I |
|
That man to me seems equal to the gods, the man who sits opposite you and close by listens to your sweet voice and your enticing laughter— that indeed has stirred up the heart in my breast. For whenever I look at you even briefly I can no longer say a single thing, but my tongue is frozen in silence; instantly a delicate flame runs beneath my skin; with my eyes I see nothing; my ears make a whirring noise. A cold sweat covers me, trembling seizes my body, and I am greener than grass. Lacking but little of death do I seem. (Trans: Julia Dubnoff) |
II |
Por tus manos indolentes Mi cabello se desfloca; Sufro vértigos ardientes Por las dos tazas de moka De tus pupilas calientes; Me vuelvo peor que loca Por la crema de tus dientes En las fresas de tu boca; En llamas me despedazo Por engarzarme en tu abrazo. Y me calcina el delirio Cuando me yergo en tu vida, ¡Toda de blanco vestida, Toda sahumada de lirio! |
By your indolent hands My hair falls out; I suffer burning dizziness For the two cups of mocha Of your hot pupils; I go worse than crazy For the cream of your teeth In the strawberries of your mouth; In flames I tear myself apart For enshrining me in your embrace. And delirium burns me When I stand in your life, All dressed in white All scented with lily! |
III |
Sor Maria Battifessa, v'ho pportato Un uscelletto d'allevasse a mmano, Che lo cacciò mmi' Madre da un pantano, Dove Tata sciaveva seminato. Nun guardate ch'è cciuco e spennacchiato: Lo vederete cressce a mmano a mmano. Anzi allora tienetelo ingabbiato, Perché ssi vvola ve pô annà llontano. Sin ch'è da nido, fateje carezze: Cerca l'ummido poi, ma nnò lo sguazzo; E la gabbia la vò ssenza monnezze. De rimanente è uscello da strapazzo: E nn'averete le sette allegrezze Fascennolo ruzzà ss'un matarazzo. |
Sister Mary Battifesa, I have brought you a little bird to raise by hand, my mother pulled him out of a swamp where Papa had planted it. Don't mind seeing him small and plucked: you will see it grow little by little. But don't stop having him caged, because when it flies it can go far. While it is in the nest, pet it; then look for moisture, but not the puddle, and the cage wants it without filth. For the rest it is a battle bird that will give you the seven joys rolling him on a mattress. |
IV |
Lösch mir die Augen aus: ich kann dich sehn, wirf mir die Ohren zu: ich kann dich hören, und ohne Füße kann ich zu dir gehn, und ohne Mund noch kann ich dich beschwören. Brich mir die Arme ab, ich fasse dich mit meinem Herzen wie mit einer Hand, halt mir das Herz zu, und mein Hirn wird schlagen, und wirfst du in mein Hirn den Brand, so werd ich dich auf meinem Blute tragen. |
Put out my eyes, and I can see you still, Slam my ears too, and I can hear you yet; And without any feet can go to you; And tongueless, I can conjure you at will. Break off my arms, I shall take hold of you And grasp you with my heart as with a hand; Arrest my heart, my brain will beat as true; And if you set this brain of mine afire, Then on my blood-stream I yet will carry you." (Trans.: Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy) |
V |
Adeste, hendecasyllabi, quot estis omnes undique, quotquot estis omnes. Iocum me putat esse moecha turpis, et negat mihi nostra reddituram pugillaria, si pati potestis. Persequamur eam et reflagitemus. Quae sit, quaeritis? Illa, quam videtis turpe incedere, mimice ac moleste ridentem catuli ore Gallicani. Circumsistite eam, et reflagitate, "moecha putida, redde codicillos, redde putida moecha, codicillos!" Non assis facis? O lutum, lupanar, aut si perditius potes quid esse. Sed non est tamen hoc satis putandum. Quod si non aliud potest ruborem ferreo canis exprimamus ore. Conclamate iterum altiore uoce. "Moecha putida, redde codicillos, redde, putida moecha, codicillos!" Sed nil proficimus, nihil mouetur. Mutanda est ratio modusque vobis, siquid proficere amplius potestis: "pudica et proba, redde codicillos." |
Come, Hendecasyllabics, many as may All hither, every one that of you be! That fulsome harlot makes me laughing-stock And she refuses at our prayer restore Our stolen Note-books, an such slights ye bear. Let us pursue her clamouring our demands. "Who's she?" ye question: yonder one ye sight Mincingly pacing mime-like, perfect pest, With jaws wide grinning like a Gallic pup. Stand all round her dunning with demands, "Return (O rotten whore!) our noting books. Our noting books (O rotten whore!) return!" No doit thou car'st? O Mire! O Stuff o' stews! Or if aught fouler filthier dirt there be. Yet must we never think these words suffice. But if naught else avail, at least a blush Forth of that bitch-like brazen brow we'll squeeze. Cry all together in a higher key "Restore (O rotten whore!) our noting books, Our noting books (O rotten whore!) restore!" Still naught avails us, nothing is she moved. Now must our measures and our modes be changed An we would anywise our cause advance. "Restore (chaste, honest Maid!) our noting books!" (Trans.: Richard Burton and Leonard Smithers) |