chuck's recital

8/8/2019 Chuck's Recital

1/8

Der Arme Peter

I.

Der Hans und die Grete tanzen herum,

Und jauchzen vor lauter Freude.Der Peter steht so still und so stumm,

Und ist so blass wie Kreide.

Der Hans und die Grete sind Bräut’gam und

Braut,

Und blitzen im Hochzeitgeschmeide.

Der arme Peter die Nägel kaut

Und geht im Werkeltagkleide.

Der Peter spricht leise vor sich her,

Und schauet betrübet auf beide:

“Ach! Wenn ich nicht gar zu vernünftig wär’,

Ich täte mir was zuleide.”

II.

“In meiner Brust da sitzt ein Weh,

Das will die Brust zersprengen;

Und wo ich steh’, und wo ich geh’,

Will’s mich von hinnen drängen.

Es treibt mich nach der Liebsten Näh’,

Als könnt’s die Grete heilen; Doch wenn ich der ins Auge seh’,

Muss ich von hinnen eilen.

Ich steig’ hinauf des Berges Höh’,

Dort ist man doch alleine;

Und wenn ich still dort oben steh’,

Dann steh’ ich still und weine.”

III.

Der arme Peter wankt vorbei,Gar langsam, leichenblass und scheu.

Es bleiben fast, wie sie ihn seh’n,

Die Leute auf den Strassen steh’n.

Hansel and Gretel dance about

And shout for pure joy.Peter stands so still and so silent,

And is as pale as chalk.

Hansel and Gretel are bridegroom and bride,

And glittering in wedding-jewelry.

Poor Peter chews his nails

And goes about in workaday-clothes.

Peter says quietly out loud to himself,

Looking gloomily at the pair,

“Ah, if I were not so sensible,

I might do myself some harm.”

“In my heart there sits an ache,

That would burst my breast;

And wherever I stand, wherever I go,

It urges me away from here.

It drives me to my beloved’s presence,

As if Gretel would heal me;But when I look her in the eye,

I must hurry away from there.

I climb up to the heights of the mountains,

For there one can be alone for certain;

And when I quietly stand up there,

I stand there in silence and weep.

Poor Peter staggers past, Very slowly, corpse-pale, and shy.

When they see him,

The people in the street almost stand still.


2/8

Die Mädchen flüstern sich ihns Ohr:

“Der stieg wohl aus dem Grab hervor!”

Ach nein, ihr lieben Jungfräulein,

Der steigt erst in das Grab hinein.

Er hat verloren seinen Schatz,Drum ist das Grab der beste Platz,

Wo er am besten liegen mag

Und schlafen bis zum jünsten Tag.

The girls whisper into each other’s ears,

“He surely rose out of the grave!”

Ah no, you dear maidens,

He now climbs into the grave.

He has lost his treasure;Therefore the grave is the best place,

Where he might best lie

And sleep until Judgment Day.

Флюгер

Тихо. И будет всё тише.

Флаг бесполезный опущен.

Только флюгарка на крыше

Сладко поëт о грядущем.

Ветром в полнеба раскинут,

Дымом и солнцем взволнован,

Бедный петух очарован,

В синюю глубь опрокинут.

Смолы пахучие жарки,

Дали извечно туманны...

Сладки мне песни флюгарки:

Пой, петушок оловянный!

Невеста

Божья матерь Утоли мои печали

Перед гробом шла, светла, тиха.

А за гробом - в траурной вуали

Шла невеста, провожая жениха...

Был он только литератор модный,

Только слов кощунственных творец...

Но мертвец - родной душе народной:

Всякий свято чтит она конец.

И навстречу кланялись, крестили

Многодумный, многотрудный лоб.

А друзья и близкие пылили

На икону, на неë, на гроб...

The Weathercock

It’s quiet. And it will get quieter.

The useless flag is lowered.

Alone, the weathervane on the roof

Sings sweetly of the future.

Strewn over half the sky by the wind,

Agitated by the smoke and sun,

The poor enchanted cockerel

Is overturned into the blue depths.

The fragrant pitch is burning,

The landscape is eternally hazy…

Sweet to me are the songs of the

weathervane:

Sing, my little pewter cockerel!

The Bride

Holy Mother Assuage-My-Sorrows

Walked before the coffin, bright and quiet.

And behind the coffin, in a mourning veil

Walked the bride, seeing off the bridegroom.

He was only a fashionable man of letters,

A creator of sacrilegious words,

But the dead are of the people’s soul,

Which reveres every end.

And those who met them bowed and crossed

themselves,

Brows heavy with thought and labor.

And friends and relatives threw dust

On the icons, on her, on the coffin…


3/8

И с какою бесконечной грустью

(Не о нëм - бог весть о ком?)

Приняла она слова сочувствий

И венок случайный за венком...

Этих фраз избитых повторенья,Никому не нужные слова –

Возвела она в венец творенья,

В тайную улыбку божества...

Словно здесь, где пели и кадили,

Где и смерть не может быть тиха,

Убралась она фатой от пыли

И ждала Иного Жениха...

Ветер принëс издалëка


Песни весенней намëк,

Где-то светло и глубоко

Неба открылся клочок.

В этой бездонной лазури,

В сумерках близкой весны,

Плакали зимние бури,

Реяли звëздные сны.

Робко, темно и глубоко

Плакали струны мои.


Звучные песни твои.

Богоматерь в Городе

Ты проходишь без улыбки,

Опустившая ресницы,

И во мраке над собором Золотятся купола.

Как лицо твоë похоже

На вечерних богородиц,

Опускающих ресницы,

Пропадающих во мгле...

And with what infinite sadness

(Not for him – God knows for whom?)

She accepted the sympathetic words

And occasional wreath after wreath

These hackneyed, repetitive phrases – Words which nobody needs –

She has transfigured into the pinnacle of

creation,

A secret, divine smile…

As if here, where they sang and burned

incense,

And where even death cannot be silent,

She was shielding herself from dust with her

bridal veil

And awaiting Another Bridegroom.

The wind has brought from far away


The hint of spring’s song.

Somewhere bright and deep

Heaven opened up a bit.

In that bottomless blue,

In the twilight of the impending spring,

Winter storms were crying

And starry dreams were floating.

Timidly, darkly, and deeply

My strings were weeping.


Your resonant songs.

The Virgin in the City

You pass by without a smile,

Eyelashes lowered,

And in the dark, above the cathedral,Golden domes are shining.

Your face seems to resemble

That of the Evening Virgins,

Whose eyelashes are lowered

And who are disappearing into the gloom.


4/8

Но с тобой идëт кудрявый

Кроткий мальчик в белой шапке,

Ты ведëшь его за ручку,

Не даëшь ему упасть.

Я стою в тени портала, Там, где дует резкий ветер,

Застилающий слëзами

Напряжëнные глаза.

Я хочу внезапно выйти

И воскликнуть: "Богоматерь!

Для чего в мой черный город

Ты Младенца привела?"

Но язык бессилен крикнуть.

Ты проходишь. За тобою Над священными следами

Почивает синий мрак.

И смотрю я, вспоминая,

Как опущены ресницы,

Как твой мальчик в белой шапке

Улыбнулся на тебя.

But with you goes a curly-haired,

Meek boy in a white hat.

You lead him by the hand,

You will not let him fall.

I stay in the shadowy door, Where a sharp wind blows,

Blinding me with tears,

Straining my eyes.

I want to leap out

And exclaim, “Mother of God!

For what, into my black city,

Have you brought your Child?”

But my tongue is powerless to shout.

You pass by. Behind you,

Above your sacred footsteps,

Blue darkness rests.

And I watch you, remembering,

How your eyelashes were lowered,

And how your boy in the white hat

Smiled at you

Fühlt meine Seele

Fühlt meine Seele das ersehnte Licht

Von Gott, der sie erschuf? Ist es der Strahl

Von andre Schönheit aus dem Jammertal,

Der in mein Herz Erinnrung weckend

bricht?

Ist es ein Klang, ein Traumgesicht,

Das Aug’ und Herz mir füllt mit einem Mal

In unbegreiflich glüh’nder Qual,

Die mich zu Tränen bringt? Ich weiß es

nicht.

Was ich ersehne, fühle, was mich lenkt,

Ist nicht in mir: sag mir, wie ich’s erwerbe?

Mir zeigt es wohl nur eines And’ren Huld;

Does my soul feel the long-sought light

Of God, who created it? Is it the ray

From another beauty from the vale of misery

That breaks into my heart, awakening

memories?

Is it a sound, a dream-vision,

That fills my heart and eye, in one moment,

With incomprehensible, glowing torment,

Which brings me to tears? I do not know.

That which I desire, feel, that which guides

me,

Is not in me. Tell me, how may I acquire it?

It is revealed to me only by another’s grace;


5/8

Darein bin ich, seit ich dich sah, versenkt.

Mich treibt ein Ja und Nein, ein Süß und

Herbe –

Daran sind, Herrin, deine Augen Schuld.

Tired

Sleep, and I’ll be as still as another sleeper

holding you in my arms, glad that you

lie so near at last.

This sheltering midnight is our meeting

place, no passion or despair or hope

divide from your side.

I shall remember firelight on your sleeping

face, I shall remember shadows

growing deeper as the fire fell to ashes

and the minutes passed.

Le paon

Il va sûrement se marier aujourd’hui. Ce

devait être pour hier. En habit de gala, il était

prêt. Il n’attendait que sa fiancée. Elle n’est

pas venue. Elle ne peut tarder. Glorieux, il se

promène avec une allure de prince indien et

porte sur lui les riches presents d’usage.

L’amour avive l’éclat de ses couleurs et sonaigrette tremble comme une lyre. La fiancée

n’arrive pas. Il monte au haut du toit et

regarde du côté du soleil. Il jette son cri

diabolique: Léon! Léon! C’est ainsi qu’il

appellee sa fiancée. Il ne voit rien venir et

personne ne répond. Les volailles habituées

ne lèvent même point la tête. Elles sont lasses

de l’admirer. Il redescend dans la cour, si sûr

d’être beau qu’il est incapable de rancune.

Son mariage sera pour demain. Et, ne

sachant que faire du reste de la journée, il sedirige vers le perron. Il gravit les marches,

comme des marches de temple, d’un pas

officiel. Il relève sa robe à queue toute lourde

des yeux qui n’ont pu se detacher d’elle. Il

répète encore une fois la cérémonie.

Therein am I, since I saw you, immersed.

I am driven by a “yes” and “no,” a sweet and

a bitter –

For that, Mistress, are your eyes to blame.

The Peacock

He will surely be married today. It should

have been yesterday. He was ready in festive

clothing. He was only waiting for his fiancée.

She has not come. She won’t be long. He

walks about splendidly with the air of an

Indian prince wearing on his person the

customary rich presents. Love intensifies thebrilliance of his colors and his crest trembles

like a lyre. The fiancée does not arrive. He

climbs to the top of the roof and looks

toward the sun. He releases his devilish cry:

“Léon! Léon!” It is thus he ca lls his fiancée.

He sees nothing come and no one replies.

The fowls, used to him, do not even lift their

heads. They are tired of admiring him. He

descends again to the courtyard, so sure of

his handsomeness that he is incapable of

resentment. His wedding will take placetomorrow. And, not knowing what to do with

the rest of the day, he turns toward a flight of

steps. He climbs the stairs, as if they were the

stairs of a temple, with an official gait. He

raises his robe, with its train heavy with eyes

that cannot detach themselves from it. He

repeats the ceremony once more.


6/8

Le grillon

C’est l’heure où, l’as d’errer, l’insecte nègre

revient de promenade et répare avec soin le

désordre de son domaine. D’abord il ratisse

ses étroites allées de sable. Il fait du bran descie qu’il écarte au seuil de sa retraite. Il lime

la racine de cette grande herbe propre à le

harceler. Il se repose. Puis il remonte sa

minuscule montre. A-t-il fini? est-elle cassée?

Il se repose encore un peu. Il rentre chez lui

et ferme sa porte. Longtemps il tourne sa clef

dans la serrure delicate. Et il écoute: Point

d’alarme dehors. Mais il ne se trouve pas en

sûreté. Et comme par une chaînette dont la

poulie grince, il descend jusqu’au fond de la

terre. On n’entend plus rien. Dans la

champagne muette, les peupliers se dressent

comme des doigts en l’aire et désignent la

lune.

Le cygne

Il glisse sur le bassin, comme un traineau

blanc, de nuage en nuage. Car il n’a faim que

des nuages floconneux qu’il voit naître,

bouger, et se perdre dans l’eau. C’est l’un

d’eux qu’il désire. Il le vise du bec, et ilplonge tout à coup son col vêtu de neige.

Puis, tel un bras de femme sort d’une

manche, il le retire. Il n’a rien. Il regarde: les

nuages effarouchés ont disparu. Il ne reste

qu’un inst ant désabusé, car les nuages tardent

peu à revenir, et, là-bas, où meurent les

ondulations de l’eau, en voici un qui se

reforme. Doucement, sur son léger cousin de

plumes, le cygne rame et s’approche . . . Il

s’épuise à pêcher de vains reflets, et peut -être

qu’il mourra, victime de cette illusion, avantd’attraper un seul morceau de nuage. Mais

qu’est -ce que je dis? Chaque fois qu’il

plonge, il fouille du bec la vase nourrisante et

ramène un ver. Il engraisse comme une oie.

The Cricket

It is the hour when, tired of wandering, the

black insect returns from his walk and

carefully puts right the disorder of his

domain. First he rakes his narrow paths ofsand. He makes some sawdust which he

spreads on the threshold of his retreat. He

files the root of the tall grass likely to annoy

him. He rests. Then he rewinds his tiny

watch. Has he finished? Is it broken? He

rests again for a moment. He goes in his

house and closes his door. For a long time he

turns his key in the delicate lock. And he

listens: Nothing of alarm outside. But he still

does not feel safe. And as if by a little chain

on a creaking pulley, he lowers himself into

the bottom of the earth. Nothing more is

heard. In the silent countryside, the poplars

rise like fingers in the air and point at the

moon.

The Swan

He glides on the pond, like a white sleigh,

from cloud to cloud. For he has no hunger

but for the fleecy clouds that he sees forming,

moving, and being lost in the water. It is one

of these that he desires. He aims for it withhis beak, and suddenly immerses his snowy

neck. Then, like a woman’s arm emerging

from a sleeve, he pulls it out. He has caught

nothing. He looks: the startled clouds have

disappeared. He remains disappointed only

for a moment, for the clouds delay little in

returning, and, over there, where the ripples

on the water die away, there is one reforming.

Gently, on a his light feather cushion, the

swan paddles and approaches . . . He is tiring

of fishing for empty reflections, and perhapshe will die, victim of that illusion, before

catching a single bit of cloud. But what am I

saying? Each time that he dives, he sifts

through the nourishing mud with his beak

and brings back a worm. He is growing fat as

a goose.


7/8

Le martin pêcheur

Ça n’a pas mordu, ce soir, mais je rapporte

une rare émotion. Comme je tenais ma

perche de ligne tendue, un martin-pêcheur

est venu s’y poser. Nous n’avons pas d’oiseauplus éclatant. Il semblait une grosse fleur

bleue au bout d’une longue tige. La perche

pliait sous le poids. Je ne respirais plus, tout

fier d’être pris pour un arbre par un martin-

pêcheur. Et je suis sûr qu’il ne s’est pas

envolé de peur, mais qu’il a cru qu’il ne

faisait que passer d’une branche à une autre.

La pintade

C’est la bossue de ma cour. Elle ne rêve que

plaies à cause de sa bosse. Les poules ne lui

disent rien: Brusquement, elle se précipite et

les harcèle. Puis elle baisse sa tête, penche le

corps, et, de toute la vitesse de ses pattes

maigres, elle court frapper, de son bec dur,

juste au centre de la roue d’une dinde. Cette

poseuse l’agaçait. Ainsi, la tête bleuie, ses

barbillons à vif, cocardière, elle rage, du

matin au soir. Elle se bat sans motif, peut-être

parce qu’elle s’imagine toujours qu’on se

moque de sa taille, de son crâne chauve et de

sa queue basse. Et elle ne cesse de jeter uncri discordant qui perce l’air comme une

pointe. Parfois elle quitte la cour et disparaît.

Elle laisse aux volailles pacifiques un moment

de répit. Mais elle revient plus turbulente et

plus criarde. Et, frénétique, elle se vautre par

terre. Qu’a -t-elle donc? La sournoise fait une

farce. Elle est allée pondre son œuf à la

champagne. Je peux le chercher si ça

m’amuse. Et elle se roule dans la poussière

comme une bossue.

The Kingfisher

Not a bite this evening, but I had a rare

experience. As I was holding out my fishing

rod, a kingfisher came and perched there.

We have no bird more dazzling. Heresembled a large blue flower at the tip of a

long stem. The rod bent under the weight. I

dared not breathe again, proud to be taken

for a tree by a kingfisher. And I am sure that

he did not fly away out of fear, but that he

believed he did but pass from one branch to

another.

The Guinea Fowl

She is the hunchback of my barnyard. She

dreams only of wounding because of her

hump. The hens say nothing to her:

Suddenly, she rushes in and harasses them.

Then she lowers her head, bends her body,

and, with all the speed of her skinny legs, she

runs striking with her hard beak, right into

the center of a turkey’s tail. This poser has

riled her. Thus, with her bluish head and raw

wattles, aggressively, she rages from morning

to evening. She fights without reason,

perhaps because she always imagines that

they are mocking her size, her bald head, andher low tail. And she never ceases the

throwing of a discordant cry that pierces the

air like a needle-point. Sometimes she leaves

the yard and disappears. She allows the

peace-loving fowl a moment of respite. But

she returns more unruly and shrill. And,

frenzied, she sprawls on the ground. What’s

wrong with her? The sly one is playing a

trick. She went to lay her egg in the

countryside. I could go look for it if I were so

inclined. And she rolls in the dust like ahunchback.


8/8

Billy Budd’s ria

Look! Through the port comes the moonshine astray! It tips the guard’s cutlass and silvers this

nook; But ’twill die in the dawning of Billy’s last day. Ay, ay, all is up; and I must up too early in

the morning, aloft from below.

On an empty stomach, now, never would it do. They’ll give me a nibble-bit of biscuit ere I go.

Sure, a messmate will reach me the last parting cup; But turning heads away from the hoist and the

belay, heaven knows who will have the running of me up! No pipe to those halyards – But ain’t it

all sham? A blur’s in my eyes; it is dreaming that I am.

But Donald, he has promised to stand by the plank, so I’ll shake a friendly hand ere I sink. But

no! It is dead then I’ll be, come to think. They’ll lash me in hammock, drop me deep. Fathoms

down, fathoms, how I’ll dream fast asleep. I feel it stealing now; roll me over fair. I’m sleepy and

the oozy weeds about me twist.

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