Poesia kaiera
Poesia kaiera
William Butler Yeats
itzulpena: Juan Kruz Igerabide
2022, poesia
64 orrialde
978-84-17051-86-0
William Butler Yeats
1865-1939
 
Poesia kaiera
William Butler Yeats
itzulpena: Juan Kruz Igerabide
2022, poesia
64 orrialde
978-84-17051-86-0
aurkibidea
 

 

Ego dominus tuus

 

Hic.

Hondar grisetan, erreka mehearen alboan,

haizeak jotzen duen dorre zaharraren azpian, non sutan

baitago oraindik kriseilua Michael Robartes-ek zabalik

utzitako liburuaren ondoan, hortxe zabiltza ilargipean,

eta, nahiz eta bizitzaren zatirik onena igaroa duzun,

hala ere lilura menderaezinak kateaturik,

irudi magikoak marrazten dituzu.

 

Ille.

Irudi baten laguntzarekin

neure aurkariari deitzen diot, gutxien baliatu

eta gutxien begiratu dudanari deitzen diot.

 

Hic.

Eta neure burua topatuko dut, ezen ez irudi bat.

 

Ille.

Horixe da gure itxaropen modernoa, horren

argitan piztu dugu geure ulermen leun sentikorra

eta eskutik askatu antzinako ezaxola hura;

hautatu xixela, idazluma ala pintzela,

kritikoak baino ez gara, erdizka sortzen dugu,

uzkur, korapilaturik, hutsik eta aztoraturik,

lagunek ematen duten orekarik gabe.

 

Hic.

Hala ere, kristauen artean irudimen-maisu zenak,

Dante Alighierik, hain erabat eraiki zuen bere burua,

non bere aurpegia zeharo zargaldurik irudikatu baitzuen,

irudimenaren edozein begik begietsi duen baino

argiago, Kristoren aurpegia izan ezik.

 

Ille.

Berak bakarrik egin ote zuen hori,

ala goseak eragin zion zargaltze hori,

hots, adarrik urrunenetik zintzilik dagoen

sagarraren goseak? Eta irudi espektral hori

Lapok eta Guidok ezagutu zuten gizonarena ote da?

Nire ustez, aurkariaren bidez osatu zuen

irudi bat, harrizko aurpegi bat beharbada, zaldi-zurdaz

eginiko teilatu beduino baten gainean itsatsia,

atedun eta leihodun labar baten buruan,

belar zakarraren eta gamelu-gorotzen artean.

Harririk gogorrenari ekin zion zizelaz.

Guidok barre egin zion haren likiskeriari;

iseka jasan, iseka egin, bultzatua izan zen

eskailera hori igotzera, ogi garratz hori jatera,

hark topatu zuen justizia zorrotza, hark topatu zuen

gizonak inoiz maite izan duen damarik gorenena.

 

Hic.

Hala ere, izango dira gizonak beren artea

gerra tragikotik atera ordez, bizitza maite dutenak,

zorionaren bila doazen gizon oldartsuak,

hura aurkitzean kantuka hasten direnak.

 

Ille.

Ez, kantuka ez, baizik eta ekinez jartzen dira munduaren alde

hura maite dutenak, aberats, ospetsu, itzal handiko izateraino,

eta idaztean edo margotzean ere hartantxe ari dira:

euliak marmeladan egiten duen borroka besterik ez da hori.

Erretorikoek lagun hurkoari ziria sartzen diote,

sentimentalak bere buruari bezala;

artea errealitatearen ikuskari bat baino ez da.

Zer espero dezake munduan

amets arruntetik esnatu den artistak

etsipena eta lasaikeria baino?

 

Hic.

Hala ere, ezerk ez dio eragozten Keatsi mundua

maitatzea; gogoan izan haren zorion berariazkoa.

 

Ille.

Haren artea zoriontsua da, bai;

nork ezagutzen du, ordea, haren gogoa?

Eskola-ume bat baino ez dut ikusten

harengan pentsatzen dudanean,

aurpegia eta sudurra goxoki-denda baten

erakusleihoaren kontra jarrita dauzka;

bide batez esanda, bihotza eta zentzumenak

ase gabe hilobiratu zen,

eta, txiro, eri eta ezjakin izanik ere,

munduko luxu oroz gabetua,

sehaska zakarreko umea, zaldizain baten semea,

hala ere kantu joria sortu zuen.

 

Hic.

Zergatik utzi kriseilua pizturik

zabalik dagoen liburuaren ondoan

eta arrastoak egin hondarrean?

Eserita egiten den lanean oinarritzen da estiloa,

maisu handiak imitatuz.

 

Ille.

Ni irudi baten bila ari bainaiz, ez liburu baten bila,

beren idatzietan jakintsuagoak diren gizon horiek

ez dute beren bihotzetan itsumena eta ergeltasuna baizik.

Nor misteriotsu bati deitzen diot, zeina oinez

baitabil errekaren ertzeko hondar hezearen gainean;

nire antz doi-doia izanik, nire doblea da-eta,

nirekiko desberdintasunik handiena erakusten du

irudika daitekeen beste ezerk baino areago, aurkaria baitut;

hor zutik arrasto horien ondoan, agerian uzten du

nik bilatzen dudan guztia, eta xuxurlan adierazten dit,

txorien beldur balitz bezala —ozen ari baitira txioka

egunsentiaren atarian unez une—, gizon biraolarienganaino

eraman ez dezaten adierazitako hori.

 

Ego Dominus Tuus

Hic. / On the grey sand beside the shallow stream / Under your old wind-beaten tower, where still / A lamp bums on beside the open book / That Michael Robartes left, you walk in the moon, / And, though you have passed the best of life, still trace, / Enthralled by the unconquerable delusion, / Magical shapes.

Ille. / By the help of an image / I call to my own opposite, summon all / That I have handled least, least looked upon.

Hic. / And I would find myself and not an image.

Ille. / That is our modem hope, and by its light / We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind / And lost the old nonchalance of the hand; / Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush, / We are but critics, or but half create, / Timid, entangled, empty and abashed, / Lacking the countenance of our friends.

Hic. / And yet / The chief imagination of Christendom, / Dante Alighieri, so utterly found himself / That he has made that hollow face of his / More plain to the mind’s eye than any face / But that of Christ.

Ille. / And did he find himself / Or was the hunger that had made it hollow / A hunger for the apple on the bough / Most out of reach? and is that spectral image / The man that Lapo and that Guido knew? / I think he fashioned from his opposite / An image that might have been a stony face / Staring upon a Bedouin’s horse-hair roof / From doored and windowed cliff, or half upturned / Among the coarse grass and the camel-dung. / He set his chisel to the hardest stone. / Being mocked by Guido for his lecherous life, / Derided and deriding, driven out / To climb that stair and eat that bitter bread, / He found the unpersuadable justice, he found / The most exalted lady loved by a man.

Hic. / Yet surely there are men who have made their art / Out of no tragic war, lovers of life, / Impulsive men that look for happiness / And sing when they have found it.

Ille. / No, not sing, / For those that love the world serve it in action, / Grow rich, popular and full of influence, / And should they paint or write, still it is action: / The struggle of the fly in marmalade. / The rhetorician would deceive his neighbours, / The sentimentalist himself; while art / Is but a vision of reality. / What portion in the world can the artist have / Who has awakened from the common dream / But dissipation and despair?

Hic. / And yet / No one denies to Keats love of the world; / Remember his deliberate happiness.

Ille. / His art is happy, but who knows his mind? / I see a schoolboy when I think of him, / With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window, / For certainly he sank into his grave / His senses and his heart unsatisfied, / And made — being poor, ailing and ignorant, / Shut out from all the luxury of the world, / The coarse-bred son of a livery-stable keeper — / Luxuriant song.

Hic. / Why should you leave the lamp / Burning alone beside an open book, / And trace these characters upon the sands? / A style is found by sedentary toil / And by the imitation of great masters.

Ille. / Because I seek an image, not a book. / Those men that in their writings are most wise / Own nothing but their blind, stupefied hearts. / I call to the mysterious one who yet / Shall walk the wet sands by the edge of the stream / And look most like me, being indeed my double, / And prove of all imaginable things / The most unlike, being my anti-self, / And, standing by these characters, disclose / All that I seek; and whisper it as though / He were afraid the birds, who cry aloud / Their momentary cries before it is dawn, / Would carry it away to blasphemous men.