James Gregory

Anthology of Poetry in Translation

The following poems in translation were chosen and arranged so the greatest variety might be exhibited
with the least incoherence. Each section has one degree of tonal separation from that which it follows or precedes.
Thus, the despair of the Mesopotamian Fragments lulls to the disquiet of Pessoa; the loneliness of Pessoa lilts to the
lovesickness of Sappho; Sapphos foretaste of death grinds into the executions of Voloshin; the machineguns of
Voloshin purr into early German lullabies; the lament of the Landsknechts darkens to the Book of the Dead; the
Papyrus of Ani scintillates upon the whetstone of Boulus; the knife of Boulus slivers into the tender frenzy of
Tyutchev; the tempests of Tyutchev wake those of The Zohar; the Zohar tremors beneath Celans terror; and Celan,
at last, rekindles the tragic romance of the Rhine.
Within each section, I have tried to provide the best of its class, insofar as is possible within the arc of the
anthology. I hope I may be forgiven for any deficits in the more esoteric sections; it would be difficult to overstate
my blind spots in Babylonian, Aramaic, and Egyptian poetry.
One of the many figures I have neglected to include is Pindar. At the time of my compilation of this
Anthology, I possessed no translation which I believed to have done him justice. After some investigation, I learned
of a recent translation by Anthony Verity which is allegedly superior to those which I have seen: I have thus ordered
his version of the Odes, and shall submit a selection as an addendum if I find any to surpass their predecessors. If
this is the case, I shall also include some romantic Greek elegies and pre-Islamic Arabian lyrics to counterpoint
Pindars celestial inhumanity ( to paraphrase Horaces description:
monte decurrens velut amnis, imbres
quem super notas aluere ripas,
fervet immensusque ruit profundo
Pindarus ore.i )
Now, a few words on the poets who I have included. The authors of the Mesopotamian Fragments are unknown. I
have drawn them from Julian Jayness The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind,
wherein they are given by Jaynes as evidence of the withdrawal of hallucinated gods from a formerly schizophrenic
mankind. From these we go to Fernando Pessoa, renowned by his countrymen as Portugals greatest writer. I have
included two poems and one prose piece, for despite the caliber of his translated poetry, I think his prose translates
better and is, in this case, technically poetry (it is patterned language with a unit of repetition). From Pessoa we visit

i A river bursts its banks and rushes down a

Mountain with uncontrollable momentum,
Rain-saturated, churning, chanting thunder
There you have Pindar's style.

Sappho; it is the pulse of Pessoa, yet at its lyric tension, beating in a different blood. Sapphos ghost invokes
Voloshin, a Russian poet whom I had only read within The Education of Lev Navrozov: A Life in the Closed World
Once Called Russia; I sought out what else I could, but to retain some semblance of brevity included nothing else,
for it has not been as well translated. For the sake of retaining the same semblance, I shall merely list that which
follows: early German ballads, incantations from the Egyptian Book of the Dead, a poem by the late Iraqi poet
Sargon Boulus, passages from The Zohar, poems by the German poet Paul Celan, and at the close two early German
odes.
This anthology includes no living writers. I shall thus leave the last words of the introduction to the
masterwork of survival, the Arabian Nights:
There is no writer that shall not perish; but what his hand
hath written endureth for ever.
Write therefore nothing but what will please thee when thou
shalt see it on the day of resurrection.

Mesopotamian Fragments
from various Mesopotamian Cuneiform tablets Translated by Wilfred George Lambert
One who has no god, as he walks along the street,
Headache envelops him like a garment.

My god has forsaken me and disappeared,

My goddess has failed me and keeps at a distance.
The good angel who walked beside me has departed.

My god has not come to the rescue in taking me by the hand,

Nor has my goddess shown pity on me by going at my side.

May the gods who have thrown me off give help,

May the goddess who has abandoned me show mercy.
Incantation Translated by H. W. F. Saggs
Incantation. That one that has approached the house scares me from my bed, rends me, makes me see nightmares.
To the god Bine, gatekeeper of the underworld, may they appoint him, by the decree of Ninurta prince of the
underworld. By the decree of Marduk who dwells in Esagilia in Babylon. Let door and bolt know that I am under
the protection of the two Lords. Incantation.
Omen Text Translated by H. W. F. Saggs
If a town is set on a hill, it will not
be good for the dweller within that town.
If black ants are seen on the foundations
which have been laid, that house will get
built; the owner of that house will live to
grow old.
If a horse enters a mans house, and bites
either an ass or a man, the owner of the
house will die and his household will be
scattered.
If a fox runs into the public square,
that town will be devastated.
If a man unwittingly treads on a lizard
and kills it, he will prevail over his adversary.

Fernando Pessoa
Translations by Richard Zenith
The Tobacco Shop
Im nothing.
Ill always be nothing.
I cant want to be something.
But I have in me all the dreams of the world.
Windows of my room,
The room of one of the worlds millions nobody knows
(And if they knew me, what would they know?),
You open onto the mystery of a street continually crossed by people,
A street inaccessible to any and every thought,
Real, impossibly real, certain, unknowingly certain,
With the mystery of things beneath the stones and beings,
With death making the walls damp and the hair of men white,
With Destiny driving the wagon of everything down the road of nothing.
Today Im defeated, as if Id learned the truth.
Today Im lucid, as if I were about to die
And had no greater kinship with things
Than to say farewell, this building and this side of the street becoming
A row of train cars, with the whistle for departure
Blowing in my head
And my nerves jolting and bones creaking as we pull out.
Today Im bewildered, like a man who wondered and discovered and forgot.
Today Im torn between the loyalty I owe
To the outward reality of the Tobacco Shop across the street
And to the inward reality of my feeling that everythings a dream.
I failed in everything.
Since I had no ambition, perhaps I failed in nothing.
I left the education I was given,
Climbing down from the window at the back of the house.
I went to the country with big plans.
But all I found was grass and trees,
And when there were people they were just like the others.
I step back from the window and sit in a chair. What should I think about?
How should I know what Ill be, I who don't know what I am?
Be what I think? But I think of being so many things!
And there are so many who think of being the same thing that we cant all be it!
Genius? At this moment
A hundred thousand brains are dreaming theyre geniuses like me,
And it may be that history wont remember even one,
All of their imagined conquests amounting to so much dung.
No, I dont believe in me.
Insane asylums are full of lunatics with certainties!
Am I, who have no certainties, more right or less right?
No, not even me
In how many garrets and non-garrets of the world
Are self-convinced geniuses at this moment dreaming?

How many lofty and noble and lucid aspirations

Yes, truly lofty and noble and lucid
And perhaps even attainable
Will never see the light of day or find a sympathetic ear?
The world is for those born to conquer it,
Not for those who dream they can conquer it, even if theyre right.
I've done more in dreams than Napoleon.
Ive held more humanities against my hypothetical breast than Christ.
Ive secretly invented philosophies such as Kant never wrote.
But I am, and perhaps will always be, the man in the garret,
Even though I dont live in one.
Ill always be the one who wasnt born for that;
Ill always be merely the one who had qualities;
Ill always be the one who waited for a door to open in a wall without doors
And sang the song of the Infinite in a chicken coop
And heard the voice of God in a covered well.
Believe in me? No, not in anything.
Let Nature pour over my seething head
Its sun, its rain, and the wind that finds my hair,
And let the rest come if it will or must, or let it not come.
Cardiac slaves of the stars,
We conquered the whole world before getting out of bed,
But we woke up and its hazy,
We got up and its alien,
We went outside and its the entire earth
Plus the solar system and the Milky Way and the Indefinite.
(Eat your chocolates, little girl,
Eat your chocolates!
Believe me, there's no metaphysics on earth like chocolates,
And all religions put together teach no more than the candy shop.
Eat, dirty little girl, eat!
If only I could eat chocolates with the same truth as you!
But I think and, removing the silver paper thats tinfoil,
I throw it on the ground, as Ive thrown out life.)
But at least, from my bitterness over what Ill never be,
There remains the hasty writing of these verses,
A broken gateway to the Impossible.
But at least I confer on myself a contempt without tears,
Noble at least in the sweeping gesture by which I fling
The dirty laundry that's me with no list into the stream of things,
And I stay at home, shirtless.
(O my consoler, who doesnt exist and therefore consoles,
Be you a Greek goddess, conceived as a living statue,
Or a patrician woman of Rome, impossibly noble and dire,
Or a princess of the troubadours, all charm and grace,
Or an eighteenth-century marchioness, decollete and aloof,
Or a famous courtesan from our parents generation,
Or something modern, I cant quite imagine what
Whatever all of this is, whatever you are, if you can inspire, then inspire me!
My heart is a poured-out bucket.
In the same way invokers of spirits invoke spirits, I invoke
My own self and find nothing.

I go to the window and see the street with absolute clarity.

I see the shops, I see the sidewalks, I see the passing cars,
I see the clothed living beings who pass each other.
I see the dogs that also exist,
And all of this weighs on me like a sentence of exile,
And all of this is foreign, like everything else.)
Ive lived, studied, loved, and even believed,
And today theres not a beggar I dont envy just because he isnt me.
I look at the tatters and sores and falsehood of each one,
And I think: perhaps you never lived or studied or loved or believed
(For its possible to do all of this without having done any of it);
Perhaps youve merely existed, as when a lizard has its tail cut off
And the tail keeps on twitching, without the lizard.
I made of myself what I was no good at making,
And what I could have made of myself I didnt.
I put on the wrong costume
And was immediately taken for someone I wasnt, and I said nothing and was lost.
When I went to take off the mask,
It was stuck to my face.
When I got it off and saw myself in the mirror,
I had already grown old.
I was drunk and no longer knew how to wear the costume hat I hadnt taken off.
I threw out the mask and slept in the closet
Like a dog tolerated by the management
Because its harmless,
And Ill write down this story to prove Im sublime.
Musical essence of my useless verses,
If only I could look at you as something I had made
Instead of always looking at the Tobacco Shop across the street,
Trampling on my consciousness of existing,
Like a rug a drunkard stumbles on
Or a doormat stolen by gypsies and its not worth a thing.
But the Tobacco Shop Owner has come to the door and is standing there.
I look at him with the discomfort of a half-twisted neck
Compounded by the discomfort of a half-grasping soul.
He will die and I will die.
Hell leave his signboard, Ill leave my poems.
His sign will also eventually die, and so will my poems.
Eventually the street where the sign was will die,
And so will the language in which my poems were written.
Then the whirling planet where all of this happened will die.
On other planets of other solar systems something like people
Will continue to make things like poems and to live under things like signs,
Always one thing facing the other,
Always one thing as useless as the other,
Always the impossible as stupid as reality,
Always the inner mystery as true as the mystery sleeping on the surface.
Always this thing or always that, or neither one thing nor the other.
But a man has entered the Tobacco Shop (to buy tobacco?),
And plausible reality suddenly hits me.
I half rise from my chair energetic, convinced, human

And will try to write these verses in which I say the opposite.
I light up a cigarette as I think about writing them,
And in that cigarette I savor a freedom from all thought.
My eyes follow the smoke as if it were my own trail
And I enjoy, for a sensitive and fitting moment,
A liberation from all speculation
And an awareness that metaphysics is a consequence of not feeling very well.
Then I lean back in the chair
And keep smoking.
As long as Destiny permits, Ill keep smoking.
(If I married my washwoman's daughter
Perhaps I would be happy.)
I get up from the chair. I go to the window.
The man has come out of the Tobacco Shop (putting change into his pocket?).
Ah, I know him: its unmetaphysical Esteves.
(The Tobacco Shop Owner has come to the door.)
As if by divine instinct, Esteves turns around and sees me.
He waves hello, I shout back Hello, Esteves! and the universe
Falls back into place without ideals or hopes, and the Owner of the Tobacco Shop
smiles.
5 May 1928
At the wheel of the Chevrolet on the road to Sintra,
In the moonlight and in a dream, on the deserted road,
I drive alone, I drive almost slowly, and it almost
Seems, or I make myself think it seems,
That Im going down another road, another dream, another
world,
That Im going without Lisbon lying behind me and Sintra
up ahead,
That Im going, and whats in it besides not stopping, just
going?
Ill spend the night in Sintra since I cant spend it in Lisbon,
But when I get to Sintra Ill be sorry I didnt stay in Lisbon.
Always this irrational, irrelevant, useless fretfulness,
Always, always, always
This exaggerated mental anxiety over nothing,
On the road to Sintra, on the road of dreaming, on the road
of life
Responsive to my subconscious movements at the wheel,
The borrowed car bounds forward beneath me, with me.
As I think about the symbol and turn right, I smile.
How many borrowed things Ive used to go forward in the
world!
How many borrowed things Ive driven as if they
were mine!
Alas, how much I myself am what Ive borrowed!
On the left side of the road theres a cabin yes, a cabin.
On the right the open country, with the moon in the

distance.
The car, which so recently seemed to be giving me freedom,
Is now something that closes me in,
Something I can only drive if Im closed inside it,
Something I control only if Im part of it, if its part of me.
Behind me on the left the humble more than humble
cabin
Life there must be happy, just because it isnt mine.
If anyone saw me from the cabin window, theyre no doubt
thinking: That guy is happy.
Perhaps to the child peering out the top-floor window
I looked (with my borrowed car) like a dream, a magical
being come to life.
Perhaps to the girl, who as soon as she heard the motor
looked out the kitchen window
On the ground floor,
Im something like the prince of every girls heart,
And shell keep glancing through the window until I vanish
around the curve.
Will I leave dreams behind me, or is it the car that leaves
them?
I the driver of the borrowed car, or the borrowed car Im
driving?
On the road to Sintra in the moonlight, in sadness, with
fields and the night before me,
Driving the borrowed Chevrolet and feeling forlorn,
I lose myself on the road to come, I vanish in the distance Im
covering,
And on a sudden, frantic, violent, inexplicable impulse
I accelerate
But my heart is still back at that heap of stones I skirted
when I saw it without seeing it,
At the door of the cabin,
My empty heart,
My dissatistfied heart,
My heart thats more human than I, more exact than life.
On the road to Sintra, close to midnight, in the moonlight,
at the wheel,
On the road to Sintra, exhausted just from imagining,
On the road to Sintra, ever closer to Sintra,
On the road to Sintra, even farther from myself
Entry from The Book of Disquiet
Its a hopelessly bad lithograph. I stare at it without knowing if I see it. Its one among others in the shop
window in the middle of the window under the steps.
She holds Spring against her breast and stares at me with sad eyes. Her smile shines, because the papers
glossy, and her cheeks are red. The sky behind her is the colour of light blue cloth. She has a sculpted, almost tiny
mouth, and above its postcard expression her eyes keep staring at me with an enormous sorrow. The arm holding the
flowers reminds me of someone elses. Her dress or blouse has a low neck that reveals one shoulder. Her eyes are
genuinely sad: they stare at me from the depth of the lithographic reality with a truth of some sort. She came with
Spring. Her eyes are large, but thats not what makes them sad. I tear myself from the window with violent steps. I
cross the street and turn around with impotent indignation. She still holds the Spring she was given, and her eyes are
sad like all the things in life Ive missed out on. Seen from a distance, the lithograph turns out to be more colourful.

The figures hair is tied at the top by a pinker than pink ribbon; I hadnt noticed. In human eyes, even in lithographic
ones, theres something terrible: the inevitable warning of consciousness, the silent shout that theres a soul there.
With a huge effort I pull out of the sleep in which I was steeped, and like a dog I shake off the drops of dark fog.
Oblivious to my departure, as if bidding farewell to something else, those sad eyes of the whole of life of this
metaphysical lithograph that we observe from a distance stare at me as if I knew something of God. The print,
which has a calendar at the bottom, is framed above and below by two flatly curved, badly painted black strips.
Within these upper and lower limits, above 1929 and an outmoded calligraphic vignette adorning the inevitable 1st
of January, the sad eyes ironically stare at me.
Funny where I knew that figure from. In the corner at the back of the office theres an identical calendar
which Ive seen countless times, but due to some lithographic mystery, or some mystery of my own, the eyes of the
office copy express no sorrow. Its just a lithograph. (Printed on glossy paper, it sleeps away its subdued life above
the head of left-handed Alves.)
All of this makes me want to smile, but I feel a profound anxiety. I feel the chill of a sudden sickness in my
soul. I dont have the strength to balk at this absurdity. What window overlooking what secret of God am I
confronting against my will? Where does the window under the stairs lead to? What eyes stared at me from out of
the lithograph? Im practically trembling. I involuntarily raise my eyes to the far corner of the office where the real
lithograph is. I keep raising my eyes to that corner of the office where the real lithograph is. I keep raising my eyes
to that corner.

Sappho
Fragment 31. Translated by A. S. Kline
Hes equal with the Gods, that man
Who sits across from you,
Face to face, close enough to sip
Your voices sweetness,
And what excites my mind,
Your laughter, glittering. So,
When I see you, for a moment,
My voice goes,
My tongue freezes. Fire,
Delicate fire, in the flesh.
Blind, stunned, the sound
Of thunder, in my ears.
Shivering with sweat, cold
Tremors over the skin,
I turn the colour of dead grass,
And Im an inch from dying.
Fragment 68. Translated by J. W. MacKail
Sometime thou shalt lie dead, and no memory of thee shall be either then or afterward, for thou hast no part in roses
from Pieria ; but even in the chambers of Death thou shalt pass unknown flitting forth among the dim ghosts.

10

Maximilian Alexandrovich Kirienko-Voloshin

The Terms Translated by Lev Navrozov
They used to come to work in the evening.
They read denunciations, reports, cases.
Then they signed the sentences.
They yawned. They drank wine.
Vodka was issued to the soldiers.
By candlelight they read out the names of men and women.
They drove the men and women into a dark backyard,
Took off their shoes, clothes, underwear,
Tied these up in bundles and put onto carts.
Then they divided the rings and watches.
At night they drove the men and women barefoot
Over the ice-crusted land,
Under a north-east wind,
To the wasteland beyond the city limits.
They bayonetted the men and women to the edge of a ravine,
And lit up the targets by flashlights.
The machine-guns worked for half a minute.
They finished off with bayonets those who were still alive
Or just pushed the dying into the pit.
Quickly they threw some earth over.
Then they went home, singing a soulful Russian song.
And at dawn the wives, mothers, dogs
Stole to the same ravines.
Clawed away the earth. Gnawed, snarling, the bones.
Kissed the dear flesh.

11

Early German Ballads, Vol. 1, 1280 to 1619

Translated by Hilde and Arthur Kevess and Maurice Riedman
from The Peasant Army of Florian Geyer
We are the earth-sprung hordes of Florian Geyer,
We want to fight the tyrants,
Lances drawn,
We sally forth,
Set the monasteries afire.
When Adam dug and Eve span,
Where was then a nobleman?
Near Weinsberg the battle raged to and fro,
Many were those who scaled the battlements.
We want to petition our Lord in Heaven
To permit us to slay the priests.
The noblemans children
We sent them to Hell.
Beaten, we march home,
Our grandchildren will fight the battle out better.
A Landsknecht Song
Oh Magdeburg, hold steadfast,
Alien guests are coming
Who want to drive you
Out of your well built house.
The Gospel they want to quench,
Brand it as lies,
Against this we want to fight.
As long as there is life in us.
To the Emperor we want to render,
Now and forever,
That which is his,
And not what belongs to God.
In Magdeburg, the fortress,
There are fine young maidens
Who pray for good Christians
And hate the Spaniards.
In Magdeburg, the free,
There is many a tender child,
They cry to God in Heaven
To keep the city safe.
On the bridge in Magdeburg

12

Are two puppies barking,

Before them all must bow
Who want to cross.
On the walls in Magdeburg
Are many splendid guns,
And many a heart is saddened
Because they havent yet been used.
In the tower in Magdeburg
Sit three maidens fine,
Every morning they weave
Three garlands of reeds.
One shall be for Duke Hansen,
Him of noble birth,
The other shall be for
Count Albrecht of Mansfeld.
The third one has been bespoken
For a still unknown hero
Who leaves nought unavenged,
He risks his lands and men.
Grant God, he be successful
With the help of Christ, thy Son,
That the foe will not compel him
To go against Thy Word!
This little song was sung
By a landsknecht bold
Who kept saying, while coins were clinking at his feet
That the Lord was on our side.
Peasants War Story (about 1525)
The peasants wanted to be free,
But this they could not achieve,
Pour out the red wine, pour out the white,
Then I will sing you the Carmen (song).
Frundsberg was our leader,
Neath his banner we fought,
Then our standard bearer lost heart and hand
In the battle for the flag.
There we lay with unseeing eyes,
Our trusty blades beside us,
May the Lord Almighty restore us
The flag we lost in battle.
There on the bloody battlefield we lay
In spite of sacraments and cross,
Some are glad (their lives are over) and some are sorry
But no one moves again.

13

Today we swill the last glass of wine

And roll out the last pair of dice
We are fated to be the lost band
And await the single for the next attack.
Then we will sing the song of the war drums,
The banners will arise once more,
This despite the curses of priests,
For the love of God and the peasants.
A Landsknechts Lament (about 1467)
The snow has fallen
Though its a bit early for that;
Boys throw snowballs at me,
The road is covered with snow.
My house has no gable,
Its become decrepit,
The bolts are broken,
My little room is cold.
O darling, have mercy on me,
I am so miserable.
Take me in your arms,
Then winter will go away.
Lullaby from the Thirty Years War (1618-48)
Hear child, hear how the storm wind blows,
And shakes the bay window.
When the soldier from Braunschweig is outside
He shakes us even harder.
Learn to pray, child, and fold your hands piously
So God may keep the mad Christian away from us.
Sleep, child, sleep, its time to sleep.
Time also to die.
When youre big, the drums
Will carry you far and wide.
Run after the drums, my child, listen to your mothers advice,
If you fall in battle,
No soldier will be after you.
Sleep, child, sleep. Sleep, child, sleep.
Landsknechts Farewell (about 1539)
Innsbruck, I must leave you,
From these my native streets
I fare into foreign lands.
All my joy is gone,
I dont know what to do,
Im in such misery.
Great sorrow I must bear,
I do complain

14

To my dearly beloved only,

O love, let your heart
Have mercy on me,
For I must be far away.
To you, my solace,
I want to be faithful forever,
Steady, honorable, true.
Now God keep you
In all your virtue
Until I come back.

15

Papyrus of Ani: Chapters of Coming Forth By Day (The Egyptian Book of the Dead)
Translated by Sir Ernest Alfred Thompson Wallis Budge
from The Chapter Of Not Dying A Second Time. What manner of land is this unto which I have come? It hath
not water, it hath not air; it is depth unfathomable, it is black as the blackest night, and men wander helplessly
therein.
from The Chapter Of Not Rotting In Khert-Neter. O thou who art motionless, O thou who art motionless, O
thou whose members are motionless, like unto those of Osiris. Thy members shall not be motionless, they shall not
rot, they shall not crumble away, they shall not fall into decay. My members shall be made undying for me as if I
were Osiris.
from The Chapter Of Lifting Up The Feet, And Of Coming Forth On The Earth. O I am helpless. O I am
helpless. I would walk. I am helpless. I am helpless in the regions of those who plunder in Khert-Neter, I the Osiris
Ani, whose word is truth...
from The Chapter Of Opening The Mouth Of The Osiris Ani. To be said: The god Ptah [the celestial
blacksmith, who forged the human body] shall open my mouth, and the god of my town shall unfasten the
swathings, the swathings which are over my mouth. Thereupon shall come Thoth, who is equipped with words of
power in great abundance, and shall untie the fetters, even the fetters of the god Set which are over my mouth. And
the god Tem shall cast them back at those who would fetter me with them, and cast them at him. Then shall the god
Shu open my mouth, and make an opening into my mouth with the same iron implement wherewith he opened the
mouth of the gods.
from Making The Transformation Into A Hawk of Gold. The Osiris Ani saith: I have risen up out of the
seshett chamber, like the golden hawk which cometh forth from his egg. I fly, I alight like a hawk with a back of
seven cubits, and the wings of which are like unto the mother-of-emerald of the South. I have come forth from the
Sektet Boat, and my heart hath been brought unto me from the mountain of the East. I have alighted on the Atet
Boat, and there have been brought unto me those who dwelt in their substance, and they bowed in homage before
me. I have risen, I have gathered myself together like a beautiful golden hawk, with the head of the Benu, and Ra
hath entered in to hear my speech. I have taken my seat among the great gods, the children of Nut. I have settled
myself, the Sekhet-hetepet [the Field of Offerings] is before me. I eat therein, I become a Spirit-soul therein, I am
supplied with food in abundance therein, as much as I desire. The Grain-god Nepra hath given unto me food for my
throat, and I am master over myself and over the attributes of my head.
from Making The Transformation Into A Divine Hawk. I have made myself perfect. O grant thou that I may be
held in fear. Create thou awe of me. Let the gods of the Tuat be afraid of me, and let them fight for me in their halls.
Permit not thou to come nigh unto me him that would attack me, or would injure me in the House of Darkness.
Cover over the helpless one, hide him.
[] Osiris, grant thou that that which cometh forth from thy mouth may circulate to me. Let me see thine own
Form. Let thy Souls envelop me. Grant thou that I may come forth, and that I may be master of my legs, and let me
live there like Nebertcher upon his throne. Let the gods of the Tuat hold me in fear, and let them fight for me in their
halls. Grant thou that I may move forward with him and with the Ariu gods, and let me be firmly stablished on my
pedestal like the Lord of Life.
[] I, even I, am a Spirit-soul, a dweller in the Light-god, whose form hath been created in divine flesh. I am one of
those Spirit-souls who dwell in the Light-god, who were created by Tem himself, and who exist in the blossoms of
his Eye.
[] I am one of the worms which have been created by the Eye of the Lord One. And behold, when as yet Isis had
not given birth to Horus, I was flourishing, and I had waxed old, and had become pre-eminent among the Spiritsouls who had come into being with him. I rose up like a divine hawk, and Horus endowed me with a Spirit-body
with his soul, so that I might take possession of the property of Osiris in the Tuat. He shall say to the twin Lion-gods
for me, the Chief of the House of the Nemes Crown, the Dweller in his cavern: Get thee back to the heights of

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heaven, for behold, inasmuch as thou art a Spirit-body with the creations of Horus, the Nemes Crown shall not be to
thee: but thou shalt have speech even to the uttermost limits of the heavens.
[] All the gods who guard the shrine of the Lord One are smitten with terror at [my] words.
[] I know the Light-god, his winds are in my body. The Bull which striketh terror [into souls] shall not repulse
me. I come daily into the House of the twin Lion-gods. I come forth therefrom into the House of Isis. I look upon the
holy things which are hidden. I see the being who is therein. I speak to the great ones of Shu, they repulse him that is
wrathful in his hour. I am Horus who dwelleth in his divine Light. I am master of his crown. I am master of his
radiance. I advance towards the Henti boundaries of heaven. Horus is upon his seat. Horus is upon his thrones. My
face is like that of a divine hawk. I am one who is equipped [like] his lord. I shall come forth to Tetu. I shall see
Osiris. I shall live in his actual presence.... Nut. They shall see me. I shall see the gods [and] the Eye of Horus
burning with fire before my eyes. They shall reach out their hands to me. I shall stand up. I shall be master of him
that would subject me to restraint. They shall open the holy paths to me, they shall see my form, they shall listen to
my words.
[] [Homage] to you, O ye gods of the Tuat, whose faces are turned back, whose powers advance, conduct ye me to
the Star-gods which never rest. Prepare ye for me the holy ways to the Hemat house, and to your god, the Soul, who
is the mighty one of terror. Horus hath commanded me to lift up your faces; do ye look upon me. I have risen up like
a divine hawk. Horus hath made me to be a Spirit-body by means of his Soul, and to take possession of the things of
Osiris in the Tuat. Make ye for me a path. I have travelled and I have arrived at those who are chiefs of their caverns,
and who are guardians of the House of Osiris. I speak unto them his mighty deeds. I made them to know concerning
his victories. He is ready [to butt with his] two horns at Set.
[] Travel thou on thy way safely, cry out the gods of the Tuat to me. O ye who make your names pre-eminent, who
are chiefs in your shrines, and who are guardians of the House of Osiris, grant, I pray you, that I may come to you. I
have bound up and I have gathered together your Powers. I have directed the Powers of the ways, the wardens of the
horizon, and of the Hemat House of heaven. I have stablished their fortresses for Osiris. I have prepared the ways
for him. I have performed the things which [he] hath commanded. I come forth to Tetu. I see Osiris. I speak to him
concerning the matter of his Great Son, whom he loveth, and concerning [the smiting of] the heart of Set. I look
upon the lord who was helpless. How shall I make them to know the plans of the gods, and that which Horus did
without the knowledge of his father Osiris?
[] Hail, Lord, thou Soul, most awful and terrible, behold me. I have come, I make thee to be exalted! I have forced
a way though the Tuat. I have opened the roads which appertain to heaven, and those which appertain to the earth,
and no one hath opposed me therein. I have exalted thy face, O Lord of Eternity.

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Sargon Boulus
The Knife Sharpener Translated by a friend
The world is an opening
guarded by
shards of a mirror
on a ballast of mud
through which pass
various
forms
of creation:
Everyone comes
to saunter
toward this alley
**
Dervishes come
who lived for some time in caves
with scorpions and serpents, dogs
follow
the cars of
a wedding procession
The departed arrives
and the arrival departs:
the accused
the witness
and the judge.
**
The world
is a porter moaning
under a flour sack
And he is
The salt merchant
And the rababa player
the wanderer from door to door.
**
This gap in my memory
When I follow a shadow
Takes me
Across the seasons
And I listen
To a semi-buried melody
That repeats
In a place far removed
From myself
This white eternity
That swims in my head
This crow that
Comes
To invade its whiteness

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**
Invades it
Creeping from house
To house at the peak of siesta
And there is no one but a child
Playing in the shade
And a woman offering grass
To the lamb
Tied to a stake
When the world rusts
And the ones fasting in the houses
Dream
Of who knows what feast
In what festival
**
He appears
Without warning
With his hard face at
The mouth of the alley
On his back
The hone of skin and stone
And on his eyes
The dark spectacles of the blind, a man
But
He is a specter of his place of origin
A mutant hungry for the taste of iron
Nourished by the sun
**
The knife sharpener appears
In the kingdom of rusty things
Like a prophecy
We have forgotten
Crushing between his hands
The stone
Screaming to the sleepers that he has come
He has come
To sharpen the knives.

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Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev

I love your eyes, my darling friend Translation from the subtitles of Andrei Tarkovskys Stalker
I love your eyes, my darling friend,
Their play so passionate and brightning,
When a sudden stare up you send,
And like a heaven-blown lightning,
Id take in all from end to end.
But theres more that I admire:
Your eyes when they're downcast
In bursts of love-inspired fire
And through the eyelash goes fast
A somber, dull call of desire
Night Wind Prose translation by Dimitri Obolensky
What are you wailing about, night wind, what are you lamenting so frantically? What does your strange
voice, now muffled and plaintive, now loud, signify? In a language intelligible to the heart you speak of torment past
comprehension, and you dig and at times stir up frenzied sounds in the heart!
Oh, do not sing these fearful songs about ancient, native chaos! How avidly the world of night within the
soul listens to the lovely story! It longs to burst out of the mortal breast and to merge with the Unbounded Oh, do
not wake the sleeping tempests: beneath them chaos stirs.

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The Zohar
Translated by Daniel C. Matt
From 1:83a
He opened, saying, My soul desires You in the night, the spirit within me seeks You at dawn. They have
established this verse and so have we, but come and see: When a person climbs into bed, his soul leaves him and
ascends on high. Now, if you say that they all ascend, not every one sees the face of the King. Rather, the soul
departs, and in the body remains nothing but a trace of a pint of the hearts vitality. The soul proceeds, seeking to
ascend, countless rungs upon rungs to climb. Flying, she encounters those hooded, hunchbacked, dazzling demons
of defilement. If she is pure, not having been defiled during the day, she ascends; if not, she is defiled among them,
clings to them, ascends no higher. There they divulge information to her, and she grasps what is imminent.
Sometimes they toy with her, disseminating deceptions. She drifts this way all night long until the person awakes
and she returns to her place.
From 1130a
If one is unworthy, when he sleeps and his soul departs, she soars penetrating these impure spirits, who
all proclaim: Make way, make way! This is not one of ours! Then she ascends among those holy ones, who
divulge to her a word of truth. As she descends, all those ravaging bands of truculent stingers seek to grasp that
words divulging other words and that word she absorbed amid those holy ones lies among the others like grain
mingled with straw. Who can attain more while still existing in this world?
From 1:7a
They went on. They reached a certain mountain, as the sun was inclining. The branches of the tree on the
mountain began lashing one another, emitting a song. As they were walking, they heard a resounding voice
proclaim: Holy sons of God, dispersed among the living of the world! Luminous lamps, initiates of the Academy!
Assemble at your places to delight with your Lord in Torah!
They were frightened, stood in place, then sat down. Meanwhile a voice called out as before, proclaiming:
Mighty boulders, towering hammers, behold the Master of Colors, embroidered in figures, standing on a dais. Enter
and assemble! That moment, they heard the branches of the trees resounding intensely, proclaiming: The voice of
YHVH breaks cedars. Rabbi Elazar and Rabbi Abba fell on their faces, immense fear falling upon them. They rose
hastily, went on, and heard nothing. Leaving the mountain, they walked on.
From 1:16a
Darkness is black fire, potent in color; red fire, potent in appearance; green fire, potent in shape; white fire,
embracing all. Darkness, most powerful fire, empowers tohu. Darkness is fire but not dark fire until it empowers
tohu. This is the mystery of: His eyes were too dim to see, and he called Esau Darkness face of evil, for he
greeted evil with a friendly face.

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Paul Celan
Nocturne
Sleep not. Be on your guard.
The poplars sing and stride
with war troops by their side.
The ditch runs with your blood.
Green skeletons are dancing.
One tears the cloud away:
wind-beaten, battered, icy,
your dream bleeds from the lances.
The worlds a laboring beast
creeps stark under night sky.
God is its howling. I
fear for me and freeze.
A Song in the Wilderness
A garland was wound out of blackening leaves in the region of Akra:
I reined my dark stallion around and stabbed out at death with my dagger.
From the deep wooden vessels I drank of the ashes from wells there at Akra,
and charged straight ahead at the ruins of heaven with firmly set visor.
The angels are dead and the Lord has gone blind in the region of Akra,
and no one will guard for me those who have gone to their sleep and are resting.
The moon has been hacked into bits, the flowr of the region of Akra:
Like dark russet thorntrees they blossom, those hands wearing rings that are rusting.
So now at the last I must bend for a kiss when theyre praying in Akra
O scant was the breastplate of night, the blood through its buckles is oozing!
Now I am their brother and smiling, the ironclad cherub of Akra.
And still do I utter the name and still on my cheek feel the blazing.
WHATS WRITTEN goes hollow, whats
spoken, seagreen,
burns in the bays,
dolphins race
through
liquefied names,
here in forever Nowhere,
in a memory of outcrying bells in but where?,
who
in this
shadow quadrant
is gasping, who
underneath
glimmers up, glimmers up, glimmers up?

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Darkness
The urns of stillness are empty.
In branches
the swelter of speechless songs
chokes black.
Blunt hourposts
grope towards a strange time.
A wingbeat whirls.
For the owls in the heart
death dawns.
Treason falls into your eyes
My shadow strives with your scream
The east smokes after this night
Only dying
sparkles.
ASPEN TREE, your leaves glance white into the dark.
My mothers hair never turned white.
Dandelion, so green is the Ukraine.
My fair-haired mother did not come home.
Rain cloud, do you linger at the well?
My soft-voiced mother weeps for all.
Rounded star, you coil the golden loop.
My mothers heart was hurt by lead.
Oaken door, who hove you off your hinge?
My gentle mother cannot return.

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Early German Ballads, Vol. II, 1536 to 1800

Translated by Hilde and Arthur Kevess and Maurice Riedman
By My Beloveds Head (Orig. 1536, revised 1780)
By my beloveds head
There stands a golden shrine,
If God would let me have the key
Id throw it into the Rhine.
If I were with my beloved,
How wonderful Id feel!
By my beloveds feet
A cold brook flows,
He who drinks from it
Becomes younger, does not grow old.
From this little brook
I have drunk quite a few drinks,
But I would much rather
Kiss my beloveds red lips.
In my beloveds garden
Two trees stand,
One bears nutmegs,
The other bears cloves,
The nutmegs are sweet,
The cloves are tart,
I give them to my beloved,
So he wont forget me.
It was two stonemasons
In the town of Freiburg
Who sang us this rhyme so well.
Over mead and cool wine
They sand to us so nicely,
And sitting there with us
Was the innkeepers daughter.
The Heath Is Getting Dark (East Prussia, 1750)
The heath is getting dark already,
Let us go home:
Weve cut the corn
With our bare swords.
I heard the rustling of the sickle,
It rustled through the field,
I heard a maiden lament
That she had lost her love.
Have you lost your sweetheart?
I still have mine,
So let us, together, wind ourselves
A little garland.
A garland of roses,

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A bouquet of clover,
The snow lies deep
At Frankfurt on the bridge.
The snow has melted,
The water flows away,
You disappear from my sight,
You disappear from my mind.
In my fathers garden,
There stand two little trees,
One of them bears nutmegs,
The other one brown cloves.
Nutmegs, they are sweet,
And cloves, they are lovely,
We both must part,
And parting hurts.

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