[Joshua Mehigan]

In addition to Shakespeare's, quite a few of Sidney's sonnets, too. (The first one in Astrophil and Stella, or the one that ends "I am not I. Pity the tale of me." !!!)
Yeats." In Defense of Poetry," by Edgar Bowers, which I'd post but don't have right now (work). Wyatt's My Lute, Awake! http://www.luminarium.org/renlit/myluteawake.htm, which isn't really about poetry so much as dependent on the conceit of poetry, but I mention it anyway because I love it. Several excellent poems from Stevens's Harmonium.

Awesome translation, Bob. I suppose "El rimordimiento" could also be considered a poem about poetry, or about the choice to be a writer, anyway? Can you post your version of that, Bob, assuming you have one?

Speaking of which, Nabokov had a funny poem about translating Eugene Onegin, in which he described his version as bird droppings on the statue of the original.

[Roger Slater]

I'm not the Bob you were addressing, Joshua, but I do have a translation of "El remordimiento" which I'll post with the hope that Mr. Mezey will come along with his own as well. If this is the poem you mean, I'm not at all sure I would say it is a poem about poetry in the sense we've been discussing, but maybe.

REMORSE
J. L. Borges

I have committed by far the gravest sin
a person can commit. I've not been happy.
May the glaciers of oblivion grip me
without compassion. May I be lost within.

My parents bred me for the risky game
of life. They offered me its loveliness:
its earth, its air, its water, and its flame.
I cheated them. I found no happiness.

Their wish went unfulfilled. Instead I gave
my mind to the stubborn symmetries of art
that weaves together trifles. From the start,
they willed me courage but I was not brave.

It won't move on. It always stays with me:
the shame that I have lived unhappily.

**
and the original:

El remordimiento

He cometido el peor de los pecados
que un hombre puede cometer. No he sido
feliz. Que los glaciares del olvido
me arrastren y me pierdan, despiadados.

Mis padres me engendraron para el juego
arriesgado y hermoso de la vida,
para la tierra, el agua, el aire, el fuego.
Los defraudé. No fui feliz. Cumplida

no fue su joven voluntad. Mi mente
se aplicó a las simétricas porfías
del arte, que entreteje naderías.

Me legaron valor. No fui valiente.
No me abandona. Siempre está a mi lado
La sombra de haber sido un desdichado.

[Janet Kenny]

Robert,
Thanks for posting that. I am not very familiar with the Fitzgerald original and not at all, of course, with Borges' version. Your translation is marvellous.

Say once more that the nightingale, as bright
And clear as gold in the echoing vault of night,
Sings only once; nor do the frugal stars
Fritter away their treasury of light.

Janet

[Janet Kenny]

Roger/Bob,
What a wonderful poem. One of those that says something the reader envies. Your translation seems very fine in its own right. I'll struggle through the Spanish, as is my wont, with the aid of Italiese.
Janet

[robert mezey]

Here's my version of the sonnet Joshua mentioned and Roger had translated:

REMORSE

I have committed the very worst of sins
That a man can commit. I have not been
Happpy. Let glaciers of oblivion
Drag me without mercy down to ruin.
My parents brought me forth that I might dare
The beautiful and dangerous game of life,
That I might have earth, water, fire, and air.
I cheated them. By not being happy, I've
Failed to perform their youthful will. My mind
Turned to art's symetrical obstinacies
That weave together trifles and emptinesses.
They left me valor. I was not the valiant kind.
It has never left my side since I began,
This shadow of a miserable man.


I haven't looked at this for years and now that I type it out, I'm rather unhappy with it. I'm satisfied with most of our Borges versions, and proud as can be of some of them, especially some of the sonnets, but this seems pretty bad--
the rhymes aren't very good, most of the lines don't move well, and so on and so forth. I'd better try it again.

I just thought of another terrific poem about poetry, one
by J. V. Cunningham (a marvelous and almost forgotten poet)
called "FOR MY CONTEMPORARIES"

How time reverses
The proud in heart!
I now make verses
Who aimed at art.

But I sleep well.
Ambitious boys
Whose big lines swell
With spiritual noise,

Despise me not,
And be not queasy
To praise somewhat:
Verse is not easy.

But rage who will.
Time that procured me
Good sense and skill
Of madness cured me.


And another one, even better, called "COFFEE"

When I awoke with cold
And looked for you, my dear,
And the dusk inward rolled,
Not light or dark, but drear,

Unabsolute, unshaped,
That no glass can oppose,
I fled not to escape
Myself, but to transpose.

I have so often fled
Wherever I could drink
Dark coffee and there read
More than a man would think

That I say I waste time
For contemplation's sake:
In an uncumbered clime
Minute inductions wake,

Insight flows in my pen.
I know nor fear nor haste.
Time is my own again.
I waste it for the waste.

[Terese Coe]

Bob M., thank you for posting the two Cunningham poems. "I waste it for the waste"! Ha! Befitting flippancy.

Your translation of Borges' Rubiyat is mesmerizing.

"Remorse" is one of those Borges sonnets that I can't get out of my mind now. Found myself doing a version as well, and it was a thrill.


Best,

Terese