Marichiko is the pen name of a contemporary young woman who lives near the temple of Marishi-ben in Kyoto. Marishi-ben is an Indian, pre-Aryan, goddes of the dawn who is a bodhisattva in Buddhism and patron of geisha, prostitutes, women in childbirth and lovers.[...]

-from One Hundred More Poems from the Japanese,

Kenneth Rexroth.

Shami Mansei flourished in the early eights century. His lay name was Kasamaro. Governor of several provinces, he became a high court official and the next year became a monk.

-from One Hundred More Poems from the Japanese, Kenneth Rexroth.

A translation of something very poetic, as I'm more of a translating type than a poetical one.


...Then came the third siege of the city which carried his name. In 860, while the Slavs were battering Constantinople, Constantine, on the Olympus of Asia Minor, was laying a trap for them. In the silence of his monk’s cell, he created the first letters of their alphabet. First, he invented rounded letters, but the Slavic language was so savage, so wild that the ink could not contain it as such – so he constructed another alphabet with bars, thus caging this strong-willed language like a bird. Later, when it was tamed and taught Greek (for languages do learn other languages), the Slavic tongue could be confined within the original, glagolithic letters…

Daubmannus relates this story on the creation of the Slavic alphabet. The barbarian tongue would not let itself be tamed. During a brief, three-week autumn, the brothers were sitting in their cell, trying in vain to trace out the letters that would later be called “Cyrillic.” The task was a difficult one. From their cell, one had an excellent view of mid-October, and the silence was the length of an hour’s walk by the breadth of two hours’.

Methodius directed his brother’s attention to four vessels sitting on the window sill just outside their cell, on the other side of the bars.
”If your door were locked, how would you bring one of those vessels over here?” he asked.

Constantine shattered one of them, then brought it bit by bit through the bars and glued it all together again with a mixture of saliva and the packed earth underfoot.

Thus they proceeded with the Slavic tongue: They broke it into pieces, put it into their mouth by passing it through the bars of the Cyrillic letters, then reconnected the fragments with their saliva and the Greek earth beneath their feet...

CYRIL, entry from the Red Book – Dictionary of the Khazars
-Milorad Pavic

Even further inspired by the aforementioned Anglophone uses of this odd but fun meter, he thought he'd give Catullus himself a crack:

My exercise in hendecasyllabics. First the Latin, indicating the elisions you need to make it scan right:

Luget(e), O Veneres Cupidinesque,
et quantum (e)st hominum venustiorum:
passer mortuus est meae puellae,
passer, deliciae meae puellae,
quem plus ill(a) oculis suis amabat.
nam mellitus erat suamque norat
ipsam tam bene quam puella matrem,
nec ses(e) a gremi(o) illius movebat,
sed circumsiliens mod(o) huc mod(o) illuc
ad solam domin(a)m usque pipiabat.
qui nunc it per iter tenebricosum
illuc, unde negant redire quemquam.
at vobis male sit, malae tenebrae
Orci, qu(ae) omnia bella devoratis:
tam bellum mihi passer(e)m abstulistis
o factum male! o miselle passer!
tua nunc opera meae puellae
flendo turgiduli rubent ocelli.

Latin and Greek poetry used various quantitative meters -- patterns of long and short syllables, in which the metrically prominent first syllables of feet (the "ictus") did not necessarily coincide with the stresses of words, which could make for complicated effects in a line. This meter of eleven syllables goes:
- - | - u u | - u | - u | - -
Rhyme was not a structural requirement, but it seems Catullus used a few internal rhymes intentionally.

I think this poem either tear jerkingly moving or comically overwrought, as my mood varies.

Now my English, with some attempts to reproduce something of the accidental rhymes and assonances and enjambments, and trying for colloqiuality. Judge for yourself whether this language really suits itself to this kind of meter.

Weep! all goddesses, gods of love, and all true
Ladies, gentlemen, found throughout the wide world!
Sparrow's gone to the grave. Her pet, my girlfriend's
Sparrow, light of her life, is gone. My girlfriend
Cared for him, even more than for her own eyes.
Sweet as nectar he was, and knew his mistress
Just as well as a baby knows her own ma.
Nor too far from his lady's lap he struck out
But, skip! hop! run-around, about, and non-stop
At his mistress alone he peeped his heart out.
Leaps and bounds 'long a shadow-road he goes now,
Gone down where they dun' letcha out, but no-how.
Curses light on you all, accursed phantoms,
Hell's devourers of all that's fine and lovely!
Such was Sparrow, the pet you ravished from me.
Deed most damnable! You -- pathetic sparrow --
It's all your doing now that makes my girlfriend's
Swollen, poor little eyes go red with weeping.

Go Pavel!

We'd been thinking about Catullus a fair bit recently - mainly his use of the Greek hendecasyllabic meter. It's a bit strange feeling at first, but actually puts kind of a spring in the step once one gets used to it. Anyway, Pavel got really inspired and found a couple English-language poems using this meter:

Hendecasyllabics

O you chorus of indolent reviewers,
Irresponsible, indolent reviewers,
Look, I come to the test, a tiny poem
All composed in a metre of Catullus,
All in quantity, careful of my motion,
Like the skater on ice that hardly bears him,
Lest I fall unawares before the people,
Waking laughter in indolent reviewers.
Should I flounder awhile without a tumble
Thro' this metrification of Catullus,
They should speak to me not without a welcome,
All that chorus of indolent reviewers.
Hard, hard, hard it is, only not to tumble,
So fantastical is the dainty meter.
Wherefore slight me not wholly, nor believe me
Too presumptuous, indolent reviewers.
O blatant Magazines, regard me rather -
Since I blush to belaud myself a moment -
As some rare little rose, a piece of inmost
Horticultural art, or half-coquette-like
Maiden, not to be greeted unbenignly.

-Alfred, Lord Tennyson

(Next one's closer to home:)

For Once, Then Something

Others taunt me with having knelt at well-curbs
Always wrong to the light, so never seeing
Deeper down in the well than where the water
Gives me back in a shining surface picture
Me myself in the summer heaven godlike
Looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs.
Once, when trying with chin against a well-curb,
I discerned, as I thought, beyond the picture,
Through the picture, a something white, uncertain,
Something more of the depths--and then I lost it.
Water came to rebuke the too clear water.
One drop fell from a fern, and lo, a ripple
Shook whatever it was lay there at bottom,
Blurred it, blotted it out. What was that whiteness?
Truth? A pebble of quartz? For once, then, something.

-Robert Frost

Try reading these aloud. What do you think? The rhythm's kind of tricky until you get used to it, isn't it?

Il faut cultiver son jardin.



Si J'avais un petit jardin.

Si J'avais un petit jardin
Je m'en irais chaque matin
Dans les parfums et dans la brise
Pour voir, pendant que je revai
Si mon jardin ne m'a pas fait
Une surprise.

J'irais regarder de tout près
Si les rosiers sont en progrès
et si les bourgeons vont éclore
ou bien si les lilas frileux
trouvant qu'il fait trop froid pour eux
tardent encore!

Si j'avais un petit jardin
je m'en irais chaque matin
L'âme curieuse et ravie
Ecouter partout dans les fleurs
les fruits, les parfums, les couleurs,
Chanter la vie!

***

If I had a little garden,
I'd go out every morning,
into the scents mingling on the breeze
To see if, while I slept,
My garden didn't leave me
a surprise.

I'd go give a closer look
to see how the roses were coming along,
and to see if any buds emerged
or if the delicate lilies,
finding that it was too chilly,
hesitated again!

If I had a little garden,
I'd go out every morning,
Spirit curious and charmed
Listening for, among the flowers,
the fruits, the perfumes and the colors,
Their song of life!

The movements my hands were making yesterday while I picked apart a bit of knitting work brought on the oddest sensation. For a moment, was transported back 300 years to someplace far away. Was working my lace while thinking on the one who best complemented me.

(The citation that opens the scene translates roughly to 'we are searching for ourselves in one another.')

***

The Color of Pomegranates is Sergei Paradzanov's lyrical survey of the life of the 18th century Armenian poet/troubadour Sayat Nova; has to be one of the most beautiful films I've ever seen.

(Am having a bit of a difficult time finding English translations of Sayat Nova's work; Armenian's a bit out of my reach, too. Here is one something, though:)

Esor Im Yarin Tesa

Esor im yarin tesa baghchi mechn man galov,

Today I saw my beloved walking in the garden,

Gedinen zartavetsav im yari voske nalov.

The ground was decorated by my love’s golden heel.

Blbooli pes ptut eka vardi vra dzen talov,

Like the nightingale going around the rose, calling.

Junun elav khiks glkhes, sirts tkhoor ackhes lalov.

Mad with love my mind left my head, my heart is sad, my eyes weep.

Hoys unim im Stightsoghemen mir dushmann eli es halov.

I have hope from my Creator, let our enemy be in this state.


Yar, ed koo naz oo ghamzov jans pel oo pand is ari,

Love with your grace and coquetry you have imprisoned and enchanted my body,

Khmil is eshkhov sharbatn proshnirt ghand is ari,

You drank the syrup with love, your lips became sugary.

Khatookhalov, kaghtsr lizvov shat indzpesin band is ari,

With beautiful features, your sweet tongue, you have imprisoned many like me.

Toor danakn, indzi spane, mi asi rishkhant is ari.

Stab me with the knife, kill me, don’t say that you have mocked me.

Chunki mahes yarimen e, toogh li mirnim lav gozalov.

Because my death is from my beloved, let me die with a beautiful one.


Tarin tasnerkoo amis maziret hoosats kooli.

Twelve months of the year your hair is braided.

Proshemet mighr e katoom, tooghnis yakhed tats kooli.

From your lips flows honey, if you allow your collar will be wet.

Goornan shnchi tsaghki nman karmir vardet bats kooli.

Like a spring breath your bred rose will be open.

Inch ogoot e koo baghmnchoon gharib blboolen lats kooli.

What is the use of your gardener, the wandering nightingale will be crying.

Moorvat chunis, ptut gooka baghchi vra chkchkalov.

You have no mercy, it is crying as it goes around the garden.

Yip koo sooratn kashin naghshumen shnook koo tas.

When they draw your face, you give the picture the gift.

Koo vrvras chragi pes saghcumen shnook koo tas.

You crackle like a torch, you give the gift to the torchstand.

Mshkov liken broli pes taghchumen shnook koo tas.

Full of fragrant oil like crystal, you give the gift to the shelf.

Bats koolis karmir vardi pes baghchumen shnook koo tas.

When you will open like a red rose, you give the gift to the garden.

Kamin dibchi mechn hootet gooka vrvralov.

When the wind touches your petal, your fragrance comes wafting.


Yis el oorish yar chunim, es glkhen vagh imatsi.

I have no other beloved, know this right from the start.

Angatch ara, matagh im kiz, es khoskes sagh imatsi.

Listen, I will die for you, know my entire speech.

Mtik ara koo Stightsoghin tooz-namag-agh imatsi.

Look at your Creator, know the salt.

Sayat Novin mi jegretsni eshkhemet toosagh imatsi.

Don’t make Sayat Nova angry, know I am a prisoner of your love.

Khilks glkhemen taril is koo, bemurvat, gardish talov.

You have taken away my mind, ruthless one, with your walk.

-translated by Daniel Larison

The Snail.



L'Escargot

L'escargot s'est logé
Sous un des pommiers du verger
Sa maison ronde et dure
n'a qu'une pièce, mais il jure
qu'il se moque du mauvais temps
Et qu'il y vit toujours content

Dans le verger
Sous un pommier
Monsieur l'escargot se promène
Sa maison l'abrite sans peine;
Si son logement n'est pas grand,
Il se moque du mauvais temps.

-adapté de l'anglais

(Kind of ironic to be supplying a translation of a translation, as the original is "adapted from the English.")

Snail.

A little snail lives
Under one of the trees in the apple orchard.
His tough little home
Has only one room, but he'll be the first to say
That he has no fear of bad weather
And that he's quite snug and content.

In the orchard
Under his tree
Mister Snail takes his daily walks
His house shelters him well;
Even if it isn't very big,
He has no fear of bad weather.

What to Make of Modern/Feminist Interpretations of Sappho?

Recent readings in History have caused me to wonder more about the point of view of the historians, semioticians, linguists, etc than of the times I'd been interested in. The remains of Sappho's body of work and how it had been interpreted by the whole Gertrude Stein crew at the turn of the 20th century kind of brought it into sharp focus, as these translations are viewed somewhat as "bible."

Still, these bits are really tempting, just like the crusts of a sandwich offered to a pigeon or duck in a park:

To Aphrodite (Fr. 1. G) 1

Aphrodite on your intricate throne, immortal, daughter of Zeus, weaver of plots, I beg you, do not tame me with pain or my heart with anguish

but come here, as once before when I asked you, you heard my words from afar and listened, and left your father's golden house and came

you yoked your chariot, and lovely swift sparrows brought you, fast whirling over the dark earth from heaven through the midst of the bright air

and soon they arrived. And you, o blessed goddess, smiled with your immortal face and asked what was wrong with me, and why did I call now,

and what did I most want in my maddened heart to have for myself. "Whom now am I to persuade to your love, who, Sappho, has done you wrong? For if she flees, soon she'll pursue you, and if she won't take gifts, soon she'll give them, and if she won't love, soon she will love you, even if she doesn't want to.

When I Look at You (Fr. 31. G) 2

The man seems to me strong as a god, the man who sits across from you and listens to your sweet talk nearby

and your lovely laughter - which, when I hear it, strikes fear in the heart of my breast. For whenever I glance at you, it seems that I can say nothing at all

but my tongue is broken in silence, and that instant a light fire rushes beneath my skin, I can no longer see anything in my eyes and my ears are thundering,

and cold sweat pours down me, and shuddering grasps me all over, and I am greener than grass, and I seem to myself to be little short of death

But it is endurable, since even a poor man...

Anactoria (Fr. 16. G) 3

Some would say an army of cavalry, others of infantry, others of ships, is the fairest thing on the dark earth, but I say it's whatever you're in love with

It's completely easy to make this clear to everyone, for Helen, who far surpassed other people in beauty, left behind the most aristocratic

of husbands and went to Troy. She sailed away, and did not remember at all her daughter or her beloved parents, but [Aphrodite] took her aside

(...) which makes me remember Anactoria who is no longer near,

her lovely step and the brilliant glancing of her face I would rather see than the Lydians' chariots or their infantry fighting in all their armo(u)r.

Just tesserae, fragments of what we have left of her poetry. Makes me think of a young one feeling love for the first time. Beautiful, Fresh, Spring-like. A Romantic Ideal, but perhaps not so sustainable in Real Life. How much of it is hers, and how much of it is wishful thinking on the part of the interpreters?

***

1. Sources of The Making of the West, V. 1; Katherine J. Lualdi. Bedford/St. Martins, Boston. Pp. 15-19.

2. Ibid.

3. Ibid.