Untitled - Villa Lara Bali

CYPRIAN NORWID
POEMS
Translated from the Polish by Danuta Borchardt
in collaboration with Agata Brajerska-Mazur
archipelago books
English Translation copyright © 2011 Danuta Borchardt
First Archipelago Books Edition, 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the
publisher.
Archipelago Books
232 3rd Street #A111
Brooklyn, NY 11215
www.archipelagobooks.org
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Norwid, Cyprian, 1821–1883.
[Poems. English. Selections]
Poems / Cyprian Norwid ; translated from the Polish by
Danuta Borchardt. – 1st Archipelago Books ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-935744-53-5
I. Borchardt, Danuta, 1930– II. Title.
PG7158.N57 A2 2011
891.8'516—dc23
2011032924
Distributed by Consortium Book Sales and Distribution
www.cbsd.com
Cover art: Leonardo da Vinci
Cover design by David Bullen
Borchardt’s translations of “Larva,” “The Sphinx,” and Nerves” first appeared in Green Integer Review; “Mysticism,” “Ideas and
Truth,” “The Past,” “To Bem’s Memory: A Funeral Rhapsody,” and an excerpt from “To Citizen John Brown” in The Polish Review;
“The Last Despotism” in Salmagundi; and “Obscurity,” “Marionettes,” “In Verona,” “Autumn,” “Vade-mecum,” and “Fatum,” in
The Dirty Goat.
The publication of Poems was made possible with support from Lannan Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the
New York State Council on the Arts, a state agency.
This publication has been subsidized by the Book Institute – the © POLAND Translation Program.
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE
Cyprian Norwid was born in 1821 in an occupied Poland divided since the late eighteenth century
between Russia, Prussia, and Austria, and it remained divided until the beginning of the twentieth
century. During what is known as “the Partitions of Poland,” the occupying powers censored any
writing in the Polish language. In order to create their works, Polish writers, poets (such as Adam
Mickiewicz and Juliusz Slowacki, among others), and artists (Frédéric Chopin among them) chose
exile. It was a great national as well as personal tragedy. Norwid chose to live mostly in Paris but also
traveled to Greece, Italy, London, and New York. Besides being a poet, he was also a visual artist and
an accomplished draftsman – indeed, for a brief time, he succeeded in earning a living as a draftsman
in New York. He died in 1883, in poverty, in a Polish hospice in Paris.
Norwid’s work belongs to late Romanticism. However, he was so original that scholars cannot
pigeonhole his work into any specific literary period. He was poorly understood during his life and
accused of being obscure and overly cerebral. His Catholic upbringing greatly influenced his thinking,
as did his knowledge of Greek and Roman classics. His ideas were that of a man deeply distressed by
and disappointed in mankind, yet hopeful of its eventual redemption.
With his syntax and punctuation, Norwid departed from established forms. Although he did not
create true neologisms, he changed words somewhat but left them in recognizable form; he also
hyphenated words, which is unusual in the Polish language. Most of his poems are rhymed, although
some are precursors of free verse in Polish poetry.
When Poland regained her freedom in 1918, Norwid was recognized by the Young Poland literati
as an outstanding poet. His major works, including “Vade-mecum,” “Promethidion,” and the novella
“Ad Leones,” were rediscovered. Besides these, Norwid is the author of “Quidam,” “Assunta,” and
other epic poems, as well as many shorter poems, plays, short stories, essays, and letters. During his
lifetime, Norwid published only two volumes of poetry, in Leipzig, in 1863 and 1866. The rest were
published posthumously.
In “Ten Commandments for the Translation of the Works of Cyprian Norwid” ( The Polish Review,
2008), Norwid scholar Agata Brajerska-Mazur writes: “Norwid might well be one of the world’s
writers whose language is described in specialist dictionaries and whose works and thoughts have been
and still are being researched by scholars.”
The first part of this volume contains selected poems from “Vade-mecum,” written in 1865 and
1866. I have kept Norwid’s original order and the Roman numerals, which scholars continue to
include. The remaining poems are presented in chronological order too, some written before “Vademecum,” some later.
I have provided a few notes at the end of this book to illuminate how certain poems reflected
events in Norwid’s life.
What first struck me about Norwid’s poetry was his arrangement of words on the page – the
numerous breaks in sentences, series of asterisks, ellipses, question marks in the middle of sentences,
hyphens, and so forth. This was innovative for the poetry of the nineteenth century. I was no less
attracted to the modernity of his ideas, his succinct and often ironic expression, and his spare lyricism.
I have translated Norwid’s poetry by adhering to the following five principles:
I felt that the meaning had to remain true to the original by retaining Norwid’s complexities and
conveying his multiple meanings and intentions.
I wanted to maintain the rhythm of the original as much as possible. For example, “Chopin’s
Grand Piano” possesses the rhythm and musicality of a mazurka.
My third consideration – and all are of equal importance – was to maintain the lyricism.
Rhyming is something I particularly like, and Norwid is a poet of rhyme. I tried to reproduce this
as much as possible.
My final principle was, as already mentioned above, the crucial issue of the visual aspect of the
poems. The novelty in punctuation had special meaning; for example, asterisks were to convey
silence, inviting the reader to ponder. For the punctuation and layout of the poems of “Vade-mecum,”
I used Józef Fert’s definitive text, published in 2004 by the Towarzystwo Naukowe (Scientific
Society) of the Catholic University of Lublin. Please note that all italicized phrases are Norwid’s.
No translation is a final one, but it is my hope that I have risen to the task, at least in some
measure, of giving the English reader the opportunity to become acquainted with one of Poland’s
greatest poets.
D. B.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It has been my great fortune to become acquainted with Dr. Agata Brajerska-Mazur and her work. A
member of the group of Cyprian Norwid scholars at the Catholic University in Lublin, she is a
specialist in English translations of Cyprian Norwid’s poetry. Author of numerous texts on the subject,
she has adapted the catena method, used by the Fathers of the Church in interpreting biblical texts, for
systematically approaching the process of translating Norwid’s poetry. This method compares the
most important interpretations of a source text in order to determine the most significant features that
should be preserved in translation. After acquainting herself with my first few translations, she agreed
to collaborate with me. I am deeply grateful for her able and sensitive way of critiquing all of my
translations in this book.
My thanks also go the Polish poet and literary scholar Rev. Dr. Janusz A. Ihnatowicz, for his
insightful comments on several poems, including “My Song (I),” “Chopin’s Grand Piano,” “As
Introduction,” “The Pilgrim,” “In Verona,” “Ideas and Truth,” and “Death.”
I have always considered the linguistic sensibility of native speakers of American English to be of
utmost importance. In this context, I want to express my thanks to the poets Gerrit Lansing and
Kenneth Irby for their comments on “To Bem’s Memory – A Funeral Rhapsody,” and to Gerrit
Lansing for his critique of “The Past.” My thanks also go to Professor Robert Boyers and poet Peg
Boyers, editors of Salmagundi, for their suggestions concerning “The Last Despotism.” I am grateful
to Norman Eberhardt and Thom Lane, avid readers of English poetry, for their careful review of
“Chopin’s Grand Piano.” I am no less grateful to my group of translators in Cambridge,
Massachusetts, members of the American Literary Translators Association, for their participation in
the translating process of “The Sphinx” and “Death.” And I know I can always rely on my friend Alan
Braver’s help in clarifying Latin quotations. My sincere appreciation also goes to my sons Andrew
and Paul Stachiewicz for their attentive and engaged listening to my translation of “Quidam” and
other poems, and to Andrew for his insights into the logistics of the publishing world.
Last but not least, my appreciation goes to Jill Schoolman, my publisher, for being moved by
Norwid’s poems “on various levels” – so important for the understanding of this difficult poet. Her
response to my translations inspired me to continue this challenging work.
POEMS
Contents
ZA WSTĘP (OGÓLNIKI)
AS INTRODUCTION (GENERALITIES)
I VADE-MECUM
I VADE-MECUM
II PRZESZŁOŚĆ
II THE PAST
VI W WERONIE
VI IN VERONA
IX CIEMNOŚĆ
IX OBSCURITY
XI PIELGRZYM
XI THE PILGRIM
XIII LARWA
XIII LARVA
XIV LITOŚĆ
XIV MERCY
XV SFINKS
XV THE SPHINX
XIX STOLICA
XIX CAPITAL
XXVI CZEMU NIE W CHÓRZE
XXVI WHY NOT IN CHORUS?
XXVII MISTYCYZM
XXVII MYSTICISM
XXX FATUM
XXX FATUM
XLII IDEE I PRAWDA
XLII IDEAS AND TRUTH
LIV JAK . . .
LIV JUST AS . . .
LV KÓŁKO
LV THE LITTLE CIRCLE
LVI CZUŁOŚĆ
LVI TENDERNESS
LXX LAUR DOJRZAŁY
LXX MATURE LAUREL
LXXXII ŚMIERĆ
LXXXII DEATH
LXXXV DO ZESZŁEJ . . . (NA GROBOWYM GŁ AZIE)
LXXXV TO THE DEPARTED . . . (ON A TOMBSTONE)
XCV NERWY
XCV NERVES
XCVI OSTATNI-DESPOTYZM
XCVI THE LAST DESPOTISM
XCVII FINIS
XCVII FINIS
XCIX FORTEPIAN SZOPENA
XCIX CHOPIN’S GRAND PIANO
MOJA PIOSNKA [I]
MY SONG (I)
JESIEN
AUTUMN
FRASZKA(!) I
EPIGRAM(!) I
FRASZKA(!) II
EPIGRAM(!) II
BEMA PAMIĘCI ŻAŁOBNY-RAPSOD
TO BEM’S MEMORY – A FUNERAL RHAPSODY
SIŁA ICH
THEIR POWER
Z POKŁ ADU “MARGUERITY” WYPŁYWAJĄCEJ DZIŚ DO NEW-YORK
FROM THE DECK OF “MARGARET EVANS” SAILING TODAY TO NEW YORK
QUIDAM
QUIDAM
[COŚ TY ATENOM ZROBIŁ, SOKRATESIE . . .]
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ATHENS, SOCRATES . . .
SPARTAKUS
SPARTACUS
DO OBYWATELA JOHNA BROWN
TO CITIZEN JOHN BROWN
WCZORA-I-JA
YESTERDAY-AND-I
[DAJ MI WSTĄŻKĘ BŁĘKITNĄ . . .]
GIVE ME A BLUE RIBBON . . .
MARIONETKI
MARIONETTES
PO BALU
AFTER THE BALL
KRZYŻ I DZIECKO
THE CROSS AND THE CHILD
IDĄCEJ KUPIĆ TALERZ PANI M.
TO MADAME M. ON HER WAY TO BUY A PLATE
ROZEBRANA
DISROBED
SŁOWIANIN DO TEOFILA LENARTOWICZA
A SLAV TO TEOFIL LENARTOWICZ
VADE - MECUM
ZA WSTĘP
(OGÓLNIKI)
Gdy, z wiosną życia, duch Artysta
Poi się jej tchem jak motyle,
Wolno mu mowić tylko tyle:
„ Ziemia jest krągła – jest kulista!”
Lecz gdy późniejszych chłodów dreszcze
Drzewem wzruszą i kwiatki zlecą,
Wtedy dodawać trzeba jeszcze:
„U biegunów – spłaszczona nieco . . .”
Ponad wszystkie wasze uroki Ty! poezjo, i ty, wymowo Jeden – wiecznie bedzie wysoki:
Odpowiednie dać rzeczy – słowo!
AS INTRODUCTION
(GENERALITIES)
When, in the spring of life, the Artist’s spirit
Draws breath like a butterfly,
Herein his only limit lies:
“The earth is round – it’s spherical!”
But when late shivers, chills
Move a tree, and little flowers flit,
He must enlarge upon it still:
“Though at the poles – it’s flattened just a bit . . .”
Beyond, above all your charms,
You! poetry, and you, speech! Behold,
Ever the highest will be – this aim:
To name each matter by its rightful – word!
I
VADE-MECUM
Klaskaniem mając obrzękłe prawice,
Znudzony pieśnią, lud wołał o czyny;
Wzdychały jeszcze dorodne wawrzyny,
Konary swymi wietrząc błyskawice.
Było w Ojczyźnie laurowo i ciemno
I już ni miejsca dawano, ni godzin
Dla nieczekanych powić i narodzin,
Gdy Boży-palec zaświtał nade mną;
Nie zdając liczby z rzeczy, które czyni,
Żyć mi rozkazał w żywota pustyni!
*
Dlatego od was . . . o! laury, nie wziąłem
Listka jednego, ni ząbeczka w liściu,
Prócz może cieniu chłodnego nad czołem
(Co nie należy wam, lecz – słońca przyściu . . .).
Nie wziąłem od was nic, o! wielkoludy,
Prócz dróg zarosłych w piołun, mech i szalej,
Prócz ziemi, klątwą spalonej, i nudy . . .
Samotny wszedłem i sam błądze dalej.
*
Po-obracanych w przeszłość niepojętę,
A uwielbioną – spotkałem niemało!
W ostrogi rdzawe utrafiałem piętę
W ścieżkach, gdzie zbitych kul sporo padało.
Nieraz Obyczaj stary zawadziłem,
Z wyszczérzonymi na jutrznię zębami,
Odziewający się na głowę pyłem,
By noc przedłużył, nie zerwał ze snami.
*
Niewiast, zaklętych w umarłe formuły,
Spotkałem tysiąc – i było mi smętno,
Że wdzięków tyle widziałem – nieczuły!
Źrenicą na nie patrząc bez-namiętną.
Tej, tamtej rękę tknąwszy marmurowę,
Wzruszyłem fałdy ubrania kamienne,
A motyl nocny wzleciał jej nad głowę,
Zadrżał i upadł . . . i odeszły, senne . . .
*
I nic – nie wziąłem od nich w serca wnętrze,
Stawszy się ku nim, jak one, bezwładny,
Tak samo grzeczny i zarówno żadny,
Że aż mi coraz szczęście niepojętsze!
– Czemu? dlaczego? w przesytu-Niedzielę
Przyszedłem witać i żegnać – tak wiele? . . .
Nic nie uniósłszy na sercu – prócz szaty –
Pytać was – nie chcę i nie raczę: KATY! . . .
*
Piszę – ot! czasem . . . piszę NA BABYLON
DO JERUZALEM! – i dochodzą listy –
To zaś mi mniejsza, czy bywam omylon
Albo nie? . . . piszę pamiętnik artysty,
Ogryzmolony i w siebie pochylon –
Obłędny! . . . ależ – wielce rzeczywisty!
......................................
*
Syn – minie pismo, lecz ty spomnisz, wnuku,
Co znika dzisiaj (iż czytane pędem)
Za panowania Panteizmu-druku,
Pod ołowianej litery urzędem –
I, jak zdarzało się na rzymskim bruku,
Mając pod stopy katakomb korytarz,
Nad czołem słońce i jaw ufny w błędzie,
Tak znów odczyta on, co ty dziś czytasz,
Ale on spomni mnie . . . bo mnie nie będzie!
I
VADE-MECUM
Their hands swollen from clapping,
Bored by chants, people called for action;
Shapely bay trees heaved sighs,
While their limbs sensed bolts of lightning.
My Country was laureled and dark
With no place allotted, nor hour
For unexpected births,
When the Finger-of-God loomed above me;
Without giving account of worlds it creates,
It ordered me to live in life’s desert!
*
That is why from you . . . o! laurels, I took
No single leaf, nor its tiniest tooth,
Except a cool shade perhaps, above my brow
(Not due to you, but – to sun’s passing . . .).
I took nothing from you, o! you giants,
Except for roads overrun with wormwood, lichen, and cowbane,
Except for earth scorched with curses and tedium . . .
I went all alone and wander on alone.
*
Of those who turned to a past that’s obscure,
Yet beloved – I met more than a few!
I stabbed my sole on corroded spurs
On paths where spent shells used to fall.
Ofttimes an old Custom I would meet,
Its teeth bared at the dawn,
Its head covered in dust
To lengthen the night, not to sever dreams.
*
Women, into dead canons bewitched,
I met by the thousands – I was grieved
That so much grace – left me cold!
All this I touched with my passionless iris,
This and that marble hand,
I traced the cloth’s stony folds,
A night butterfly flew over their heads,
Trembled and fell . . . and they, half sleeping, were gone . . .
*
Nothing – I took naught to my heart’s core,
And became toward them, as they were, inert,
Courteous, as they were, and equally worthless,
Until bliss was harder and harder to know!
– Why? Why? In that Sunday’s excesses
Did I come to greet so many – say adieu? . . .
Clothing my heart in naught – safe attire –
To ask you – I will not, deign not: EXECUTIONERS! . . .
*
I write – eh! sometimes . . . BY WAY OF BABYLON
Or TO JERUSALEM! – my letters arrive –
I care little whether I blunder
Or not? . . . I write an artist’s account,
Ink-besmeared and inwardly hunched –
Errant! . . . but of course – utterly true!
...................................................
*
My son – will skirt this work, but you, grandson, will note,
What disappears today (because hurriedly read)
While print-Pantheism still reigns,
By virtue of the printer’s type in lead –
And, as would happen on a Roman street,
With catacombs’ paths under one’s feet,
Overhead the sun, and daylight sanguine yet flawed,
So will he read again what you read today,
And will recall me . . . when I’ll be no more!
II
PRZESZŁOŚĆ
Nie Bóg stworzył przeszłość i śmierć, i cierpienia,
Lecz ów, co prawa rwie,
Więc nieznośne mu – dnie;
Więc, czując złe, chciał odepchnąć spomnienia!
Acz nie byłże jak dziecko, co wozem leci,
Powiadając: „O! dąb
Ucieka! . . . w lasu głąb . . .”
– Gdy dąb stoi, wóz z sobą unosi dzieci.
Przeszłość jest i dziś, i te dziś dalej:
Za kołami to wieś,
Nie – jakieś tam coś, gdzieś,
Gdzie nigdy ludzie nie bywali! . . .
II
THE PAST
God did not create the past, nor death nor pain,
But he who breaks the laws,
His days are – woes;
So, sensing evil, wards off memory, in vain!
Wasn’t he like a child that whirs by in a dray,
Saying: “O! An oak tree
Deep into the woods . . . it flees! . . .”
– The oak stands still, the cart sweeps the children away.
The past is here today, and today is even further:
Beyond the wheels the village is there,
Not – something, somewhere,
Where people never gathered! . . .
VI
W WERONIE
Nad Kapuletich i Montekich domem,
Spłukane deszczem, poruszone gromem,
Łagodne oko błękitu –
Patrzy, na gruzy nieprzyjaznych grodów,
Na rozwalone bramy do ogrodów
I gwiazdę zrzuca ze szczytu –
Cyprysy mówią, że to dla Julietty,
Że dla Romea, ta łza – znad planety
Spada, i groby przecieka,
A ludzie mówią, i mówią uczenie,
Że to nie łzy są, ale że kamienie,
I – że nikt na nie . . . nie czeka!
VI
IN VERONA
Over the house of Capulet and Montague,
Moved by thunder, rinsed by rain,
The gentle eye of heaven blue –
Looks upon the ruins of the hostile forts,
Over shattered garden gates,
And hurls a star from on high –
This tear is for Juliet, every cypress says,
And for Romeo – from beyond our planet
It falls and soaks the graves,
While people say, and they’re men of learning:
These are not tears but stones,
And – for them . . . no one is waiting!
IX
CIEMNOŚĆ
Ty skarżysz się na ciemność mojej mowy,
– Czy też świecę zapalałeś sam?
Czy sługa ci zawsze niósł pokojowy
Swiatłość? . . . patrz – że ja cię lepiej znam.
Knot, gdy obejmiesz iskrą, wkoło płonie,
Grzeje wosk, a ten kulą wstawa,
I w biegunie jej nagle płomień tonie;
Światłość jego jest mdła – bladawa –
Już – już mniemasz, że zgaśnie, skoro z dołu
Ciecz rozgrzana swiatło pochłonie –
Wiary trzeba – nie dość skry i popiołu . . .
Wiarę dałeś? . . . patrz – patrz, jak płonie! . . .
Podobnie są i słowa me, o! człeku,
A ty im skąpisz chwili marnej,
Nim, rozgrzawszy pierwej zimnotę wieku,
Płomień w niebo rzucą, ofiarny . . .
IX
OBSCURITY
You protest the obscurity of my speech,
– Have you yourself ever lit a candle?
Or did your servant always bring you
Light? . . . watch – for I know you well.
A wick, lit with a spark, burns down
And warms the wax, which rises like a ball
At its pole, the flame suddenly drowns;
Its Light is wan – a fading glow –
Quick – quick, you think it will die, as
From below the hot liquid drowns the light –
It’s faith you need – ash and spark are not enough . . .
Have you faith? . . . then watch – watch it blaze! . . .
Such are my words, o! my fellow man,
Yet you stint them one meager moment,
Ere, first kindling epoch’s chill,
They cast a flame into the skies, in atonement . . .
XI
PIELGRZYM
Nad stanami jest i stanów-stan,
Jako wieża nad płaskie domy
Stercząca w chmury . . .
Wy myślicie, że i ja nie Pan,
Dlatego że dom mój ruchomy
Z wielbłądziej skóry . . .
Przecież ja – aż w nieba łonie trwam,
Gdy ono duszę mą porywa
Jak piramidę!
Przecież i ja – ziemi tyle mam,
Ile jej stopa ma pokrywa,
Dopokąd idę! . . .