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Nòvas n.138 Octobre 2014

Emily Dickinson, poesie N. 803-822-838-875-883-925-956

Emily Dickinson, poesias N. 803-822-838-875-883-925-956

Rubrica di letteratura "Chaminar e Pensar" traduzione in lingua occitana a cura di Peyre Anghilante

Emily Dickinson, poesie N. 803-822-838-875-883-925-956
English

803

Who court obtain within Himself

Sees every Man a King –

So - Poverty of Monarchy

Is an interior thing –

No Man depose

Whom Fate Ordain –

And Who can add a Crown

To Him who doth continual

Repudiate – his Own


822

This Consciousness that is aware

Of Neighbors and the Sun

Will be the oneaware of Death

And that itself alone

Is traversing the interval

Experience between

And most profound experiment

Appointed to Men –

How adequate unto itself

It’s properties shall be

Itself unto itself and none

Shall make discovery.

Adventure most unto itself

The soul condemned to be –

Attended by a Single Hound

It’s own Identity.


838

Impossibility, like Wine

Exhilirates the Man

Who tastes it; possibility

Is flavorless – Combine

A Chance’s faintest Incture

And in the former Dram

Enchantment makes ingredient

As certainly as Doom –  


875

I stepped from Plank to Plank

A slow an cautious way

The Stars about my Head felt

About my Feet the Sea.

I knew not but the next

Would be my final inch –

This gave me that precarious Gait

Some call Experience.


883

The Poets lights but Lamps –

Themselves – go out –

The Wicks they stimulate –

If vival Light

Inhere as do the Suns –

Each Age a Lens

Disseminating their

Circumference –


925

Struck, was I, nor yet by Lightning –

Lightning – lets away

Power to perceive His Process

Whit Vitality.

Maimed – was I – yet not by Venture –

Stoneof stolid oy –

Nor a Sportsmans’sPeradventure –

Who mine Enemy?

Robbed – was I – intact to Bandit –

Al my Mansion torn –

Sun – withdrawn to Recognition –

Furthest shining – done –

Yet was not the foe – of any –

Not the smallest Bird

In the nearest Orchard dwelling

Be of Me – afraid.

Most – I love the Cause that slew Me.

Often as I die

It’s beloved Recognition

Holds a Sun on Me –

Best – at Setting – as is Natures’s –

Neither witnessed Rise

Till the infinite Aurora

In the other’s eyes.


956

What shall I do when the Summer troubles –

What, when the Rose is ripe –

What when the Eggs fly off in Music

From the Maple Keep?

What shall I do when the Skies a’chirrup

Drop a Tune on me –

When the Bee hangs all Noon in the Buttercup

What will become of me?

Oh, when the Squirrel fills His Pockets

And the Berries stare

How can I bear their jocund Faces

Thou from Here, so far?

Twouldn’t afflict a Robin –

All his Goods have Wings –

I – do not fly, so wherefore

My Perennial Things?







occitan

803

Qui ten cort a son dedins

ve un rei en chasque òme;

donc, la pauretat de la monarquia

es una question interiora.

Degun pòl depausar

qui lo destin a consacrat.

E qui pòl jontar una corona

an aquel que d’un contun

repúdia la sia?


822

Aquesta consciença, conscienta

de si companhs e dal solelh

lo serè tanben de la mòrt

e dal fach que da soleta

atraversarè l’interval

entre l’experiença

e l’experiment mai profond

destinat a l’òme.

Qué tant sas fòrças

serèn adeqüaas

ilhe soleta e degun autre

l’anarè descurbir.

Já que l’anma es condamnaa a èsser

mai que tot un’aventura dedins ela

assistua da un solet chan da chaça:

son identitat. 



838

L’impossibilitat, coma lo vin,

embriaga l’òme que la sabora:

es fata la possibilitat.

Fai ren qu’ajontar

la pus mendra sentor d’azard

e dins lo veire de derant

l’ingredient crea un enchantament

autan segur qu’un destin. 



875

D’una pòst a l’autra avançavo,

un chamin lent e cautós.

Sentiu las estèlas sus ma tèsta,

a l’entorn de mi pè la mar.

Sabiu masque que lo venent

benlèu seria estat mon darrier centim.

Aquò me donava aquel anar trantolant

que d’uns sònon experiença.



883

Lhi poètas fan ren qu’aviscar una lampa,

puei, ilhs se’n van.

Mas las mechas qu’an alumat,

se de lutz vitala,

s’imprimon coma fan lhi solelhs.

Chasque atge es una lent

qu’escampilha

lor circonferença.



925

Siu estaa colpia, mas ren da un fóser.

Lo fóser anequelís

lo poder de l’apercéber

quand én es en vita.

Siu estaa feria, mas ren dal cas:

un ròc tirat da un balòs,

lo malgaubi d’un chaçaire.

Qui es, donc, mon nemís?

Siu esta desraubaa, mas ren da de bandits:

la maison fracassaa,

lo solelh, despareissut,

escurzia tota lutz.

E pura ero pas nemisa – de degun –

pas l’aucèl pus pichonet

que vivia ental fruchier da pè

avia crenta de mi.

Mai que tot, amo la causa que m’a tuat.

Chasque bòt que muero

son aimaa percepcion

manten un solelh dins mi,

pus bèl al tramont, coma en natura.

Ni mi ni tu lo veierèm pas se levar

fins que l’auròra infinia pareisserè

dedins lhi uelhs de l’autre.



956

Çò que farei dins lo trebolum de l’istat,

quand la ròsa florirè

e dal som dal plai lhi nis

espelirèn en música?

Cò que farei quora dai cèls plourèn

sus mi de gasolhantas melodias,

quora l’abelha se penjarè al ranoncle,

çò que ne’n serè de mi?

Oh, quora l’eschiròl s’emplís las sacòchas

e las granas esbambon lhi uelhs

coma endurarei lors charas jaiosas

embe tu tan luenh d’aicí?

Aquò sagrinaria pas un pitrerós:

son alats tuchi si bens.

Mi puei pas volar, donc a çò que sièrvon

mas causas perdurablas?



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