Post poems of your native tongue

[Shelby]

ROSES ARE RED
VIOLETS ARE BLUE
GO FUCK YOURSELF

roses are red
you think youre so slick
FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM @DI1CK

[Bezprym]

My favourite. The author is Zbigniew Herbert

In Polish:

Przesłanie Pana Cogito

Idź dokąd poszli tamci do ciemnego kresu
po złote runo nicości twoją ostatnią nagrodę

idź wyprostowany wśród tych co na kolanach
wśród odwróconych plecami i obalonych w proch

ocalałeś nie po to aby żyć
masz mało czasu trzeba dać świadectwo

bądź odważny gdy rozum zawodzi bądź odważny
w ostatecznym rachunku jedynie to się liczy

a Gniew twój bezsilny niech będzie jak morze
ilekroć usłyszysz głos poniżonych i bitych

niech nie opuszcza ciebie twoja siostra Pogarda
dla szpiclów katów tchórzy - oni wygrają
pójdą na twój pogrzeb i z ulgą rzucą grudę
a kornik napisze twój uładzony życiorys

i nie przebaczaj zaiste nie w twojej mocy
przebaczać w imieniu tych których zdradzono o świcie

strzeż się jednak dumy niepotrzebnej
oglądaj w lustrze swą błazeńską twarz
powtarzaj: zostałem powołany - czyż nie było lepszych

strzeż się oschłości serca kochaj źródło zaranne
ptaka o nieznanym imieniu dąb zimowy
światło na murze splendor nieba
one nie potrzebują twego ciepłego oddechu
są po to aby mówić: nikt cię nie pocieszy

czuwaj - kiedy światło na górach daje znak - wstań i idź
dopóki krew obraca w piersi twoją ciemną gwiazdę

powtarzaj stare zaklęcia ludzkości bajki i legendy
bo tak zdobędziesz dobro którego nie zdobędziesz
powtarzaj wielkie słowa powtarzaj je z uporem
jak ci co szli przez pustynię i ginęli w piasku

a nagrodzą cię za to tym co mają pod ręką
chłostą śmiechu zabójstwem na śmietniku

idź bo tylko tak będziesz przyjęty do grona zimnych czaszek
do grona twoich przodków: Gilgamesza Hektora Rolanda
obrońców królestwa bez kresu i miasta popiołów

Bądź wierny Idź

In English

The Envoy of Mr. Cogito

Go where those others went to the dark boundary
for the golden fleece of nothingness your last prize

go upright among those who are on their knees
among those with their backs turned and those toppled in the dust

you were saved not in order to live
you have little time you must give testimony

be courageous when the mind deceives you be courageous
in the final account only this is important

and let your helpless Anger be like the sea
whenever you hear the voice of the insulted and beaten

let your sister Scorn not leave you
for the informers executioners cowards—they will win
they will go to your funeral and with relief will throw a lump of earth
the woodborer will write your smoothed-over biography

and do not forgive truly it is not in your power
to forgive in the name of those betrayed at dawn

beware however of unnecessary pride
keep looking at your clown’s face in the mirror
repeat: I was called—weren’t there better ones than I

beware of dryness of heart love the morning spring
the bird with an unknown name the winter oak

light on a wall the splendour of the sky
they don’t need your warm breath
they are there to say: no one will console you

be vigilant—when the light on the mountains gives the sign—arise and go
as long as blood turns in the chest your dark star

repeat old incantations of humanity fables and legends
because this is how you will attain the good you will not attain
repeat great words repeat them stubbornly
like those crossing the desert who perished in the sand

and they will reward you with what they have at hand
with the whip of laughter with murder on a garbage heap

go because only in this way will you be admitted to the company of cold skulls
to the company of your ancestors: Gilgamesh Hector Roland
the defenders of the kingdom without limit and the city of ashes

Be faithful Go

[EL_BARBARO]

Castilla


El ciego sol se estrella
en las duras aristas de las armas,
llaga de luz los petos y espaldares
y flamea en las puntas de las lanzas.

El ciego sol, la sed y la fatiga.
Por la terrible estepa castellana,
al destierro, con doce de los suyos,
—polvo, sudor y hierro— el Cid cabalga.

Cerrado está el mesón a piedra y lodo...
Nadie responde. Al pomo de la espada
y al cuento de las picas, el postigo
va a ceder... ¡Quema el sol, el aire abrasa!

A los terribles golpes,
de eco ronco, una voz pura, de plata
y de cristal, responde... Hay una niña
muy débil y muy blanca,
en el umbral. Es toda
ojos azules; y en los ojos, lágrimas.
Oro pálido nimba
su carita curiosa y asustada.

«¡Buen Cid! Pasad... El rey nos dará muerte,
arruinará la casa
y sembrará de sal el pobre campo
que mi padre trabaja...
Idos. El Cielo os colme de venturas...
En nuestro mal, ioh Cid!, no ganáis nada».

Calla la niña y llora sin gemido...
Un sollozo infantil cruza la escuadra
de feroces guerreros,
y una voz inflexible grita: «¡En marcha!»

El ciego sol, la sed y la fatiga.
Por la terrible estepa castellana,
al destierro, con doce de los suyos
—polvo, sudor y hierro—, el Cid cabalga.


(Manuel Machado)

[Bezprym]

Since tomorrow is 60th anniversary of the beginning of the Hungarian Revolution, here is a poem written by the same man as in my previous post.

In Polish

Węgrom

stoimy na granicy
wyciągamy ręce
i wielki sznur z powietrza
wiążemy bracia dla was

z krzyku załamanego
z zaciśniętych pięści
odlewa się dzwon i serce
milczące na trwogę

proszą ranne kamienie
prosi woda zabita
stoimy na granicy
stoimy na granicy

stoimy na granicy
nazywanej rozsądkiem
i w pożar się patrzymy
i śmierć podziwiamy

1956


In English

For the Hungarians

we are standing on the border
we are outstretching our hands
and a huge rope made of air
we are strapping, our brothers

out of the cry broken
from the clenched fists
a bell and an alarmed heart
silent in awe found themselves

the morning stones are praying
the killed water is praying
we are standing on the border
we are standing on the border

we are standing on the border
called reason
and we are looking into the fire
and the death we admire

1956

- Zbigniew Herbert

[Sui Generis]

A poem by Can Yücel

Her şey sende gizli

Yerin seni çektiği kadar ağırsın
Kanatların çırpındığı kadar hafif..
Kalbinin attığı kadar canlısın
Gözlerinin uzağı gördüğü kadar genç...
Sevdiklerin kadar iyisin
Nefret ettiklerin kadar kötü..
Ne renk olursa olsun kaşın gözün
Karşındakinin gördüğüdür rengin..
Yaşadıklarını kar sayma:
Yaşadığın kadar yakınsın sonuna;

Ne kadar yaşarsan yaşa,
Sevdiğin kadardır ömrün..
Gülebildiğin kadar mutlusun
Üzülme bil ki ağladığın kadar güleceksin
Sakın bitti sanma her şeyi,

Sevdiğin kadar sevileceksin.
Güneşin doğuşundadır doğanın sana verdiği değer
Ve karşındakine değer verdiğin kadar insansın
Bir gün yalan söyleyeceksen eğer
Bırak karşındaki sana güvendiği kadar inansın.
Ay ışığındadır sevgiliye duyulan hasret
Ve sevgiline hasret kaldığın kadar ona yakınsın
Unutma yağmurun yağdığı kadar ıslaksın
Güneşin seni ısıttığı kadar sıcak.
Kendini yalnız hissettiğin kadar yalnızsın
Ve güçlü hissettiğin kadar güçlü.
Kendini güzel hissettiğin kadar güzelsin..

İşte budur hayat!
İşte budur yaşamak bunu hatırladığın kadar yaşarsın
Bunu unuttuğunda aldığın her nefes kadar üşürsün
Ve karşındakini unuttuğun kadar çabuk unutulursun
Çiçek sulandığı kadar güzeldir
Kuşlar ötebildiği kadar sevimli
Bebek ağladığı kadar bebektir
Ve her şeyi öğrendiğin kadar bilirsin bunu da öğren,
Sevdiğin kadar sevilirsin...

In English

Everything is hidden in you

You are as heavy as the ground pulls you,
As light as your wings flutter..
You are as alive as your heart beats,
As young as your eyes see distance...
You are as good as the people you love,
As bad as the people you hate..
Whatever the color of your eyebrows and your eyes are,
Your color is what the one facing you sees..
Don't think that what you lived is what you gained:
You are as close to the end as you lived; however long you live,
Your life is as long as you love..
You are as happy as you can smile.
Don't be sad, know that you will smile as much as you cry
Don't think that everything is over,
You will be loved as much as you love.
The value nature gives you is in the rise of the sun
And you are as human as the value you give to the one facing you.
If you will lie one day;
Let the one you address believe you as much as the trust for you.
The longing for the loved one is in the moon light,
And you are as close to your love as you long for.
Don't forget, you are as wet as it rains,
As warm as the sun warms you.
You are as alone as you feel alone
And as strong as you feel strong.
You are as beautiful as you feel beautiful..
This is life!
This is living,
You live as much as you remember this
When you forget this, you feel as cold as every breath you take
And you are forgotten as soon as you forget
A flower is as beautiful as it is watered,
Birds are as sweet as they chitter,
A baby is as baby as it cries.
And you know everything as much as you learn, learn this as well,
You are loved as much as you love...

[Bezprym]

In Polish

Przemiany Liwiusza

Jak rozumieli Liwiusza mój dziadek mój pradziadek
bo na pewno czytali go w klasycznym gimnazjum
o mało stosownej porze
gdy w oknie staje kasztan – żarliwe kandelabry kwiatów –
a wszystkie myśli dziadka i pradziadka biegły zdyszane do Mizzi
która śpiewa w ogródku pokazuje dekolt oraz boskie nogi do samych kolan
albo Gabi z wiedeńskiej opery w lokach jak cherubin
Gabi z zadartym noskiem i Mozartem w gardle
czy w końcu do poczciwej Józi ucieczki strapionych
bez urody talentu i większych wymagań
a więc czytali Liwiusza – poro kwiatostanów –
w zapachu kredy nudy nafty którą zmywano podłogę
pod portretem cesarza
bo był wówczas cesarz
a imperium jak wszystkie imperia
zdawało się wieczne

Czytając dzieje Miasta ulegali złudzeniu
że są Rzymianami lub potomkami Rzymian
ci synowie podbitych sami ujarzmieni
zapewne miał w tym udział łacinnik
w randze radcy dworu
kolekcja cnót antycznych pod wytartym tużurkiem
więc za Liwiuszem wpajał w uczniów pogardę dla motłochu
bunt ludu – res tam foeda – budził w nich odrazę
natomiast wszystkie podboje wydawały się słuszne
znaczyły po prostu zwycięstwo tego co lepsze silniejsze
dlatego bolała ich klęska nad Jeziorem Trazymeńskim

dumą napawały przewagi Scypiona
śmierć Hannibala przyjęli z niekłamaną ulgą
łatwo zbyt łatwo dali się prowadzić
przez szańce zdań ubocznych
zawiłe konstrukcje którymi rządzi imiesłów
wezbrane rzeki wymowy
pułapki składni
– do bitwy
o nie swoją sprawę

Dopiero mój ojciec i ja za nim
czytaliśmy Liwiusza przeciw Liwiuszowi
pilnie badając to co jest pod freskiem
dlatego nie budził w nas echa teatralny gest Scewoli
krzyk centurionów tryumfalne pochody
a skłonni byliśmy wzruszać się klęską
Samnitów Gallów czy Etrusków
liczyliśmy mnogie imiona ludów startych przez Rzymian na proch
pochowanych bez chwały które dla Liwiusza
niegodne były nawet zmarszczki stylu
owych Hirpinów Apulów Lukanów Uzentyńczyków
a także mieszkańców Tarentu Metapontu Lokri

Mój ojciec wiedział dobrze i ja także wiem
że któregoś dnia na dalekich krańcach
bez znaków niebieskich
w Panonii Sarajewie czy też w Trebizondzie
w mieście nad zimnym morzem
lub w dolinie Panszir
wybuchnie lokalny pożar

i runie imperium

In English

Livy's Metamorphoses

How did my grandfather and his father understand Livy
for they surely read him at their classical gymnasium
in the somewhat unpropitious time of year
when a chestnut tree stands at the window—ardent candelabras of
blossoms—
and all my grandfather’s and great-grandfather’s thoughts ran panting to
Mizia
singing in the garden showing her décolleté and goddess-like legs to the
knee
or Gabi from the Vienna Opera with her cherub’s locks
Gabi with her snub nose and Mozart in her throat
or finally to good old Józia a refuge for the forlorn
she without beauty talent or extravagant demands
and so they read Livy—O season of budding flowers—
in the smell of chalk boredom naphthalene floor wash
under a portrait of the emperor
for there was an emperor then
and the empire like all empires
seemed eternal

Reading the City’s history they succumbed to the delusion
that they were the Romans or the decendants of Romans
those sons of the vanquished themselves under the yoke
it’s likely the Latin teacher had a part in it
with his position of counselor to the court
a collection of ancient virtues under a scruffy frock coat
following Livy he instilled in his pupils scorn for the mob
so popular revolt—res tam foeda—aroused their loathing
while on the other hand all the conquests seemed just
showing simply the victory of the superior stronger
they were pained by the defeat at Lake Trasimeno
while Scipio’s ascendancy filled them with pride
“they took Hannibal’s death with unfeigned relief
easily far too easily they let themselves be led
through entrenchments of dependent clauses
convoluted constructions ruled by the gerund
swollen rivers of elocution
syntactical booby traps
—into battle
for a cause not theirs

Not until my father and I after him did anyone
read Livy against Livy
studying closely what lies under the fresco
that’s why Scaevola’s theatrical gesture did not reverberate in us
nor did centurions’ cries or triumphal marches
and we tended to feel moved by the ruination
of the Samnites Gauls or Etruscans

we counted the many names of peoples the Romans trampled to dust
those buried without praise those who for Livy
were not worth even a ripple of style
those Hirpins Apuleans Lucanians Osunans
and residents of Tarentum Metapontis Locri

My father knew well and I know too
that one day on the farthest outskirts
without any signs from the heavens
in Pannonia Sarajevo or Trebizond
in a city on the cold sea
or in the valley of Panshir
a local fire will break out

and the empire will fall


- Zbigniew Herbert

[Magnolia]

Jan Skácel
Píseň o nejbližší vině

Je studánka a plná krve
a každý z ní už jednou pil
a někdo zabil moudivláčka
a kdosi strašně ublížil
A potom mu to bylo líto
a do dlaní tu vodu bral
a prohlížel ji proti světlu
a moc se bál a neubál

A držel ale neudržel
tu vodu v prstech bože můj
a v prázdném lomu kámen lámal
a marně prosil; kamenuj

A prosil ale neuprosil
a bál se ale neubál
a studánka je plná krve
a každý u ní jednou stál

Jan Skácel - A song about the closest guilt
(Píseň o nejbližší vině)

There is a spring replete with blood
And everyone has drunk of it
And someone killed only a sparrow
And someone horribly offended

And afterwards he repented
And let the water his palms stain
And watched it against the sunlight
And his fear he couldn't sustain

And held but not long upheld
The water in his fingers, oh my Lord
And crushed the rock in empty quarry
And prayed : stone me or use Thy sword

And held but not long upheld
And his fear he couldn't sustain
And the spring is replete with blood
And all of us now have its stain

[Ice]

Sanma şâhım herkesi sen sâdıkâne yâr olur
Herkesi sen dost mu sandın belki ol ağyâr olur
Sâdıkâne belki ol bu âlemde dildâr olur
Yâr olur ağyâr olur dildâr olur serdâr olur

- Selim I

[Ilma]

Le Crépuscule du soir

Voici le soir charmant, ami du criminel;
II vient comme un complice, à pas de loup; le ciel
Se ferme lentement comme une grande alcôve,
Et l'homme impatient se change en bête fauve.

Ô soir, aimable soir, désiré par celui
Dont les bras, sans mentir, peuvent dire: Aujourd'hui
Nous avons travaillé! — C'est le soir qui soulage
Les esprits que dévore une douleur sauvage,
Le savant obstiné dont le front s'alourdit,
Et l'ouvrier courbé qui regagne son lit.
Cependant des démons malsains dans l'atmosphère
S'éveillent lourdement, comme des gens d'affaire,
Et cognent en volant les volets et l'auvent.
À travers les lueurs que tourmente le vent
La Prostitution s'allume dans les rues;
Comme une fourmilière elle ouvre ses issues;
Partout elle se fraye un occulte chemin,
Ainsi que l'ennemi qui tente un coup de main;
Elle remue au sein de la cité de fange
Comme un ver qui dérobe à l'Homme ce qu'il mange.
On entend çà et là les cuisines siffler,
Les théâtres glapir, les orchestres ronfler;
Les tables d'hôte, dont le jeu fait les délices,
S'emplissent de catins et d'escrocs, leurs complices,
Et les voleurs, qui n'ont ni trêve ni merci,
Vont bientôt commencer leur travail, eux aussi,
Et forcer doucement les portes et les caisses
Pour vivre quelques jours et vêtir leurs maîtresses.

Recueille-toi, mon âme, en ce grave moment,
Et ferme ton oreille à ce rugissement.
C'est l'heure où les douleurs des malades s'aigrissent!
La sombre Nuit les prend à la gorge; ils finissent
Leur destinée et vont vers le gouffre commun;
L'hôpital se remplit de leurs soupirs. — Plus d'un
Ne viendra plus chercher la soupe parfumée,
Au coin du feu, le soir, auprès d'une âme aimée.

Encore la plupart n'ont-ils jamais connu
La douceur du foyer et n'ont jamais vécu!

— Charles Baudelaire

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

Evening Twilight

Delightful evening, partner of the crook,
Steals in, wolf-padded, like a complice: look:
Heaven, like a garret, closes to the day,
And Man, impatient, turns a beast of prey.

Sweet evening, loved by those whose arms can tell,
Without a lie, "Today we've laboured well:"
Sweet evening, it is she who brings relief
To men with souls devoured by one fierce grief,
Obstinate thinkers drowsy in the head,
And toil-bent workmen groping to their bed.

But insalubrious demons of the airs,
Like business people, wake to their affairs
And, flying, knock, like bats, on walls and shutters.
Now Prostitution lights up in the gutters
Across the glimmering jets the wind torments.
Like a huge ant-hive it unseals its vents.
On every side it weaves its hidden tracks
Like enemies preparing night-attacks.
It squirms within the City's breast of mire,
A worm that steals the food that men desire.

One hears the kitchens hissing here and there,
Operas squealing, orchestras ablare.
Cheap tables d'hôte, where gaming lights the eyes,
Fill up with whores, and sharpers, their allies:
And thieves, whose office knows no truce nor rest,
Will shortly now start working, too, with zest,
Gently unhinging doors and forcing tills,
To live some days and buy their sweethearts frills.

Collect yourself, my soul, in this grave hour
And shut your ears against the din and stour.
It is the hour when sick men's pains increase.
Death grips them by the throat, and soon they cease
Their destined task, to find the common pit.
The ward is filled with sighings. Out of it
Not all return the scented soup to taste,
Warm at the hearthside, by some loved-one placed.

But then how few among them can recall
Joys of the hearth, or ever lived at all!

— Translated by Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)

[magyar_lány]

Since tomorrow is 60th anniversary of the beginning of the Hungarian Revolution, here is a poem written by the same man as in my previous post.

In Polish

Węgrom

stoimy na granicy
wyciągamy ręce
i wielki sznur z powietrza
wiążemy bracia dla was

z krzyku załamanego
z zaciśniętych pięści
odlewa się dzwon i serce
milczące na trwogę

proszą ranne kamienie
prosi woda zabita
stoimy na granicy
stoimy na granicy

stoimy na granicy
nazywanej rozsądkiem
i w pożar się patrzymy
i śmierć podziwiamy

1956


In English

For the Hungarians

we are standing on the border
we are outstretching our hands
and a huge rope made of air
we are strapping, our brothers

out of the cry broken
from the clenched fists
a bell and an alarmed heart
silent in awe found themselves

the morning stones are praying
the killed water is praying
we are standing on the border
we are standing on the border

we are standing on the border
called reason
and we are looking into the fire
and the death we admire

1956

- Zbigniew Herbert

Very beautiful poem.