Mário de Sá Carneiro translated by Ted Hughes

“O fold me away between blankets . . .”

O fold me away between blankets
And leave me alone.
And let the door of my room be locked forever –
Never to be opened, even for you, should you come.

Red wool and soft bed. Every chink definitely sealed.
Not a book by my bed – no, not one book.
Instead, at all times, there, just in reach,
Gorgeous patisseries and a bottle of Madeira.

Because I can’t take any more. I don’t even want toys.
What for? If I had them, I wouldn’t know how to play.
What are they doing to me with their precautions and their attentions?
I’m not cut out for a fondling. Hands off! And leave me alone.

Let there be night in my room. The curtains always closed,
And I – tucked up neatly in my nest, all warm – what a darling!
Yes, to stay in bed forever, never to stir! To grow mouldy!
At least, it would be a complete rest . . . Nonsense! The best of lives.

If my feet hurt and I don’t know how to walk straight
Why should I insist on going to parties, all dolled up like a lord?
Come, for once let my life go with my body
And resign itself to being hopeless . . .

Why should I go out if I catch cold unfailingly?
And who can I expect here, with my temperament?
Let your illusions go, Mario. Cosy eiderdown, cosy fire . . .
And forget the rest. This is enough, let’s face it . . .

Let’s give up. My longings will land me nowhere.
Why should I slog about in this imbecile crush?
Pity me! Help! For Christ’s sake, take me to hospital . . .
That is, to a private ward: send the bill to my father.

That’s the answer. A private ward, hygienic, spotless, modern and peaceful.
Preferably somewhere in Paris – it will make a better story –
In twenty years’ time my poetry might get through,
And to be bats in Paris has a certain distinction, in the grand manner.

As for you, my love, you may come every Thursday,
If you want to be nice, and find how I am.
But you’ll not set foot in my room, no, not in your sweetest mood –
Nothing doing, my pet. Baby’s sleeping. All the rest is finished.
(1962)

from the Portuguese of MÁRIO DE SÁ CARNEIRO (1890–1916)




Cow

Nobody leads the cow
To the greenery cropped and dry
To the greenery without caresses.

The grass which receives it
Must be sweet as a silken thread,
A thread of silk sweet as a thread of milk.

Ignored mother
For the children it is not lunch,
But the milk on the grass.

The grass before the cow,
The child before the grass.
(c1967)

from the French of PAUL ELUARD (1895–1952)

“The tiny ant . . .”

Brings the sun’s flame, burning and clear
Out of the ancient caves.
The sage, who learns instantly
Then tells the others
Where the mean peasant cunningly hid
A small mound of grain.
So out hurries the black, possessive horde,
One by one
They come to the pile, and they go.
They carry the plundered bounty
In mouths and in hands.
They arrive eager and light,
Heavy and loaded they go.
They block the narrow path,
And collide. While one sets down his burden
The other gives him the news
Of the new booty, more attractive,
And so the delicious labour
Always invites him.
Trodden and thick and laboured is the long track.
If each one comes with something,
Dearer, and always more cherished,
As it should be, is the thing
Without which there can be no life.
The stolen load is light
If the tiny animal dies without it.
So my thoughts
Scamper lightly to my fine woman,
Bump against hers coming to me.
They stop and confer.
Sweet is the prey
If they bring, as the ants do,
Anything at all to the precious
Immortal store.
(1993)

from the Italian of LORENZO DE’ MEDICI (1449–92)



The Interrupted Concert

The frozen drowsy pause
Of the half moon
Has broken the harmony
Of the deep night

The ditches protest silently,
Shrouded in hedges,
And the frogs, preachers of shadow,
Are mute.

In the old inn of the village
The sad music is over
And the most ancient star
Has doused its look.

The wind has lain down in the caverns
Of the dark mountain
And a single poplar – the Pythagoras
Of the blank plain –
Lifts its hundred year old hand
And strikes the moon.
(1996)

from the Spanish of FEDERICO GARCÍA LORCA (1898–1936)

These poems will appear in Selected Translations by Ted Hughes, to be published next month (232pp. Faber. £20.)