T.S. Eliot

A calella das ratas

ēgm. Flores II

 

A terra erma
T.S. Eliot

 

“Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis
vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent:
Σίβυλλα τί θέλεις; respondebat illa: ἀποθανεῖν θέλω.”

Para Ezra Pound
il miglior fabbro

 

	II.  Unha partida de xadrez
	.
	.
	A Cadeira na que ela sentaba, como un trono brunido, brillaba sobre o mármore, onde o espello sostido por columnas labradas de vides con acios entre as que asomaba un dourado Cupido (outro escondía os seus ollos detrás dunha á) duplicaba as lapas do candeeiro de sete brazos reflectindo a súa luz na mesa mentres que o fulgor das súas xoias subía para atopala, de estoxos de satén espallándose en rica abundancia; en frascos de almafí e colorido cristal destapados, escondíanse os seus raros perfumes artificiais, ungüento, pulverizado, ou líquido… enturbaban, atrapallaban e afogaban o senso os aromas; axitados polo ar afrescante da xanela, estes ascendían fornecendo as alongadas lapas das candeas, lanzando o seu fume ata a laquearia, salientando o deseño do artesoado. Un gran madeiro de barco incrustado de cobre ardía verde e laranxa, enmarcado pola pedra de cores en cuxa tristeira luz nadaba un arroaz entallado. Enriba da antiga lareira mostrábase, como se unha xanela dese á selvática escena, a transformación de Filomela, polo bárbaro rei tan rudamente forzada; mais alí o rousinol enchía todo o deserto con voz inviolable e aínda ela choraba, e aínda o mundo persegue, «chac chac» en sucios ouvidos. E doutros murchos tocos de tempo contábase nas paredes; espreitantes formas debruzadas, inclinándose, acalando a habitación pechada. Pasos que esvaraban pola escaleira. Baixo a luz do lume, baixo o cepillo, o seu cabelo esparexíase en puntos labareantes brillando nas palabras, e entón salvaxemente aquedaba.       «Teño os nervios mal esta noite. Si, mal. Queda comigo. Fálame. Por que non falas nunca. Fala.       Que estás a pensar? Que pensas? Que? Nunca sei o que estás a pensar. Pensa.»       Penso que estamos na calella das ratas, onde os mortos perderon os ósos.       «Que é ese ruído?»                                          O vento por baixo da porta. «Que é esoutro ruído? Que fai o vento?»                                                                         Nada, outra vez nada.                                                                                                                 «Ti non sabes nada? Non ves nada? Non lembras nada?»               Lembro que esas perlas foron os seus ollos. «Estás vivo ou non estás? Non tes nada na cabeza?»                                                                                              Pero oh oh oh oh, ese ritmo shakespeheriano… é tan elegante, tan intelixente. «Que vou facer agora? Que vou facer? Sairei ás présas como estou, e andarei pola rúa co pelo solto, así. Que imos facer mañá? Que imos facer nunca?»                                            A auga quente ás dez. E se chove, un taxi ás catro. E imos botar unha partida de xadrez, apertando os ollos sen pálpebras e agardando un golpe na porta. Cando licenciaran o marido de Lil, díxenlle eu… non tiven lixos na lingua, díxenllelo na cara, APUREN POR FAVOR XA É HORA Agora que torna Albert, poñeraste un pouquiño guapa. Vai querer saber que fixeches cos cartos que el che dera para arranxáre-los dentes. Dérachos, estaba eu alí. Quítaos todos, Lil, e pon unha dentadura xeitosa, díxocho, xúroo, non podo aguantar mirarte. Nin eu podo, dígolle, e pensa no pobre do Albert, botou catro anos no exército, precisa pasalo ben, e o que ti non lle deres, outras daranllo, dígolle. Ai, e logo é iso, di ela. Non digo que non, dígolle eu. Pois xa sei a quen llo terei de agradecer, di ela, mirándome aos ollos. APUREN POR FAVOR XA É HORA Se non fas caso, podes seguir igual, dígolle. Outras poderán escoller, se ti non podes. Pero se Albert marcha, non será por non te avisaren. Debería che dar vergoña, dígolle, de aparentares tan andada. (E ten só trinta e un.) Non podo facer outra cosa, di ela, poñendo cara de can, son as pílulas aquelas que tomei, para provocalo, di ela. (Xa leva cinco, e a pouco morre con George, o pequeno.) O da botica dixera que todo ía ir ben, pero eu non volvín se-la mesma. Ti es parva de vez, díxenlle. Pois, se Albert non che deixa estar, iso é o que pasa, díxenlle, para que casaches se non queres nenos? APUREN POR FAVOR XA É HORA Pois logo, o domingo Albert estaba na casa, tiñan pernil asado, e invitáranme á cea, para probármolo quentiño… APUREN POR FAVOR XA É HORA APUREN POR FAVOR XA É HORA Boanoite Bill. Boanoite Lou. Boanoite May. Boanoite. Abur abur. Boanoite. Boanoite. Boas noites, damas, boas noites, xentís damas, boas noites, boas noites.
	Traducción de ēgm. 2015

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	The Waste Land
	I. A Game of Chess
	.
	.
	The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne, Glowed on the marble, where the glass Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines From which a golden Cupidon peeped out (Another hid his eyes behind his wing) Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra Reflecting light upon the table as The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it, From satin cases poured in rich profusion; In vials of ivory and coloured glass Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, Unguent, powdered, or liquid— troubled, confused And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air That freshened from the window, these ascended In fattening the prolonged candle-flames, Flung their smoke into the laquearia, Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling. Huge sea-wood fed with copper Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone, In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam. Above the antique mantel was displayed As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale Filled all the desert with inviolable voice And still she cried, and still the world pursues, ‘Jug Jug’ to dirty ears. And other withered stumps of time Were told upon the walls; staring forms Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed. Footsteps shuffled on the stair. Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery points Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.       ‘My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me. Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.       What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? I never know what you are thinking. Think.’       I think we are in rats’ alley Where the dead men lost their bones.       ‘What is that noise?’                                          The wind under the door. ‘What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?’                                                                                        Nothing again nothing.                                                                                                                                ‘Do ‘You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember ‘Nothing?’                   I remember Those are pearls that were his eyes. ‘Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?’                                                                                               But O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag— It’s so elegant So intelligent ‘What shall I do now? What shall I do? ‘I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street ‘With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow? ‘What shall we ever do?’                                            The hot water at ten. And if it rains, a closed car at four. And we shall play a game of chess, Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door. When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said— I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself, HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart. He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there. You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set, He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you. And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert, He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time, And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said. Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said. Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look. HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said. Others can pick and choose if you can’t. But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling. You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique. (And her only thirty-one.) I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face, It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said. (She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.) The chemist said it would be all right, but I’ve never been the same. You are a proper fool, I said. Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said, What you get married for if you don’t want children? HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon, And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot— HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight. Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight. Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

 

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►wikipedia: La tierra baldía
►bartleby.com: The Waste Land
►T.S.Eliot Hypertext Project, The Waste Land
►new-wisdom.org: Notes on T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land
►britlitwiki: Allusions in Eliot
►britlitwiki: Waste Land Translations
►youtube: T.S. Eliot reads The Waste Land
►youtube: The Waste Land read by Edward Fox, Eileen Atkins and Michael Gough
►youtube: The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot, Part one

 

►I. O enterramento dos mortos

►español

T.S. Eliot

Medo no pó

ēgm., Flores I

 

A terra erma
T.S. Eliot

 

“Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis
vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent:
Σίβυλλα τί θέλεις; respondebat illa: ἀποθανεῖν θέλω.”

Para Ezra Pound
il miglior fabbro

 

	I.  O enterramento dos mortos
	.
	.
	Abril é o mes máis cruel, pois cría lilas da terra morta, mestura recordo e desexo, reaviva aletargadas raíces coa choiva da primavera. O inverno mantívonos quentes, cubrindo a terra de esquecediza neve, alimentando a pouca vida con secos tubérculos. O verán sorprendeunos, chegando ao lago Starnberger cunha gran chuvascada; quedamos na columnata e continuamos, baixo o sol, cara ao Hofgarten, e tomamos café, e leriamos unha boa hora. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch. E cando nenos, parando co arquiduque, con meu primo, el levoume nunha zorra e eu asustárame. E dixo: Marie, Marie, cóllete forte. E alá fomos para abaixo. Na montaña, ti alí sénteste libre. Leo, gran parte da noite, e marcho ao sur no inverno. Que raíces prenden, que gallas medran nesta pedregueira lixenta? Fillo do home, ti non o podes dicir, nin supor, pois que coñeces só un feixe de imaxes rotas, onde o sol bate e a árbore morta non dá abeiro, nin o grilo acougo, e na pedra seca non resoa a auga. Só hai sombra baixo desta rocha vermella, (ven á sombra desta rocha vermella), e eu amosareite algo diferente, que non é nin a sombra que vai detrás túa no abrente ás chancadas nin a sombra que se ergue ao solpor a encontrarte: eu amosareite medo nun puñado de po.                     Frisch weht der Wind                     Der Heimat zu,                     Mein Irisch Kind,                     Wo weilest du? “Déchesme hai un ano os primeiros xacintos e a rapaza do xacinto chamáronme.” —Mais de volta, xa tarde, do Parque de Xacinto, cos teus brazos cheos e o teu pelo mollado, non puiden falar, e apagáronseme o ollos, eu non era ninguén vivente nin morto, e non souben nada, ollando no corazón de luz, o silencio. Öed’ und leer das Meer. Madame Sosostris, clarividente afamada, tiña un mal arrefriado; malia isto é coñecida como a muller mais sabia de Europa, cunha baralla sinistra. Aquí, di ela, está a súa carta, o Mariñeiro fenicio afogado. (Esas perlas foron os seus ollos. Véxaas!) Esta é Beladona, a Dama das Rochas, a dama das situacións. Aquí está o home dos tres bastos, e aquí, a Roda, e este é o mercador breco, e estoutra carta que fica tapada, é algo que el carga ás costas, e que eu teño prohibido mirar. Non atopo o Aforcado. Tema a morte por auga. Vexo multitude de xente a dar voltas en círculo. Grazas. Se vostede ve á miña estimada señora Equitone, dígalle que o horóscopo xa llo levo eu: Hai que ter moito coidado hoxe en día. Cidade irreal, baixo a néboa pardenta dun amencer de inverno, unha multitude afluía pola Puente de Londres, tantos, eu non crera que a morte desfixera a tantos. Exhalaban suspiros, curtos e illados, e cada home fixaba os seus ollos diante dos pés. Afluían cara ao outeiro e baixaban pola rúa King William, onde a igrexa de Woolnoth contaba as horas cun xordo son no derradeiro toque das nove. Vin alí un coñecido e pareino, berrándolle: «Stetson! Ti estiveras comigo nos barcos en Milas! O cadáver aquel que plantaras na horta o ano pasado, xa comezou xermolar? Ha rosear este ano? Ou a repentina lazada perturbou o seu leito? Oes, terás o Can afastado, o amigo do home, ou vaino desenterrar coas unllas outra vez! Ti! Hypocrite lecteur! – mon semblable , – mon frère!»
	Traducción de ēgm. 2015
	Notas Xardín de Xacinto (Hyacinth garden). É máis probable que se refira a un xardín “de Xacinto”, o mito grego, ca a “xardín do xacinto” ou “dos xacintos”. estoutra carta que fica tapada (and this card, which is blank). Adoita traducirse por “e esta carta, que está en branco”, pero non hai cartas en branco no tarot nin noutra baralla ningunha.

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	The Waste Land
	I. The Burial of the Dead
	.
	.
	April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s, My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust.           Frisch weht der Wind           Der Heimat zu,           Mein Irisch Kind,           Wo weilest du? “You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; They called me the hyacinth girl.” —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Öed’ und leer das Meer. Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, Had a bad cold, nevertheless Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she, Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor, (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!) Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks, The lady of situations. Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel, And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card, Which is blank, is something he carries on his back, Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find The Hanged Man. Fear death by water. I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring. Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone, Tell her I bring the horoscope myself: One must be so careful these days. Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. Flowed up the hill and down King William Street, To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine. There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: 'Stetson! 'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! 'That corpse you planted last year in your garden, 'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? 'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? 'O keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men, 'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again! 'You! Hypocrite lecteur! - mon semblable, - mon frère!'

 

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►wikipedia: La tierra baldía
►bartleby.com: The Waste Land
►T.S.Eliot Hypertext Project, The Waste Land
►new-wisdom.org: Notes on T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land
►britlitwiki: Allusions in Eliot
►britlitwiki: Waste Land Translations
►youtube: T.S. Eliot reads The Waste Land
►youtube: The Waste Land read by Edward Fox, Eileen Atkins and Michael Gough
►youtube: The Waste Land: Burial of the Dead

 

►II. Unha partida de xadrez

►español