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Emily Dickinson:
These are the days
when Birds come back
These are the days when Birds come back,
A very few — a Bird or two,
To take a backward look.
These are the days when skies resume
The old, old sophistries of June.
A blue and gold mistake.
Oh fraud that cannot cheat the Bee,
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief,
Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,
And softly thro' the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf.
Oh, sacrament of summer days,
Oh Last Communion in the Haze,
Permit a child to join,
Thy sacred emblems to partake,
Thy consecrated bread to take,
And thine immortal wine!
Note: The seven poems on this page are taken from
a collection of Emily Dickinson's oeuvre at Wikisource, which can be searched by either "first line" or "number". But please see my disclaimer on top of this page in regard to cases where I was able to access the original Dickinson manuscripts in facsimile. e.g.:
To my eye and mind, it is sometimes impossible to distinguish between a colon, a comma, and a dash, short or long - and never mind upper vs. lower-case letters. To turn a blind eye to all but "what makes sense" overlooks the lurking of a very slippery slope, right underneath the soap box on which I stand and many others have stood before me...
It has been remarked that Dickinson, had she moved her poems to print, would of necessity have had to clarify — or, possibly, to revise — various ambituous and/or problematic punctuation marks and letter cases. Which would have avoided a lot of confusion, to say the least. Who could argue against clarity? I?
Yes, you say? And if I can't argue, I should at least try to speculate, dream, hope, make a fool of myself? That's what the world-wide web of poetry is for, you say? Well, if you think so...
We know that Dickinson thought it demeaning to strut her stuff in the marketplace. And who could accuse her of not giving what is holy to the dogs, of not casting pearls before swine?
[I apologize for the language, but it isn't mine. Surely you recall the full sentence: "Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you". And surely you agree that her brethren would have rent poor Emily asunder — for blasphemy with passion, if not for witchcraft with words —
Now, if you happen not to recall the words of Matthew, read — and read carefully! — his complete, incredible chapter 7 in the King James Version — and may it be the good fruits of the Spirit that come to you and from you! If you use that Chapter-Seven yardstick on art, on politics, on religion, or on your do-gooder neighbors, however, please don't tell anybody that it was I who put you up to it! But back to Emily before I cause even more trouble — ]
Emily Dickinson was maintaining the sanctity and chastity of her art; she was defending her personal truth and integrity; she was keeping her private space private.
But — just maybe — was she also trying to keep that private space of personal feeling and meaning as spacious as possible? Was she deliberately attempting to remain inside its infinite mystical realm, where the restrictions of logical rules no longer apply, where words and punctuation assume a naturally ambiguous meaning and appearance, where the visual and the literal merge, where content and form meld into a whole? A whole sui generis? A whole that is larger than the sum of its parts and open to a much wider, intuitive perception? A whole that can become as much part of the reader as it is parcel of the poet? A whole that offers privacy and freedom to both? A hell-and-heaven whole? I wonder...
But why would Emily Dickinson take such refuge, you ask? I don't know. Perhaps because of the way she lived and the times she lived in? Could it be that this sequence of seven poems will provide yet another ambiguous narrative, yet another intuitive answer to the unanswered question Emily posed? Never mind — just read on —
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Emily Dickinson:
'S'ist nun,
daß Vögel kehr'n zurück
'S'ist nun, daß Vögel kehr'n zurück —
ein paar nur — einer oder zwei —
für einen letzten Blick.
S'ist nun, daß mancher Himmel rein
nochmals vertraut den Junispielerei'n:
Ein Irrtum, gold und blau.
Der Schwindel täuscht die Biene nicht —
Doch weil so glaubhaft sein Gesicht,
vertrau' ich ihm zuletzt,
bis aus den Samen Wahrheit spricht
und durch die Luft, jetzt leicht und licht,
ein müdes Blatt sich hetzt.
Oh Sakrament der Sommerszeit,
oh letztes Abendmahl bereit:
laß' Kind mich bei Dir sein:
Dein heilig' Bild zu teil'n im Rund,
Dein göttlich' Brot zu essen und
zu trinken Deinen Wein!
Die verwendeten sieben Texte sind bei Wikisource an Hand der "Ersten Zeile" oder der "Katalognummer" nachzuschlagen.
[Frühe Ausgaben enthielten - was der Öffentlichkeit weitgehend unbekannt blieb - oft stark veränderte Versionen von Dickinsons Gedichten. Und ihre gehalt- und gestaltreichen Gedankenstriche wurden bedenken- und gnadenlos weggestrichen. Allerdings kranken auch heutige Ausgaben an der oft zweideutigen Handschrift der Originalmanuskripte, wie ich in meiner Mahnung zur Vorsicht (ganz oben) klarzumachen und (links, weiter unter) mit Gedankengespinsten zu verschleiern versuchte.]
Über Geschmack, insbesondere kalvinistischen, kann man natürlich streiten. Aber — für Ihren ergebenen Übersetzer zumindestens — bieten die Originaltexte meist mehr Schönheit und vor allem mehr Wahrheit. Und dafür hat Emily Dickinson — siehe das letzte Gedicht auf dieser Seite — ja doch gelebt — and dafür ist sie auch gestorben —
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Emily Dickinson:
Apparently
with no surprise
Apparently with no surprise
To any happy Flower
The Frost beheads it at its play —
In accidental power —
The blonde Assassin passes on —
The Sun proceeds unmoved
To measure off another Day
For an Approving God.
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Emily Dickinson:
Es scheint,
nicht
überraschend kommt's
Es scheint, nicht überraschend kommt's
der glückerfahr'nen Blume,
daß sie der Frost geköpft im Spiel —
von Kraft und Eigentume.
Der blonde Mörder weiterzieht —
die Sonne, ganz bequem,
zählt wieder einen weit'ren Tag
für Gott, dem dies genehm.
.
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Emily Dickinson:
A Thought
went up my mind today
A Thought went up my Mind today —
That I have had before —
But did not finish — some way back.
I could not fix the Year —
Nor Where it went — nor why it came
The second time to Me —
Nor definitely, what it was —
Have I the Art to say —
But somewhere — in my Soul — I know —
I've met the Thing before —
It just reminded me — 'twas all —
And came my way no more —
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Emily Dickinson:
Ein Einfall
kam mir in den Sinn
Ein Einfall kam mir in den Sinn —
der einstens bei mir war —
doch nicht verweilt' — viel früher halt —
ich weiß nicht — welches Jahr —
noch wie er ging — noch wie er kam
ein zweites Mal zu mir —
noch könnt' ich sicher sagen — was —
der Einfall wirklich war —
doch irgendwo — in meiner Seel' —
weiß ich — ich kannt' ihn frei:
Er hat mich nur erinnert d'ran —
und kam nie mehr vorbei —
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Emily Dickinson:
After great pain
a formal feeling comes
(Translation dedicated to Dr. Jyothi Jayaraman)
After great pain a formal feeling comes --
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs;
The stiff Heart questions 'was it He that bore'
And 'Yesterday, or 'Centuries before'?
The Feet, mechanical, go round —
A Wooden way
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought —
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone.
This is the Hour of Lead —
Remembered, if outlived,
As freezing persons, recollect the Snow —
First, Chill — then Stupor — then the letting go —
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Emily Dickinson:
Nach großem Schmerz,
Gefühl verflacht zu Form
Diese Übersetzung ist Dr. Jyothi Jayaraman gewidmet
Nach großem Schmerz, Gefühl verflacht zur Form —
die Nerven sitzen steif, wie Grabesnorm;
das starre Herz fragt: War es 'Er, der trug'?
Und gestern — oder im Jahrhundertflug?
Der Fuß, mechanisch, geht im Rund —
des Holzwegs Pfad —
von Pflicht, von Brauch, von Grund —
gewachsen drein —
ein steinernes Zufriedensein.
Von Blei ist solche Stund' —
erlebt, falls überlebt,
wie Frierende den Schnee erfassen:
Erst Frost — dann Starre — dann das Fallenlassen —
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Emily Dickinson:
I died for beauty
I died for Beauty — but was scarce
Adjusted in the Tomb
When One who died for Truth, was lain
In an adjoining Room —
He questioned softly "Why I failed"?
“For Beauty", I replied.
“And I — for Truth — Themself are one —
We Brethren, are", He said —
And so, as Kinsmen, met a Night
We talked between the Rooms —
Until the Moss had reached our lips
And covered up. Our names —
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Emily Dickinson:
Ich starb für Schönheit
Ich starb für Schönheit — doch ich war
in's Grab gekommen kaum,
als einer, der für Wahrheit starb
kam in den nächsten Raum —
"Wofür gescheitert'?", fragt' Er sacht.
"Für Schönheit", sage Ich —
"Und ich — für Wahrheit — Gleiches macht
Geschwister uns" — Er spricht.
Und als Verwandte — nachtbekannt —
der Raum manch' Zwiesprach' weckt —
bis Moos die Lippen uns erreicht —
die Namen — uns bedeckt —
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