Two poems of Heine, from Dichterliebe

I.
In the wondrous month of May,
As all the buds were blooming,
Then in my heart
Love made its dwelling.

In the wondrous month of May,
As all the birds were singing,
I then confessed to her
My yearning and my longing.

II.
From my tears spring up
Many blooming flowers -
My sighs are like
A choir of nightingales.

And if you but love me, darling,
I'll give you all those blooms
And at your window will ring
The song of the nightengale.

Zueignung

Zueignung—Dedication
Poem by Hermann von Glim - translated for a performance of Strauss's setting

Yes, you know it, dear soul -
That when parted from you I suffer.
Love makes hearts sick -
Have my thanks!

Drunk on freedom,
Oft I raised the amethyst goblet -
But you sanctified the drink.
Have my thanks!

And you dispelled the evils therein
Till I, as I never had been,
Blessed, blessed sank upon your breast.
Have my thanks!

Cecilia, you're breaking my Hart...

Poem by Heinrich Hart - translated here for a performance of Strauss's setting.


Cäcilie—Cecilia

If you but knew
What it is to dream of burning kisses,
Of wandering and resting with the beloved,
Eye turned to eye,
And cuddling and caressing -
If you but knew,
You would incline your heart to me!


If you but knew
What it is to feel dread on lonely nights,
Surrounded by storm,
While no gentle voice
Comforts your strife-weary soul -
If you but knew,
You would come to me.

If you but knew
What it is to live engulfed
By God’s world-creating breath,
To float up borne by light to blessed heights -
If you only knew,
You would spend your life with me!

Two of the Four Last Songs

Beim Schlafengehen - On Going to Sleep 

by Hermann Hesse

Now that the day has made me weary,
My dearest longings shall be welcomed
Like a tired child by the starry night.

Hands, leave off all your doing.
Brow, forget all your thinking.

All of my thoughts want now to sink in slumber.
And the soul unguarded
Will fly soaring into freedom
In the magic sphere of night
Deeply and thousandfold to live.

Nun der Tag mich müd gemacht, 

soll mein sehnliches Verlangen

freundlich die gestirnte Nacht
wie ein müdes Kind empfangen.
Hände, laßt von allem Tun,
Stirn, vergiß du alles Denken,
alle meine Sinne nun
wollen sich in Schlummer senken.
Und die Seele unbewacht
will in freien Flügen schweben,
um im Zauberkreis der Nacht
tief und tausendfach zu leben.

In Evening Red

  by Joseph von Eichendorf

We have journeyed through despair
And gladness hand in hand;
From wand’ring now we rest
Above the silent land.

The valleys curl inwards,
The air darkens.
Two larks ascend dreaming
In the breeze.

Draw close and leave them to sing -
Soon it will be time to sleep -
So that we don’t get lost
In this solitude.

Oh wide, quiet peace!
So deep in evening red.
We are weary of wandering.
Is this perhaps death?

Im Abendrot
Wir sind durch Not und Freude
gegangen Hand in Hand;
vom Wandern ruhen wir
nun überm stillen Land.
Rings sich die Täler neigen,
es dunkelt schon die Luft,
zwei Lerchen nur noch steigen
nachträumend in den Duft.
Tritt her und laß sie schwirren,
bald ist es Schlafenszeit,
daß wir uns nicht verirren
in dieser Einsamkeit.
O weiter, stiller Friede!
So tief im Abendrot.
Wie sind wir wandermüde–
Ist dies etwa der Tod?

one more Petrov

One more from Valeri Petrov, translation again mine:

The carkey

Late last night as I parked the car at home,
I dropped the carkey in the dark,

This morning I went out around seven to find the,
And looked perplexed at the pavement in front of the house -

Toothy little leaves had covered the whole area by the car
And each of them looked like a little copper key!

And it's plenty cold, smoke curling out of chimneys,
But between the rows of houses the skies are blue,

And without realizing it, I've already gone into the park
And the car is far away and dim in the darkness,

And it's bright and quiet, with that smell of Fall
The moist smell of decay, yet pleasant and fresh!

And I feel how my life has passed through me
In a fast torrent, a kaleidoscopic spinning.

Valeri Petrov, in memoriam

Two Lads

I saw two young buddies
In front of a shop with two electric guitars.
The guitars had strings and buttons,
The lads were in jeans with pockets.
The guitars were glossy black,
The lads were entirely enthralled
And stood transfixed
In front of the counter,
Their cheeks sucked in in anticipation and fright:
That the two guitars
Would be theirs at some point;
That no other will manage
To get them first!
And over here, from the lads,
And over there, from the guitars,
There flowed a dialog without words
And it was so sad - so sad that
We, busy with purchases of beds and bedspreads,
Judged them harshly: "what delinquents!"
And don't see how they, having taken up their guitars,
With bandanas and bright shirts,
Float through the roof and fly towards heaven,
Higher, higher, up there somewhere,
Where Armstrong the god says to them with his raspy voice:
"Come on! Where you been? Can't manage without you!"

-Valeri Petrov, in memoriam. Translation mine.

Roman Kisyov: "They said..."

They said:
A poet doesn't feed a household

They said:
A poet can feed
Only the worms

O, no -
The poet feeds the pigeons
The poet feeds the eagles
The poet feeds the angels
The poet feeds the hearts
    of people still hungry
For Truth and Light.
With but five verses
The poet can feed the multitudes.

Roman Kisyov





Казаха:
поет къща не храни

Казаха:
Поетът може само
Червейте да нахрани

О не -
Поетът гълъбите храни
Поетът орлите храни
Поетът ангелите храни
Поетът сърцата храни -
    сърцата на хората
Който все още са гладни
За Истина и Светлина
Поетът може с пет стиха
Хиляди да нахрани

Роман Кисьов

Pirinski poems

from the Bulgarian of Z. Pavlov Pirinski


I loved you,
you loved me more.
I loved you,
you loved me not.
I needed you,
you ran from me.

Go, enjoy the peaks and abysses.
For you I was too level land.



 ---------------------------------

"Send Lazarus over here to dip the tip of his finger 

in water and cool my tongue" - Luke 16:24

The angels' tender touch
The water's cool caress -
these are the devils' most cunning torments.
Man can acclimate to anything
but momentary mercy.


----------------------------------

A secret grief
sleeps fitfully, hibernates erratically
in its chosen cave
waking now and then
to stretch, sigh, yawn, and defecate
to scratch its back against
the cavern's jutting stones
to look bleary-eyed out
at the pale morning light
and gauge the day -
to sniff the chill air with expectant malice
deciding whether today
   or tomorrow
      or perhaps next month
         to slouch towards Bethlehem -
to disdain the present
and turn in place a few times,
curling its dense bulk into an opaque ball,
and to sleep once more, furiously sleep
till tomorrow's expectant dawn.

Rupchev: Moving

It's a winter morning.  These people are moving house today,
the truck is waiting, its driver calmly frowning
and they load up their life, couch, and extending table;
the new place is on the other side of town.
They lived here sixteen years and four months,
with the walnut bedroom set, the children's cots;
they barely got the three-section wardrobe out,
hopefully the door at the new place will be taller.
They are quiet in the snow, the rope slips and twists,
then they load the desk, the refrigerator, the two buffets,
the lampshade, wall-hanging, pots with two dry ficuses -
and love, bound up tightly in blue bundles.
Finally and at last it's loaded -
two boxes with pictures and valued shells
and the twice-glued teapot from the wedding,
and the inherited rug eaten away by footsteps.
So the driver zips up his jacket,
and the kids wait on the corner with a radio
and the wife wrings her hands and sobs a bit,
and gets in up top with her husband, and they set off.

Georgi Rupchev: The Call of the Rivers

These are my rivers,
I hear
how their waters beat.
I just stumble into them,
without seeking them -
I'm always forgetting where they are.
Somewhere a pile of clothes left behind me -
and splash -
I'm a new owner,
though beaten,
overcome,
confused,
transparent,
diluted.
In the first of them
my friend and I jumped in
and I don't know
which
of us swam out.
The one
who came out,
had cut his ankle;
was it him
or me -
I couldn't tell,
but it was only one.

Whichever was me, it doesn't matter;
more grown up,
on my own
I went into the second,
went in on my own.
Strung a rock about
my neck with wire
and lay on the bottom
until the iron rusted,
then stood up, stretched a bit,
and said: "I am myself!"
And I got clear of the slime.

In the third -
very late
midnight and probably drunk
I threw myself in.
I don't remember how -
however it was -
I was washed up on dry land.
In unknown lands I awoke
and when I decided to return,
I met peoples
whose languages
where meaningless to me.
There I wandered,
and with muddled head went toward the river,
I could hear only the river,
but I didn't know
where it was.

I loved faithful wives, I drank with their husbands,
and headed onwards,
without asking
about the river -
where its source
or to where it flowed.
With how much sweat I salted its sweet rapids,
how much blood it washed away,
how many wounds it closed,
as we played with the water,
as I dove
and sank to the bottom,
how contentedly I shot up
for a gulp of air above,
then how I buried myself
in its bubbling reefs.
From river to river -
through the rivers -
I finally found myself in
a dry river bed -
only a sign of a river,
but the sky above it was still damp.
I hear them,
I hear how their waters beat
I hear how they bear me onward.

Andrey Filipov: Lines Written under a Summer Oak

Lines Written under a Summer Oak (1965)


On the rickety table in front of me,
a hundred leaves of paper wait.
Thoughtless and white
they make me think
that the earth is flat
like them.

Suddenly a leaf flies down from
the sky - at least a hundred colors -
but I can't read it,
seated here in the cool
of this summer oak
at this disappointed table.

Vaklev (of course)...I stand powerless before you

I stand powerless before you...

Please don't notice that I'm trembling

like a leaf ready to fall.

This has nothing to do with my years,

which weigh on me like mortal wounds.

The flame of belated youth

erupts in my soul.

My feelings are like lava,

bubbling with giddy love

and irrepressible hate...

Just don't abandon me.

I'm trembling, trembling with fear

that I will never see you,

that I will never meet you again.

Немощен пред тебе се изправям...

Ти не гледай, че треперя

като лист пред падане.

Нищо общо нямат тук годините,

натежали върху ми като смъртни рани.

Във дупата ми изригва пламъкът

на позакъсняла младост.

Чувствата ми са като лава,

от която блика шеметна любов

и нестихваща омраза...

Само не ме изоставяй.

Треперя, треперя от страх,

че никога няма да те видя,

че няма да те срещна никога.

Vaklev: Surely you're not asleep!

Yet another.

Surely you're not asleep!

Get up.

Lift your head.

Look, the stars are calling you.

Set forth according to

their faithful compass.

The wind,

the faithful night wind

will be your guide.

It will show you

the hidden paths

travelled only

by snow-white deer

and thrilling feelings,

feelings

long forgotten.

Therefore go

beneath the whispering leaves -

listen,

they make declarations of love.

Remember

the tender words

of the past.

These are the passwords

which you must speak

to set out on the path

of the deer -

the gentlest

and most beautiful.

Don't stop,

keep going!

If you turn back,

you're done for and

you will never

catch up to

the light.

Нима ще спиш!

Изправи се.

Повдигни глава.

Виж, звездите те зоват.

Тръгни на път

по техния верен компас.

Вятърът,

верният нощен вятър

ще ти бъде водач.

Той ше ти покаже

скритите пътеки,

по които минават

само сърни белоснежни

и чувства трепетни,

чувства,

отдавна забравени.

Затова мини

под листата шепнещи,

чуй,

те се обясняват в любов.

Пропомни си

словата нежни

от миналото.

Туй е паролата,

която трябва да изречеш,

за да преминеш по тази пътека,

на сърните -

най-красивите

и най-нежните.

Не спирай,

продължавй напред!

Ако се върнеш,

с тебе е свършено.

Никога вече

няма да догониш

светлината.

Vaklev: We are baked like clay

You guessed it!  More Vaklev.  (Не, сериозно. Как познахте?)

We are baked like clay,

stripped naked by savage winds.

We are craked like clay,

in which the sun has sunk thirsty lips.

We are slippery like clay,

which a fierce rain has tried to wash away.

But on our scraped surface the gentle

stars will gaze at their reflections again,

and in our painful fissures

grass will grow again,

innocently green and tender.

Спечени сме като глината,

обрулена до голо от ветрове сурови.

Напукани сме като глината,

в която слънцето е впило устни жадни.

Хлъзгави сме като глината,

която дъжд яростен е искал да отмие.

Но кротките звезди в остърганата ни повърхност

отново се оглеждат,

а в болезнените ни пукнатини

отново никне трева,

невинно зелена и нежна.

Vaklev: Take off your formal clothes

One more of Vaklev.  Translation is my own.

Take off your formal clothes.

Those are not just clothes,

but robes of hypocrisy.

The tie – a noose to hang

everything dear to you,

the shirt, corpse-colored -

even real corpses wouldn't want it.

The suit-coffin,

in which are sealed up

the purest reflections

of the sun.

Throw off these poor

masquerade rags.

The ball will end sooner or later.

You must have time

to spend naked and alone

with yourself.

Sooner is better.

Later on will be too late.

Свали си официалните дрехи.

Това не са просто дрехи,

а одежди на лицемерието.

Връзката – примка за бесене

на всичко, което ти е скъпо,

ризата, с цвят на мъртвец -

нея не я искат и истински мъртвите.

Костюмът-ковчег,

в който са заключени

най-чистите отражения

на слънцето.

Захвърли тези жалки

маскарадни парцали.

Балът рано или късно ще свърши.

Трябва да имаш време

да останеш гол и насаме

със себе си.

По-добре рано.

После ще е късно.

Vaklev: We are all born completely naked

One more from the Vaklev collection.  I'm about halfway through!  As with all of these, this is my own translation.

We are all born completely naked

and created equal.

Inequality and clothing

come later.

Later we become masters and servants.

Standing above and below.

Permitting and permitted.

That's how it is for a while.

Until we become equal again.

Even though clothed,

kings are as naked

as their servants are.

Раждаме се всички напълно голи

и равноправни.

Неравноправието и облеклото

идват после.

После ставаме началници и подчинени.

Стоящи горе и долу.

Позволяващи си и позволени.

Таке е до някое време.

Докато станем равни отново.

Макар и облечени,

царете са голи,

както са голи и подчинените.

Vaklev: Black Sun

from Kiril Vaklev's "Night Steps."  Translation mine.

As a child, in all my childish naivete

and defiance,

I decided to look at the sun.

I stood bravely opposite it

and lifted up my eyes

- I was blinded after but a moment,

but before that I managed to see:

the sun was black,

the sun was completely black,

black to bursting

- some dark eye in heaven

that burned in fury

opposite me.

In the fire of this fury we warm

our chilled bones,

but never more will we have the courage

to lift up our eyes to see

that the sun is truly black,

black to bursting.

Черно Слънце

Като дете, със цялата си детска наивност

и предизвикателност,

реших да погледна във слънцето.

Застанах смело срещу него

и вдигнах очите си

- бях ослепен само след миг,

но преди това успях да видя:

слънцето бе черно,

слънцето бе напълно черно,

черно до пръстване

- някакво мрачно око във небето,

което искрепе от ярост

насреща ми.

В огъня на тази ярост сгряваме

своите кости прогизнали,

но никога вече не ше имаме смелост

да вдигнем очи, за да видим,

че слънцето е черно наистина,

черно до пръстване.

Vaklev: The executioner may come

from Vaklev's "Night Steps."  Translation mine.

The executioner may come tonight.

Don't think his visit is unannounced.

Long has he awaited this visiting hour.

Long has he waited to fulfill his

inexorable duty with precise skill,

he must earn his pay,

as, against your neck,

without malice,

he tests his axe

so finely honed.

Don't blame him.

Eternal dark and eternal light

steal over our lives,

buried in unknowns.

Today we are here,

tomorrow we'll be elsewhere,

and the next day, who knows,

we may have set off on the path to the resurrection.

Anything could happen.

 

Палачът може би ще дойде тази нощ.

Недей да смяташ, че дошъл е ненадейно.

Отдавна е очаквал този час за гости.

Отдавна чакал е дълга си неотменен

с прецизна ловкост да изпълни,

заплатата си трябва да заслужи

като върху твоя врат,

без зла умисъл,

секирата, наточена туй фино,

да изпита.

Недей да го упрекваш.

Вечен мрак и вечна светлина

се стеле над живота ни,

потънал в неизвестности.

Днес тук сме,

утре няма ни на същия адрес,

а в други ден, току-виж,

поели сме пътеката на възкресението.

Всичко се случва.

Vaklev: A ray of sunlight

from Kiril Vaklev's "Night Steps."  Translation mine.  For Amy Vail

A ray of sunlight pierced the fog.

One ray of sunlight -

how long we waited for it.

We didn't even know

what it would bring us -

purpose,

hope,

or a path through the dark.

And we never found out.

Before we knew it,

it fell upon the asphalt,

shattered into a thousand fragments.

It was helpless to overcome

the force

of our awaiting.

Слънчев лъч прониза мъглата.

Един слънчев лъч -

коко дълго го чакахме.

Дори не знаехме

какво ни носи -

цел,

надежда

или път в мрака.

Така и не узнахме.

Преди да се усетим,

той падна връз асфалта,

разби се на хиляди късове.

Безпомощен бе да преодолее

силата

на нашето очакване.

Vaklev: The morning is waiting

from Kiril Vaklev's "Night Steps."  Translation mine, for S.K.K

The morning is waiting,

I'll have to get up early,

but I cannot close my eyes -

they are bound to look and see in the dark.

I can't lull my gutted heart to sleep -

it must complain about human ills

embedded like old ulcers in my body.

I can't stay and knock at the doors of dreams and desires

through their threshold I will seek a path

to the unique

and the unknown.

I can't cease loving -

love is like an eternally glowing night-light

that devotedly guides our steps.

I can though wait,

I can wait forever awake,

till the morning arrives.

Утрото ме чака,

ще трябва да ставам рано,

но не мога да затворя очите си -

те са длъжни да гледат и виждат във мрака.

Не моа да приспя сърцето си изкормено -

то трябва да изплаква болките човешки,

разтворили се като стара язва в тялото ми.

Не мога пред мечтите и желанията вратите да захлопна -

през прага им ще търся път в неповторимото и в неизвестното.

Не мога да престана да обичам -

обичта е като вечно светещо кандило,

което предано провожда стъпките ни.

Мога обче да чакам,

мога вечно да чакам буден,

дордето настъпи утрото.