classic poetry
Min Själ / My soul / Sufletul meu
POSTED IN classic poetry May 17, 2019
Min Själ / My soul / Sufletul meuMin själ kan icke berätta och veta någon sanning,
min själ kan endast gråta och skratta och vrida sina händer;
min själ kan icke minnas och försvara,
min själ kan icke överväga och bekräfta.
När jag var ett barn såg jag havet: det var blått,
i min ungdom mötte jag en blomma: hon var röd,
nu sitter vid min sida en främling: han är utan färg,
men jag är icke mera rädd för honom än jungfrun var för draken.
När riddaren kom var jungfrun röd och vit,
men jag har mörka ringar under ögonen.EDITH SÖDERGRAN
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My soulMy soul can tell and know no truth,
my soul can only cry and laugh and twist its hands;
my soul cannot remember and defend,
my soul cannot consider and confirm.
When I was a child I saw the sea: it was blue,
in my youth I met a flower: it was red,
now by my side a stranger is sitting: he has no colour,
but I fear him no more than the maiden fears the dragon
When the knight came, the maiden was red and white,
but I have dark circles under my eyes.
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Sufletul meuSufletul meu nu poate spune nici sti adevarul,
sufletul meu poate doar sa planga si sa rada si sa-si franga mainile;
sufletul nu-si poate aminti nici apara,
sufletul meu nu poate reflecta nici confirma.
Cand am fost copil am vazut marea: era albastra,
in tineretea-mi am intalnt o floare: era rosie,
acum langa mine sta un strain: el n-are culoare,
dar nu ma tem de el mai mult decat fecioara se teme de zmeu
Cand cavalerul veni, fecioara fu rosie si alba,
insa eu am cercuri negre sub ochi.
Maria Magdalena
Livet / Life / Viata
POSTED IN classic poetry May 17, 2019
Livet / Life / ViataJag, min egen fånge, säger så:
livet är icke våren, klädd i ljusgrön sammet,
eller en smekning, den man sällan får,
livet är icke ett beslut att gå
eller två vita armar, som hålla en kvar.
Livet är den trånga ringen som håller oss fången,
den osynliga kretsen, vi aldrig överträda,
livet är den nära lyckan som går oss förbi,
och tusende steg vi icke förmå oss att göra.
Livet är att förakta sig själv
och ligga orörlig på bottnen av en brunn
och veta att solen skiner däruppe
och gyllene fåglar flyga genom luften
och de pilsnabba dagarna skjuta förbi.
Livet är att vinka ett kort farväl och gå hem och sova …
Livet är att vara en främling för sig själv
och en ny mark för varje annan som kommer.
Livet är att handskas vårdslöst med sin egen lycka
och att stöta bort det enda ögonblicket,
livet är att tro sig vara svag och icke våga.EDITH SÖDERGRAN
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LifeI, my own prisoner, say so:
life is not spring, dressed in light green velvet,
or a caress that one rarely gets,
Life is not a decision to go
or two white arms that hold one.
Life is the cramped ring that keeps us captive,
the invisible circuit, we never violate,
life is the close happiness that passes us by,
and a thousand steps we are unable to do.
Life is to despise yourself
and lie motionless on the bottom of a well
and knowing that the sun is shining up there
and golden birds fly through the air
and the quick days pass by.
Life is waving a short farewell and going home and sleeping …
Life is to be a stranger to himself
and a new land for everybody else coming.
Life is to deal carelessly with its own happiness
and to repel the only moment,
Life is believing to be weak and not daring
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ViataEu, propriul meu prizonier, spun astfel:
viata nu-i primavara, imbracata in catifea verde crud,
ori o mangaiere pe care cineva rareori o primeste.
Viata nu-i o hotarare de-a pleca
ori doua brate albe ce imbratiseaza.
Viata este inelul strans ce ne tine captivi,
cercul invisibil pe care niciodata nu-l incalcam,
viata este fericirea apropiata care trece pe langa noi,
si o mie de pasi pe care nu putem sa-i facem.
Viata este dispretuirea sinelui
si statul nemiscat pe fundul unei fantani
stiind ca soarele luceste sus
si pasari aurii zboara prin aer
si zilele repezi trec.
Viata este un semn de adio fluturat cu mana, si mersul acasa, si somnul…
Viata este instrainarea de tine insuti
si un nou pamant fiecaruia care vine.
Viata este nonsalanta cu care-ti tratezi propria fericire
si respingerea unicului moment,
Viata este credinta ca esti slab si neindraznet.Maria Magdalena
Tristesse / Tristete
POSTED IN classic poetry, translated French-Romanian April 30, 2019
Tristesse / TristeteJ’ai perdu ma force et ma vie,
Et mes amis et ma gaieté;
J’ai perdu jusqu’à la fierté
Qui faisait croire à mon génie.Quand j’ai connu la Vérité,
J’ai cru que c’était une amie ;
Quand je l’ai comprise et sentie,
J’en étais déjà dégoûté.Et pourtant elle est éternelle,
Et ceux qui se sont passés d’elle
Ici-bas ont tout ignoré.Dieu parle, il faut qu’on lui réponde.
Le seul bien qui me reste au monde
Est d’avoir quelquefois pleuré.Alfred de Musset
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TristeteImi pierdui forta chiar si viata,
prietenii si veselia;
imi pierdui pana si mandria
ce-n geniul meu credinta-mi da.Cand Adevaru-l cunoscui,
Un prieten a fi l-am crezut;
cand l-am inteles, l-am vazut,
deja dezgustat devenii.Si totusi adevarul vesnic este,
iara cei care-au trecut peste
aici, jos, l-au cam ignorat.Domnul vorbeste, unui raspuns dau glas.
Singurul bun ce-n lume mi-a ramas
e de-a fi plans cateva ori curat.Maria Magdalena
Do not go gentle into that good night / Sa nu treci resemnat spre-ntunecare
POSTED IN classic poetry, translated English-Romanian April 30, 2019
Do not go gentle into that good night / Sa nu treci resemnat spre-ntunecare
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas
———————————-Sa nu treci resemnat spre-ntunecare
Sa nu treci resemnat spre-ntunecare.
Batranetea-ti sa arda-n furie la apus
Urla, urla-mpotriva luminii care moare.Desi-nteleptii stiu ca-n bezna-i luminare
Caci vorba lor fulgerari n-a produs
Ei nu trec resemnati spre-ntunecare.Cei buni, ultimul val, plângând lucirea-n care,
Faptele lor firave ar fi dansat supus
Urla, urla-mpotriva luminii care moare.Cei aprigi, ce-n cantec au prins soare,
si prea tarziu au inteles cu-amar nespus
Ei nu trec resemnati spre-ntunecare.Cei gravi, pe moarte, ce vad prin oftare
ca ochii orbi pot arde ca meteori, transpus,
Urla, urla-mpotriva luminii care moare.Iar tu,-al meu tata, pe culme de-ntristare
Blesteama, mangaie-ma-n lacrimi nesupus
Sa nu treci resemnat spre-ntunecare.
Urla, urla-mpotriva luminii care moare.
Maria Magdalena
Alone / Singur
POSTED IN classic poetry, translated English-Romanian April 30, 2019
Alone / SingurFrom childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view—Edgar Allan Poe
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SingurCopil fiind – n-am fost nicicand
Cum altii sunt – nicicand vazand
cum altii vad – nici dorul dor
nu-l baui din comun izvor-Tristetea-mi nu putui simti
la fel cu altii – nici trezi
in inima-mi un cant silit –
Si singur iubii ce-am iubit.Apoi – copil – in zori de zi,
‘n furtuna vietii – ma zmuci
Din bun si rau credint–adanca
Misterul ce ma leaga inca –Din torent sau din fantana-
Din stanca rosie batrana-
Din a soarelui rotire
In tomnatica aurire-De la fulgerul din cer
Ce trecu prin mine fier
De la tunet si furtuna
De la norul ce se-aduna(Cand e-albastru Cerul tot)
Ca un demon eu socot –Maria Magdalena
Born in April
POSTED IN classic poetry April 24, 2019
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CATALINA FRANCU!Born on 22nd of April, when all flowers are alive and searching for her arms!!!
Catalina filled with flowers and poetry
THE SMILE / ZAMBETUL
POSTED IN classic poetry, translated English-Romanian April 19, 2019
THE SMILE / ZAMBETULThere is a Smile of Love
And there is a Smile of Deceit
And there is a Smile of Smiles
In which these two Smiles meetAnd there is a Frown of Hate
And there is a Frown of disdain
And there is a Frown of Frowns
Which you strive to forget in vainFor it sticks in the Hearts deep Core
And it sticks in the deep Back bone
And no Smile that ever was smild
But only one Smile aloneThat betwixt the Cradle & Grave
It only once Smild can be
But when it once is Smild
Theres an end to all MiseryWILLIAM BLAKE
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Zambetul
Exista un Zambet de Dragoste
Exista un Zambet Minciuna
Exista un Zambet al Zambetelor
In care cele doua se-aduna.
Exist-o-Ncruntare de Ura
Exist-o-Ncruntare Dispret
Exist-o-Ncruntare-a-Ncruntarilor
Ce vrei s-o uiti cu orice pret.
Caci ea se-nfige-n Inim-Adanc
Si se-nfige-n Oase profund
Si nu-i zambet ce fu vreodata zambit
Doar-acel singur zambet bland.
Care intre leagan si mormant
Poate fi zambit doar o data
Insa atunci cand cand este o data zambit
Se sfarseste suferinta toata.
Maria Magdalena
OUR MASTERPIECE IS THE PRIVATE LIFE / CAPODOPERA NOASTRA ESTE VIATA INTIMA
POSTED IN classic poetry, translated English-Romanian April 19, 2019
OUR MASTERPIECE IS THE PRIVATE LIFE / CAPODOPERA NOASTRA-I VIATA INTIMAI
Is there something down by the water keeping itself from us,
Some shy event, some secret of the light that falls upon the deep,
Some source of sorrow that does not wish to be discovered yet?Why should we care? Doesn’t desire cast its rainbows over the coarse porcelain
Of the world’s skin and with its measures fill the air? Why look for more?II
And now, while the advocates of awfulness and sorrow
Push their dripping barge up and down the beach, let’s eat
Our brill, and sip this beautiful white Beaune.True, the light is artificial, and we are not well-dressed.
So what. We like it here. We like the bullocks in the field next door,
We like the sound of wind passing over grass. The way you speak,In that low voice, our late night disclosures . . . why live
For anything else? Our masterpiece is the private life.III
Standing on the quay between the Roving Swan and the Star Immaculate,
Breathing the night air as the moment of pleasure taken
In pleasure vanishing seems to grow, its self-soilingBeauty, which can only be what it was, sustaining itself
A little longer in its going, I think of our own smooth passage
Through the graded partitions, the crises that bleed,Into the ordinary, leaving us a little more tired each time,
A little more distant from the experiences, which, in the old days,
Held us captive for hours. The drive along the winding roadBack to the house, the sea pounding against the cliffs,
The glass of whiskey on the table, the open book, the questions,
All the day’s rewards waiting at the doors of sleep . . .MARK STRAND
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Capodopera noastra este viata intima
IExista ceva in josul apei ce de noi se fereste,
vreo intamplare timida, vreun secret al luminii ce cade peste adanc,
vreun izvor al tristetii ce nu se vrea descoperit inca?De ce ne-ar pasa? Dorinta nu-si arunca curcubeiele peste portelanul brut
al pielii lumii si cu propriile-i masuri umple aerul? De ce-am cauta mai mult?II
Si-acum, pe cand adeptii groazei si durerii
‘S-imping salupa siroind in susul si-n josul plajei, hai sa mancam
Calcanul nostru, si sa luam o gura din frumosul Beaune alb.
Adevarat, lumina e artificiala, si nu suntem bine imbracati.
Si ce. Ne place aici. Ne plac boii de pe campul vecin,
Ne place sunetul vantului peste iarba. Felul in care vorbesti,
Cu vocea soapta, dezvaluirile noastre tarziu in noapte…de ce sa traiesti
Pentru altceva? Capodopera noastra este viata intima.III
Stand pe chei intre constelatii Lebada Calatoare si Steaua Imaculata,
Respirand aerul noptii in timp ce momentul placerii luate
In placere disparand pare sa creasca, propria-i murdaritaFrumusete, care poate fi ceea ce-a fost, doar sustinandu-se
Putin mai mult in plecarea-i, ma gandesc la propria noatra trecere calma
Prin despartirile treptate, crizele ce sangereaza,In cotidian, lasandu-ne putin mai obositi de fiece data,
Putin mai distanti de experientele, care, in zilele de-odinioara,
Ne tineau captivi ore intregi. Calatoria de-a lungul unui drum serpuitInapoi spre casa, marea lovindu-se de stanci,
Paharul cu whiskey pe masa, cartea deschisa, intrebarile,
Toata rasplata zilei astepand la usile somnului…
Maria Magdalena
The Word / Cuvantul
POSTED IN classic poetry, translated English-Romanian April 18, 2019
The Word / CuvantulOh, a word is a gem, or a stone, or a song,
Or a flame, or a two-edged sword;
Or a rose in bloom, or a sweet perfume,
Or a drop of gall is a word.You may choose your word like a connoisseur,
And polish it up with art,
But the word that sways, and stirs, and stays,
Is the word that comes from the heart.You may work on your word a thousand weeks,
But it will not glow like one
That all unsought, leaps forth white hot,
When the fountains of feeling run.Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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CuvantulO, cuvantu-i o gema, o piatra, un cantec,
o flama, o spada cu dubla taiere;
o roza-nflorita, ori un dulce parfum,
ori o picatura de fiere.Poti alege cuvantu-ti ca un connnoisseur,
si cu arta lustruieste-ti-l bine,
dar cuvantul ce mi?ca, freamata, ramâne,
este cel ce din inima vine.Poti lucra cuvantu-ti mii de saptamani,
nu va straluci ca acel
care necautat, rasare alb si cald,
cand sentimentele curg rebel.
Maria Magdalena
The Tyger / Tigrul
POSTED IN classic poetry, translated English-Romanian April 18, 2019
The Tyger / Tigrul
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!When the stars threw down their spears
And water’d heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
BY WILLIAM BLAKE
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TigrulTirgu, Tigru viu arzand,
In ai noptii codri stand;
Ce ochi, mana nemurinda,
Sculpta simetria-ti flamanda?In ce adancimi sau ceruri
ars-a focul ochilor?
Ce aripa indrazneste?
Ce mana focu-mblanzeste?
Cine ti-a creat, ce arta
Muschii inimii in dalta?
Inima-ti batu nascuta,
A cui mana prea temuta?What the hammer? what the chain,
Care ciocan, lant, cuptor
Creierului tau fu sculptor?
Nicovala? Teama crunta,
Ti-a dat puterea ce-nspaimanta
Cand stelele-au sagetat
Si-apa-n cer a lacrimat:
Zambi EL vazandu-si Arta?
El ce mielului dadu soarta?Tirgu, Tigru viu arzand,
In ai noptii codri stand;
Ce ochi, mana nemurinda,
indrazni simetria-ti flamanda?
Maria Magdalena
