CARLOS DRUMMOND de ANDRADE , Residue, trad.Mark Strand

Carlos Drummond de Andrade

Residue

From everything a little remained.
From my fear. From your disgust.
From stifled cries. From the rose
a little remained.

A little remained of light
caught inside the hat.
In the eyes of the pimp
a little remained of tenderness,
very little.

A little remained of the dust
that covered your white shoes.
Of your clothes a little remained,
a few velvet rags, very
very few.

From everything a little remained.
From the bombed-out bridge,
from the two blades of grass,
from the empty pack
of cigarettes a little remained.

Carlos Drummon de Andrade ( fonte Wikipedia)

So from everything a little remains.
A little remains of your chin
in the chin of your daughter.

A little remained of your
blunt silence, a little
in the angry wall,
in the mute rising leaves.

A little remained from everything
in porcelain saucers,
in the broken dragon, in the white flowers,
in the creases of your brow,
in the portrait.

Since from everything a little remains,
why won't a little
of me remain? In the train
travelling north, in the ship,
in newspaper ads,
why not a little of me in London,
a little of me somewhere?
In a consonant?
In a well?

A little remains dangling
in the mouths of rivers,
just a little, and the fish
don't avoid it, which is very unusual.

From everything a little remains.
Not much: this absurd drop
dripping from the faucet,
half salt and half alcohol,
this frog leg jumping,
this watch crystal
broken into a thousand wishes,
this swan's neck,
this childhood secret...
From everything a little remained:
from me; from you; from Abelard.
Hair on my sleeve,
from everything a little remained;
wind in my ears,
burbing, rumbling
from an upset stomach,
and small artifacts:
bell jar, honeycomb, revolver
cartridge, aspirin tablet.

From everything a little remained.

And from everything a little remains.
Oh, open the bottles of lotion
and smoother
the cruel, unbearable odor of memory.

Still, horribly, from everything a little remains,
under the rhythmic waves
under the clouds and the wind
under the bridges and under the tunnels
under the flames and under the sarcasm
under the phlegm and under the vomit
under the cry from the dungeon, the guy they forgot
under the spectacle and under the scarlet death
under the libraries, asylums, victorious churches
under yourself and under your feet already hard
under the ties of family, the ties of class,
from everything a little always remains.
Sometimes a button. Sometimes a rat.


--Carlos Drummond de Andrade. trad dal portoghese by Mark Strand

JAMES WALDEEN , Una ventina di lapidi cimiteriali... trad. di A. Pancirolli

Una ventina di lapidi  cimiteriali temperamentali rabbrividivano   (un tentativo di traduzione...)



Perchè mai riaprire  ferite mai guarite, amori ormai
dormienti, lacrime ormai asciutte, foglie morte ?
Una ventina di lapidi cimiteriali temperamentali rabbrividivano

Fosse comuni ancora aperte, quella tonalità di nero
e il freddo è freddo
dici di non aver trovato  pace  da allora

Ma di quale pace stai parlando
quando mi hai lasciaro solo
rovine devastate
un uomo ossessionato e vinto?

E quando e come e quanto mi hai tradito
Parole inutili  e sorrisi
Il tuo amore?

Un cenotafio dove  mai
non batte il sole

JAMES WALDEEN , Twenty shivering temperamental cemetery headstones

Why reopen wounds never healed, never love
Dormant, dry tears now, dead leaves?
Twenty shivering temperamental cemetery headstones

 mass graves are still open and the shade of black

And cold is cold
  you say you have found no peace since  then...

But are you speaking about  what kind of

peace when you left me alone
ruins
broken and a man obsessed with and won?

And when and how much and how you've betrayed me
Unnecessary words and smiles.
Your love:

a cenotaph where ever
the sun does not beat ...