We hear it often when it’s wet and cold:
the malediction, murmur, and complaint—
as if it were God’s job to scatter gold
down from the sky to please us and to paint
the world bright green: to stop the winter weather:
to give us always summer and sweet spring
and keep us safely this side of our tether.
But no, that wouldn’t work. Bright days don’t bring
us happiness. The sun’s no cure for pain.
Gray days are also needed and black night—
and the gift of tears, too, like golden rain.
Out of the well of darkness, springs the light.
Mull this, my soul, in time of death and loss:
no resurrection comes without a Cross.
Variation on a poem by Lucius Knightsword. (See here)
We hear it very often when it’s wet
and cold: the curse, the murmur, the complaint;
as if we held almighty God in debt
to give us warmth and sunlight, and to paint
the world bright green without the snow and rain;
to send fair Summer, pleasant Fall and Spring
without the cold and wind — without the pain —
as if we did not know that would not bring
more happiness, but total, painful loss.
Can there be life without the winter rain?
Can we accept its gifts and still complain?
We often hate the cold that makes us strong.
We learn to love the light when nights are long —
In Winter lives the mystery of the Cross.
I came upon a swan and asked to hear from her a song.
She said, “I sing in silence, and in silence you will hear
A song far greater, if you will but listen to His voice,
Whom you with earthly eyes can’t see, because He is so near.
But I am not permitted yet to sing, or I would lie:
For God made me to listen in the silence my life long,
Composing every day for Him the notes of one sweet song,
Which I will sing most beautifully the day I am to die.”
We’re quick to see in others’ eyes the splinter,
but find it hard to notice our own beam.
We smile like summer when our soul’s in winter
and say we’re fine when we would like to scream.
The brute creation suffers not from this;
a shrink is something animals don’t need.
They never hide to copulate or piss,
nor do they smile to see their neighbor bleed.
Irreali, senza forme
Così si assiepano e arrivano come torme!
Canzoni come foglie caduche discendono
Dal vento celeste a terra sbattendo
Merlo, gorgheggia! Usignolo sii pronto
Spezza il tuo cuore ma della tua storia fanne un racconto!
Nonostante tutti i loro peccati
I violini dagli angeli sono strimpellati
Per te. Questa musica dagli dei proviene
Essi ne spezzano il senso, le parole tagliano insieme
Ma a chi importa? Così tanti suoni
Come chicchi di grandine tutt’intorno in frastuoni
Chi lancia una maledizione per un uccello cinguettante?
O orafo dalla parola fiorente
Sappi questo: le migliori canzoni perdute sono già
E niente di bello durerà.
Fiori, foglie e Flora cadranno tutti
In cima al mucchio di composta di Tutti
Nella pentola della strega se ne vanno
Amore e bellezza dove a cucinare stanno
E dalle inezie universali
Queste canzoni sorgono e diventano reali
Sebbene il succo dal sangue della nostra vita è alimentato
Brilla nel bicchiere il vino dorato
Lasha Darkmoon’s Carmina Angelorum, translated by Gian Franco Spotti
I Tiresias sit by the wall
of Thebes, and watch with sightless eyes
the passing show; and each footfall
gives meaning to my song of sighs.
These sounds are mixed with magic so
that anyone upon whose ear
they fall, will sense the sacred glow;
and know what storms have swept me here.
Nor need my words be meaningful
so long as in them gods go round,
for the hidden Muse hides her soul
in the silence between my sounds.
My music’s mocked! I don’t belong.
Though the world hates me and I’m blind,
I dip the ladle of my song
into the cauldron of God’s mind.
See the damned at twilight sitting
by their lonely windows where
night’s black shadows, ghostly flitting,
mark their features with despair.
Here they swoon in rooms of fire
raging for red moons that bring
satisfaction of desire
such as make their demons sing.
Pale and trembling, sick with anguish,
lashed on by their old compulsions,
see them in long shadows languish
for their dead loves in convulsions.
Crazed with lust, they waste their treasures,
lost and doomed to their devices:
secret sins and sickly pleasures
and sad, solitary vices.
Sound Effects in the Qur’an
Sura 1 of the Qur’an, known as the Fatiha or Opening Chapter, consists of seven short verses. One of the shortest suras in the Qur’an, it is known by heart by tens of millions of pious Muslims all over the world and recited as a prayer five times a day. The Sura goes as follows:
In the name of God, Most Gracious, Most Merciful.
Praise be to God, the Cherisher and Sustainer of the Worlds;
Most Gracious, Most Merciful;
Master of the Day of judgement.
Thee do we worship, and Thine aid we seek.
Show us the Straight Way,
The way of those on whom Thou hast bestowed Thy Grace, those whose portion is not wrath, and who go not astray.
— Yusuf Ali translation.
Recited in Arabic in an incantatory voice, these seven verses often send auditors into a deep trance. This is because of the ‘magical’ sound effects of the original Arabic with its combination of alliteration, assonance, liquid, labial and sibilant sounds, apart from its complex internal rhymes. Here is the Arabic transliteration in English characters.
Bismillahi r-rahmani r-raheem
Al hamdoo lillahi rabbi l-Alameenar rahmani r-raheem
Maliki yawmee d-deen.
Iyyaka naboodoo wa eeyaka nasta’een.
Ihdina s-sirat almoostaeem.
Sirat alladeena an’amta ‘alayheem, gayril magdoobi alayheem, walad daleem. Ameeen.
A correspondent of mine wrote to me recently: “I once knew an old Sufi mystic from Samarkand who used to go into an instantaneous trance on hearing this sura recited to a background of gongs and flutes. The same sura, he told me, would not only induce levitation among the dancing dervishes but also produce a state of mind conducive to safe and easy firewalking. It is often said by occidentals of an Islamophobic bent that the Qur’an is “boring”. So decreed British novelist Anthony Burgess, author of The Clockwork Orange. Few, if any, of these Westerners are aware of the Qur’an’s occult underpinnings and its intricate concatenation of uncanny sounds. No other religious classic, when chanted, is known to have comparable physiological effects.”
Sound effects in Western poetry
Yo soy titiri, titiri, tina,
Flor de la jacarandina
Yo soy titiri, titiri, taina,
Flor de la jacarandaina.
— Calderón, El Alcalde de Zalamea. These lines are intended to imitate the sound of a guitar being strummed. Literal rendition: “I am titiri, titiri tina, the flower of the jacarandina; I am titiri, titiri taina, the flower of the jacarandaina.”
Consider Virgil’s: “Sunt lacrymae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt.” (Aeneid, Book 1). Literally: “There are tears for misfortunes and mortal sorrows touch the heart.” The English version utterly fails to reproduce the intoxicating beauty of the Latin sounds: a soft sibilant start followed by liquids, ending with dentals, bilabials and a guttural.
Similar to the auditory effects in such a line is the Latinate euphony of Shakespeare’s “the multitudinous seas incarnadine”, with its nasal and dental sounds (m’s, n’s, t’s and d’s) in solemn, polysyllabic procession. The Bard is weaving his magic spell again when he deploys this subtle combination of similar sounds: nasals, labials, dentals and soft sibilants:
“Not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou owedst yesterday.”
From Shakespeare, it is one step to Tennyson’s very consciously pyrotechnic:
The moan of doves in immemorial elms,
And murmur of innumerable bees.”
— Tennyson, The Princess
Tennyson’s famous lines are of of course untranslatable if one tries to combine musicality with meaning. The magic of the lines rests on the many long vowels, the s’s and the liquids, and above all the beautiful m-sounds which combine labials with nasals (lip and nose sounds).
It could be said that of all the words in the world, not only in English but in every foreign language, the most beautiful words are those that contain m-sounds, l-sounds and r-sounds. When Donne writes, “Dull sublunary lovers’ love”, he knows he has struck rich ore. Another memorable example of lovely liquid sounds (l and r sounds) is Swinburne’s “The lilies and languors of virtue, / The roses and raptures of vice.”
Consider now these lines from Dante, beautiful beyond compare—a perfect synthesis of music and meaning:
“Per me si va nella città dolente,
per me si va nel’eterno dolore,
per me si va tra la perduta gente.
Dinanzi a me non fur cose create,
Se non eterne, ed io eterno duro:
LASCIATE OGNI SPERANZA, VOI CH’ENTRATE!”
— Dante, Divine Comedy, Inferno, III, 1-3; 7-9
Literally: “Through me is the way into the doleful city; through me the way into the eternal pain; through me the way among the people lost. Before me were no things created, but eternal; and eternal I endure; leave all hope you that enter.”
If those lines remain the finest that Italy has ever produced, these closing lines from Goethe’s Faust are the German equivalent: stately, profound, beautiful, transcendental:
Ist nur ein Gleichnis;
Heir wird’s Ereignis;
Heir wird’s getan,
Zieht uns hinan.”
“All things transitory
Are but similitude;
What is inadequate
Here becomes an event;
Here is brought about
The Eternal Womanly
Not a very inspiring translation. Here is a much better one by Stephen Spender. (I have taken the liberty of substituting “The Eternal Feminine” for Spender’s “Eternal Womanhead”.)
“All that is past of us
Was but reflected;
All that was lost in us
Here is corrected;
Here we descry;
The Eternal Feminine
Leads us on high.”
Consider these often quoted lines of Verlaine:
Les sanglots longs
Blessent mon Coeur
— Verlaine, Chansons d’Automne
The entire poem (three stanzas) is an attempt to reproduce the effect of hauntingly sad violin music. I have attempted to translate the poem myself, but without much success. An attempt to reproduce the lugubrious sound effects has led to a loss of accuracy. (See here)
Note here the lovely sibilant and liquid sounds that manage to convey the sense of a majestic river in slow motion.
“Far off from these, a slow and silent stream,
Lethé, the river of oblivion, rolls
Its watery labyrinth.”
— Milton, Paradise Lost
For beautiful sound effects, the witches’ scene in Macbeth is hard to beat. Listen to the sound or water bubbling in a pot:
“Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.”
For beautiful sound effects, Coleridge is unsurpassed:
“The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow followed free,
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.”
— The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
Or consider this from Shelley:
Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower.
Some of the most stunning sound effects are to be found in Swinburne:
Pale beyond porch and portal,
Crowned with calm leaves she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
With cold immortal hands.
These lines made such an impression on me that one day last year, when I saw a lovely pale young woman playing the violin on a street corner, I turned to my sister Lucy and murmured, “Look at her! Isn’t she beautiful? Pale beyond porch and portal!”
Lucy laughed. “How can anyone be pale beyond porch and portal?”
Indeed, how can they? And how would a translator translate such a phrase? Would it make any sense to translate this utterly meaningless phrase as “pale beyond house entrance and door”?
Of course not. This is an example where sound takes precedence over sense. There is a special figure of speech—I forget what it’s called—in which what is said sounds marvelous but turns out to be utter nonsense when you come to ask what it means.
Obviously if the translator translates the meaning but not the marvelous sound, he has failed utterly to understand that nothing can be gained by sacrificing a magical sound and forcing a meaning on a phrase that is meant to be meaningless—as in the phrase “pale beyond porch and portal.”
Swinburne is full of these meaningless sound effects, but here he is at his best, combining meaning with music:
I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep;
Of what may come hereafter
For men that sow and reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
And everything but sleep.
From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods there be
That no life lives forever,
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.
I had no particular love of poetry when I was a child, any more than the average. It was at the age of thirteen I had a near mystical experience brought on by a combination of factors: the onset of puberty, the intoxication of falling in love for the first time, and the random opening of a book in my father’s library on a sultry summer evening.
I remember distinctly it was a beautiful little book bound in green vellum called The Collected Poems of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. The first lines that met my eyes were these: lines which gave me such a frisson of delight that I went into an instantaneous trance. Never again in my life was I to experience such exquisite rapture brought on by the entrancement of mere words:
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure dome decree,
Where Alph the sacred river ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
There is something about those lines that never fails to produce in me a feeling of awe and mystery that brings me to the brink of tears. Indeed, I have tears in my eyes right now. Why? I have no idea. The loveliness of the language is obviously an operative factor. Just the word “Xanadu”, repeated several times like a mantra, is enough to produce chemical changes in my brain and trigger an altered state of consciousness.
This verse never fails me. I use it like a prayer.
Whenever I am sad and weepy, I say it to myself, and I am slowly transported into a world of Platonic forms and higher entities—and feel fit to converse with the angels.
“Ci sono mondi senza soli, mondi infestati dal demonio immersi nella notte perpetua.”
(Isha Upanishad, v. 3)
Mondi magici spinti al limite
Oltre ogni concezione, senza speranza.
C’è un paesaggio, dalla luna incantato,
Che porta all’estasi, dal demonio infestato
Dove la vita è il latte e la morte è la panna
Che agita gli ombrosi recipienti del sogno
Puoi vedere di Rorschach nei cieli annuvolati
Dell’amante perduto da tempo gli occhi scuri sferzati
E quando i veli della sera vengono cadenti
Puoi vedere le sue lunghe gambe raccapriccianti
Come sensuali ragni su per il muro arrampicanti
E mentre passi per una strada stregata
Avverti il battito metronomico
Della pantera il passo dalla zampa felpata
Poi nei pressi del fiume ti viene alla mente
Di rianimare con magici funghi
Questo amore morto da qualche vita precedente
E giù per la corrente un cigno annerato
Riporta ora il tuo amore tutto estasiato
Verso di te sul bordo del fiume stregato
E qui nuotan due gocce di seme,
Grassi folletti di Satana estraniati dal sole
Dove scorron dolenti le acque
E d’improvviso la tua mano è una tazza-
Ti pieghi e raccogli una palla di melma
E come un fesso le palpebre sbatti
Alla bestiola sorpresa
Facendo del tuo meglio per capire
Perché questo seme dell’inferno nella tua mano è a finire
Questo orribile blob con bolle di schiuma
Attorno alla sua bocca urlante di mostro
Il tuo amore, esso urla, è morto e andato
A causa di quello che hai appena combinato!
Hai perduto il sole, hai perduto la luna!
Hai perso la testa, hai perso il fato—
Mentre il diavolo ed io l’abbiamo spuntata!
Lasha Darkmoon’s Demon Worlds, translated into Italian by Gian Franco Spotti
Vieni, il tuo cuore non far spezzare
E fa che le tue labbra non debbano parlare
E un poco a morire devi imparare
Finché io crudele non starò per arrivare
Oh amor mio, devi sorridere e provare
E la vecchia arte imparare
Il pugnale devi strappare
Che nel tuo cuore ho voluto affondare
Lasha Darkmoon’s Dying Slowly, translated by Gian Franco Spotti
Mentre camminavo sulla rive del Lago del Desiderio,
Il mare perduto di Kasmere,
La Donna Alata si avventò sulla mia spalla
E mi sussurrò all’orecchio.
Il mio sangue raggelò quando la vidi,
I suoi lunghi capelli lisci che sanno di mare
I suoi occhi freddi come mari senza sole
La sua bocca una sottile linea rossa
La luna pallidamente rapita in cielo
Mentre mi stringeva al suo petto
E girò i suoi occhi selvaggi color fumo di pistola
Verso le Isole della Maledizione.
Le sue ali si spiegarono e verso l’alto volammo
Nel nero abisso
La sua stretta era forte, i suoi artigli freddi,
Il suo respiro il bacio di un lebbroso
Paura e vertigini! E poi
Giù verso il suo castello piangente
Sull’isola di Lalàra
Nel Lago di Cristallo di Ghiaccio
Mi tenne in una gabbia sospesa
Legato ad una catena color rubino
E mi portò uno strano pane bianco per mangiare
E calici di ottima pioggia
Non ti lascerò andare, ringhiò
Finché non avrai imparato a sognare
Solo me, e non sarai il mio schiavo
Nella Città delle Grida
Ti terrò qui per sempre
Nel mio reame del crimine
Il mio bambolotto e il mio giocattolo
Fino all’ultimo dei giorni
Imparerai a trovare un piacere
Nei pozzi più profondi del dolore
Finché non ci sarà un urlante
Buco di tenebra nella tua mente!
Salì nella mia gabbia furiosa
E mi frustò con i suoi capelli
E mi scagliò la rosa rosso-sangue
Dalla sua bocca crudele
E offrì le mele avvelenate
Dei suoi seni con delicati sospiri
E aprì le fontane del piacere
Fra le sue cosce piumate
Finché il gonfiore in lei scoppiò
Come un cervello con un colpo di pistola
Sull’isola di Lalàra
Nel Lago di Cristallo di Ghiaccio