ΑΓΑΠΗΜΕΝΑ ΒΙΒΛΙΑ

ΑΓΑΠΗΜΕΝΑ ΒΙΒΛΙΑ

ΣΥΛΒΙΑ ΠΛΑΘ!

SYLVIA PLATH

MAD GIRL’S LOVE SONG

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

ΣΑΝ ΦΑΣΟΛΙ ΜΕΞΙΚΑΝΙΚΟ

SYLVIA PLATH


ΕΙΣΑΙ

όμοιος με γελωτοποιό, πανευτυχής στα χέρια τα δικά σου,
με τα πόδια στ' άστρα, φεγγαροκέφαλος,
σαν ψάρι με βράγχια. Ένας κοινός νους
με του ντόντο την ίδια μοίρα
από αντίχειρες κατιόντες.
Τυλιγμένος τον εαυτό σου σαν καρούλι,
ανιχνεύοντας σαν γλαύκα τα σκοτάδια σου.
Άλαλος σαν γογγύλι στις τέσσερις
του Ιούλη, Πάντων των Κουτών ανήμερα,
ω μικρό μου εσύ, κορδωτό καρβέλι.

Σαν γράμμα ανυπόμονα ακριβοθώρητος, ίδιος ομίχλη θολερός.
Πιο μακρινός κι απ’ αυτήν την Αυστραλία.
Πολυταξιδεμένο αρθρόποδο, Άτλαντας, στη μέση του γυρτός.
Σαν βλαστός τρυφερός, και στα νερά σου
σαν, σε βαζάκι από τουρσί, παπαλίνα.
Καλάθι με χέλια ως τα ρέλια.
Σαλταδόρικος σαν φασόλι μεξικανικό.
Ορθός σαν καλοϋπολογισμένο ποσό.
Άγραφος μαυροπίνακας, με το πρόσωπό σου επάνω.



Μετάφραση: Έλενα Σταγκουράκη.


***********************************


YOU ’RE

Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fools' Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.

Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on.

ΣΥΛΒΙΑ ΠΛΑΘ!

SYLVIA PLATH


AERIALIST

Each night, this adroit young lady
Lies among sheets
Shredded fine as snowflakes
Until dream takes her body
From bed to strict tryouts
In tightrope acrobatics.

Nightly she balances
Cat-clever on perilous wire
In a gigantic hall,
Footing her delicate dances
To whipcrack and roar
Which speak her maestro's will.

Gilded, coming correct
Across that sultry air,
She steps, halts, hung
In dead center of her act
As great weights drop all about her
And commence to swing.

Lessoned thus, the girl
Parries the lunge and menace
Of every pendulum;
By deft duck and twirl
She draws applause; bright harness
Bites keen into each brave limb

Then, this tough stint done, she curtsies
And serenely plummets down
To traverse glass floor
And get safe home; but, turning with trained eyes,
Tiger-tamer and grinning clown
Squat, bowling black balls at her.

Tall trucks roll in
With a thunder like lions; all aims
And lumbering moves

To trap this outrageous nimble queen
And shatter to atoms
Her nine so slippery lives.

Sighting the stratagem
Of black weight, black bail, black truck,
With a last artful dodge she leaps
Through hoop of that hazardous dream
To sit up stark awake
As the loud alarmclock stops.

Now as penalty for her skill,
By day she must walk in dread
Steel gaunticts of traffic, terror-struck
Lest, out of spite, the whole
Elaborate scaffold of sky overhead
Fall racketing finale on her luck.



Το ποίημα μάς το έστειλε η εικονιζόμενη φίλη του μπλογκ. κ. Angela Tuccia.