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Pablo Neruda: Tonight I can write the saddest lines

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.

Escribir, por ejemplo: “La noche está estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos.”

El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.

En las noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.

Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.
Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.

Oir la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.

Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.
La noche esta estrellada y ella no está conmigo.

Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.
Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.

La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.

De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

Porque en noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Aunque este sea el ultimo dolor que ella me causa,
y estos sean los ultimos versos que yo le escribo.

~|~

Tonight I can write the saddest lines,

can write, for example: “The night is starry
and the stars in the distance are shivering and blue.”

The night wind wheels in the sky, singing.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this one I held her in my arms,
kissing her over and over beneath the endless sky.

She loved me, and sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes?

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think I do not have her, to feel that I have lost her,

to hear the immense night immenser still without her.
The verse falls to the soul like dew to the grass.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her?
The night is starry and she is not with me.

That’s all. In the distance someone is singing, in the distance.
My soul is not at peace, having lost her.

My eyes search for her, as if to bring her closer.
My heart seeks her out, but she is not with me.

The same night is whitening the same trees,
but we are no longer the same people we were.

I no longer love her, true, but how I loved her!
My voice searched the wind that it might touch her ear.

Someone else’s, she’ll be someone else’s, as she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body, and her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true. Then again maybe I do.
Love is so short, and forgetting is so long.

Because on nights like this one I held her in my arms,
my soul is not at peace, having lost her,

even though this will be the last pain she gives me,
and these the last verses that I will write for her.

王安石: 梅花 / Wang Anshi, Plum blossoms

墙角数枝梅，凌寒独自开。
遥知不是雪，为有暗香来。

At the foot of the wall, a few sprigs of plum blossom
are opening alone in the cold packed ice.
Yet still from a distance you can tell they’re not snow
by the faint scent that’s there, floating by.

The Song of Songs

Some quick introductory notes

I have always been fond of the Song of Songs as a work of poetry, one of the classic texts of the Hebrew Bible. But at the same time I have also found the lushness and eroticism of the Song hamstrung in English translations of the Bible, owing perhaps to prudishness on the part of Bible translators, or to the limitations of the obligatory chapter-and-verse format, or to zealous attempts to make the text accord with traditional exegesis. But I am neither Christian nor Jew, and I wanted to make a version for myself that would sing, that would appeal to me personally as a work of literature. This is the result.

I have thought of this piece primarily as music, with its themes and motifs which occur, transform and develop, and recur; a kind of concerto in seven movements for two voices and a chorus. Taken as a literary work, the Song can seem haphazard, random, confusing; understood as a piece of music, it makes perfect sense. I have set the movement breaks where I (and other commentators) have found them to be most appropriate; these do not correspond to the traditional chapter and verse divisions. I’ll add these at a later date for those who would like such things.

Of all the works I consulted, the detailed commentary on the Hebrew provided by Ariel and Chana Bloch in their own version of the Song proved to be the most enlightening. This version is significantly indebted to them.

*

The Song of Songs

The song of songs, which is Solomon’s.

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鱼玄机: 访赵炼师不遇 / Yu Xuanji, Visiting Master Zhao and not finding him

何处同仙侣，青衣独在家。
暖炉留煮药，邻院为煎茶。
画壁灯光暗，幡竿日影斜。
殷勤重回首，墙外数枝花。

Where might you be, with your immortal companions?
Only your servant is home;
you’ve left herbs cooking on the warm brazier,
tea leaves brewing in the next courtyard.
The painted walls fade into the lamplight,
the flagstaff’s long shadow is slanting —
again and again I look round,
but beyond the wall, only flowers.

张继: 枫桥夜泊 / Zhang Ji, Moored at night by Maple Bridge

月落乌啼霜满天，江枫渔火对愁眠。
姑苏城外寒山寺，夜半钟声到客船。

The moon sinks, a crow cries, frost fills the sky;
river maples, fishing fires; melancholy sleep.
From Cold Mountain Temple beyond the Suzhou wall
the midnight bell’s echo reaches travellers’ boats.

刘禹锡：乌衣巷 / Liu Yuxi, Black Robe Lane

朱雀桥边野草花，乌衣巷口夕阳斜。
旧时王谢堂前燕，飞入寻常百姓家。

One poem, many renderings. All by me. Apologies to the translators pastiched.

By Red Sparrow Bridge, wild grass flowers;
evening sunlight slants across Black Robe Lane.
Swallows from the ancient halls of Wang and Xie
fly now into the houses of the Hundred Clans.

*

In the style of Red Pine

Wild grass and flowers by Red Sparrow Bridge
evening sunlight slopes into Black Robe Lane
swallows from the old halls of Wang and Hsieh
fly into ordinary folks’ homes

*

In the style of David Hinton

By Red Sparrow Bridge, wild grasses are
flowering, as evening sunlight slants
into DarkRobe Street. Before the ancient Wang and Hsieh
mansions — swallows, flying into ordinary homes.

*

In the style of Kenneth Rexroth

Wild grass is flowering
by the bridge. Evening sunlight
slants across the lane.
Swallows once circled
these old manors, but fly
into lesser homes now.

*

In the style of Jeanne Larsen

Wild grass
flowers
by
Red Sparrow Bridge.

Sunlight —
slanting across
Crow-Cloak Street.

Ancient halls,
Wang and Hsieh —
swallows
flying
through ordinary homes.

鱼玄机：愁思 / Yu Xuanji, Melancholy thoughts

落叶纷纷暮雨和，朱丝独抚自清歌。
放情休恨无心友，养性空抛苦海波。
长者车音门外有，道家书卷枕前多。
布衣终作云霄客，绿水青山时一过。

Falling leaves fill the evening, mingling with the rain;
I stroke vermilion strings alone, sing a pure song.
I let go my resentment at having no soulmate;
I cultivate my character, leave the bitter sea’s waves.
Wealthy people’s carriages pass outside the dark gate;
piles of Taoist books lie stacked before my pillow.
Commonly clad once, now a traveller of the sky,
at times still I pass green waters, verdant hills.

曹雪芹：黛玉葬花 / Cao Xueqin: Daiyu burying flowers

water drops trace lost fragments of their bodies over misted glass

~|~

Friday’s performance of the Dream of Red Mansions was so beautiful: opulent sets, gorgeous costumes, excellent singing, and some of the best stage lighting I’ve seen in any theatre. I’d seen bits and pieces performed before, but this was my first time seeing the whole thing at once (my first full-length Chinese opera!). I loved every minute of it. Xu Jin’s libretto has some beautifully lyrical moments, and Daiyu’s poignant, eloquent aria as she burns her poems is my favourite of them all. So, in order to commemorate the occasion, I’ve decided to translate Daiyu’s flower-burying poem from Chapter 27 of the novel.

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王安石：天童山溪上 / Wang Anshi: On a stream in Tiantongshan

溪水清涟树老苍，行穿溪树踏春阳。
溪深树密无人处，唯有幽花渡水香。

The ripples on the stream are clear, the old trees are grey;
threading through these woods, I’ve stepped into spring sunlight.
The waters and the woods are deep; no one’s dwelling here;
only the fragrance of hidden flowers is crossing the river.

鱼玄机：春情寄子安 / Yu Xuanji: Spring feelings (To Zi’an)

山路欹斜石磴危，不愁行苦苦相思。
冰销远涧怜清韵，雪远寒峰想玉姿。
莫听凡歌春病酒，休招闲客夜贪棋。
如松匪石盟长在，比翼连襟会肯迟。
虽恨独行冬尽日，终期相见月圆时。
别君何物堪持赠？泪落晴光一首诗。

The mountain paths are steep and sheer, the stones are dangerous,
but the journey doesn’t grieve me; I grieve from lovesickness.
Ice melts in distant streams — I miss your clear voice;
snowy, distant mountain peaks — I think of your jade form.
Don’t listen to street songs or get drunk with wine in spring;
cease to entertain idle guests. Don’t long for chess at night.
Our union will endure as the rocks and pines;
we’re paired wings, joined lapels; we can bear delay.
Though it’s sad to walk alone on the last day of winter,
we’ll finally meet again when the moon is full.
Parted now, what may I send as a gift?
Fallen tears, clear light, this one poem.