Nature Morte
Verrà la
morte e avrà i tuoi occhi.- Cesare Pavese
I
People and
things crowd in.
Eyes can be
bruised and hurt
by people as
well as things.
Better to
live in the dark.
I sit on a
wooden bench
watching the
passers-by-
sometimes
whole families.
I am fed up
with the light.
This is a
winter month.
First on the
calendar .
I shall
begin to speak
when I'm fed
up with the dark.
II
It's time. I
shall now begin.
It makes no
difference with what.
Open mouth.
It is better to speak,
although I
can also be mute.
What then
shall I talk about?
Shall I talk
about nothingness?
Shall I talk
about days, or nights?
Or people?
No, only things,
since people
will surely die.
All of them.
As I shall.
All talk is
a barren trade.
A writing on
the wind's wall.
III
My blood is
very cold-
Its cold is
more withering
than
iced-to-the-bottom streams.
People are
not my thing.
I hate the
look of them.
Grafted to
life's great tree,
each face is
firmly stuck
and cannot
be torn free.
Something
the mind abhors
shows in
each face and form.
Something
like flattery
of persons
quite unknown.
IV
Things are
more pleasant. Their
outsides are
neither good
nor evil.
And their insides
reveal
neither good nor bad.
The core of
things is dry rot.
Dust. A wood
borer. And
brittle
moth-wings. Thin walls.
Uncomfortable
to the hand.
Dust. When
you switch lights on,
there's
nothing but dust to see.
That's true
even if the thing
is sealed up
hermetically.
V
This ancient
cabinet-
outside as
well as in-
strangely
reminds me of
Paris's
Notre Dame.
Everything's
dark within
it. Dust mop
or bishop's stole
can't touch
the dust of things.
Things
themselves, as a rule,
don't try to
purge or tame
the dust of
their own insides.
Dust is the
flesh of time.
Time's very
flesh and blood.
VI
Lately I often
sleep
during the
daytime. My
death, it
would seem, is now
trying and
testing me,
placing a
mirror close
to my
still-breathing lips,
seeing if I
can stand
non-being in
daylight.
I do not
move. These two
thighs are
like blocks of ice.
Branched
veins show blue against
skin that is
marble white.
VII
Summing
their angles up
as a
surprise to us,
things drop
away from man's
world-a
world made with words.
Things do
not move, or stand.
That's our
delirium.
Each thing's
a space, beyond
which there
can be no thing.
A thing can
be battered, burned,
gutted, and
broken up.
Thrown out.
And yet the thing
never will
yell, "Oh, fuck!"
VIII
A tree. Its
shadow, and
earth,
pierced by clinging roots.
Interlaced
monograms.
Clay and a
clutch of rocks.
Roots
interweave and blend.
Stones have
their private mass
which frees
them from the bond
of normal
rootedness.
This stone
is fixed. One can't
move it, or
heave it out.
Tree shadows
catch a man,
like a fish,
in their net.
IX
A thing. Its
brown color. Its
blurry
outline. Twilight.
Now there is
nothing left.
Only a nature morte,
Death will
come and will find
a body whose
silent peace
will reflect
death's approach
like any
woman's face.
Scythe,
skull, and skeleton-
an absurd
pack of lies.
Rather:
"Death, when it comes,
will have
your own two eyes."
X
Mary now
speaks to Christ:
"Are
you my son?-or God?
You are
nailed to the cross.
Where lies
my homeward road?
Can I pass
through my gate
not having
understood:
Are you
dead-or alive?
Are you my
son?-or God?"
Christ
speaks to her in turn:
''Whether
dead or alive,
woman, it's
all the same-
son or God,
I am thine."
1971 / Translated by George L.
Kline
Son of Man
and Son of God
Tuesday,
July 29, 2014 4:11 PM
Thưa ông Gấu,
Xin góp ý với
ông Gấu về một đoạn thơ đã post trên trang Tinvan.
Nguyên tác:
Christ
speaks to her in turn:
“Whether
dead or alive
woman, it’s
all the same –
son or God,
I am thine
Theo tôi, nên
dịch như sau:
Christ bèn
trả lời:
Chết hay là
sống,
Thưa bà, thì
đều như nhau –
Con, hay
Chúa, ta là của bà
Best
regards,
DHQ
Phúc đáp:
Đa
tạ. Đúng là Gấu dịch trật, mà đúng là 1 câu quá quan trọng.
Tks again.
Best Regards
NQT
