

Starý muž. Na cestu padá měsíční svit,

na dům zas padá mraku stín

a celé je to jinotaj.

Prohlédni si tamten strom.

Jak ho popsat?

Chlapec.

Blázen stará.

Starý muž. Je jako – na tom nesejde.

Viděl jsem ho před rokem, jako teď byl, celý holý,

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Before the thunder-bolt had riven it, Green leaves, ripe leaves, leaves thick as butter, Fat, greasy life. Stand there and look, Because there is somebody in that house.

[The boy puts down pack and stands in the doorway.]

Boy: There’s nobody here.

Old Man:

There’s somebody there.

Boy: The floor is gone, the windows gone, And where there should be roof there’s sky, And here’s a bit of an egg-shell thrown Out of a jackdaw’s nest.

Old Man: But there are some That do not care what’s gone, what’s left; The souls in Purgatory that come back To habitations and familiar spots.

Boy: Your wits are out again.

Old Man: Re-live Their transgressions, and that not once But many times, they know at last

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tak jsem si našel lepší práci.

Padesát let co jsem ho viděl, ještě než ho rozčís’ blesk, zelené listí, zralé listí, jak máslo tučný, plodný život.

Stoupni si tam a dívej se, protože v domě někdo je.

[Chlapec sundá vak a postaví se do dveří.]

Chlapec. Nikdo tu není.

Starý muž.

Někdo tam je.

Chlapec. Podlaha pryč, okna pryč, a místo střechy je tu nebe, a tuhle kousek skořápky, co vypad’ kavce z hnízda.

Starý muž. Ale jsou i takoví, kterým vůbec nesejde na tom, co je pryč, co zbylo: Duše v Očistci, co vracejí se v příbytky a známá místa.

Chlapec. Už zase blouzníš.

Starý muž.

Prožívají znovu své prohřešky, ne jednou, ale mnohokrát; a vidí

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The consequence of those transgressions Whether upon others, or upon themselves; Upon others, others may bring help For when the consequence is at an end The dream must end; upon themselves There is no help but in themselves And in the mercy of God Boy: I have had enough!

Talk to the jackdaws, if talk you must.

Old Man: Stop! Sit there upon that stone.

That is the house where I was born.

Boy: The big old house that was burnt down?

Old Man: My mother that was your grand-dam owned it, This scenery and this countryside, Kennel and stable, horse and hound— She had a horse at the Curragh, and there met My father, a groom in a training stable, Looked at him and married him.

Her mother never spoke to her again, And she did right.

Boy: What’s right and wrong?

My grand-dad got the girl and the money.

Old Man: Looked at him and married him,

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tak následky těch prohřešení, na druhých nebo sobě samých; když na druhých, ti snad pomohou, když totiž následek pomine, pomine s ním i sen; a jestli na sobě, pomoc jen v sobě samých a v milosti Boží mají.

Chlapec.

Tak dost!

To říkej kavkám, když už musíš.

Starý muž. Stůj! Sedni si tam na ten kámen.

V tom domě jsem se narodil.

Chlapec. V tom domě, který vyhořel?

Starý muž. Patřil mé matce, tvojí babičce, tohleto místo a krajina kolem, kotce a stáje, ohaři, koně – mívala koně v Curraghu a tam potkala mého otce, podkoního; spatřila ho, vzala si ho.

Její matka s ní už nikdy ani slovo neztratila.

A taky dobře udělala.

Chlapec. Dobře, špatně. A co z toho?

Děda měl přece majlant i ženskou.

Starý muž. Spatřila ho, vzala si ho,

127

And he squandered everything she had.

She never knew the worst, because She died in giving birth to me, But now she knows it all, being dead.

Great people lived and died in this house; Magistrates, colonels, members of Parliament, Captains and Governors, and long ago Men that had fought at Aughrim and the Boyne.

Some that had gone on government work To London or to India, came home to die, Or came from London every spring To look at the May-blossom in the park.

They had loved the trees that he cut down To pay what he had lost at cards Or spent on horses, drink and women; Had loved the house, had loved all The intricate passages of the house, But he killed the house; to kill a house Where great men grew up, married, died, I here declare a capital offence.

Boy: My God, but you had luck. Grand clothes, And maybe a grand horse to ride, Old Man: That he might keep me upon his level He never sent me to school, but some Half-loved me for my half of her,

128

on všechno, co měla, prohýřil.

Nejhorší ale nepoznala, můj porod ji totiž zahubil.

Teď ale, mrtvá, všechno ví.

Zde v domě žili, umírali slavní muži, soudci, správci, poslanci, kapitáni a dávno také ti, kteří bojovali u Aughrim a řeky Boyne.

Ti, co šli pracovat pro vládu do Londýna, do Indie, vraceli se umřít domů nebo se vraceli z Londýna vždycky, když zjara všechno kvetlo.

Měli v lásce stromy, které porazil, aby moh’ utrácet za pití, ženské, karty, sázky; Měli v lásce dům, ty jeho spletité chodby milovali, on ho však zahubil; zahubit dům, kde vyrůstali slavní muži, ženili se, umírali, to prohlašuji za hrdelní čin.

Chlapec. Panečku, vždyť jsi měl ale štěstí.

Fajnový šaty a možná i koně.

Starý muž. Abych se nad něj nepovýšil, neposlal mě do školy, některým jsem však k srdci zpola

129

A gamekeeper’s wife taught me to read, A Catholic curate taught me Latin.

There were old books and books made fine By eighteenth century French binding, books Modern and ancient, books by the ton.

Boy: What education have you given me?

Old Man: I gave the education that befits A bastard that a pedlar got Upon a tinker’s daughter in a ditch.

When I had come to sixteen years old My father burned down the house when drunk.

Boy: But that is my age, sixteen years old .

At the Puck Fair.

Old Man: And everything was burnt; Books, library, all were burnt.

Boy: Is what I have heard upon the road the truth, That you killed him in the burning house?

Old Man: There’s nobody here but our two selves?

Boy: Nobody, Father.

Old Man: I stuck him with a knife, That knife that cuts my dinner now,

130

přirost’ tou její polovinou.

Hajného žena učila mě číst, páter mě naučil latině.

Měli jsme knihy, starobylé, zkrášlené vazbou z Francie staré i nové, knih habaděj.

Chlapec. A cos mi ty dal za vzdělání?

Starý muž. Jen to, co sluší parchantovi, kterého zplodili v příkopě kramář a dcera dráteníka.

Když mi bylo šestnáct let, otec se opil a zapálil dům.

Chlapec. Však mně je tolik, šestnáct let.

V den Kozlího trhu.

Starý muž.

Všechno shořelo; knihovna shořela, všechny knihy.

Chlapec. Je pravda, co jsem zaslech’ cestou, žes ho tam zabil při požáru?

Starý muž. Není tu nikdo kromě nás dvou?

Chlapec. Nikdo.

Starý muž. Zaříz’ jsem ho nožem, tím, co si teď krájím chleba,

131

And after that I left him in the fire; They dragged him out, somebody saw The knife-wound but could not be certain Because the body was all black and charred.

Then some that were his drunken friends Swore they would put me upon trial, Spoke of quarrels, a threat I had made.

The gamekeeper gave me some old clothes, I ran away, worked here and there Till I became a pedlar on the roads, No good trade, but good enough Because I am my father’s son, Because of what I did or may do.

Listen to the hoof beats! Listen, Listen!

Boy: I cannot hear a sound.

Old Man: Beat! Beat!

This night is the anniversary Of my mother’s wedding night, Or of the night wherein I was begotten.

My father is riding from the public house A whiskey bottle under his arm.

[A window is lit showing a young girl.]

Look at the window; she stands there Listening, the servants are all in bed,

132

a nechal jsem ho ležet v ohni.

Vytáhli ho, někdo si všim’ té rány, ale s určitostí to nemoh’ vědět, protože tělo žárem zčernalo.

Pár jeho opileckých přátel slíbilo, že mě poženou před soud, mluvili o sporech, o mých hrozbách.

Hajný mi dal staré šaty, utek’ jsem, živořil tu a onde, až stal se ze mě kramář, práce bídná, ale ujde, jsem totiž synem svého otce a co jsem spáchal, můžu zas.

Poslouchej, kopyta! Slyšíš, slyšíš!

Chlapec. Neslyším vůbec nic.

Starý muž.

Na dnešní noc připadá výročí matčiny svatební noci, té noci, za níž jsem byl zplozen, Otec už cválá z krčmy domů a pod paží má láhev whisky.

Ten dusot!

[V domě se rozsvítí jedno z oken a objeví se v něm mladá dívka.]

Dívej, tam v okně; stojí tam, poslouchá, služebnictvo spí,

133

She is alone, he has stayed late Bragging and drinking in the public house.

Boy: There’s nothing but an empty gap in the wall.

You have made it up. No, you are mad!

You are getting madder every day.

Old Man: It’s louder now because he rides Upon a gravelled avenue All grass to-day. The hoof beat stops, He has gone to the other side of the house, Gone to the stable, put the horse up.

She has gone down to open the door.

This night she is no better than her man And does not mind that he is half drunk, She is mad about him. They mount the stairs She brings him into her own chamber.

And that is the marriage chamber now.

The window is dimly lit again.

Do not let him touch you! It is not true That drunken men cannot beget And if he touch he must beget And you must bear his murderer.

Deaf! Both deaf! If I should throw A stick or stone they would not hear; And that’s a proof my wits are out.

But there’s a problem: she must live Through everything in exact detail,

134

je sama, on byl zatím v krčmě, do noci pil a chvástal se.

Chlapec. Není tam nic než díra ve zdi.

Jenom si vymýšlíš. Ne, ty blouzníš!

Den ode dne jsi šílenější.

Starý muž. Je slyšet hlasitěji, to už cválá štěrkem v aleji, kde dnes jen tráva roste. Dusot umlká, už je za domem u stájí, koně uvázal.

Seběhla dolů otevřít.

Dnes v noci se mu zcela rovná a nedbá na to, že se opil, je do něj celá zblázněná.

Stoupají spolu po schodech, vede ho do své komnaty, Teď je to komnata manželská.

V okně se opět slabě svítí.

Ne! Nedej, aby se tě dotknul!

I opilý je schopen počít a dotkne-li se, jistě počne a ty pak zplodíš jeho vraha.

Hluší jsou! Oba! Kdybych házel kameny a klacky – neuslyší; A to je důkaz, že jen blouzním!

Má to ale háček: musí vše prožít znova, přesně tak,

135

Driven to it by remorse, and yet Can she renew the sexual act And find no pleasure in it, and if not, If pleasure and remorse must both be there Which is the greater?

I lack schooling.

Go fetch Tertullian; he and I Will ravel all that problem out Whilst those two lie upon the mattress Begetting me.

Come back! Come back!

And so you thought to slip away, My bag of money between your fingers, And that I could not talk and see!

You have been rummaging in the pack.

[The light in the window has faded out.]

Boy: You never gave me my right share.

Old Man: And had I given it, young as you are You would have spent it upon drink.

Boy: What if I did? I had a right To get it and spend it as I chose.

Old Man: Give me that bag and no more words.

136

jak tehdy, hnaná výčitkami, a přesto, je snad možné, aby prožila ten milostný akt a necítila při něm rozkoš, a jestli ne, když nutně cítí rozkoš spolu s výčitkami, čeho je víc?

Jsem nevzdělanec.

Běž, přines Tertuliána, my dva to spolu rozuzlíme, zatímco ti dva na poduškách leží a plodí mě.

Vrať se! Vrať se!

Tos myslel, že si jen tak pláchneš a sebereš mi peníze, že nevidím a budu zticha!

Hrabal ses mi v tlumoku.

[Světlo v okně zhasne.]

Chlapec. Nikdy’s mi nedal, co mi patří.

Starý muž. A kdybych dal, jsi ještě mladý, tak jako tak bys všechno propil.

Chlapec. Co na tom? Měl bych přece právo to utratit, jak se mi zlíbí.

Starý muž. Dej mi ten vak a neodmlouvej.

137

Boy: I will not.

Old Man:

I will break your fingers.

[They struggle for the bag. In the struggle it drops, scattering the money. The OLD MAN staggers but does not fall.

They stand looking at each other.]

Boy: What if I killed you? You killed my grand-dad Because you were young and he was old.

Now I am young and you are old.

[A window is lit up, a man is seen pouring whiskey into a glass.]

Old Man: [Staring at window.] Better looking, those sixteen years— Boy: What are you muttering?

Old Man: Younger—and yet She should have known he was not her kind.

Boy: What are you saying? Out with it!

[Old Man points to window.]

My God the window is lit up And somebody stands there, although The floorboards are all burnt away.

138

Chlapec. Nic nedám.

Starý muž.

Že ti zlámu prsty.

[Přetahují se o tlumok. Během přetahování ho upustí a peníze se rozkutálejí. Starý muž se zapotácí, ale neupadne.

Oba stojí a dívají se jeden na druhého.]

Chlapec. A co tě zabít? Zabils dědu, byls totiž mladý a on starý.

Teď já jsem mladý a ty starý.

[V okně se rozsvítí. Je vidět, jak muž nalévá do sklenice whisky.]

Starý muž. [Zírá na okno.] Vypadá líp, těch šestnáct let– Chlapec. Co si to mumláš?

Starý muž.

Mladší – jenže měla vědět, že jí není hoden.

Chlapec. Co to povídáš? Tak ven s tím!

[Starý muž ukáže na okno.]

Bože můj, okno, svítí se tam, a někdo u něj stojí, i když podlaha lehla popelem.

139

Old Man: The window is lit up because my father Has come to find a glass for his whiskey.

He leans there like some tired beast.

Boy: A dead, living, murdered man.

Old Man: Then the bride sleep fell upon Adam: Where did I read those words?

And yet There’s nothing leaning in the window But the impression upon my mother’s mind, Being dead she is alone in her remorse.

Boy: A body that was a bundle of old bones Before I was born. Horrible! Horrible! [He covers his eyes.]

Old Man: That beast there would know nothing being nothing.

If I should kill a man under the window, He would not even turn his head. [He stabs the boy.]

My father and my son on the same jack-knife!

That finishes—there—there—there— [He stabs again and again. The window grows dark.]

“Hush-a-bye baby, thy father’s a knight, Thy mother a lady, lovely and bright” No, that is something that I read in a book And if I sing it must be to my mother, And I lack rhyme.

140

Starý muž. V okně se svítí, můj otec si totiž přišel pro sklenku na svou whisky.

Skloněný, znavený jako zvíře.

Chlapec. Nebožtík, živý, zavražděný!

Starý muž. „Pak Adam usnul spánkem svatebním“: kde jsem to jenom čet’?

A přesto, tam v okně vlastně nikdo není, jen pouhá představa mé matky; je mrtvá, sama s výčitkami.

Chlapec. Vždyť byla jenom kost a prach

dřív než jsem přišel na svět. Hrůza! [Zakryje si oči.]

Starý muž. To zvíře tam je pouhé nic, a nic tím pádem nevnímá, nehnul by brvou, kdybych tady pod oknem zabil člověka. [Probodne Chlapce.]

Otec i syn tím samým nožem!

Tak skončí to – tak – tak – tak – [Opakovaně bodne. V okně se stmívá.] „Spi, mé dítě, spi, zavři očka svý, tvá matka je krásná paní, otec rytíř k pohledání.“ Ne, to znám přece z nějaké knihy, a jestli zpívám, jistě matce,

141

[The stage has grown dark except where the tree stands in white light] Study that tree.

It stands there like a purified soul, All cold, sweet, glistening light.

Dear mother, the window is dark again But you are in the light because I finished all that consequence.

I killed that lad for he was growing up, He would soon take some woman’s fancy, Beget and pass pollution on.

I am a wretched foul old man And therefore harmless. When I have stuck This old jack-knife into a sod And pulled it out all bright again, And picked up all the money that he dropped I’ll to a distant place, and there Tell my old jokes among new men.

[He cleans the knife and begins to pick up money.]

Hoof beats! Dear God How quickly it returns—beat—beat— Her mind cannot hold up that dream.

Twice a murderer and all for nothing,

142

a vlastně ani nemám sluch.

[Jeviště potemní až na místo, kde stojí strom, osvětlený bílým světlem.]

Prohlédni si tamten strom.

Je jako očištěná duše, třpytí se v chladném, čistém světle.

Matko má, v okně je zase tma, ty jsi ale na světle, protože už jsem skoncoval s veškerými následky.

Zabil jsem tady toho hocha, protože kdyby dospěl, moh’ by do oka padnout nějaké ženě, počít a přenést tu špínu dál.

Jsem starý, bídný, ubohý muž, a tedy neškodný. Zarazím teď do země tenhle starý nůž a čistý ho zas vytáhnu, sesbírám mince, co tu rozházel a půjdu někam daleko vyprávět novým lidem staré žerty.

[Očistí nůž a začne sbírat peníze.]

Dusot kopyt! Panebože, tak rychle se vrací – znova – znova – !

Ten sen má nad ní stále moc.

Dvakráte vrahem, pro nic za nic,

143

And she must animate that dead night Not once but many times!

O God! Release my mother’s soul from its dream!

Mankind can do no more. Appease The misery of the living and the remorse of the dead.

[Curtain Falls]

144

ona zas křísí mrtvou noc ne jednou, ale mnohokrát.

Bože!

Vysvoboď její duši ze snu!

Lidstvo víc nezmůže. Dopřej živým úlevu a mrtvým zapomnění.

[Konec]

145

No Second Troy W. B. Yeats Why should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage equal to desire?

What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this, Being high and solitary and most stern?

Why, what could she have done, being what she is?

Was there another Troy for her to burn?

146

Kein Zweites Troja trans. Daragh Downes Wozu es ihr anlasten, daß sie mir die Tage Zur Qual gemacht, oder, daß sie in letzter Zeit Ungehobelten Seelen Gewalt beigebracht Oder die kleinen Straßen auf die großen gestürzt (Käme deren Mut dem Begehren nur gleich)?

Was hätte sie beruhigen können, mit einem Geist Durch Vornehmheit schlicht wie Feuer, Mit Schönheit wie ein stramm gespannter Bogen, Allzu unzeitgemäß in dieser Epoche, Da sie hoch und einsam und ernst war?

Wozu es ihr anlasten, wenn sie ihrem Wesen nach nicht anders konnte?

Gab es ein zweites, in Flammen zu setzendes Troja?

147

No N n o Second Troy W. B. Yeats

Why should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage equal to desire?

What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this, Being high and solitary and most stern?

Why, what could she have done, being what she is?

Was there another Troy for her to burn?

148

‫مود یورت تسین‬ ‫‪trans. Sana Sanai‬‬

‫مود یورت تسین‬ ‫ار میاهزور اریز منک شنزرس ار وا ارچ‪ ‬‬ ‫هصغ اب‬ ‫رخاوا نیا رد و رک رپ‬ ‫و داد قوس یرگیشحو تنوشخ یوس هب ار نادان دارفا‬ ‫اهتردق ربا ناج هب ار حول هداس مدرم‬ ‫؟تخادنا‬ ‫وزرآ و تعاجشزجب نتشاد هچ اهنآ‪ ‬‬ ‫نویپاپ کی ریظن تسا ردان نارود نیا رد هک شا ییابیز و‬ ‫؟دوب مظنم و بترم‬ ‫؟دوب هدش بکترم یمرج هچ ؟ارچ‪ ‬‬ ‫؟دهدب رطاخ شمارآ وا هب دح نیا ات تسناوتیم یزیچ هچ‬ ‫‪ ،‬دوب هداس شتآ لثم شتریس‪ ‬هکنآ‬ ‫؟تخسرس و اتمه یب و زیظن یب صخش نا‬ ‫؟دشکب شتآ هب مه ار وا هک تسه یرگید یورترگم‬

‫‪149‬‬

The White Birds W. B. Yeats Would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea!

We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can fade and flee; And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim of the sky, Has awakened in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that may not die.

A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew-dabbled, the lily and rose; Ah, dream not of them, my beloved, the flame of the meteor that goes, Or the flame of the blue star that lingers hung low in the fall of the dew: For I would we were changed to white birds on the wandering foam: I and you!

I am haunted by numberless islands, and many a Danaan shore, Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come near us no more; Soon far from the rose and the lily, and fret of the flames would we be, Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea!

150

Die weißen Vögel trans. Tiana Fischer Ich wünschte, wir wären, Geliebte, weiße Vögel in schäumender See, Der Kometenflamme überdrüssig, bevor sie kann schwinden und gehen; Und die Flamme des blauen Abendstern, tief hängend am fernen Himmelsrand, Hat in unseren Herzen eine Trauer geweckt, die nimmermehr wird verbannt.

Eine Müdigkeit geht von den Träumern aus, Ros’ und Lilie taubenetzt stehen; Ah, von ihnen träum’ nicht, meine Liebste, die Kometenflamme wird gehen, Die des blauen Stern wird bleiben im Schleier des sinkenden Tau: Doch ich wünscht’, ich und Du würden Vögel, so weiß wie der wandernde Flaum!

Unzählige Inseln suchen mich heim, und zahllose DanannKüsten, Wo wir uns von Zeit und Kummer befreit dann endlich in Frieden wüssten; Schon bald weit entfernt von Rose und Lilie, von den Flammen frei ohne Weh, Wären wir doch weiße Vögel, Geliebte, die reiten auf schäumender See!

151

Some Revelation (after Yeats) Rosa Campbell He felt an era of certainty crash around his ears, retinas burning in eyes unused to flame, but I see only “slow thighs” and hear my own chafing.

He reached toward a new world dawning, grace as a clawed monster, a gaping maw. I reach too, into a poem’s blue guts, and feel it give way.

He left a space. Looked at a shattered century and saw the centre it could hold. Here is the fall: the small maelstrom of my body writ smaller.

152

Qualche rivelazione (alla maniera di Yeats) trans. Alice Chiesi Lui sentiva un’epoca di certezza infrangersi intorno a sé, le retine ardevano in occhi non abituati alla fiamma, ma io scorgo solo “lente cosce” e sento le mie sfregare.

Si tendeva verso un nuovo mondo agli albori, la grazia di un mostro dai lunghi artigli, le fauci spalancate. Mi tendo anche io dentro le viscere blu di una poesia, e lo sento cedere.

Ha lasciato uno spazio. Guardò un secolo a pezzi e scorse il centro che poteva reggere. Eccolo il crollo: il piccolo vortice del mio corpo a lettere minuscole.

153

Geometric Dasein Michael Kemp Turning out of wopsed bed sheets, he came to standing with loose red eyes in the morning that was but another morning in a succession of mornings that stretched out before and after like a landscape barely seen, wherein he stretched himself, stretching the pockmarked and bandied limbs that were more those of an animal’s than a man’s, the storklegs, the doghinds, hanging off the trunk of a man, this man, I even, and then shuffling to the bathroom and flicking the switch for the fluorescent that stroked the stone tiles, he had clogged forward to the sink in the centre of the opposing wall, filling it with water as he took up his razor and measured its heft in his hands having it be still before he drowned it and took it to his face where he dragged it, wrong, on his face, on his cheek, the fat of his cheek, and it fell after catching the tear of the flesh and tugging it, the cheek, till it tore a flap that stayed upright, hinged to sinews, loosely erect on his face and waving, that being when the stopper was pulled from the sinkhole and the thread of his blood started spooling on the porcelain, following the centrifuge of moving water, the involuting blood, making a spiral that was wide but now narrowed and deepened till the red of it met and was made dim by the black of the hole in the sink’s centre in contrast to his hand that was faint on the sink’s white porcelain, his vision seeing nothing but a loose slouching form when he looked up, while outside the sun aligned itself in the dim sky, moving now in a steady way to move to his window and then himself, as at first in the mirror was a blue that was endless and dim and then the sun turned its head and its mane was loosed through to his gaze

154

Geometrisches Dasein trans. Tiana Fischer Sich aus verschlungenen Laken herauswindend kam er zum Stehen, den Blick seiner roten Augen im Morgen verloren, in diesem Morgen der wie jeder andere war in einer Reihe von Morgen, die sich vor und nach ihm ausstreckten wie eine kaum erblickte Landschaft in der er sich nun streckte, sich und seine pockenvernarbten, säbelkrummen Glieder, die mehr an ein Tier als an einen Menschen erinnerten, mit Storchenbeinen, Hundehaxen, die am Rumpf eines Mannes, diesen Mannes, mir sogar, herabhingen, und ihn dann ins Bad schleppten, wo er, als er den Schalter umgelegt und das Neonlicht die Fliesen gestreichelt hatte, nach vorne zum Waschbecken in der Mitte der gegenüberliegenden Wand stakte, es mit Wasser füllte während er die Rasierklinge hob und ihre Kraft in seinen Händen vermaß, sie zur Ruhe kommen ließ bevor er sie eintauchte und zu seinem Gesicht führte, sie sein Gesicht, seine Wange, die speckige Wange falsch herunterzog, und sie fiel, eine Kluft in ihr hinterlassend, in der Wange, die nun offen stand und wie eine von Senenscharnieren lose gehaltene Klappe winkte, als der Stopfen des Porzellanschlunds gezogen wurde und sein Blut sich in Fäden abspulte, dem Sog der Zentrifuge aus Wasser in Spiralen nachjagte, die großen Kreise kleiner und tiefer ziehend, bis das Schwarz des Lochs das Rot vollends eindämmte, ein Kontrast zu seiner blassen Hand, die sich kaum gegen das Porzellan abzeichnete, und sein Blick sah nichts bis auf eine krauchende Gestalt als er aufblickte und draußen die Sonne ihren Platz im

155

till eventually it all squeezed in and became total, the glass and the man comprehending only whiteness, seeing only white and white and white

156

schummrigen Himmel ansteuerte, sich stetig auf sein Fenster, auf ihn, zubewegte, das betrübte endlose Blau im Spiegel erschütterte und ihm dann ihren Kopf zuwandte und ihre Mähne in seine Augen schüttelte bis sich alles verdichtete, ganz wurde, ganz weiß wurde, das Glas und der Mann nur Weiße kannten, nur weiß sahen und weiß und weiß

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Time for Ashes Anna D’Alton In the time it took to drink... these glasses that were full, all ceremonies drowned, or better, burned away.

Now see the sun in the dust; spent fires loose their ash as wizened dandelions their fibres for the wind.

These echoes thrown by smothered blows, the carpets, ruptured underfoot.

Once strung as counting beads, loose teeth ground down in the slashing light.

To drink is all it took, to drink these glasses that were full.

Like clouds of blood now the shadows pool and shiver in the dust.

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trans. Xun Liu

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He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven W. B. Yeats Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half-light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

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trans. Fernanda Lei

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The Cap and Bells W. B. Yeats The jester walked in the garden: The garden had fallen still; He bade his soul rise upward And stand on her window-sill.

It rose in a straight blue garment, When owls began to call: It had grown wise-tongued by thinking Of a quiet and light footfall; But the young queen would not listen; She rose in her pale night-gown; She drew in the heavy casement And pushed the latches down.

He bade his heart go to her, When the owls called out no more; In a red and quivering garment It sang to her through the door.

It had grown sweet-tongued by dreaming Of a flutter of flower-like hair; But she took up her fan from the table And waved it off on the air.

‘I have cap and bells,’ he pondered, ‘I will send them to her and die’; And when the morning whitened He left them where she went by.

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On pragnie szalu niebios trans. Jolanta Warzycka Błazen przemierzał ogród: Ogród wyciszył się; Ubłagał duszę by wzeszła I w oknie usiadła jej.

I wzeszła dusza w błękicie, Gdy sów rozbrzmiewał huk: I mądrze mówiła, wciąż myśląc Jak cichy i lekki jej krok; Lecz królewna słuchać nie chciała; Wstała, w nocny przybrana strój; I okno ciężkie domknęła I zatrzasnęła na spust.

Ubłagał swe serce by wzeszło, Gdy milkły hukania sów; W czerwonej mieniącej się szacie U drzwi jej śpiewało moc strof.

I słodko mówiło, wciąż marząc O splotach jej włosów jak kwiat; Lecz ona swój wachlarz wzięła Wyniośle wachlując się tak.

‘Mam czapkę z dzwonkami,’ pomyślał.

‘Dam jej i umrzeć mi czas’; I gdy poranek zawitał Położył ją gdzie ścieżką szła.

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She laid them upon her bosom, Under a cloud of her hair, And her red lips sang them a love-song Till stars grew out of the air.

She opened her door and her window, And the heart and the soul came through, To her right hand came the red one, To her left hand came the blue.

They set up a noise like crickets, A chattering wise and sweet, And her hair was a folded flower And the quiet of love in her feet.

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Królewna ją utuliła, Wśród kaskad włosów swych, Z jej ust pieśń miłości rozbrzmiała Aż zanikł nocnych gwiazd pył.

Otworzyła i drzwi i okno, Weszło serce i dusza też, Po prawicy gości czerwień Po lewicy błękit jest.

Rozdzwoniły się jak cykady Pełne mądrych i słodkich nut, A jej włosy są kwiatem splecione Ukojenie miłości u jej stóp.

165

The Pity of Love W. B. Yeats A pity beyond all telling Is hid in the heart of love: The folk who are buying and selling, The clouds on their journey above, The cold wet winds ever blowing, And the shadowy hazel grove Where mouse-grey waters are flowing, Threaten the head that I love.

166

Smutek miłości trans. Jolanta Warzycka Smutek nad wszelkie słowa Tkwi w samym sercu miłości: Ludzie którym tylko handlować, Chmury co mkną na wysokości, Mokre wiatry zimnem wiejące, I kaniony cienistej leszczyny Myszo-szarą wodą cieknące, Czyhają na moją dziewczynę.

167

A Coat W. B. Yeats I made my song a coat Covered with embroideries Out of old mythologies From heel to throat; But he fools caught it, Wore it in the world’s eyes As though they’d wrought it.

Song, let them take it, For there’s more enterprise In walking naked.

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Płaszcz trans. Jolanta Warzycka Zmieniłem wiersze w płaszcz, Zdobny w wyszywania Z mitów, opowiadań Od pięt po twarz.

Głupcy go schwycili Po świecie obnieśli Jakby oni go stworzyli.

Wierszu, niech go biorą, Bo osobliwiej jest Chodzić gołym.

169

Down by the Salley Gardens W. B. Yeats Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet; She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.

She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree; But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.

In a field by the river my love and I did stand, And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.

She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs; But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

170

trans. Hitomi Nakamura

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With special thanks to: Faris Bader Anna Abate Bessemo Martine Cuypers Leo Dunsker Nely Ennys Patricia Gonzalez Gerard Hynes Chiharu Kamata Panpan Lin Michaela Markova Philip McGill Jason Morgan CaitlĂ­n Nic Ă?omhair Aneta Stepien Michelle Teo Gaozhong Wang Mark Wyers Arezoo Zahire Giulia Zuodar

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Thomas Rodgers Endersby Daniel James Hadley Susanna Galbraith Peter Weakliam Anna D’Alton Ciara Schmidt Katie Duggan Laura McCormack Niamh Corcoran Aisling Crabbe Dr. Peter Arnds Professor Cormac O Cuilleanain

Chief Editor Academic Editor Creative Editor Irish Language Editor Public Relations Officer Treasurer Art Editor Communications Officer Web Editor Layout Designer Faculty Advisor

Online: ISSN 2009-6046 Trinityjolt.com ©Trinity Journal of Literary Translation, TCD, Dublin, Ireland, 2016

Cover Illustration: William Blake, Jacob’s Ladder