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Bloemlezing: poetry and birds
Orlando Gibbons: The Silver swan
Orlando Gibbons (1583 – 1625)
The Silver swan
The silver swan, who living had no note,
When death approach'd, unlock'd her silent throat;
Leaning her breast against the reedy shore,
Thus sung her first and last, and sung no more.
Farewell, all joys; O Death, come close mine eyes;
More geese than swans now live, more fools than wise.
John Clare : the happy bird
John Clare (1793 –1864)
The happy white-throat on the swaying bough, grasmus
Rocked by the impulse of the gadding wind aanzet, ronddolende
That ushers in the showers of April, now binnenleidt
Carols right joyously; and now reclined, zingt, rustend
Crouching, she clings close to her moving seat, ineengedoken
To keep her hold;- and till the wind for rest grip
Pauses, she mutters inward melodies, mompelt
That seem her heart’s rich thinkings to repeat.
But when the branch is still, her little breast
Swells out in rapture’s gushing symphonies; verruking, stromende
And then, against her brown wing softly pressed,
The wind comes playing , an enraptured guest; verrukte
This way and that she swings – till gusts arise windvlagen
More boisterous in their play, then off she flies.
John Clare: Hen's nest
John Clare (1793 –1864)
Hen’s nest
Among the orchard weeds, from every
search,
onkruid
Snugly and sure, the old hen’s nest is
made,
beschut
Who cackles every morning from her
perch
kakelt, stok
To tell the servant girl new eggs are laid;
Who lays her washing by, and far and near
Goes seeking all about from day
to day,
And stung with nettles tramples
everywhere;
brandnetels
But still the cackling pullet lays away.
kip
The boy on Sundays goes the stack to
pull
hooiberg
In hopes to find her there, but naught is
seen, hij ziet
niets
And takes his hat and thinks to find it full,
She’s laid so long
so many might have been.
But naught is found and all is given o’er
Till the young brood come
chirping to the door
broedsel
Emily Brontë: The caged bird
Emily Brontë (1818- 1848)
The caged bird gekooide
And like myself lone,
Wholly lone,
It sees the day’s long sunshine glow;
And like myself it makes its moan
In unexhausted woe. Onuitputtelijk verdriet
Give we the hills our equal prayer:
Earth’s breezy hills and heaven’s blue sea;
We ask for nothing further here
But our own hearts and liberty.
Ah! Could my hands unlock its chain,
How gladly would I watch it soar, opvliegen
And ne’er regret and ne’er complain
To see its shining eyes no more.
But let me think that if to-day
It pines in cold captivity, kwijnt weg, gevangenschap
To-morrow both shall soar away
Eternally, entirely free.
Christina Rossetti: The Birth-day
Christina Rossetti (1830 – 1894)
My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a water'd
shoot;
stroomversnelling/jonge scheut
My heart is like an apple-tree
Whose
boughs are bent with thick-set
fruit;
stevig
My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon
sea;
kalm zwemmen, kalme
My heart is gladder than all these,
Because my
love is come to me.
Raise me a daïs of silk and
down;
podium, dons
Hang it with vair and purple
dyes;
vaar, kleuren
Carve it in doves and
pomegranates,
granaatappels
And peacocks with a hundred eyes;
Work it in gold and silver grapes,
In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;
franse lelie
Because the birthday of my life
Is come, my love is
come to me.
Thomas Hardy: Shelley's skylark
Shelley’s skylark
Somewhere afield here something lies
In Earth's oblivious eyeless
trust
onbewust, vertrouwen
That moved a poet to prophecies
-
voorspellingen
A pinch of unseen, unguarded
dust
een snufje, onbewaakt stof
The dust of the lark that Shelley
heard,
And made immortal through times to be;
-
onsterfelijk
Though it only lived like another bird,
And knew not
its immortality.
Lived its meek life; then, one day, fell
-
deemoedige
A little ball of feather and bone;
And how it perished,
when piped
farewell,
doodging
And where it wastes, are alike
unknown.
verging
Maybe it rests in the loam I
view,
leem (klei)
Maybe it throbs in a myrtle's
green,
klopt, mirte
Maybe it sleeps in the coming
hue
kleur
Of a grape on the slopes of yon inland
scene. hellingen
Go
find it, faeries, go and find
That tiny pinch of priceless dust,
And bring
a casket
silver-lined,
kistje
And framed of gold that gems
encrust;
met edelstenen bedekt
And we will lay it safe therein,
And
consecrate it to endless
time;
toegewijd zijn
For it inspired a bard to win zanger
Ecstatic
heights in thought and rhyme.
The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
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I leant upon a coppice gate |
kreupelbosje |
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When Frost was spectre-gray, |
spookachtig grijs |
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And Winter’s dregs made desolate |
overblijfselen |
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The weakening eye of day |
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The tangled bine-stems scored the sky |
geklitte winde |
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Like strings of broken lyres, |
snaren, lieren |
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And all mankind that haunted nigh |
in de buurt |
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Had sought their household fires. |
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The land’s sharp features seem’d to be |
uiterlijkheden |
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The Century’s corpse outleant, |
uit het lood geslagen |
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His crypt the cloudy canopy, |
gewelf |
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The wind his death-lament. |
treurzang |
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The ancient pulse of germ and birth |
kiem |
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Was shrunken hard and dry, |
gekrompen |
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And every spirit upon earth |
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Seem'd fervourless as I |
uitgeblust |
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At once a voice arose among |
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The bleak twigs overhead |
onbeschutte twijgen |
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In a full-hearted evensong |
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Of joy illimited; |
eindeloos |
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An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, |
lijster, vel over been |
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In blast-beruffled plume, |
door storm verwaaide |
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Had chosen thus to fling his soul |
werpen |
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Upon the growing gloom. |
duisternis |
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So little cause for carollings |
jubelen |
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Of such ecstatic sound |
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Was written on terrestrial things |
aardse |
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Afar or nigh around, |
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That I could think there trembled through |
trilde |
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His happy good-night air |
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Some blessèd Hope, whereof he knew |
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And I was unaware. |
Waar ik geen weet van had |
Robert Frost : The Oven Bird
Robert Frost (1872 – 1963)
The Oven Bird goudkopzanger
There is a singer everyone has heard,
Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,
Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again. klinken/heel
He says that leaves are old and that for flowers
mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.
He says the early petal-fall is past, bloembladval
When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers bloesem
On sunny days a moment overcast; bewolkt
And comes that other fall we name the fall. herfst
He says the highway dust is over all. alles/iedereen
The bird would cease and be as other birds stoppen
But that he knows in singing not to sing. behalve dat
The question that he frames in all but words articuleert
Is what to make of a diminished thing. verzwakt/
St Kevin and the Blackbird: Seamus Heaney
Seamus Heaney (1939 - )
Saint Kevin and the Blackbird
And then there was St. Kevin and the blackbird.
The saint is kneeling,
arms stretched out, inside
His cell, but the cell is narrow, so
One turned-up palm is out the window, stiff
As a crossbeam, when a
blackbird
lands
dwarsbalk
And lays in it and settles down to nest.
Kevin feels the warm eggs, the small breast, the tucked
geplooide
Neat head and claws and, finding himself linked
Into
the network of eternal life,
Is moved to pity: Now he must hold his hand
Like a branch out in the sun
and rain for weeks
Until the young are hatched and fledged and
flown. van veren
voorzien
*
And since the whole thing's imagined anyhow,
Imagine being Kevin. Which
is he?
self-forgetful or in agony all the
time
kreperend van de pijn
From the neck on out down through his hurting forearms?
Are his fingers
sleeping? Does he still feel his knees?
Or has the shut-eyed blank of
underearth
Crept up through him? Is there distance in his head?
Alone and mirrored
clear in love's deep river,
'To labour and not to seek reward,' he
prays,
beloning
A prayer his body makes
entirely
geheel en al
For he has forgotten self, forgotten bird,
And on
the riverbank forgotten the river's name.