a man for all seasons: 1904

A LATE HISTORY

To Herbert Cahoon

1.
Black, under the candlesticks, moving in harness
To a slow music, we hang the sepulchre

And hear the herald angels sing, “He is not here.”
It is mid-November. The first snows

Have fallen silently over the town. I eat
Black pudding at the alter while a dove

Descends from the flaming tower. Later,
Dr. Rashdall, behind whose scholarship

A generation’s knowledge burns, will unmask
Newman. But now it is mid-November.
I eat black pudding and the dove descends.

2.
In a hollow tree by the bridge, an owl awaits.
The moon is full and white. The stars are out.

Tall elms surround the statue of a nymph
Where old Etonians, festive in Norfolk jackets,

Commemorate D. G. Rossetti with a plaque.
I relish the scene, remembering old Watts-Dunton

Boasting, “Dogs have never bitten me!” that day
We talked about Rossetti. Later, attacks of gout,

That horrible baby that looked like Gosse, a wheelchair
Wobbling on toward Trinity, webs covering my eyes.

But tonight the moon is full, and white. Thus 1904 begins.

Weldon Kees

Weldon Kees, “A Late History” from
The Collected Poems of Weldon Kees edited by Donald Justice.
Copyright 1962, 1975, by the University of Nebraska Press.
© renewed 2003 by the University of Nebraska Press.

The Disappearing Poet

with thanks to laura for scans!

a man for all seasons: 1907

i have done very little translating but i did once write an essay on it, and the devilish difficulty of it as an art. i now know whereof i spoke.

in another of his inspirations from the japanese, hoytema added poetry to this year's images. i was half-way through google-translating them when i realized that in the dutch, they rhymed.

so part of my englishifying them was once or twice looking for the rhyme, but more often sifting through what i thought they were to have meant, and making more clear the connotations in english. corrections will be welcomed. many of them just don't make sense to me, but i like them anyway.

Hear how the gray thrush called,
"Who called?" "Who called?" "Who called?"

The sparrows call from their branch:
"Spiou, spiou, spialak!"
or from the high tree top:
"Tsjaki, tsjaki, tsjakop!"

The duck calls with its flat beak:
"Quack-Quack-Quack-Quack!"
and from the shore:
"Croak, croak, croak, croak, croak!"

Shouted suddenly from the wood,
"Green gold, gold, gray, yellow gold!"

From the flowering branch,
the thrush sings with all his might.

The Oriole lures in a foreign language:
"Guadatleadaal, guadatleadaal!"
but jays like him understand:
"Fluaidaat, fluaidaat!"

The redshank glides o'er the fields each hour:
"Tureluur, tureluur, tureluur!"

The magpie calls from the forest:
"Do the door, sweetheart, do the door again!"

Still leaves sounds go through the reeds:
"Quits, quits, - carts, carts, - quits, quits, quits!"

Though most birds migrate away;
the blue heron and the siskin stay.

Now pull it back through the dark night,
the softest sounds: "luwiet," "loewite."

From snow outside the house of men
sounds the clear song of the wren.