"Sonety, jaká slast..."
Ivan Blatný

Sonetové cykly

Jan Křesadlo - Pětice poněkud surreálných sonetů - Five Somewhat Surreal Sonnets (česky a v anlickém překladu Křesadlova syna Václava Pinkavy)

18. června 2007 v 9:59 | Jan Křesadlo - Václav Pinkava
1. Les

Má duše pod strání se zimomřivě choulí
a ještě včera dobře bylo mi,
hlas kukačky je modrou dutou koulí,
se kterou echo pinká o stromy.

Čert lesní vchází v skalní polomy,
má černou tvář a bílé oči poulí,
trouchnivý pařez napůl vylomí
a hledá duše třepotavé, jsou-li.

V průsecích prostorů se hoboj ozývá,
podoben průhlednému holubu,
má duše trne, jako neživá,

prázdné a duchovité halali
se kdesi dávno tříští o skály
a bílý choroš roste na dubu.

2. Metamorfózy

Hlas hodin čtverhranný se dává v klus
a pleskot křídel v koutě lesa vzlyká,
jsem brachymelocynocentaurus,
což značí kentaur s tělem jezevčíka.

Průbežně všechno zaniká a vzniká,
tak jak to káže demiurga vkus,
čas vyvřelin, čas krystalů a drůz:
zakletá duše v osmistěnu pyká.

Tak bylo vždy a tak se neděje,
lomí se světlo v čistých hranolech
a v prostoru již zejí veřeje,

rodí se krystal, který nevězní
a modrá zvonice již nově zní
holubi zobou drobty po stolech.

3. Noc protinožců

Sosnovín lesní sosák rozvíjí
a hebkost křídel srstnatě se ježí,
zlatistost tygrovaných lilií
je jiným květem překonána stěží.

Za nicí můry tančí kolem věží
a usedají sochám na šíji:
ohnivá muška ~ lyšaj straší ji
a dole potok zelenavě běží.

Půlměsíc podobá se praseti
a dorůstaje, vychází až k ránu,
v mechoví konají se tajná objetí,

zrcadla jezer, mnohonásobící
rtuť bradavic, planoucích ve měsíci,
se rozkládají na západní stranu.

4. Estetika let třicátých

Prázdné jsou oči bohů na terase
z nichž Diana zahouká do chodeb,
prasečí měsíc v liliích se pase
a kothurny už kráčí po schodech.

Pleskají v nekonečných pochodech
po imaginární a tajné trase,
v jezírku nymfa bílá zjevila se,
nejasno zda to tělo nebo dech.

Prázdný je zámek, ozvěny v něm bydlí
a pavučiny, střepy soch, a prach,
pavouci meditují nad osidly.

Kosmicky prázdný profil Apolóna:
snad se tu dosud tajný obřad koná,
či odkud jinak čišel by ten strach?

5. Commemoratio vivorum: L.K.

V zámecké kapli celebruje duch
mající místo hlavy půlměsíc,
v průzračném prázdnu, avšak neděsíc,
probíhá mše a v chlebu vzniká Bůh.

Tak děje se, co roků spěje kruh:
Ač místo není známo tobě sic,
vzal by vás do ochrany obě sýc,
jehožto vlastní element je vzduch.

na hranách zelených se mlha rozpouští
a hřeben kohoutí je druhem potravy,
šlépěje velbloudů lze najít na poušti:

Zpěv stupňů zodpovídá ježek ježatý
pokorně klečí knězi u paty,
zatímco celebruje bezhlavý.


překlad:

1. Woodland

My soul cowers shivering, whether with cold or fear
Though I felt happy only yesterday;
Volleying the Cuckoo's hollow blue voice-sphere
Off the trees, the Echo plays at ricochet

The woodland Daemon walks into the fray,
From facial charcoal bulging, his white eyes peer,
Uproots a rotten tree stump out' the way,
Searching for flutt'ring souls, perhaps hiding here.

Intersecting space, the oboe call's elation
Resembles a luminiferous dove:
My soul in suspended animation.

Vacuous and spectral tonal glyphs
Splintering far back against the cliffs;
On the oak, white fungus grows above.

2. Metamorphoses

Quadrate clock-raps galloping hurry us
Wing-slap sobs sound, far off in some woodland glade
A Brachy-melo-cyno-centaurus
Am I, a Dachshund body with Centaur splayed.

Ongoing all, emergent, then decayed
The Demiurge must seemingly like it thus
The time of lavas, crystals, minerals:
Soul in Octagon trapped, until Penance paid.

Thus it has always been, and all's in place,
Light-beams through clean-cut prisms angulate
A portal now appears in empty space

A crystal being born which does not bind
The new blue belfry bell rings out in kind
Crumb-pecking doves on tables undulate.

3. Antipodean Night

The moth unraveling its tongue-like whip
Is velvet down wingleted with stubbled scale
The gilded tiger-lily set to sip
First among equals, who scarcely make it pale.

By night the moths around turrets dance and sail
Gently the marble necks of statues grip
Hawkmoth shocked glowworm hearts tiny heartbeats skip
And far below, the woven stream's green trail.

Truffeling like a hog, the crescent moon,
Fattening up, appearing just before dawn
While in the moss embraces secret swoon,

While looking-glass lakes, in myriad reports,
Mercurial ructions, blazing of lunar warts,
Expansively and wetly west are drawn.

4. Thirties' AEsthetic

Diana hooting, calling through passageways,
Along the terrace empty-eyed gods strain,
The piggish moon in the lily pond does graze
Cothurni climb the stairway yet again.

They flap along in their never ending train
Along their virtual and secret ways
While from the pond a nymph, white, appears to raise
Exhalate mere, corporeality feigns.

The chateau is abandoned, resonances
Cobwebs, splintered statues and dust live here
Spiders spinning their meditative trances.

The vacant cosmic profile of Apollo:
Perhaps some secret rite here they still follow,
Or how else to explain that chilling fear?

5. Commemoratio vivorum L.K.

In castle chapel serving Mass, a spook
In place of head, a crescent moon he sports,
In limpid space disarmingly cavorts
While from the bread, God rises, for the cook.

Thus it goes on, as the years roller-coast:
Unknown the place, omitted by reports,
Your sanctuary's owl is in cohorts
with air itself which underpins it most.

The fog disappears on death-knells' edges green
To-be-found desert camels' footprints lie in wait
While to some food, the cock's comb is more akin:

The bristling hedgehog answers the rising gong
At the priest's heels kneeling in humble song
While he-who's-lost-his-head does celebrate.

John Donne - La Corona (věnec sonetů v originále)

8. června 2007 v 0:22 | John Donne
1. "Deign at my hands..."

Deign at my hands this crown of prayer and praise,
Weav'd in my low devout melancholy,
Thou which of good, hast, yea art treasury,
All changing unchanged Ancient of days,
But do not, with a vile crown of frail bays,
Reward my muse's white sincerity,
But what thy thorny crown gained, that give me,
A crown of Glory, which doth flower always;
The ends crown our works, but thou crown'st our ends,
For at our end begins our endlesse rest,
The first last end, now zealously possest,
With a strong sober thirst, my soul attends.
'Tis time that heart and voice be lifted high,
Salvation to all that will is nigh.

2. Annunciation

Salvation to all that will is nigh,
That All, which always is All everywhere,
Which cannot sin, and yet all sins must bear,
Which cannot die, yet cannot choose but die,
Loe, faithful Virgin, yields himself to lie
In prison, in thy womb; and though he there
Can take no sin, nor thou give, yet he'will wear
Taken from thence, flesh, which death's force may try.
Ere by the spheres time was created, thou
Wast in his mind, who is thy Son, and Brother,
Whom thou conceiv'st, conceiv'd; yea thou art now
Thy maker's maker, and thy Father's mother,
Thou hast light in dark; and shutst in little room,
Immensity cloistered in thy dear womb.

3. Nativity

Immensity cloistered in thy dear womb,
Now leaves his welbelov'd imprisonment,
There he hath made himself to his intent
Weak enough, now into our world to come;
But Oh, for thee, for him, hath th'Inne no roome?
Yet lay him in this stall, and from the Orient,
Stars, and wisemen will travel to prevent
Th'effect of Herod's jealous general doom;
Seest thou, my Soul, with thy faith's eyes, how he
Which fills all place, yet none holds him, doth lie?
Was not his pity towards thee wondrous high,
That would have need to be pitied by thee?
Kiss him, and with him into Egypt goe,
With his kind mother, who partakes thy woe.

4. Temple

With his kind mother, who partakes thy woe,
Joseph turn back; see where your child doth sit,
Blowing, yea blowing out those sparks of wit,
Which himself on the Doctors did bestow;
The Word but lately could not speake, and loe
It suddenly speaks wonders, whence comes it,
That all which was, and all which should be writ,
A shallow seeming child, should deeply know?
His Godhead was not soul to his manhood,
Nor had time mellow'd him to this ripenesse,
But as for one which hath a long task, 'tis good,
With the Sunne to begin his businesse,
He in His age's morning thus began
By miracles exceeding power of man.

5. Crucifying

By miracles exceeding power of man,
He faith in some, envy in some begat,
For, what weake spirits admire, ambitious hate:
In both affections many to him ran,
But Oh! the worst are most, they will and can,
Alas, and do, unto the immaculate,
Whose creature Fate is, now prescribe a Fate,
Measuring selfe-life's infinity to a span,
Nay to an inch. Loe, where condemned he
Bears his own cross, with pain, yet by and by
When it bears him, he must bear more and die;
Now thou art lifted up, draw me to thee,
And at thy death giving such liberal dole,
Moist, with one drop of thy blood, my dry soule.

6. Resurrection

Moist, with one drop of thy blood, my dry soule
Shall (though she now be in extreme degree
Too stony hard, and yet too fleshly) be
Freed by that drop, from being starved, hard, or foul,
And life, by this death abled, shall control
Death, whom thy death slew; nor shall to me
Fear of first or last death, bring misery,
If in thy little book my name thou enroll,
Flesh in that long sleep is not putrified,
But made that there, of which, and for which 'twas;
Nor can by other means be glorified.
May then sins sleep, and deaths soon from me pass,
That waked from both, I again risen may
Salute the last, and everlasting day.

7. Ascension

Salute the last, and everlasting day,
Joy at the uprising of this Sunne, and Sonne,
Ye whose just tears, or tribulation
Have purely washed, or burnt your drossy clay;
Behold the Highest, parting hence away,
Lightens the dark clouds, which he treads upon,
Nor doth he by ascending, show alone,
But first he, and he first enters the way.
O strong Ram which hast battered heaven for me,
Mild lamb, which with thy blood, hast marked the path;
Bright Torch, which shin'st, that I the way may see,
Oh, with thy own blood quench thy own just wrath.
And if the holy Spirit, my Muse did raise,
Deign at my hands this crown of prayer and praise.

Jaroslav Seifert - Praha (věnec sonetů) česky a v zrcadlovém překladu Jana Křesadla

8. června 2007 v 0:03 | Jaroslav Seifert
I

Prague, that's a sip of wine with flavour,
a hundred times I say her name,
light as a breath and bright as flame,
and sweeter than a lover's favour.

Yet, may the alarm sirens, please,
take off their helmets, silent, muted.
They haven't stopped yet, they have hooted,
the sirens of our consciences.

And if I saw her, broken vessel,
glass splinters scattered far around,
and with her doom I had to wrestle,

her dust inside my mouth would sweeten,
she's like a seal on what's been written,
and were she levelled to the ground...


Praha ! To chutná jak hlt vína,
Opakuji si stokráte
to jméno dechem naváté
a sladší dechu milenčina.

Ať sirény však nad domy,
dají si radši přilbu s čela,
beztak nám ještě nedozněla
siréna našich svědomí.

Kdybych ji viděl jako vázu,
z níž zůstaly jen střep a prach,
kdybych měl přežít jeji zkázu,

prach její sládl by v mé slině.
Je jako pečeťna listině,
i kdyby byla v sutinách.

II

And were she levelled to the ground
and wind and water split their booty,
ashes remaining of her beauty,
and what survived the dread, they'd hound.

She'd live on till the final day,
a tune which in my ear is singing,
and image which the air is bringing,
which floats and never fades away.

If Death again began his tally
of those whom doom and fear surround,
just fifty men left in the alley,

I'd man my post, steadfast, believing,
though I'd be starved and barely living,
if my own home could not be found.


I kdyby byla v sutinách
a voda s větrem dělila si
i popel zbylý z její krásy
a to, co přežilo by strach,

žila by jako věčný vzkaz
a píseň, která zní mi v uchu,
jak obraz na plynoucím vzduchu,
vznášející se mimo nás.

Kdyby smrt začla počítati,
stojíc už zmaru na dosah,
jen do sta, jen do padesáti,

nebudu prchat z palisády,
i kdybych potácel se hlady
a kdybych ztratil vlastní práh.

III

If my own home could not be found
and I was lost up by the Castle,
without the trees, their gentle rustle,
her rains on battlements and mound.

How well I know her gusts and breezes,
in March a little leaf they twist:
a violet, an amethyst
shines in the earthy bowl and pleases.

She is a cloud with which I go,
smoke changeable in its behaviour,
each moment there's a different show.

I'll stand on vaults of catacombs,
and were it in a rain of bombs,
and were she soaked with blood, no braver.


A kdybych ztratil vlastní práh
a ve tmě bloudil kolem Dómu!
Co počal bych bez jejích stromů,
bez jejích dešťů na hradbách?

Znám všechny její meluzíny.
Když v březnu poodhrnou list,
fialka, drobný ametyst,
třpytí se pod ním v misce hlíny.

Je oblak, s kterým jdu, a vím,
že ve vteřině bude jiná,
je proměnlivá jako dým.

Stůj však na klenbě katakomb,
i kdyby stála v dešti bomb,
krví se zalkla její hlína.

IV

And were she soaked with blood - no braver -
as when the steel belts crushed the palm
of Old Town Square and brought great harm
to Tyne Church Lanes, thus to enslave her,

And cannon from the Letná, roaring,
cut down the branches in their pride;
the ancient tow'r they'd helped to hide,
when May its bloom of smoke was pouring.

She signed her forehead with the mark,
symbol of hope for those still living,
the mark a cross of ash, so dark.

Yet there's the river, lock of hair
around her neck it glistens, fair:
I won't be one of those who're leaving.


Krví se zalkla její hlína
když drtil ocelový pás
dlaň náměstí a lámal vaz
uliček pod věžemi Týna.

A děla střílející z Letné
srážela větve a ty též
brániti chtěly starou věž,
když v kouři rozkvétal jsi, květne !

Je znamenána na čele
slovem vyřčeným pro naději
i křížem svého popele.

Jen když si řeka ovíjí
jak cop, jenž padl na šíji !
Z těch nebudu, kdož opouštějí.

V

I won't be one of those who're leaving
from fear and for sad affluence
of despair, seeing no more sense,
ungrateful even when she's giving:

the slice for which we are indebted
cut with the rusty knife of want,
for the few drops left in the font,
which only our parched lips had wetted.

A handkerchief which waves a greeting
more might have promised me and said
then foreign flags, their emblems fleeting.

To four deaf walls I read my verses,
the hour is dark and full of curses,
I shall be waiting with the dead.


Z těch nubudu, kdož opouštějí
buď ze strachu či přemíry
zoufalství, nebo z nevíry
i to, zač mnohý děkuje jí.

Za skývu chleba, jež nám zbyla,
když rezivěl nůž na střence,
za trochu vody v kropence,
která nám ústa pokropila.

A šáteček, jenž zamává tu,
víc možná někdy slíbí mi
než všechny vlajky cizích států.

Čtu verše jen svým čtyřem stěnám,
hodina zlá je, těžko je nám,
budu tu čeka s mrtvými.

VI

I shall be waiting with the dead
till springs are sewn by poets' stitches
of fleeting moments filled with riches,
of azure fabrics far ahead,

and graves groe wreaths of vernal grass.
The tufts of grass tell tales much greater
than those of any fine narrator,
dearer to me as the days pass.

I share their dreams and their mischances
though bleached the clothes in which they're clad,
in which they used to come to dances.

The pince-nez in the box I've sighted,
the cloak, as I wait there, excited,
from spring to winter, without dread.


Budu tu čekat s mrtvými,
až jara, šitá u básníků
prchavým stehem okamžiků
z modravých tkanin nad nimi,

ověnčí trávou jejich hrob:
vždyť žádná ústa nevypraví
tak jako tento chomáč trávy,
dneska mi drahý dvojnásob.

Prožívám jejich dny a žaly,
i když vybledly kostýmy,
těch, s nimiž kdysi tančívali.

I binokl vidívám v lóži,
i plášť, když čekám na nároží
od jara pozdě do zimy.

VII

From spring to winter, without dread,
from winter back to vernal places,
when wind destroys the cold white laces
and more are made of different thread.

It's April. Sun spilled milk. We'll see
a christening. It's been expected.
The rosemary, have it selected,
tell me where you will wait for me.

And in the arcades near the Tyne
to her own hand my hand is cleaving,
it slipped out of her glove so fine.

Listening to the chimes which fade
I'd wait there like a stick and shade,
till the locked gates at last would swing in.


Od jara pozdě do zimy,
od zimy opět do dnů jara,
kdy vítr bílé krajky párá
a zdobí Prahu jinými.

Je duben. Slunce ze džbánu
rozlilo mléko. Budou křtiny !
Připrav si proutek rozmarýny
a pověz, kde tě zastanu.

A pod podloubím u Týna
už v ruce držím ruku její,
když rukavičku rozpíná;

poslouchaje hlas půlhodin
čekal bych tam jak hůl a stín,
jak ten, kdo čeká u veřejí.

VIII

Till the locked gates at last would swing in,
I'd wait there, patient, true and calm,
with rain drops falling in my palm,
determined, faithful, still believing.

For when the wind plays with the lace
of maids of honour, with their dresses,
the windows of Carmelitesses
shine like a rosy, blushing face.

Please, sirens, do close up your sad
umbrellas now, and no more squalling,
Prague's sleep was never quite this bad.

And yet, once more to what new foes
these precious things we would expose
if the old owl our Death were calling?


Jak ten, kdo čeká u veřejí
trpělivě a oddaně
a jemuž padá do dlaně
jen déšť a krůpěj za krůpějí.

Jakmile vítr svane s lýtek
družičce závoj krajkový,
v té chvíli trochu zrůžoví
i šeré okno karmelitek.

Sirény schovejte si již
ty smutné barvy paraplíček,
vždyť, Praho, ty tak špatně spíš !

Komu zas dáme na pospas
všechno to hezké kolem nás,
kdyby smrt volal opět sýček ?

IX

If the old owl our Death were calling
and we were looking for the stairs
to church, in darkness, with the flares
of feeble oil lamps, feeling, crawling.

And then, when thus compelled, now humble,
to cry to silent heavens, here
much nearer to cold stone and bier
and His nailed feet, oh how we'd mumble:

may She who smiles on maidens' graces
and shades them with her mighty wing,
when here in May lights up their faces,

persuade the One we irritated.
We'd be like chaff, annihilated,
if God His wrath on us did bring.


Kdyby smrt volal opět sýček
a my zas schody do chrámu
hledali ve tmě k neznámu
jen s plamenem svých olejniček ?

Až budem žalovati nebi
a až nám budou nejblíže
studený kámen u mříže
a nohu probodené hřeby,

ať Ta, jež dneska okolo má
mladistvý půvab dívčích čel
a je tu u nás v květnu doma,

přemluví Toho, jenž se hněvá.
Nebyli bychom víc než pleva,
kdyby Bůh na nás zanevřel.

X

If God His wrath on us did bring
and ordered disgraceful sepultures:
to give her walls to claws of vultures,
vile rain of shots with deadly sting,

take her to you, protect this town
from shattered belfries, chiming bitter,
take her from us, and she will glitter --
a golden brooch upon your gown.

Take all our fears, salt tears and moans,
take all the dreadful sights appalling:
the lace and veil on ruined stones.

I know you'd stop the warth and bile
with just one word, with your kind smile,
a single tear from your eye falling.


Kdyby Bůh na nás zanevřel
a poručil jen pro potupu
to město dáti drápům supů
a dešti padajících střel,

vezmi si je, než zapraští
krov jeho věží, plných zvonů.
Dame Ti je jak zlatou sponu,
ať zatřpytí se na plášti.

A zbav nás bázně, zažeň strach,
ať bĺý šat a závojíček
neválejí se na troskách.

Vím, že to město uchrání
Tvá přímluva, Tvé usmání
a slza na řasách Tvých víček.

XI

A single tear from your eye falling
again will prop up her old wall.
Again the spring of trees will call,
dress them in blossom bells, enthralling,

and in such songs as we can't muster,
when, stretching up onto its toes
it'll sprinkle all the bloom with flows
of colour, honey, scent and lustre.

You, whose bare feet through every spring
walk amidst trees and flowers, pious,
crushing to earth the devil's wing,

weep for the one who cannot cry.
A single tear from your own eye
will break the curse above the spires


A slza na řasách Tvých víček
podpírat bude jeho zeď.
Zas jaro řekne stromu: Kveť,
a obleče jej do rolniček

a do písní, jež nedovedem,
když vystupujíc na špičky,
postříká květní kalíšky
barvami, světlem, vůní, medem.

Ty, jejíž bodá chodidla
kráčejí v květnu mezi stromy
a šlapou ďáblu na křídla,

plač za toho. kdo zdráhá se;
jediná slza na řase
tu kletbu nad střechami zlomí.

XII

It'll break the curse above the spires
and we'll forget the bombs again,
true life once more we shall regain
as in the days one now admires.

To live in full and not to toy,
to wish to live, to live, be free,
and not to think of Death. To be,
to be for life, to be for joy.

So calm and safety may return
to all those houses, hearths and fires.
To sleep on swords is hard and stern,

for those unarmed, sleep can't be deep.
Often I've shouted in my sleep
of all my hopes and heart's desires.



Tu kltebu nad střechami zlomí
a zapomenem na pumy,
městem zas život zašumí
jak kdysi v čas jen povědomý.

Žít zplna a ne po troše,
z pocitu vůle, jenž je vžit,
nemyslit na smrt, ale být,
být pro život, být z rozkoše.

Aby se ticho bezpečí
vrátilo opět v tyto domy.
Špatně se spává na meči

a ještě hůř spí bezbranní.
Často jsem volal ze spaní
to, co na srdci leželo mi.

XIII

Of all my hopes and heart's desires
when Shame equipped to steal and pry
disguised herself as splendid Lie,
in pretty mendacious attires.

The world was falling, and vertigo
led us up to a precipice,
and rabble tore land, piece by piece,
mocked by each little sordid ego.

When a strong belt was tightened fast
around the crowds of men -- a sling
to withstand burdens, help to last,

then to the windows I was talking,
blind, deaf and silent, hostile, balking.
It was for you I wished to sing.


To, co na srdci leželo mi,
když hanba, zvyklá na veteš,
strojila se jak krásná lež
a chtěla mluvit o svědomí.

Když sesouval se svět a závrať
vedla nás téměř nad propast,
když bylo pro smích slovo vlast
a kořist dělala si chamraď.

Když dobře utažený řemen
svazoval davy lidských těl,
by nesly větší tíhu břemen,

i když jsem mluvil k okenicím
zavřeným, slepým, neslyšícím,
já pro vás přece zpívat chtěl.

XIV

It was for you I wished to sing
when in the night the wind was romping,
for the last time and without prompting,
so dark, you couldn't see a thing.

And in her name I do confide,
just like a child for I am human.
I've always loved her like a woman,
and in her gowns I've wished to hide.

That capricious, elsuive bard
playing the lunar lute; and graver
the one who stands there like a guard,

the horologe is in her hand,
Time hurries on and will not stand.
Prague! That's a sip of wine with flavour.



Já pro vás přece zpívat chtěl,
když už jen vítr naposledy
vedl si svou bez napovědy
v té tmavé noci bez světel.

S tím jménem na rtech půjdu k ní
jak dítě, třeba do plamenů.
Já miloval ji jako ženu,
jíž choulíme se do sukní.

Tu rozmarnou, jíž v podpaží
zní luna jako mandolína,
i tu, která bdí na stráži

a drží ruku v orloji,
jenž jde a jde a nestojí.
Praha ! To chutná jak hlt vína !

XV

Prague ! That's a sip of wine with flavour,
and were she levelled with the ground
and my own home could not be found,
and were she soaked with blood, no braver,

I won't be one of those who're leaving,
I shall be waiting with the dead,
from spring to winter, without dread
till the locked gates at last will swing in.

If the old owl our Death were calling,
if God His wrath on us did bring,
a single tear from Her eye falling

would break the curse above the spires.
Of all my hopes and heart's desires
it was for you I wished to sing.
 
 

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