Asmaa Jama (1998)
We, the salvage
in the dream the sun has no teeth
it waits for no one
the earth is an empty thing, and i wander through it searching
for a marker
i mine and wait
my body is limp and heavy and scaled, like a dead fish
the sea is an emptied mountain, the salmon speak to me, their
eyes glazed,
below the horizon there is a mountain of salt
next to it a mountain of octopi tentacles in the air, as if in prayer
it is the height of mid winter and the sun won’t set
it scorches the ground,
each day is the length of a hundred days, and i sit on the earth
and wait for the night
the earthworms wait with me, we glisten like jewels -
we glisten like jewels,
and wait for the harvest
it doesn’t come
and so the birds come,
in their masses and together we gather bones, / we name them
for the ancient gods/
our found fossils
when night finally falls, dust rises from the ground, it lingers at
the wells and makes breathing impossible
i remember the first people their lungs their water marked faces /
they are buried now / they are long gone
the moon appears in its pale shroud -and tells me to perform a
ritual for the old seas, and so i name and call them, and they
come to me, lapping at my ankles the indian, the atlantic, the
baltic
and i am less alone
they soothe my aching limbs, and i shut my eyes
when i was first born, i was named after the sun /
god said let there be light and so i was / an
isotope /
a comet streaking the sky, i collapsed onto earth
i caused wildfires - forgive me / i am trying to salvage the soil
now / i am trying to stop it from becoming a cemetery /
the dark came back and swallowed us and with it the light
i tethered my organs - and told myself to stay
stay like the fragile gazelle hoping for a new day/ last of its kind
/ stay - like a seedling / waiting for the sun / i tilt in its direction
i circle it / and worship
i stay on earth, waiting for the fieldmouse
i call back the dead
i am, the salvage, i was waiting for
spring, i was waiting for, rain, i was waiting for
i am the land i am the ocean waiting to wake
Antonio Vivaldi (1678-1741)
Le quattro stagioni
La primavera
Giunt’ è la Primavera e festosetti
La Salutan gl’ Augei con lieto canto,
E i fonti allo spirar de’ Zeffiretti
Con dolce mormorio scorrono intanto:
Vengon’ coprendo l’ aer di nero amanto
E Lampi, e tuoni ad annuntiarla eletti
Indi tacendo questi, gl’ Augelletti;
Tornan’ di nuovo al lor canoro incanto:
E quindi sul fiorito ameno prato
Al caro mormorio di fronde e piante
Dorme ’l Caprar col fido can’ à lato.
Di pastoral Zampogna al suon festante
Danzan Ninfe e Pastor nel tetto amato
Di primavera all’ apparir brillante.
Spring
Spring has arrived merrily
the birds hail her with happy song
and, meanwhile, at the breath of the Zephyrs,
the streams flow with a sweet murmur:
thunder and lightning, chosen to proclaim her,
come covering the sky with a black mantle,
and then, when these fall silent, the little birds
return once more to their melodious incantation:
and so, on the pleasant, flowery meadow,
to the welcome murmuring of fronds and trees,
the goatherd sleeps with his trusty dog beside him.
To the festive sound of a shepherd’s bagpipe,
nymphs and shepherds dance beneath the beloved roof
at the joyful appearance of spring.
L’estate
Sotto dura Staggion dal sole accesa
Langue l’ huom, langue ’l gregge, ed arde il Pino;
Scioglie il Cucco la Voce, e tosto intesa
Canta la Tortorella e ’l gardelino.
Zeffiro dolce spira, mà contesa
Muove Borea improviso al suo vicino;
E piange il Pastorel, perche sospesa
Teme fiera borasca, e ’l suo destino;
Toglie alle membra lasse il suo riposo
Il timore de’ Lampi, e tuoni fieri
E de mosche, e mossoni il stuol furioso!
Ah che pur troppo i suoi timor son veri
Tuona e fulmina il Ciel e grandioso
Tronca il capo alle spiche e a’ grani alteri.
Summer
Beneath the harsh season inflamed by the sun,
Man languishes, the flock languishes, and the pine tree burns;
the cuckoo unleashes its voice and, as soon as it is heard,
the turtle dove sings and the goldfinch too.
Sweet Zephyrus blows, but Boreas suddenly
opens a dispute with his neighbour,
and the shepherd weeps, for he fears
a fierce storm looming – and his destiny;
the fear of lightning and fierce thunder
and the furious swarm of flies and blowflies
deprives his weary limbs of repose.
Oh alas! His fears are only too true.
The sky thunders, flares and with hailstones
severs the heads of the proud grain crops.
L’autunno
Celebra il Vilanel con balli e Canti
Del felice raccolto il bel piacere
E del liquor de Bacco accesi tanti
Finiscono col sonno il lor godere
Fà ch’ ogn’ uno tralasci e balli e canti
L’ aria che temperata dà piacere,
E la Staggion ch’ invita tanti e tanti
D’ un dolcissimo Sonno al bel godere.
I cacciator alla nov’ alba à caccia
Con corni, schioppi, e canni escono fuore
Fugge la belua, e seguono la traccia;
Già sbigottita, e lassa al gran rumore
De’ schioppi e canni, ferita minaccia
Languida di fuggir, mà oppressa muore.
Autumn
The peasant celebrates in dance and song
the sweet pleasure of the rich harvest
and, fired by Bacchus’ liquor,
many end their enjoyment in slumber.
The air, which fresher now, lends contentment,
and the season which invites so many
to the great pleasure of sweetest slumber,
make each one abandon dance and song.
At the new dawn the hunters set out on the hunt
with horns, guns and dogs.
The wild beast flees, and they follow its track;
already bewildered, and wearied by the great noise
of the guns and dogs, wounded,
it threatens weakly to escape, but, overwhelmed, dies.
L’inverno
Aggiacciato tremar trà neri algenti
Al severo spirar d’ orrido Vento,
Correr battendo i piedi ogni momento;
E pel soverchio gel batter i denti;
Passar al foco i di quieti e contenti
Mentre la pioggia fuor bagna ben cento
Caminar sopra ’l giaccio, e à passo lento
Per timor di cader gersene intenti;
Gir forte sdruzziolar, cader à terra
Di nuove ir sopra ’l giaccio e correr forte
Sin ch’ il giaccio si rompe, e si disserra;
Sentir uscir dalle ferrate porte
Sirocco Borea, e tutti i Venti in guerra
Quest’ é ’l verno, mà tal, che gioja apporte.
Winter
To shiver, frozen, amid icy snows,
at the harsh wind’s chill breath;
to run, stamping one’s feet at every moment;
with one’s teeth chattering on account of the excessive cold;
to pass the days of calm and contentment by the fireside
while the rain outside drenches a hundred others;
to walk on the ice, and with slow steps
to move about cautiously for fear of falling;
to go fast, slip, fall to to the ground;
to go on the ice again and run fast
until the ice cracks and breaks open;
to hear, as they sally forth through the iron-clad gates,
Sirocco, Boreas, and all the winds at war.
This is winter, but of a kind to bring joy.
---
Engelse vertaling: Paul Everett
Vivaldi, The Four Seasons and other concertos, opus 8
Cambridge University Press, 1996, p.72-75