From one thousand mountains, birds have vanished.
Over ten-thousand paths, not one footprint.
A lone boat, an old man in coarse cloak and hat:
Just he, fishing in the cold, river snow.
Original Chinese:
千山鳥飛絕
萬徑人蹤滅
孤舟蓑笠翁
獨釣寒江雪
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
This day is call'd the feast of Crispian. He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is nam'd, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say "Tomorrow is Saint Crispian." Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say "These wounds I had on Crispian's day." Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, But he'll remember, with advantages, What feats he did that day. Then shall our names, Familiar in his mouth as household words -- Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester -- Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red. This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered -- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he today that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition; And gentlemen in England now a-bed Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's Day.
A ghost, though invisible, still is like a place your sight can knock on, echoing; but here within this thick black pelt, your strongest gaze will be absorbed and utterly disappear: just as a raving madman, when nothing else can ease him, charges into his dark night howling, pounds on the padded wall, and feels the rage being taken in and pacified. She seems to hide all looks that have ever fallen into her, so that, like an audience, she can look them over, menacing and sullen, and curl to sleep with them. But all at once as if awakened, she turns her face to yours; and with a shock, you see yourself, tiny, inside the golden amber of her eyeballs suspended, like a prehistoric fly.
NOTE: This translation by Stephen Mitchell. Originally titled, “Schwarze Katze,” the poem in German is:
Schwarze Katze Ein Gespenst ist noch wie eine Stelle, dran dein Blick mit einem Klange stößt; aber da an diesem schwarzen Felle wird dein stärkstes Schauen aufgelöst: wie ein Tobender, wenn er in vollster Raserei in Schwarze stampft, jählings am benehmenden Gepolster einer Zelle aufhört und verdampft. Alle Blicke, die sie jemals trafen, scheint sie also an sich zu verhehlen, um darüber drohend und verdrossen zuzuschauern und damit zu schlafen. Doch auf einmal kehrt sie, wie geweckt, ihr Gesicht und mitten in das deine: und da triffst du deinen Blick im geelen Amber ihrer runden Augensteine unerwartet wieder: eingeschlossen wie ein ausgestorbenes Insekt.
Afar, colorful mountains. Near, silent waters. Spring 's gone but flowers remain. People come but birds aren't startled.
Original: 遠看山有色 近聽水無聲 春去花還在 人來鳥不驚
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry; For having lost but once your prime, You may forever tarry.
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong, The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work, The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck, The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands, The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown, The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing, Each singing what belongs to him or her and none else, The day what belongs to the day -- at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly, Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.
I wander thro' each charter'd street, Near where the charter'd Thames does flow, And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every Man, In every Infant's cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forged manacles I hear. How the Chimney-sweeper's cry Every black'ning Church appalls; And the hapless Soldier's sigh Runs in blood down Palace walls. But most thro' midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlot's curse Blasts the new born Infant's tear, And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.
Crazy. He stumbles, flops, gets up, and trudges on again. He moves his ankles and his knees like one wandering pain, then sallies forth, as if a wing lifted him where he went, and when the ditch invites him in, he dare not give consent, and if you were to ask why not? perhaps his answer is a woman waits, a death more wise, more beautiful than this. Poor fool, the true believer: for weeks, above the rooves, but for the scorching whirlwind, nothing lives or moves: the housewall's lying on its back, the prunetree's smashed and bare; even at home, when darkness comes on, the night is furred with fear. Ah, if I could believe it! that not only do I bear what's worth the keeping in my heart, but home is really there; if it might be! -- as once it was, on a veranda old and cool, where the sweet bee of peace would buzz, prune marmalade would chill, late summer's stillness sunbathe in gardens half-asleep, fruit sway among the branches, stark naked in the deep, Fanni waiting at the fence blonde by its rusty red, and shadows would write slowly out all the slow morning said -- but still it might yet happen! The moon's so round today! Friend, don't walk on. Give me a shout and I'll be on my way.
Bolond, ki földre rogyván fölkél és ujra lépked, s vándorló fájdalomként mozdít bokát és térdet, de mégis útnak indul, mint akit szárny emel, s hiába hívja árok, maradni úgyse mer, s ha kérdezed, miért nem? még visszaszól talán, hogy várja őt az asszony s egy bölcsebb, szép halál. Pedig bolond a jámbor, mert ott az otthonok fölött régóta már csak a perzselt szél forog, hanyattfeküdt a házfal, eltört a szilvafa, és félelemtől bolyhos a honni éjszaka. Ó, hogyha hinni tudnám: nemcsak szivemben hordom mindazt, mit érdemes még, s van visszatérni otthon, ha volna még! s mint egykor a régi hűs verandán a béke méhe zöngne, míg hűl a szilvalekvár, s nyárvégi csönd napozna az álmos kerteken, a lomb között gyümölcsök ringnának meztelen, és Fanni várna szőkén a rőt sövény előtt, s árnyékot írna lassan a lassu délelőtt, -- de hisz lehet talán még! a hold ma oly kerek! Ne menj tovább, barátom, kiálts rám! s fölkelek!
NOTE: Originally titled, ERŐLTETETT MENET, and dated September 15, 1944 (in Bor, Serbia,) this poem was found on Radnóti’s person after his execution by fascists in 1944. The translation used is that of Zsuzsanna Ozsváth and Frederick Turner: i.e. Radnóti, Miklós. 2014. Foamy Sky: The Major Poems of Miklós Radnóti. ed. & trans. Zsuzsanna Ozsváth and Frederick Turner. Budapest: Corvina Books, pp. 228-229.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 