Illustration:The elegant Reventlow sisters by Heinrich August Georg Schiøtt (1840s)
My Translation:
***
Her neck is lifted—young and free,
Like spring in reverie.
Who knows her name—who knows her age,
Who—home, who—century?
There is no light on these curved lips—
Capricious and gentle—
Yet I am blinded and eclipsed
By her Beethoven's temple.
It makes me tender—clear and lit,
Her face, a melted oval,
Her hand, in which a whip would fit,
And—in the silver—opal.
A violin bow could serve her hand,
But into silks it went,
How unrepeatable—this hand,
Unique, beloved hand.
(January 10, 1915)
Illustration:‘Winter’ by Édouard Bisson (French, 1856-1939)
My Translation:
***
How merrily the snowflakes brightened
Your—grey, my—sable fur,
How at the Christmas fair excited
We looked for ribbons—best of all.
How rosy-pink and very savoury
I ate too many waffles—six!
How every ginger horse delighted me—
In honour of Your noble deeds.
How vendors traded garments—full like sails—
They sold the cheapest shreds and swore,
How at the Moscow ladies, young and strange,
The country women gaped in awe.
How in the evening, when the crowds had left,
We entered the cathedral, bored,
How on the Virgin Mary's face bereft
Your gaze fell like a solemn sword.
How gloomy was her countenance and gentle
The love in her exhausted eyes,
Locked in the icon case with chubby angels
From the Elizabethan times.
How You let go of my hand tenderly
And whispered: "Oh, I want her so!"
How you have placed a candle carefully
In candelabrum - yellow, tall…
—O, with an opal ring mysterious
Your Hand! —O, all my wretched plight—
How I have promised You, my dearest,
To steal this masterpiece tonight!
How to the inn of this grand monastery
—The rumbling bells and setting sun—
Blessed like two baptized girls with honesty
Like a battalion, we have come.
How I have told You—to remain as beauteous—
With age—and always spilled the salt,
How for three times—You were so furious—
In cards, my King of Hearts had won.
How You have squeezed my hair in sweet reproach,
Caressing every single curl—
How cold was Your enamel flower brooch
Which made my lips tremble and burn.
How I, against Your slender fingers.
Have brushed my tired, sleepy head,
How You have teased me like an infant,
How You have loved me just like that…
(December 1914)
Not to Be Reproduced(La Reproduction Interdite). René Magritte, 1937. Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen, Rotterdam
“To arts unknown he bends his wits, and alters nature.”
― Ovid, Metamorphoses.
Myriads of evocative images permeate the debut novel of the most influential Irish modernist, conveying the entire spectrum of feelings ranging from religious fervour to the ardour of lust. A master of intertextuality, Joyce intermingles philosophical discussions (unfortunately, often one-sided, despite their doubtlessintellectual splendour) with “scraps of poetry and madness” – playful allusions to ancient myths and historical events. Nevertheless, a vivid combination of excessive naturalism and vague surrealism may be exhausting for the reader, as the rigorous author does not attempt to ease the acute transitions from one state of consciousness into another. It is only for the literary adventurers themselves to decide whether this egocentric coming-of-age journey is worth the effervescent, yet turbulent ride.
The Waves of Poetry 