gentle hope

.
.

a tribute to Oriental Elegy

I go from the feelings, and I think that what always interests me is just those feelings that only a spiritual person could experience: the feelings of farewells and separations. I think that the drama of death is the drama of separation.

In Japanese art there is a concept of mono no aware, sweet sadness, the pleasure of endings, of autumn and seeing a dying leaf. But for Russia, sweet sadness and pleasant farewells are not possible. On the contrary, in the Russian sense of elegy, it's a very deep, vertical feeling, not a delighting one. It gets you deeply, sharply, painfully. It's massive.

Sokurov

...

Coming, all is clear, no doubt about it.
Going, all is clear, without a doubt.
What, then, is all?

Hosshin
(13th century)

i die alone, my dream

- Und' vă duce, domnule ?
- În grădină, somnule.
- Ce să faceţi, domnule ?
- Să mă-mpuşte, somnule.
- Că au gloanţe, domnule ?
- Că au vreme, somnule.
- Und vă-ngroapă, domnule ?
- Sub zăpadă, somnule.
- Vă e frică, domnule ?
- Îmi e scîrbă, somnule.
- Cui să spunem, domnule ?
- Iadurilor, somnule.
- Va fi bine, domnule ?
- Va fi seară, somnule.
- Aveţi rude, domnule ?
- Am pe nimeni, somnule.
- Vreţi o cupă, domnule ?
- Cît mă costă, somnule ?
- N-are-a face, domnule.
- De otrăvuri, somnule...
- Nu vreţi cupa, domnule ?
- Sparge-o-n ţăndări, somnule !
- Să vă plîngem, domnule ?
- N-are-a face, somnule.
- Noapte bună, domnule !
- Dormi cu mine, somnule !
- Eu dorm singur, domnule.
- Eu mor singur, somnule.
- Moarte bună, domnule.
- Noapte bună, somnule !


Ion Caraion
(Am pe nimeni)


























Where are they taking you, sir?
To the garden, my dream.
Why do they take you there, sir?
To shoot me, my dream.
Because they have bullets, sir?
Because they have time to, my dream.
Where shall they bury you, sir?
Under the snow, my dream.
Are you afraid, sir?
I find it revolting, my dream.
Whom shall we tell all this, sir?
Tell the fires of hell, my dream.
Will you be alright, sir?
Night will have come, my dream.
Who is your next of kin, sir?
I am alone in the world, my dream.
Would you care for a drink, sir?
What will it cost me, my dream?
The cost does not matter, sir.
Is the chalice poisoned, my dream?
You seem not want it, sir?
Smash it to pieces, my dream!
Should we mourn you, sir?
That would change nothing, my dream.
Good night to you, sir.
Let us sleep together, my dream.
Sir, I sleep alone.
I die alone, my dream.
Good death to you, sir!
Good night to you, my dream!

Alone in the World, by Ion Caraion

(tr. Constantin Roman)

dedicated to S.M., who loves Romanian Dracula-style castles :-) This pictures were taken at the Râşnov fortress in Transylvania, on a particular foggy (for tourists, read: Dracula-style) day :-)


Note: the English translation didn't include the last three lines of the poem, I don't know why. I added them in my own translation. Also, in Romanian the dialogue takes place between the 'I' and 'my sleep', not 'my dream', as C. Roman chose to translate. Thus the word play is more striking: 'Let us sleep together, my sleep! Sir, I sleep alone!'. Here is a French version of the poem, translated by the same C. Roman:

Seul au monde

- Où vous emmènnent-ils, Monsieur?
- Dans le jardin, mon rêve.
- Pour quoi faire, Monsieur?
- Pour me fusiller, mon rêve.
- Parce qu’ils ont des balles, Monsieur?
- Parce qu’ils ont le temps, mon rêve.
- Où vous enterreront-ils, Monsieur?
- Sous la neige, mon rêve.
- Avez-vous peur, Monsieur?
- Je trouve ça révoltant, mon rêve.
- Qui doit-on prévenir, Monsieur?
- Les feux de l’enfer, mon rêve.
- Ça va aller quand même, Monsieur?
- Il fera nuit, mon rêve.
- Qui est votre plus proche parent, Monsieur?
- Je suis seul au monde, mon rêve.
- Voulez-vous boire un verre, Monsieur?
- Qu’est-ce que ça va me coûter, mon rêve?
- Peu importe le prix, Monsieur.
- Le calice est-il empoisonné, mon rêve?
- Vous n’en voulez pas, Monsieur?
- Casse-le en mille morceaux, mon rêve!
- Doit-on vous pleurer, Monsieur?
- Inutile, mon rêve.
- Bonne nuit, Monsieur.
- Dormons ensemble, mon rêve!
- Je dors seul, Monsieur.

yet even if it be so

My Lord has departed
And the time has grown long.
Shall I search the mountains,
Going forth to meet you,
Or wait for you here?

No! I would not live,
Longing for you.
On the mountain crag, rather,
Rock-root as my pillow,
Dead would I lie.

Yet even if it be so
I shall wait for my Lord
Till on my black hair -
Trailing fine in the breeze -
The dawn's frost shall fall.

In the autumn field,
Over the rice ears,
The morning mist trails,
Vanishing somewhere...
Can my love fade too?


Longing for the Emperor
by Empress Iwa no Hime ( - 347 AD)

in the small hours of the morning
when mist is the chosen path of the thorn
she breathes the world
in and out
until things lose their names
like a flower its petals
in early winter.

mist

There was no airt or direction to guide one on one's way.
There was no place or time there, but one great, deep
stillness. The world was full of tenderness, under druidry
and under a cloak, and there was a fairy blindfolding on
my eyes in the smirry drizzle of mist.

Cha robh àird no iùl arm a stifiùreadh neach 'na ròd.
Cha robh àit no ùin' ann, ach aon chiùneas domhain, mòr.
Bha 'n saoghal Iàn de'n mhaoithe,
fo dhraoidheachd is fo chlèoc,
is bann-sithe air mo shùilean arms a' chiùran cheòban cheò.

Hillside and slopes were lost to sight in the clouds. There
was no colour or sound there, or hour, or light of day.
The slow, caressing rain was on hill and hollow and meadow,
and the Wee Patch was in a smoke in the
foggy drizzle of mist.

Chaidh sliosan agus leathadan à sealladh arms na neòil.
Cha robh dath no fuaim arm, no uair, no solus lò.
Bha 'n sileadh mall, rèidh, socrach air cnoc, air glaic, air lòn,
is bha 'm Paiste Beag fo dheataich
anns a' cheathach cheòban cheò.

The showers of drizzly mist came closely down, all
voiceless; whispering and fragrant, soft and fresh, without
voice or melody, they floated about hilltops and cliffs
and closed in about every hollow. Gentleness and
pleasure were drifting down in the smirry drizzle of mist.

George Campbell Hay,
The Smirry Drizzle Of Mist

Bha na ciothan ceathaich chùiranaich,
's iad dùmhail, dlùth, gun ghlòir,
gu cagarsach, gu cùbhraidh, tais, ùr, gun ghuth, gun cheòl,
a' snàmh mu mhill is stùcan, 's a' cùnadh mu gach còs.
Bha tlàths is tlachd a' tùirling anns a' chùiran cheòban cheò.

Deòrsa Mac Iain Deòrsa,
An Ciuran Ceoban Ceo