Fall 2011

Table of Contents - Vol. VII, No. 3

 

Poetry    Fiction    Translations     Reviews

Karel Jaromir Erben

 

 

The following poem comes from K.J. Erben's "A Bouquet" -- "Kytice" in Czech (Twisted Spoon Press, forthcoming in 2011). Original full title was "Kytice z pověstí národních" - "A Bouquet of National Legends"). It's a collection of ballads, made up of 13 poems. First published in 1853, it is considered a classic.

Willow

Breakfasting, grease on his knife,
a man beseeches his young wife,

“When I’ve questioned you, my wife,
you’ve answered me, my dear, my life,

“always answered me, my wife,
except just once, my dear, my life.

“We’re together now two years,
and only one thing stirs my fears.

“My dear wife, my light,
what happens when you sleep each night?

“Each evening, sound, you go to bed,
but in the night it’s like you’re dead.

“Not a movement, not a prayer,
and your spirit isn’t there.

“Your body’s cold and still as lead.
It really seems as if you’re dead.”

“Even when our baby screams
it doesn’t shake you from your dreams.

“My lovely, precious wife,
does illness threaten your life?

“If it’s illness, let us see,
Maybe there’s a remedy.

“Maybe fragrant herbs that grow
in the fields can make you whole.

“And if there is no healing plant,
perhaps we’ll find a magic chant.

“A word can change the sky,
keep storm-struck sailors safe and dry,

“a magic word can order fire,
break rocks, harness a dragon’s ire,

“tear bright stars from the skies at night.
A mighty word will make you right.”

“Oh, my husband, my dear lord,
won’t you heed my honest word.

“For what’s given as destiny
there isn’t any remedy.

“What the fates ordain for you
a human word cannot undo.

“Though nights, my spirit leaves my bed,
the power of God rests on my head.

“God’s strength protects me every night,
as day is held in streams of light.

“Though I sleep as if I’m dead,
mornings my souls returns to bed.

“And in the morning I can stand,
healthy, fresh, through God’s command.”

Lady, speeches are in vain,
your husband’s got another plan.

A fire is burning on knoll,
a crone pours water from bowl to bowl,

twelve bowls of water, still as ice.
The husband asks the crone’s advice.

“Look, mother, you know everything,
even what the future brings.

“You know whence an illness grows,
and where a mortal woman goes.

“Tell me clearly, do not hide.
What is happening to my bride?

“Each evening, sound, she goes to bed,
but nights it’s as if she’s dead.

“Not a movement, not a prayer,
and her spirit isn’t there.

“Her body’s cold and still as lead.
It really seems as if she’s dead.”

“Is it odd she’s dead when your wife
has only half: her daylight life?

“By day she’s with the child, she’s yours,
but nights her soul sleeps in osiers.

“Go to the stream below the park,
you’ll find a willow with white bark.

“Its osiers form a golden bowl,
and there each night resides her soul.”

“I want a wife who sleeps with me,
not one who lives in a willow tree!

“May my wife be bound to me,
and let it rot, that willow tree!”

He cut the willow at the root,
then leaned his axe against his boot.

The willow heaved into the stream,
and as it fell, there was a scream.

Then it moaned and then it sighed,
sad, as if a mother died.

As a dying mother, it turned back to clasp
her child before her last collapse.

“Why are people rushing to my door?
I hear a bell tolling, I wonder what for?”

“Your dear young wife died today
in the quickest, strangest way.

“At her chores, as healthy as can be,
suddenly she fell, just like a tree.”

With her dying breath she sighed
looking back to see her child.

“Oh, woe is me! Oh, woe, oh woe!
I killed my wife! I didn’t know!

“And this baby that we had—
I hade an orphan, small and sad.

“Oh willow, white willow! Oh, willow tree,
why have you tormented me?

“You’ve taken half my life with you,
tell me now, what should I do?”

“Remove me from my watery tears,
cut off my golden osiers.

“Have me cut into boards, and then
make a cradle out of them.

“On my breast let the little one lie,
and may the poor thing never cry.

“And with the cradle’s to and fro,
his mother holds him, soft and slow.

“Spread the osiers along the stream
to keep harm far away from him.

“When he grows older, give him a knife,
and he’ll have whistles all his life.

“And every time he pipes he’ll hear
his mother speaking to her dear.”

 

© Marcela Sulak

 

Czech Original

 

Vrba

I

Ráno sedá ke snídaní,
táže se své mladé paní:

„Paní moje, paní milá!
Vždycky upřímná jsi byla,

vždycky upřímná jsi byla –
jednohos mi nesvěřila.

Dvě léta jsme spolu nyní –
jedno nepokoj mi činí.

Paní moje, milá paní!
Jaké je to tvoje spaní?

Večer lehneš zdráva, svěží,
v noci tělo mrtvo leží.

Ani ruchu, ani sluchu,
ani zdání o tvém duchu.

Studené jest to tvé tělo,
jak by zpráchnivěti chtělo.

Aniž to maličké dítě,
hořce plačíc, probudí tě. –

Paní moje, paní zlatá!
Zdali nemocí jsi jata?

Jestli nemoc ta závada,
nech ať přijde moudrá rada.

V poli mnoho bylin stojí,
snad některá tebe zhojí.

Pakli v býlí není síly,
mocné slovo neomýlí.

Mocné slovo mračna vodí,
v bouři líté chrání lodí.

Mocné slovo ohni káže,
skálu drtí, draka sváže.

Jasnou hvězdu strhne s nebe:
slovo mocné zhojí tebe.“ –

„„Ó pane můj, milý pane!
Nechtěj dbáti řeči plané.

Co souzeno při zrození,
tomu nikdež léku není.

Co Sudice komu káže,
slovo lidské nerozváže!

Ač bezduchá na svém loži,
vždy jsem přece v moci boží.

Vždy jsem přece v boží moci,
jenž mne chrání každé noci

Ač co mrtvé mi je spáti,
ráno duch se zase vrátí.

Ráno zdráva vstáti mohu:
protož poruč pánu bohu!““ –

Darmo, paní! jsou tvá slova,
pán úmysl jiný chová.

Sedí babka při ohnisku,
měří vodu z misky v misku,

dvanáct misek v jedné řadě.
Pán u baby na poradě.

„Slyšíš, matko! ty víš mnoho:
víš, co potkati má koho,

víš, kde se čí nemoc rodí,
kudy smrtná žena chodí.

Pověz ty mi zjevně nyní,
co se s mojí paní činí?

Večer lehne zdráva, svěží,
v noci tělo mrtvo leží,

ani ruchu, ani sluchu,
ni zdání o jejím duchu;

studené jest její tělo,
jak by zpráchnivěti chtělo.“ –

„„Kterak nemá mrtva býti,
když má jen půl živobytí?

Ve dne s tebou živa v domě,
v noci duše její v stromě.

Jdi k potoku pod oborou,
najdeš vrbu s bílou korou;

žluté proutí roste na ní:
s tou je duše tvojí paní!"" –

„Nechtěl jsem já paní míti,
aby s vrbou měla žíti;

paní má ať se mnou žije,
a vrba ať v zemi hnije!" –

Vzal sekeru na ramena,
uťal vrbu od kořena;

padla těžce do potoka,
zašuměla od hluboka,

zašuměla, zavzdychala,
jak by matka skonávala,

jak by matka umírajíc,
po dítku se ohlédajíc. –

„Jaký shon to k mému domu?
komu zní hodina, komu?“ –

„„Umřela tvá paní milá,
jak by kosou sťata byla;

zdráva chodíc při své práci,
padla, jako strom se skácí;

zavzdychala umírajíc,
po dítku se ohlédajíc.““ –

„Ó běda mi, běda, běda!
paní zabil jsem nevěda,

a z děťátka v túž hodinu
učinil jsem sirotinu!

Ó ty vrbo, vrbo bílá!
což jsi ty mne zarmoutila!

Vzalas mi půl živobytí:
co mám s tebou učiniti?“

„ „Dej mne z vody vytáhnouti,
osekej mé žluté proutí;

dej prkének nařezati,
kolébku z nich udělati;

na kolébku vlož děťátko,
ať nepláče ubožátko.

Když se bude kolébati,
matka bude je chovati.

Proutí zasaď podlé vody,
by nevzalo žádné škody.

Až doroste hoch maličký,
bude řezat píšťaličky;

na píšťalku bude pěti –
se svou matkou rozprávěti!““

 

 

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