Pablo Neruda
"Ode to the Sea"

translated from the Spanish by Linh Dinh


ODA AL MAR

Aquí en la isla
el mar
y cuánto mar
se sale de sí mismo
a cada rato,
dice que sí, que no,
que no, que no, que no,
dice que si, en azul,
en espuma, en galope,
dice que no, que no.
No puede estarse quieto,
me llamo mar, repite
pegando en una piedra
sin lograr convencerla,
entonces
con siete lenguas verdes
de siete perros verdes,
de siete tigres verdes,
de siete mares verdes,
la recorre, la besa,
la humedece
y se golpea el pecho
repitiendo su nombre.
Oh mar, así te llamas,
oh camarada océano,
no pierdas tiempo y agua,
no te sacudas tanto,
ayúdanos,
somos los pequeñitos
pescadores,
los hombres de la orilla,
tenemos frío y hambre
eres nuestro enemigo,
no golpees tan fuerte,
no grites de ese modo,
abre tu caja verde
y déjanos a todos
en las manos
tu regalo de plata:
el pez de cada día.

Aquí en cada casa
lo queremos
y aunque sea de plata,
de cristal o de luna,
nació para las pobres
cocinas de la tierra.
No lo guardes,
avaro,
corriendo frío como
relámpago mojado
debajo de tus olas.
Ven, ahora,
ábrete
y déjalo
cerca de nuestras manos,
ayúdanos, océano,
padre verde y profundo,
a terminar un día
la pobreza terrestre.
Déjanos
cosechar la infinita
plantación de tus vidas,
tus trigos y tus uvas,
tus bueyes, tus metales,
el esplendor mojado
y el fruto sumergido.

Padre mar, ya sabemos
cómo te llamas, todas
las gaviotas reparten
tu nombre en las arenas:
ahora, pórtate bien,
no sacudas tus crines,
no amenaces a nadie,
no rompas contra el cielo
tu bella dentadura,
déjate por un rato
de gloriosas historias,
danos a cada hombre,
a cada
mujer y a cada niño,
un pez grande o pequeño
cada día.
Sal por todas las calles
del mundo
a repartir pescado
y entonces
grita,
grita
para que te oigan todos
los pobres que trabajan
y digan,
asomando a la boca
de la mina:
"Ahí viene el viejo mar
repartiendo pescado".
Y volverán abajo,
a las tinieblas,
sonriendo, y por las calles
y los bosques
sonreirán los hombres
y la tierra
con sonrisa marina.
Pero
si no lo quieres,
si no te da la gana,
espérate,
espéranos,
lo vamos a pensar,
vamos en primer término
a arreglar los asuntos
humanos,
los más grandes primero,
todos los otros después,
y entonces
entraremos en ti,
cortaremos las olas
con cuchillo de fuego,
en un caballo eléctrico
saltaremos la espuma,
cantando
nos hundiremos
hasta tocar el fondo
de tus entrañas,
un hilo atómico
guardará tu cintura,
plantaremos
en tu jardín profundo
plantas
de cemento y acero,
te amarraremos
pies y manos,
los hombres por tu piel
pasearán escupiendo,
sacándote racimos,
construyéndote arneses,
montándote y domándote
dominándote el alma.
Pero eso será cuando
los hombres
hayamos arreglado
nuestro problema,
el grande,
el gran problema.
Todo lo arreglaremos
poco a poco:
te obligaremos, mar,
te obligaremos, tierra,
a hacer milagros,
porque en nosotros mismos,
en la lucha,
está el pez, está el pan,
está el milagro.




Ode to the Sea

Here on the island
the sea
and so much sea
overflowing,
relentless,
it says yes, then no,
then no, no, no,
then yes, in blue,
in foam, with gallops,
it says no, again no.
It cannot stay still,
my name is sea, it repeats
while slamming against rocks
but unable to convince rocks,
then
with seven green tongues
of seven green dogs,
of seven green tigers,
of seven green seas,
it smothers rocks, kisses rocks,
drenches rocks
and slamming its chest,
repeats its name.
O sea, you declare yourself,
O comrade ocean,
don’t waste time and water,
don’t beat yourself up,
help us,
we are lowly
fishermen,
men of the shore,
we’re cold and hungry
and you’re the enemy,
don’t slam so hard,
don’t scream like that,
open your green trunk
and give all of us
on our hands
your silver gifts:
fish every day.

Here in each house,
we all crave it
whether it’s of silver,
crystal or moonlight,
spawn for the poor
kitchens on earth.
Don’t hoard it,
you miser,
coldly rushing like
wet lightning
beneath your waves.
Come, now,
open yourself
and leave it
near our hands,
help us, ocean,
deep green father,
end one day
our earthly poverty.
Let us
harvest your lives’
endless plantation,
your wheat and eggs,
your oxes, your metals,
the wet splendor
and submerged fruits.

Father sea, we know already
what you are called, all
the seagulls circulate
your name on the beaches:
now, behave yourself,
don’t shake you mane,
don’t threaten anyone,
don’t smash against the sky
your beautiful teeth,
ignore for a moment
your glorious history,
give to every man,
to every
woman and to every child,
a fish large or small
every day.
Go out to every street
in the world
and distribute fish
and then
scream,
scream
so all the working poor
could hear you,
so they could say,
sticking their heads
into the mine:
“Here comes the old man sea
to distribute fish.”
And they’ll go back down
into the darkness,
smiling, and on the streets
and in the forests,
men and the earth
will smile
an oceanic smile.
But
if you don’t want it,
if you don’t care for it,
then wait,
wait for us,
we must worry, first
we must try to solve
and straighten out
human affairs,
the biggest problems first,
then all the others,
and then
we’ll enter you,
we’ll chop the waves
with a knife made of fire,
on an electric horse
leaping over foam,
singing
we’ll sink
until we touch the bottom
of your guts,
an atomic thread
will guard your shank,
we’ll plant
in your deep garden
trees
of cement and steel,
we’ll tie
your hands and feet,
on your skin man will walk,
spitting,
yanking in bunches,
building armatures,
mounting and taming you
to dominate your spirit.
All this will occur
when us men
have straighten out
our problem,
the big,
the big problem.
We’ll slowly
solve everything:
we’ll force you, sea,
we’ll force you, earth
perform miracles,
because in our very selves,
in the struggle,
is fish, is bread,
is the miracle.


• • •


Pablo Neruda wrote some of the most memorable poems of the 20th century, "Walking Around' immediately comes to mind, and some of the most forgettable, such as his ode to Stalin. Although a poet should always be judged by his best works, and not by his mistakes, there are certain Neruda poems that could neither be admired wholeheartedly nor completely ignored, since they are both wonderful and awful. The first half of "Oda al mar," where the speaker is pleading with an anthropomorphic sea to feed the masses, is charming and exhilarating, but it turns bizarre when he threatens to dump concrete into the ocean, spit at it, ride it like a horse, force it to serve mankind. Neruda's Soviet faith in a bright technological future places him squarely in the 20th century. Like Marinetti, Pound and every other writer, great or mediocre, he could only belong to his time, of course, but no more so than in this great, shitty poem. Since it was published in 1954, man has tamed the ocean, the earth, and then some. Like a gang of angry frat boys after a meth and tequila party, we've trashed our entire habitat. Our problems, ourselves.

Linh Dinh was born in Vietnam in 1963, came to the US in 1975, and has also lived in Italy and England. He is the author of two collections of stories, Fake House (Seven Stories Press 2000) and Blood and Soap (Seven Stories Press 2004), and four books of poems, All Around What Empties Out (Tinfish 2003), American Tatts (Chax 2005), Borderless Bodies (Factory School 2006) and Jam Alerts (Chax 2007). His work has been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007 and Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, among other places. Linh Dinh is also the editor of the anthologies Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (Seven Stories Press 1996) and Three Vietnamese Poets (Tinfish 2001), and translator of Night, Fish and Charlie Parker, the poetry of Phan Nhien Hao (Tupelo 2006). Blood and Soap was chosen by the Village Voice as one of the best books of 2004. His poems and stories have been translated into Italian, Spanish, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Japanese and Arabic, and he has been invited to read his works all over the US, London, Cambridge and Berlin. He has also published widely in Vietnamese.

Jean-Marie Damais
from "A Spasm of Vacuity"

translated from the French by Fabienne Pizot-Haymore

Marie-Anne

Un jour, ulcéré par son manque de prévenance et de considération, ayant encore dans la bouche plusieurs semaines après ce coup un arrière-goût de latrines, tu lui as posé une question précise consécutive à un incident futile, une grotesque histoire de répondeur, de panne partielle et d’appel différé, la totale de l’incommunication endémique, qui avait dégénéré en dispute mesquine assez éloignée des subtilités du marivaudage, dont l’érudit le plus vétilleux ne relèverait pas le moindre indice sur la carte du Tendre : « Vous (tu vouvoies Marie-Anne, si réelle et si familière, alors que tu tutoies l’inaccessible Milena, si peu incarnée, inconséquence digne d’un esprit assez tordu) avez trouvé naturel de n’avoir pas un seul mot ni un seul geste pour me retenir, alors que j’étais en plein désarroi, ce vendredi sinistre, au lendemain d’un anniversaire désormais inscrit dans ma chair au rouge d’une plaie pérenne, comme l’autre il y a environ un an, quand vous m’avez infligé, en toute légèreté de cœur et d’esprit, le premier camouflet de notre histoire. Je soulève aujourd’hui une hypothèse des plus fantaisistes, vous en conviendrez : si un jour, parce que je trouverais trop pénible votre désinvolture s’ajoutant à l’absence permanente de tendresse, je proposais de ne pas poursuivre plus avant, feriez-vous un geste, quelque chose, je ne sais quoi de ludique et de poétique pour me retenir ? Je vous demande de répondre par oui ou par non, comme à l’université, première année, où l’évaluation des connaissances s’éprouve au crible de la complexité zéro, parce que toute autre formule, en particulier votre fameux « je ne sais pas », qui m’a maintes fois cloué de doutes et d’inquiétudes, quand je cherchais naïvement, pathétiquement devrais-je écrire, à savoir si vous m’aimiez un peu, beaucoup ….., veut dire invariablement non ».

Marie-Anne répondit non et ne te revit pas. C’est clair, le bouleversement dans sa vie est de l’ordre du iota.




Marie-Anne

One day, her lack of thoughtfulness and consideration rankling with you, as you still had a foul aftertaste in your mouth several weeks after this blow, you asked her a precise question consequently to a trivial incident, grotesque nonsense dealing with an answering machine, a partial failure, a delayed call, you name it: the height of the endemic incommunicability which had degenerated into a petty argument rather far from the subtleties of sophisticated banter and gallantries and of which the most finical erudite would not be able to discover the faintest clue on the carte de Tendre: “Well, (you formally address Marie-Anne who is so real and so familiar, whereas you are on first-name terms for the inaccessible Milena who is so illusory, an inconsequence that is worthy of a rather warped mind), you found it natural not to utter a single word nor make the least attempt to keep me from leaving when I was in complete disarray that gloomy Friday, in the aftermath of an anniversary henceforth deeply engraved in red on my heart with a perennial wound, like the other one approximately a year ago, when you inflicted on me the first scolding in our story, in all thoughtlessness and carelessness. At the present moment I am making the following assumption, you will agree that it is going a little far: if some day because I found your casualness too painful when added with your permanent lack of tenderness for me, I suggested not to pursue our relationship, would you react in a way or another with something amusing and poetic to keep me? I am requesting from you that you answer with yes or no, like in the freshman year, when the evaluation of competences is assessed with a zero level of complexity, because any other phrase and in particular your famous “I do not know” which on numerous occasions left me stricken with doubt and worries, as I was trying to know naively or pathetically I should write, whether you loved me, loved me not, … …, invariably means no.”

Marie-Anne chose no as an answer and never saw you again. It is clear; the disruption in her life is barely worth one iota.


• • •

Jean-Marie Damais is an agrégé of French literature –i.e. tenured in the French University system. He is now retired from a carrier spent teaching high-school French and Latin in the French southern city of Toulon where he still lives. Jean-Marie Damais wrote four books which had a very small readership. First published in 1989, his first novel entitled Gentil-Tranquille constitutes a preamble of sorts of two autofictional novels, Mosaïque convulsive (1993) and Un spasme de vacuité (2002). Bérénice ou les proverbes flamands (2007), Damais’ last published book is in fact his first real novel, even if the character of Bérénice is, in large part, autofictional as well. Mosaïque convulsive, Un spasme de vacuité, and Bérénice ou les proverbes flamands denote Damais' interest for the masters of European painting. In his extensive quoting of paintings by Jerome Bosch, Carpaccio, and Brueghel the Elder, Damais' spiritual quest takes shape throughout his works: it is a call for beauty, purity, and generosity. His fiercest critic and friend, Alan Nordmehr, describes Jean-Marie Damais as a spirit rare and authentic, lost in modernity whose components he analyzes with constant and sticking irony.


Fabienne Pizot-Haymore specialized in English and American studies in the University of Montpellier, France. She has been living in the United States of America since 1998.
Fabienne Pizot-Haymore has been teaching as a lecturer in French in several American universities, in addition to being a student in translation and becoming a free-lance translator. Her areas of interest are semiotics and cognitive linguistics as well as the theory of metaphor. She also composes lyrics, and performs as a jazz singer. She occasionally writes scripts and works in storyboarding for historical documentaries. Un spasme de vacuité (A Spasm of Vacuity, © Fabienne Pizot-Haymore, 2007) is her first work in literary translation.


Natasha Wimmer Interview Glossary

Allende, Isabel (b. 1942)
Most popular Chilean author of Late-Stage Magic Realism. Margaret Sayers Peden has the translation of Allende’s novels on lockdown.

Cabrera Infante, Guillermo (1929 – 2005)
The milk. This author and photographer, once editor-in-chief of the famous "Carteles" journal, would eventually become one of the many victims of Fidel’s Cuba, going into exile permanently in 1965, just before the publication of his greatest work, Tres Tristes Tigres (translated heartbreakingly well by Suzanne Jill Levine when she was only 22!!). If I were Fidel, I would make it illegal for so much of Cabrera Infante’s work to not have been translated into English yet. And there’s this: Cabrera Infante translated Joyce’s Ulysses into Spanish.

Cercas, Javier (b. 1962)
The “new” novel Natasha mentions is “The Speed of Light” translated by Anne McLean.

Confiant, Rafaël (b. 1951)
Francophone author and critic from Martinique. Almost none of his extensive bibliography is available in English translation.

Generación 50
Group primarily of poets active immediately after the end of the Spanish Civil War. As you can see from the interview, there is some disagreement about where the heart of this movement resides. Some major writers of the period (excluding the ones with their own glossary entry), all underrepresented in English translation: Carlos Barral (1928 – 1989), José Manuel Caballero Bonald (b. 1926), and Ángel González (b. 1925), all prize-winning poets with almost no translations available in English. Get to work!

Gutiérrez, Pedro Juan (b. 1950)
Hard-boiled Cuban novelist and journalist who cut his teeth cutting sugar cane for many years. To undersand the seriousness and pain of this work: Cotton pickers warn misbehaving children with threats to send them to work sugarcane, a prospect of unimaginable terror. His literary teeth were set through several years of work as a journalist. His work has been categorized as “dirty realism” because of its unflinching documentation of underworlds (Cuban and otherwise). His work is widely available in English. Besides Wimmer’s translation of "Dirty Havana Trilogy," would especially recommend the recent The Insatiable Spider Man, translation by John King. Much of his work in Spanish is available at his wesbite: pedrojuangutierrez.com.

Hemon, Aleksandar (b. 1964)
Yugoslav-born author writing to much acclaim in English. As Natasha suggests, this writer’s work is marked by brilliant stylistic and generic shifts.

Herodotus (484BC – 425BC)
Worth mentioning here for a couple of reasons. 1. Significant controversy reamains over translations of the colloquial Greek used to write The Histories, and 2. A nice cross-reference opportunity availed itself to me with Brandon’s interview: Bolesław Prus’s Pharaoh is directly inspired by Book II of The Histories.

Krauze, Enrique (b. 1947)
Massive literary figure in Mexico. A sort of latter-day Alfred A. Knopf, without the mustache.


Laforet, Carmen (1921 – 2004)
Arguably one of the most important writers of the Spanish generación 50 period. Her first novel, Nada was recently translated by Edith Grossman. After Natasha mentioned the book I left-handed it from Borders and it turns out she was right, Grossman’s translation is good, though I didn't pay for it, so... Unfortunately, none of Laforet’s other novels are available in English translation, even Al volver la esquina, said by many to be her best work.

Marías, Javier (b. 1951) Most interesting to us as a translator into Spanish, notably of Sterne’s Tristram Shandy, and a collection of Nabokov’s poetry called "Desde que te vi morir". Others he’s translated: Yeats, Stevenson, Wallace Stevens, Thomas Hardy, Faulkner, Dinesen, Thomas Browne, and Auden. Impressive.

Márquez, Gabriel García (b. 1927)
Colombia’s patron saint of letters. There’s really very little I can say here. Only this: Is anyone with me in thinking it’s possible that Gregory Rabassa’s translation, One Hundred Years of Solitude (Cien años de soledad) won Márquez the Nobel Prize?

Matute, Ana María (b. 1926)
A sacred name in Spanish letters. Widely considered the best writer of the posguerra period, Matute was a candidate for the Nobel prize in 1979, has won every prize under the sun, and even has a literary prize in her name. Her literary biography is especially compelling.

Montaigne (1533 – 1592)
Statesman, courtier, essayist and, of course, translator. Wore cartwheel-style neck ruffs handsomely.

Pérez-Reverte, Artuto (b. 1951)
English translations widely available, in airports.

Puig, Manuel (1932 – 1990)
Argentine-born novelist and playwright. If you don’t know this gentleman’s work, stop reading this glossary right now and waddle down to your local book retailer and buy Suzanne Jill Levine’s incredible translation of El beso de la mujer araña (The Kiss of the Spider Woman). Also great, his English-language novel and playdate with the act of translation, Eternal Curse on the Reader of These Pages, a novel with versions (both authored by Puig) in Spanish and English.

Rimbaud, Arthur (1854 – 1891)
As the interview suggests, Rimbaud is the archetypical avan-garde poet, whose life adds pulpy context to his work. Louise Varèse’s translation of A Season in Hell and The Drunken Boat is a nicely-translated introduction to his work.

Rodoreda, Mercé (1908 – 1983)
Post-Spanish Civil War Catalan novelist and winner of many literary prizes. Her work is widely available in English.

Singer, Issac Bashevis (1902 – 1991)
Fantastically prolific Yiddish author, translator, survivor of two World Wars and winner of the Nobel Prize in 1978. Notable works in English translation include The Slave, The Golem, and Shosha. Translated Thomas Mann’s Magic Mountain into Yiddish.

Trulock, Camilo José Cela (1916 – 2002)
An enigmatic and contentious literary figure from Spain. Cela started out his literary career as a censor for the Franco government, a regime he went to war to put into power. And then after writing some fantastic novels (La colmena, San Camilo 1936, Christo versus Arizona) he was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1989 and the Cervantes Prize (the highest award a Spanish poet can win) in 1995. I suggest starting at the end with Cela: Patricia Haugaars’s Boxwood and Mazurka for 2 Dead Men are sensitive and telling translations.

Vargas Llosa, Mario (b. 1936)
Born Jorge Mario Pedro Vargas Llosa, this Peruvian novelist is one of the most widely read Latin American novelists of the 20th C. Naturally, his work is easily acquirable in English, though some translations are best kept in quarantine. Lysander Kemp’s translation of La ciudad y los perros (somehow translated as The Time of the Hero) is just plain wretched. Yuck. Edith Grossman’s translation The Feast of the Goat (La fiesta del chivo), on the other hand, is very good.

Wimmer, Natasha (translation bibliography)
Pedro Juan Gutiérrez, Dirty Havana Trilogy, FSG 2001
Mario Vargas Llosa, Letters to a Young Novelist, FSG 2002
Mario Vargas Llosa, The Language of Passion, FSG 2003
Gabriel Zaid, So Many Books, Paul Dry Books 2003
Mario Vargas Llosa, The Way to Paradise, FSG 2003
Rodrigo Fresán, Kensington Gardens, Faber/FSG 2006
Laura Restrepo, Delirium, Doubleday/Talese 2007
Roberto Bolaño, The Savage Detectives, FSG 2007
Gabriel Zaid, The Secret of Fame, Paul Dry Books (forthcoming)
Roberto Bolaño, 2666, FSG (forthcoming)

Bill Johnston Interview Glossary


Andrzejewski, Jerzy (1909-1983)
Postwar novelist most famous for
Ashes and Diamonds, which was adapted into a very good film. His works can be found in English relatively easily.

Berent, Wacław (1873-1940)
Novelist and translator, none of his works are currently available in English.

Borowski, Tadeusz (1922-1951)
One of the most depressing biographies ever. Born in Soviet territory, both his parents were sent to the Gulag in the 1920’s. Borowski then emigrated to Poland. In 1943 he was arrested by the Germans and sent first to Auschwitz, then later to Dachau. He worked for a time as a slave laborer unloading trains full of Jews who were then transported directly to the gas chamber. These experiences led to his writing his most famous work, a collection of inter-connected stories called
This Way For The Gas, Ladies and Gentlemen. After the war he tried his hand at being a Communist Party hack, hated it, and gassed himself to death in his kitchen at the age of 28. This Way For The Gas… is widely available and should honestly be read by every literate human.

Dąbrowska, Maria (1889-1965)
Novelist, playwright and journalist. Not only are her works not available in English, precious little information of any kind can be found.

Gojawiczyńska, Pola (1896-1963)
Novelist and screenwriter, her books are not available in English and her movies are likewise difficult to find.

Gombrowicz, Witold (1904-1969)
Novelist, playwright, and diarist, spent the years from 1939 until his death in exile, first in Argentina, then in France. Among the most important writers in Polish history. His works, such as
Ferdydurke, Cosmos, and Bacacay are widely available in English.

Herbert, Zbigniew (1924-1998)
Postwar poet of immense stature, a wonderful new edition of his collected poetry, translated by Alissa Valles, has just been published this year.

Herling, Gustav (1919-2000)
Postwar essayist, story writer, etc. His books have been published in English recently and can be easily found. I can especially recommend Bill’s translation of
The Noonday Cemetery.

Kochanowski, Jan (1530-1584)
Renaissance poet, considered the “Father” of Polish literature. Major works include
Laments, and The Dismissal of the Greek Envoys, a tragedy in blank verse, both of which are available in English.

Krasczinski, Zygmunt
I couldn’t find any information about this person anywhere. Either I misspelled his name or Bill made him up.

Mickiewicz, Adam (1798-1855)
A towering presence in Polish letters even today, author of the epic
Pan Tadeusz and a great many ballads (one of which can be found in the current issue of this journal) and other books of poetry, plays, and prose. Pan Tadeusz and a collection of his love poems can be found for very little money.

Miłosz, Czesław (1911-2004)
The most widely known Polish poet in the West, winner of the 1980 Nobel Prize. His books are literally lying around all over the place.

Nałkowska, Zofia (1884-1954)
Novelist/dramatist/essayist and early ally of Bruno Schulz. The first woman member of the Polish Academy of Literature. Her diary of the war, published as Wartime Diary is an elusive book in English. After the war she became rather active politically, which led to the writing of Medallions, a story collection dealing with the Holocaust, this is currently her only book on the English market.

Prus, Bolesław (1847-1912)
Journalist and novelist, author of
The Doll and Pharaoh, both of which are available in English.

Rej, Mikołaj (1505-1569)
Prominent Renaissance poet, nobleman, politician, musician, and translator. Major works include
The Merchant; The Zodiac; and The Mirror. Currently unavailable in English translation.

Schulz, Bruno (1892-1942)
Story writer and visual artist, he produced only two short books of stories in his lifetime,
Street of Crocodiles and Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass, both of which can be gotten hold of easily. A book of his very wonderful drawings can be had for around forty dollars. It was his drawing ability that led to Schulz, who was Jewish, being protected by a German officer when the Nazi’s occupied his hometown. Another German officer, a rival of Schulz’s protector, shot Bruno dead on the street.

Sienkiewicz, Henryk (1846-1916)
Essentially the James Michener of Polish letters. Won the Nobel Prize in 1905.
Quo Vadis is available, though I cannot recommend it to any but the masochistic among us.

Słowacki, Juliusz (1809-1849)
Rather intense Romantic poet and playwright, largely unavailable in English at this time. (Hey, you, translate some of this guy’s poems and send them to us!!!)

Szymborska, Wisława (born 1923)
Winner of the 1996 Nobel Prize, prominent almost to the point of ubiquity, you probably got a book by her for your birthday last year.

Wikiewicz, Stanisław Ignacy (1885-1939)
All purpose literary/artistic hooligan, known especially for his many plays, and his novel Insatiability. In 1939, while fleeing eastward from the German army, he learned of the Russian invasion and committed suicide. Two small books of his plays are available and affordable in English. His novel and other works by and about him are available, though most top the hundred-dollar figure in price.

Wyspiański, Stanisław (1869-1907)
Poet/painter/playwright/glass designer/architect and (according to Wikipedia) cabinetmaker. Leading figure in the Young Poland movement. His most important play, "The Wedding," is available though very rare in English. His visual work can be found on the Internet and is most definitely worth seeing.

Żeromski, Stefan (1864-1925)
Bill pretty much covered the bases on this guy. Two of his novels,
The Faithful River and Coming Spring can be gotten cheaply and ought to be read.

Johnston, Bill (translation bibliography)
Magdalena Tulli: Blemish. Archipelago Books. In progress.
Eugeniusz Tkaczyszyn-Dycki: Fugitive. Zephyr Books. In progress.
Stefan Żeromski: The Coming Spring. Central European University Press. In press.
Jan Kochanowski: The Envoys. Księgarnia Akademicka. In press.
Juliusz Słowacki: Balladina. Under review.
Tadeusz Różewicz: New Poems. Archipelago Books. 2007.
Andrzej Stasiuk: Nine. Harcourt Brace. 2007.
The Song of Igor’s Campaign (from Old Russian). Ugly Duckling Presse. 2006.
Magdalena Tulli: Moving Parts. Archipelago Books. 2005.
Krzysztof Kamil Baczyński: White Magic and Other Poems. Green Integer. 2005.
Witold Gombrowicz: Polish Memories. Yale University Press. 2004.
Witold Gombrowicz: Bacacay. Archipelago Books. 2004.
Magdalena Tulli: Dreams and Stones. Archipelago Books. 2004.
Gustaw Herling: The Noonday Cemetery and Other Stories. New York, NY: New Directions. 2003.
Jerzy Pilch: His Current Woman. Northwestern University Press/Hydra. 2002.
Stefan Żeromski: The Faithful River. Northwestern University Press. 1999.
Andrzej Szczypiorski: The Shadow Catcher. Grove Press. 1997.
Bolesław Prus: The Sins of Childhood and Other Stories. Northwestern University Press. 1996.
Maria Hochberg-Mariańska, Noe Grüss (Eds.): The Children Accuse. Vallentine Mitchell. 1996.
Andrzej Szczypiorski: Self-Portrait with Woman. Grove Press. 1995.

Tomaž Šalamun
"The Kiss Across the Ocean"

translated by Joshua Beckman and the author

Poljub čez ocean

O moj ptiček, kako sem truden!
Češ videt kaj sem vse napisal danes?
Zdaj imam že celo tovarno
in možičke oblečene v žakeljče.
Obesil sem jih na svoj cvirn
in jih prilepil na stene brezna.
Nimajo tal pod nogami,
neprestano me cukajo.
Fuj, s kakšnimi zarjavelimi
lopatami hočejo biti pridni.
Pa jim ne dam. Mm. Ne.
Najprej očistiti lopate.
Za vse skrbim. Tudi za mucko.
In preklinjam ta predolg lok med
pismom in pismom.
Vem, zdaj jih frči vsaj pet po
zraku, ali pa se valjajo na
Correo Central.
Zakaj ne znaš pihniti tako kot jaz,
glej, aspirirani K
in že se ti topi telo
kot drobtinice na maslu
in boš lepo zaspala.


The Kiss Across the Ocean

O little bird, how tired I am!
Do you want to see everything that I have written today?
Now I have an entire factory
and little men dressed in little sackcloths.
I hung them by my thread
and glued them to the wall of the abbys.
They don't have any ground beneath them,
and they tug at me constantly.
Strange, with what kind of rusty shovels
do they want to be good.
But I don't let them. Njet.
First to clean the shovels.
I take care of everything. For the kitten also.
And I curse the too long arc
between the letter and the letter.
I know, now at least five of them
fly in the air, or they loll in
the Correo Central.
Why can't you kiss as I can do,
look, the aspired K
and already your body melts
like little crumbs in butter
and you fall asleep nicely.

• • •

Tomaž Šalamun (1941 - ) is a Slovenian poet. His recent works in English translation include The Book for My Brother and Poker, translated by Joshua Beckman.

Joshua Beckman is a poet, translator and an editor at Wave Books. His translation of Šalamun's Poker was a finalist for the PEN American Poetry in Translation Award.

Adam Mickiewicz
"Lilies"
(full original version)


LILIJE

(z pieśni gminnej)

Zbrodnia to niesłychana,
Pani zabija pana;
Zabiwszy grzebie w gaju,
Na łączce przy ruczaju,
Grób liliją zasiewa,
Zasiewając tak śpiewa:
"Rośnij kwiecie wysoko,
Jak pan leży głęboko;
Jak pan leży głęboko,
Tak ty rośnij wysoko."

Potem cała skrwawiona,
Męża zbójczyni żona,
Bieży przez łąki, przez knieje,
I górą, i dołem, i górą;
Zmrok pada, wietrzyk wieje;
Ciemno, wietrzno, ponuro.
Wrona gdzieniegdzie kracze
I puchają puchacze.

Bieży w dół do strumyka,
Gdzie stary rośnie buk,
Do chatki pustelnika,
Stuk stuk, stuk stuk.

"Kto tam?" - spadła zapora,
Wychodzi starzec, świeci;
Pani na kształt upiora
Z krzykiem do chatki leci.

"Ha! ha!" zsiniałe usta,
Oczy przewraca w słup,
Drżąca, zbladła jak chusta;
"Ha! mąż, ha! trup!"

"- Niewiasto, Pan Bóg z tobą,
Co ciebie tutaj niesie,
Wieczorną słotną dobą,
Co robisz sama w lesie?"

"- Tu za lasem, za stawem,
Błyszczą mych zamków ściany.
Mąż z królem Bolesławem
Poszedł na Kijowiany.
Lato za latem bieży,
Nie masz go z bojowiska;
Ja młoda śród młodzieży,
A droga cnoty śliska!
Nie dochowałam wiary,
Ach! biada mojej głowie!
Król srogie głosi kary;
Powrócili mężowie.

"Ha! ha! mąż się nie dowie!
Oto krew! oto nóż!
Po nim już, po nim już!
Starcze, wyznałam szczerze.
Ty głoś świętymi usty,
Jakie mówić: pacierze,
Gdzie mam iść na odpusty.
Ach, pójdę aż do piekła,
Zniosę bicze, pochodnie,
Byleby moję zbrodnię
Wieczysta noc powlekła."

"- Niewiasto, - rzecze stary -
Więc ci nie żal rozboju,
Ale tylko strach kary?
Idźże sobie w pokoju,
Rzuć bojaźń, rozjaśń lica,
Wieczna twa tajemnica.
Bo takie sądy boże,
Iż co ty zrobisz skrycie,
Mąż tylko wydać może;
A mąż twój stracił życie."

Pani z wyroku rada,
Jak wpadła, tak wypada;
Bieży nocą do domu
Nic nie mówiąc nikomu.
Stoją dzieci przed bramą,
"Mamo, - wołają - Mamo!
A gdzie został nasz tato?"
- "Nieboszczyk? co? wasz tato?" -
Nie wie, co mówić na to.
- "Został w lesie za dworem,
Powróci dziś wieczorem."
Czekają wieczór dzieci;
Czekają drugi, trzeci,
Czekają tydzień cały;
Nareszcie zapomniały.

Pani zapomnieć trudno,
Nie wygnać z myśli grzechu.
Zawsze na sercu nudno,
Nigdy na ustach śmiechu,
Nigdy snu na źrenicy!
Bo często w nocnej porze
Coś stuka się na dworze,
Coś chodzi po świetlicy.
"Dzieci - woła - to ja to,
To ja, dzieci, wasz tato!"

Noc przeszła, zasnąć trudno.
Nie wygnać z myśli grzechu.
Zawsze na sercu nudno,
Nigdy na ustach śmiechu!

- "Idź, Hanko, przez dziedziniec.
Słyszę tętent na moście,
I kurzy się gościniec;
Czy nie jadą tu goście?
Idź na gościniec i w las,
Czy kto nie jedzie do nas?"

Jadą, jadą w tę stronę,
Tuman na drodze wielki,
Rżą, rżą koniki wrone,
Ostre błyszczą szabelki.
Jadą, jadą panowie,
Nieboszczyka bratowie!

- "A witajże, czy zdrowa?
Witajże nam, bratowa.
Gdzie brat?" - "Nieboszczyk brat,
Już pożegnał ten świat."
- "Kiedy?" - "Dawno, rok minął,
Umarł... na wojnie zginął."
- "To kłamstwo, bądź spokojna!
Już skończyła się wojna;
Brat zdrowy i ochoczy,
Ujrzysz go na twe oczy."

Pani ze strachu zbladła,
Zemdlała i upadła,
Oczy przewraca w słup,
Z trwogą dokoła rzuca.
- "Gdzie on? gdzie mąż? gdzie trup?"
Powoli się ocuca;
Mdlała niby z radości
I pytała u gości:
"Gdzie mąż, gdzie me kochanie,
Kiedy przede mną stanie?"

- "Powracał razem z nami,
Lecz przodem chciał pośpieszyć,
Nas przyjąć z rycerzami
I twoje łzy pocieszyć.
Dziś, jutro pewnie będzie,
Pewnie kędyś w obłędzie
Ubite minął szlaki.
Zaczekajmy dzień jaki,
Poszlemy szukać wszędzie,
Dziś, jutro pewnie będzie."

Posłali wszędzie sługi,
Czekali dzień i drugi,
Gdy nic nie doczekali,
Z płaczem chcą jechać daléj.

Zachodzi drogę pani:
- "Bracia moi kochani,
Jesień zła do podróży,
Wiatry, słoty i deszcze.
Wszak czekaliście dłużéj,
Czekajcie trochę jeszcze."

Czekają. Przeszła zima,
Brata nie ma i nié ma.
Czekają; myślą sobie:
Może powróci z wiosną?
A on już leży w grobie,
A nad nim kwiatki rosną,
A rosną tak wysoko,
Jak on leży głęboko.
I wiosnę przeczekali,
I już nie jadą daléj.

Do smaku im gospoda,
Bo gospodyni młoda;
Że chcą jechać, udają,
A tymczasem czekają;
Czekają aż do lata,
Zapominają brata.
Do smaku im gospoda
I gospodyni młoda.
Jak dwaj u niej gościli,
Tak ją dwaj polubili.
Obu nadzieja łechce,
Obadwaj zjęci trwogą,
Żyć bez niej żaden nie chce,
Żyć z nią obaj nie mogą.
Wreszcie na jedno zdani,
Idą razem do pani.

- "Słuchaj, pani bratowo,
Przyjm dobrze nasze słowo.
My tu próżno siedzimy,
Brata nie zobaczymy.
Ty jeszcze jesteś młoda,
Młodości twojej szkoda.
Nie wiąż dla siebie świata,
Wybierz brata za brata".

To rzekli i stanęli,
Gniew ich i zazdrość piecze,
Ten, to ów okiem strzeli,
Ten, to ów słówko rzecze;
Usta sine przycięli,
W ręku ściskają miecze.
Pani ich widzi w gniewie,
Co mówić, sama nie wie.
Prosi o chwilkę czasu,
Bieży zaraz do lasu.
Bieży w dół do strumyka,
Gdzie stary rośnie buk,
Do chatki pustelnika,
Stuk stuk, stuk stuk!
Całą mu rzecz wykłada,
Pyta się, co za rada?

- "Ach, jak pogodzić braci?
Chcą mojej ręki oba?
Ten i ten się podoba:
Lecz kto weźmie? kto straci?
Ja mam maleńkie dziatki,
I wioski, i dostatki,
Dostatek się zmitręża,
Gdy zostałam bez męża.
Lecz, ach! nie dla mnie szczęście!
Nie dla mnie już zamęście!
Boża nade mną kara,
Ściga mnie nocna mara,
Zaledwie przymknę oczy,
Traf, traf, klamka odskoczy;
Budzę się, widzę, słyszę,
Jak idzie i jak dysze,
Jak dysze i jak tupa,
Ach, widzę, słyszę trupa!
Skrzyp, skrzyp, i już nad łożem
Skrwawionym sięga nożem,
I iskry z gęby sypie,
I ciągnie mię, i szczypie.
Ach, dosyć, dosyć strachu,
Nie siedzieć mnie w tym gmachu,
Nie dla mnie świat i szczęście,
Nie dla mnie już zamęście!"

"Córko, - rzecze jej stary -
Nie masz zbrodni bez kary.
Lecz jeśli szczera skrucha,
Zbrodniarzów Pan Bóg słucha.
Znam ja tajnie wyroku,
Miłą ci rzecz obwieszczę;
Choć mąż zginął od roku,
Ja go wskrzeszę dziś jeszcze."

- "Co, co? jak, jak? mój ojcze!
Nie czas już, ach, nie czas!
To żelazo zabojcze
Na wieki dzieli nas!
Ach, znam, żem warta kary,
I zniosę wszelkie kary,
Byle się pozbyć mary.
Zrzekę się mego zbioru
I pójdę do klasztoru,
I pójdę w ciemny las.
Nie, nie wskrzeszaj, mój ojcze!
Nie czas już, ach, nie czas,
To żelazo zabojcze
Na wieki dzieli nas!"

Starzec westchnął głęboko
I łzami zalał oko,
Oblicze skrył w zasłonie,
Drżące załamał dłonie.
- "Idź za mąż, póki pora,
Nie lękaj się upiora.
Martwy się nie ocuci,
Twarda wieczności brama;
I mąż twój nie powróci,
Chyba zawołasz sama."

- "Lecz jak pogodzić braci?
Kto weźmie, a kto straci?" -
"Najlepsza będzie droga
Zdać się na los i Boga.
Niechajże z ranną rosą
Pójdą i kwiecie zniosą.
Niech każdy weźmie kwiecie
I wianek tobie splecie,
I niechaj doda znaki,
Żeby poznać, czyj jaki,
I pójdzie w kościoł boży,
I na ołtarzu złoży.
Czyj pierwszy weźmiesz wianek,
Ten mąż twój, ten kochanek."

Pani z przestrogi rada,
Już do małżeństwa skora,
Nie boi się upiora;
Bo w myśli swej układa
Nigdy w żadnej potrzebie
Nie wołać go do siebie.
I z tych układów rada,
Jak wpadła, tak wypada.
Bieży prosto do domu
Nic nie mówiąc nikomu.
Bieży przez łąki, przez gaje,
I bieży. i staje,
I staje, i myśli, i słucha:
Zda się, że ją ktoś goni
I że coś szepce do niéj,
Wokoło ciemność głucha;

- "To ja, twój mąż, twój mąż!"
I staje, i myśli, i słucha,
Słucha, zrywa się, bieży,
Włos się na głowie jeży,
W tył obejrzeć się lęka,
Coś wciąż po krzakach stęka,
Echo powtarza wciąż:
"To ja, twój mąż, twój mąż!"

Lecz zbliża się niedziela.
Zbliża się czas wesela.
Zaledwie słońce wschodzi,
Wybiegają dwaj młodzi.
Pani, śród dziewic grona
Do ślubu prowadzona,
Wystąpi śród kościoła
I bierze pierwszy wianek,
Obnosi go dokoła;
"Oto w wieńcu lilije,
Ach, czyjeż to są, czyje?
Kto mój mąż, kto kochanek?"

Wybiega starszy brat,
Radość na licach płonie,
Skacze i klaszcze w dłonie:
"Tyś moja. mój to kwiat!
Między liliji kręgi
Uplotłem wstążek zwój,
To znak, to moje wstęgi!
To mój, to mój, to mój!

- "Kłamstwo! - drugi zawoła -
Wyjdźcie tylko z kościoła,
Miejsce widzieć możecie,
Kędy rwałem to kwiecie.
Rwałem na łączce w gaju,
Na grobie przy ruczaju,
Okażę grób i zdrój,
To mój, to mój, to mój!"

Kłócą się źli młodzieńce;
Ten mówi, ten zaprzecza;
Dobyli z pochew miecza;
Wszczyna się srogi bój,
Szarpią do siebie wieńce:
"To mój, to mój, to mój!"

Wtem drzwi kościoła trzasły,
Wiatr zawiał, świece zgasły,
Wchodzi osoba w bieli.
Znany chód, znana zbroja,
Staje, wszyscy zadrżeli,
Staje, patrzy ukosem,
Podziemnym woła głosem:
"Mój wieniec i ty moja!
Kwiat na mym rwany grobie,
Mnie, księże, stułą wiąż;
Zła żono, biada tobie!
To ja. twój mąż, twój mąż!
Źli bracia, biada obu!
Z mego rwaliście grobu,
Zawieście krwawy bój.
To ja, twój mąż, wasz brat,
Wy moi, wieniec mój,
Dalej na tamten świat!"

Wstrzęsła się cerkwi posada,
Z zrębu wysuwa się zrąb,
Sklep trzeszczy, głąb zapada,
Cerkiew zapada w głąb.
Ziemia ją z wierzchu kryje,
Na niej rosną lilije,
A rosną tak wysoko,
Jak pan leżał głęboko.