Josip Murn - Lonesome Poplar Tree: Selected Poems

1/2016/LIV/142 Josip Murn Aleksandrov Lonesome Poplar Tree: Selected Poems Originally published in Slovene as: Topol samujo: izbrane pesmi Copyright 1996 by Mladinska knjiga, Ljubljana Translation copyright 2016 by Nada Groelj Translated by Nada Groelj English language consultant Jason Blake Afterword Nada Groelj and Brane Seneganik Editors for the Litterae Slovenicae Series Tina Kozin, Tanja Petri Editor for this edition Tina Kozin Issued and published by Drutvo slovenskih pisateljev (DSP) = Slovene Writers Association (SWA), Ljubljana, represented by Ivo Svetina, President Graphic design Ranko Novak Ljubljana 2017 This project has been funded with support from the European Commission. This publication reflects the views only of the author, and the Commission cannot be held responsible for any use which may be made of the information contained therein. CIP - Kataloni zapis o publikaciji Univerzitetna knjinica Maribor 821.163.6-1(0.034.2) MURN, Josip Lonesome poplar tree [Elektronski vir] : selected poems / Josip Murn Aleksandrov ; translated by Nada Groelj ; afterword by Nada Groelj and Brane Seneganik. - El. knjiga. - (Litterae Slovenicae : Slovenian literary magazine) Prevod dela: Topol samujo ISBN 978-961-6995-28-3 COBISS.SI-ID 91867393 Josip Murn Aleksandrov Selected Poems Translated by Nada Groelj Afterword by Nada Groelj and Brane Seneganik Drutvo slovenskih pisateljev Slovene Writers Association Ljubljana 2017 Songs and Romances Open windows, open doors, here rides our knight, Saint George, Saint George on his horse, his fine horse, Saint George, grant us grace! Saint George is a mighty saint, Gods right hand, who slew the snake, that snake was the winter-snake: blood bright splotches, dragon splotches spring up in the budding dale. - (Litterae Slovenicae : Slovenian literary magazine) Prevod dela: Topol samujo ISBN 978-961-6995-28-3 COBISS.SI-ID 91867393 Josip Murn Aleksandrov Selected Poems Translated by Nada Groelj Afterword by Nada Groelj and Brane Seneganik Drutvo slovenskih pisateljev Slovene Writers Association Ljubljana 2017 Songs and Romances Open windows, open doors, here rides our knight, Saint George, Saint George on his horse, his fine horse, Saint George, grant us grace! Saint George is a mighty saint, Gods right hand, who slew the snake, that snake was the winter-snake: blood bright splotches, dragon splotches spring up in the budding dale.

Open windows, open doors, knocking comes our knight, Saint George, Saint George in such splendid garb that hes bringing, in this garb, lovely days again. All these days, Saint Georges days, have come to the land. George is not just May in bloom, George is Gods own freedom, nature, life and vigour, winter-drake was merely gloom Sunlike, George bends down his gaze, through our windows bends his gaze: open houses wide! Now, oh holy saint, Saint George, step with good cheer through our doors one more time!

Coming to the country is a hint of spring, good day, God and sunshine, good day, fields and hills! You are known to songbirds, twittering and blithe, known to greying twilight, known to warmer nights. You are known to grass blades: having sped through woods to the lea, a maiden glows like poppy bloom. When Spring comes to the country, her foster twin appears, like God she channels, kindly, into my soul good cheer. This is my feast of yearning, the full soul, brimming, spins, all space and lifes whole image reflects and fades within.

Oh, world beyond the river when early blossoms spring, soft rustle by the river, and fingers white and slim Vast heavens, breath of Spring: birds cannot chirp their fill, and hot blood cannot think its fill in sun or chill.

I know not which is sadder, the little lark or I: both he and I are haunted, alas, at the same time. The lark can fly no longer, no longer can it sing, because the night is falling, because the earth grows dim. By nightfall I am hindered from singing, like the lark, but this night, it is grimmer, this night is in the heart. Across the lake came sailing a gaggle of wild geese, at twilight in the autumn, when mists lie heavily. The misty world lies silent and silent lies the lake, but sometimes a wild gander lets out a desolate wail.

Like him, I am despondent, my heart is crushed by weight: who knows if it is grieving for sad or happy days

Two pretty doves, two pretty doves, alighted on the slope and to each other neatly bowed and, eager, to each other rushed in joy which overflowed, as though that loving pair, flown up to sloping rooftops, had announced the mutual hearts glow. Two lovely swans, two lovely swans were sailing on the pond with wings that fluttered sleek and strong, the water purled, subdued, as if a merry breeze sang on and whispered in a secret song with pines in murky wood. But two and two, another pair were lost in dreaming, standing there, and laying to each other bare their hearts and all their craving; and like two couples, white and fair, two bodies bowing in the air, all blood to hearts was racing. Praising God, a young student sings to his guitar night and day, from the wall Saint Magdalen, glowing in eternal flame, bends her gaze. From its leafy bowers sighs an ash tree through his hours, softly stirred, far away, across the plains, with unmoving grassy blades soars a bird. With the woodlands growing dark, I am overwhelmed by sounds, like lamenting secret sighs, rising from a grieving heart. With the woodlands growing dark, I am overwhelmed by sounds, like lamenting secret sighs, rising from a grieving heart.

On the earth there settles peace, hovering beyond my grasp, never can my soul sink down into sweet repose of sleep. Silence of the midnight time, trembling of the stars on high, a voice crying in the wild, a lone bulrush they are I. Come to me, you lightning bolts, come to me, life full of fire, come, you murmur of desire, come to me, outshout my soul! Give me sunny days and bright, full of struggle, full of moan! Softly, softly night goes on dreaming with her lustrous eyes.

Daybreak dawns beyond the hills, in the air the morning chill, landscape folded in the mists, ancient manor dreaming still. In the far-off, faded east day is bleeding from the night and a prancing cloud wisp speeds over early windy skies. When will golden day, my love, lure you from between the sheets, past the pious holy nuns, where the spotless convent gleams? When begins this heart to beat with the joy which long lay dead? Or the flaming sun to heat love and hope and youthful step? I have mused on days gone by, mused on present times, hoar is glittering on boughs dusted by the rime.

Burning cold and morning frost, winds have risen up, Michaelmas has come and gone, wintry days have come. Now huffs Winter in her clogs, wrapped up in her fell, all my high-nosed airs are gone, for what use are they? And I muse: Ill marry her, you will be my guests with my bride Ill dance and whirl till the moon has set.

In the white square tents are raised, merry tents, pure white, and before them folks parade, strolling up and down. Mayor sits beneath the lime, Praise God, greets the priest. Amen, Mayor makes reply, comments on the heat. At the rear, a grim guard stands with a scythe moustache, and the judges daughter chats with the office clerk.