Poesia kaiera
Poesia kaiera
Edna St. Vincent Millay
itzulpena: Ana Morales
2021, poesia
64 orrialde
978-84-17051-65-5
Edna St. Vincent Millay
1892-1950
 
 

 

Musen inbokazioa

 

Poetak berak irakurria Arte eta Letren Institutu Nazionalaren Zeremonia Publikoan, Carnegie Hallen (New York) 1941eko urtarrilaren 18an.

 

Musa Handia, sala honetatik inoiz izan ez zarena

Luzaroan absente,

Musa Handi Kantuarena,

Musa kolosal Melodia ahaltsuarena,

Kaliope ahostuna,

Agurgarria eta kontrapuntuzkoa baituzu bekokia,

Eta Harmoniarako eratua eztarri eskerga,

Diseinu huts zorrotz monumentalerako eraikia,

Eta linea melodikorako egina:

Erdu gaurko gauaz teilape honetan garen guztiongana …erdu nigana.

 

Estilo arkaikoan mintzo natzaizu…

Hitz zaharkituez, zaharkitzen hasi direnez,

Bihotzak behar baitu,

Oi, zinez behar du, orainaldi hiratu eta anker honetatik tarte txiki batez

Bederik aldendu

Iraganen batera non Gaizki guztiz dongea,

Segur kontzebitua eta jaioa izan arren, ez zen artean Legea.

 

Arkaikoak, edo zaharkitzen hasiak behintzat,

Izan bitez zure kantu gardeneko hitz zainduak eta zure mintzo larria,

Garaiak bidegabeak baitira gurekin, eta gaur egungo hitzik ohikoenak abegizkoak Gaizki Burgoiarentzat

Eta hura oturuntzara gonbidatzekoak …edo haren aurkako aldarria,

Egun osoan salatzen diharduena egitate itsusiak eta ezohiko makurkeria.

 

Erdu gaurko gauaz teilape honetan garen guztiongana …erdu nigana;

Baina, oi, izan batez ere aske ez direnen laguna.

Preso eremuetara aldran eramanik, lotsa oro sufritu eta laido oro ikusi behar dutenena.

Han ez baita musikarik ez eta ere kanturik,

Ahots handia izan arren bertan, soinurik ez dator eztarri lehorretik mihi lodian gaindi; horretarako bihotzik ere ez du.

Edertasuna gauza orotan… ez, halako itxaropenik ezin dugu izan; baizik harentzako toki bat berezitu.

Hura berton bizi liteke;

Eta zure laguntzaz, Melpomene

Eta zure ahizpa musenaz (Memoria baituzue ama, nik uste)

Baita gogo torturatuaren baitan ere.

 

Prest da zelaiotan ekaitz uzta, arestian ereindako haizeena;

Ugari, bertan metatuta hiltzen ari direnak: hain estu, aldakak izterra ukitzen du; bakarrik hiltzen da, ordea, gizona.

Musika, zein harmonikoz

Urgatziko duzu azken hasperen leuna edo entzun gabeko auhena,

Heriotza duin egiteko, gizonei ezarian odola

Darienean hil arte, bihotz penatuaren edo ezpain erritualaren hiletarik ez dutela

Eramateko oraintsu arte gizon bat zena eta bero dena oraindik,

Eramateko haren gorputz atal esanekoak axaleko hilobira, non lagunek ez duten gehiago agurtuko

Ez gorrotoak emango minik…

Ez egiazko maitasuna beregana lasterka etorriko?

 

Inork zaindu barik gizon bat bere azken orduan

Zelai hotz batean ahoz gora datzalarik gauez

Goian izar gogor argitsuak ikusi eta: «Zein bitxia… amaitu da nire bizitza» ozen dionean,

Musika onaren zale bazen txit, eta ezagutzaile fin,

Haren gogo hautsiari ez utz ziria sartzen konpas maitatu baina oker oroituez:

Entzun dezala sinfonia osoa odolez blaitutako zelaian barrena,

Parte bakoitza inoizko garbiena,

Hala, uxaturik heriotza mingarriaren horrore bakartia,

malko isilez ahoz gora datzalarik hiltzen denak ikusiko ditu izar gogorrak distira leun batez.

 

Eta poesia handia ondo ezagutzen zutenei eraman

Maite bai baina buruz ikasi ez zutena, orriz orri!

Apal ondo argituetara erosotasunez

Jo dezakegunok poeten idatzi ororen bila

Otoika gaituzu: eman

Goi artea maite dutenei geuk geure buruari adina,

Zaurituta dautzanei, kartzeletan

Nekez dabiltzanei oda handiren bat oroitu nahian minen aringarri, ahapaldi oro, azkena izan ezik,

Oroitzen dutelarik... Oi, ilunpetan berritu egizkiezu

Gogoratu gabeko lerrook; orria begi aurrean argiz bete egiezu!

Orriz orri aurkeztu egiezu guztia

Esparruetan preso daudenei, zelatari dauzkatela baioneten eta hesien arantzak,

Emaiezu beren bihotzen gurari bizia:

Shelley, Virgilio, Sofoklesen hitzak.

 

Eta zu, oi maitagarria eta ez-goibela

Zaren Euterpe, erdu gaur sala honetara!

Guri agindu ekar ditzagula

Inoiz izan dugun gozamen ezti eta alegera oro gogora…

Gu, aske garenok,

Ezin baikara egon pozik inola,

Gogoan baitugu hondamendi latz alimalekoa,

Jo dituena gure arteko hainbat

Zeinek, gure legez, zinez preziatzen duten aurpegi beldur bakoaren begiratu argia,

Antsi barik tokiz toki doanaren pauso alaia,

Eta brida gabeko pentsamenduaren eskualde hesi bakoa,

Izar arteko espazioen antzo irekia

Gogo esploratzaile eta ernearentzat.

 

Oi, Musak, Oi, Bederatzi betierekoak!

Indarge al zautzate? Ote zarete hilkorrak?

Hondora behar ote guztiak…?

Zuen laguntzarik gabe zelan sendatuko dugu

Basa zaldiok birrindutako mundu hau?

Zelan eraiki berria? Zelan ostera hasi?

Zelan sendatu min hau, edo, behintzat apalarazi

Zuek egon barik, eta indartsu?

Eta lo bazaudete, itzarri!

Eta eri bazaudete edo hiltzeko asmoz,

Ez egin orain halakorik!

 

Entzun guri, zein premia gorrian gauden oihuz!

Ez baitugu inon laguntzarik

Ez bada zuena!

Asko dezake errukiak, baita ere gogo ahaltsuak, ez, baina, dena!

Zuek abandonatzera,

Barreiatuko gara, galdu egingo gara!

Oi, etorri! Berritu gugan antigoaleko miraria,

Bizitzaren grazia, kuraia eta poza!

Josi guretzat girlanda horiek ezerk ez ditzakeenak arrasa!

Etorri! Zuen begi distirantez! Zuen trumoi zemaiaz!

 

Invocation to the Muses

Read by the poet at The Public Ceremonial of The National Institute of Arts and Letters at Carnegie Hall, New York, January 18th, 1941. // Great Muse, that from this hall absent for long / Has never been, / Great Muse of Song, / Colossal Muse of mighty Melody, / Vocal Calliope, / With thine august and contrapuntal brow / And thy vast throat builded for Harmony, / For the strict monumental pure design, / And the melodic line: / Be thou tonight with all beneath these rafters—be with me. // If I address thee in archaic style— / Words obsolete, words obsolescent, / It is that for a little while / The heart must, oh, indeed must from this angry and outrageous present / Itself withdraw / Into some past in which most crooked Evil, / Although quite certainly conceived and born, was not as yet the Law. // Archaic, or obsolescent at the least, / Be thy grave speaking and the careful words of thy clear song, / For the time wrongs us, and the words most common to our speech today / Salute and welcome to the feast / Conspicuous Evil—or against him all day long / Cry out, telling of ugly deeds and most uncommon wrong. // Be thou tonight with all beneath these rafters—be with me; / But oh, be more with those who are not free. / Who, herded into prison camps all shame must suffer and all outrage see. / Where music is not played nor sung, / Though the great voice be there, no sound from the dry throat across the thickened tongue / Comes forth; nor has he heart for it. / Beauty in all things—no, we cannot hope for that; but some place set apart for it. / Here it may dwell; / And with your aid, Melpomene / And all thy sister-muses (for ye are, I think, daughters of Memory) / Within the tortured mind as well. // Reaped are those fields with dragon's-teeth so lately sown; / Many the heaped men dying there—so close, hip touches thigh; yet each man dies alone. / Music, what overtone / For the soft ultimate sigh or the unheeded groan / Hast thou—to make death decent, where men slip / Down blood to death, no service of grieved heart or ritual lip / Transferring what was recently a man and still is warm— / Transferring his obedient limbs into the shallow grave where not again a friend shall greet him, / Nor hatred do him harm… / Nor true love run to meet him? // In the last hours of him who lies untended / On a cold field at night, and sees the hard bright stars / Above his upturned face, and says aloud, “How strange… my life is ended.”— / If in the past he loved great music much, and knew it well, / Let not his lapsing mind be teased by well-beloved but ill-remembered bars— / Let the full symphony across the blood-soaked field / By him be heard, most pure in every part, / The lonely horror of whose painful death is thus repealed / Who dies with quiet tears upon his upturned face, making to glow with softness the hard stars. // And bring to those who knew great poetry well / Page after page that they have loved but have not learned by heart! / We who in comfort to well-lighted shelves / Can turn for all the poets ever wrote, / Beseech you: Bear to those / Who love high art no less than we ourselves, / Those who lie wounded, those who in prison cast / Strive to recall, to ease them, some great ode, and every stanza save the last / Recall—oh, in the dark, restore them / The unremembered lines; make bright the page before them! / Page after page present to these, / In prison concentrated, watched by barbs of bayonet and wire, / Give ye to them their hearts' intense desire— / The words of Shelley, Virgil, Sophocles. // And thou, O lovely and not sad, / Euterpe, be thou in this hall tonight! / Bid us remember all we ever had / Of sweet and gay delight— / We who are free, / But cannot quite be glad, / Thinking of huge, abrupt disaster brought / Upon so many of our kind / Who treasure as do we the vivid look on the unfrightened face, / The careless happy stride from place to place, / And the unbounded regions of untrammeled thought / Open as interstellar space / To the exploring and excited mind. // O Muses, O immortal Nine!— / Or do ye languish? Can ye die? / Must all go under?— / How shall we heal without your help a world / By these wild horses torn asunder? / How shall we build anew?—how start again? / How cure, how even moderate this pain / Without you, and you strong? / And if ye sleep, then waken! / And if ye sicken and do plan to die, / Do not that now! // Hear us, in what sharp need we cry! / For we have help nowhere / If not in you! / Pity can much, and so a mighty mind, but cannot all things do!– / By you forsaken, / We shall be scattered, we shall be overtaken! / Oh, come! Renew in us the ancient wonder, / The grace of life, its courage, and its joy! / Weave us those garlands nothing can destroy! / Come! With your radiant eyes! –with your threats of thunder!