20th Century Poems

Homesickness

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 145th birthday.

Agnes Miegel
German
1879 – 1964

 

I heard this morning
on the slope of the cliffs the starlings already
sang as if they were at home,
and yet they sang in a different timbre.

And the blue violets bloomed
on all the hills to the lake.
In the fields around my home
The snow still lies in the furrows.

In my city in the north
seven bridges stand, grey and old,
the ice, now dull and shaking,
clings to their rotten piles.

and over grey clouds
it rings with a fine, angelic tone,
and my children at home
understand the song the first lark sings.

Translation by Linda Marshall

Naught do I see but Thee

Ameena Begum
Indian
1892 – 1949

 

Alone, alone at the early dawn
In Springtime with its blossoms wan
Thy glory do I gaze upon,
And naught do I see but Thee.

Alone, alone ‘neath the shady trees
Midst Summers warmth I feel thy breeze,
Alas’ I fall upon my knees,
And naught I see but Thee.

Alone, alone, thro’ the fallen leaves
That Autumn scatters and interweaves
I trod the path, sweet memory grieves,
And naught I see but Thee.

Alone, alone in the pure white snow
As the wintry winds around me blow
Firmly I stand, yet seeking to know,
And naught I see but Thee.

In the Bazaars of Hyderabad

We present this work in honor of the 75th anniversary of the poet’s death.

Sarojini Naidu
Indian
1879 – 1949

 

What do you sell O ye merchants?
Richly your wares are displayed.
Turbans of crimson and silver,
Tunics of purple brocade,
Mirrors with panels of amber,
Daggers with handles of jade.

What do you weigh, O ye vendors?
Saffron and lentil and rice.
What do you grind, O ye maidens?
Sandalwood, henna, and spice.
What do you call, O ye pedlars?
Chessmen and ivory dice.

What do you make, O ye goldsmiths?
Wristlet and anklet and ring,
Bells for the feet of blue pigeons
Frail as a dragon-fly’s wing,
Girdles of gold for dancers,
Scabbards of gold for the king.

What do you cry, O ye fruitmen?
Citron, pomegranate, and plum.
What do you play ,O musicians?
Cithar, sarangi and drum.
what do you chant, O magicians?
Spells for aeons to come.
What do you weave, O ye flower-girls?

With tassels of azure and red?
Crowns for the brow of a bridegroom,
Chaplets to garland his bed.
Sheets of white blossoms new-garnered
To perfume the sleep of the dead.

Fifteen Boys

Bella Akhmadulina
Russian
1937 – 2010

 

Fifteen boys and maybe more,
or fewer than fifteen, maybe,
said to me
in frightened voices:
“Let’s go to a movie or the Museum of Fine Arts.”
“I haven’t time.”
Fifteen boys presented me with snowdrops.
Fifteen boys in broken voices
said to me:
“I’ll never stop loving you.”
I answered them more or less like this:
“Well see.”

Fifteen boys are now living a quiet life.
They have done their heavy chores
of snowdrops, despair and writing letters.
Girls love them —
some more beautiful than me,
others less beautiful.
Fifteen boys with a shoe of freedom, and at times spite
salute when we meet,
their liberation, normal sleep and regular meals.

In vain you come to me, last boy.
I shall place your snowdrops in a glass of water,
and silver bubbles will cover
their stocky stems…
But, you see, you too will cease to love me,
and, mastering yourself, you’ll talk in a superior way,
as though you’d mastered me,
and I’ll walk off down the street, down the street…

Translation by George Reavey

Vanishing Spring

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 125th birthday.

Elisabeth Langgässer
German
1899 – 1950

 

Already now the white is spent
of field chickweed, and the froth
that shaped the violet larva tent
decays around the silent moth.
Dandelion snuffed its lamp,
corydalis seeded there,
nettle walked the hillside ramp,
swallow flights trace the air:
—Pale as on silk they write—
laud the ideal and take flight!
Suffer renewal and hurry
from the mere semblance to sense.
Fear not the busy worry
of cricket rasp. I abide
still over the grave of Osiris
but you are already hence
when with the swords of iris
spring’s passing pierces your side.
Ours the fragile silk weave
of earthly span. Take your leave!

Translation by Charlotte Melin

With Other Eyes

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 85th birthday.

Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke
Greek
1939 – 2020

 

The time came to see my life
with other eyes like a memory
left behind while searching for eternal emptiness,
frantic not to miss a sign I might interpret
from my dreams. Now I see reality
naked, without imaginary or real faces,
without love, life’s spring, youth,
without the enthusiasm for every little creative act.
If I take down all the decorations
from the old reality
will I get closer to the truth?
But how to conceive of truth
if it isn’t full of living air?
No answer there. I sink into the night
and try again.

Translation by Karen Van Dyck

Cat

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 125th birthday.

Jibanananda Das
Indian
1899 – 1954

 

Again and again through the day
I meet a cat.
In the tree’s shade, in the sun, in the crowding brown leaves.
After the success of a few fish bones
Or inside a skeleton of white earth
I find it, as absorbed in the purring
Of its heart as a bee.
Still it sharpens its claws on the gulmohar tree
And follows the sun all day long.

Now I see it and then it is gone,
Losing itself somewhere.
On the autumn evening I have watched it play,
Stroking the soft body of the saffron sun
With a white paw. Then it caught
The darkness in paws like small balls
And scattered it all over the earth.

Translation by Lila Ray