Wednesday 104


Filed under: Poem — Tags: — zundel @ pm

If a flow in age appear,
’Tis but rain, and runs not clear.

Ah, how sweet it is to love!by John Dryden


Sunday 10

Horace Ode I.9

Filed under: Poem — zundel @ pm

A mention by Harry Eyres in this weekend’s Financial Times sent me looking for a good translation of Horace’s ninth poem from his first book of odes.

Our Horatian winter of content” by Harry Eyres in The Financial Times 2009-01-10

Many stuffy translations exist. I think Horace unstuffy.

William Harris provides a charming loose translation and a nice reading.

Horace Odes, Book I.9” by William Harris

You see how the snow stands deep in Ripton’s woods
The snow and frozen hail have cracked the trees
Half to the ground, the river’s hard as land,
Inside we stoke generously the fire.

Professor Harris’s website looks worth long perusal. But later, as I go to have a drink with my friend Alex.

Monday 356

The View from an Attic Window

Filed under: Poem — zundel @ am

The View from an Attic Window” (c 1960) by Howard Nemerov

for Francis and Barbara

Among the high-branching, leafless boughs
Above the roof-peaks of the town,
Snowflakes unnumberably come down.

I watched out of the attic window
The laced sway of family trees,
Intricate genealogies

Whose strict, reserved gentility,
Trembling, impossible to bow,
Received the appalling fall of snow.

All during Sunday afternoon,
Not storming, but befittingly,
Out of a still, grey, devout sky,

The snowflakes fell, until all shapes
Went under, and thickening, drunken lines
Cobwebbed the sleep of solemn pines.

Up in the attic, among many things
Inherited and out of style,
I cried, then fell asleep awhile,

Waking at night now, as the snow-
flakes from darkness to darkness go
Past yellow lights in the street below.

I cried because life is hopeless and beautiful.
And like a child I cried myself to sleep
High in the head of the house, feeling the hull
Beneath me pitch and roll among the steep
Mountains and valleys of the many years
 Which brought me to tears.

Down in the cellar, furnace and washing machine,
Pump, fuse-box, water heater, work their hearts
Out at my life, which narrowly runs between
Them and this cemetery of spare parts
For discontinued men, whose hats and canes
 Are my rich remains.

And women, their portraits and wedding gowns
Stacked in the corners, brooding in wooden trunks;
And children’s rattles, books about lions and clowns;
And headless, hanging dresses swayed like drunks
Whenever a living footstep shakes the floor;
 I mention no more;

But what I thought today, that made me cry,
Is this, that we live in two kinds of thing:
The powerful trees, thrusting into the sky
Their black patience, are one, and that branching
Relation teaches how we endure and grow;
 The other is the snow,

Falling in a white chaos from the sky,
As many as the sands of all the seas,
As all the men who died or who will die,
As stars in heaven, as leaves of all the trees;
As Abraham was promised of his seed;
 Generations bleed,

Till I, high in the tower of my time
Among familiar ruins, began to cry
For accident, sickness, justice, war and crime,
Because all died, because I had to die.
The snow fell, the trees stood, the promise kept,
 And a child I slept.

Sunday 355

Fedor Tyutchev

Filed under: Poem — zundel @ pm

No sickness of the flesh is ours today
 Whose time is spent in grieving and despairing;
Who pray all night that night will pass away—
 Who greet the dawn rebelliously, uncaring.

Withered and parched by unbelief, the soul
 Impossible, unbearable things is bearing.
We are lost men, and ruin is our goal,
 Athirst for faith, to beg for faith not daring.

(translated by R Christie)

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