МЗЭ-ийн гишүүн, Г.Сэр-Одын нэрэмжит шагналт яруу найрагч Д.Гансаруулын Хойд Македонийн “Struga Poetry Evenings” наадамд уншсан шүлгүүдийн англи орчуулгыг хүргэж байна.
Эдгээр шүлгүүд нь Дэлхийн яруу найргийн их наадам “Struga Poetry Evenings 62”-т оролцсон 25 орны яруу найрагчийн шилмэл шүлгийн “Who is who” түүвэрт багтсан юм.
D. Gansaruul’s poems (in English)
EZRA POUND IN MY DREAM…
Banging at my door at 04:55 am
Rubbing my eyesI opened the door….
Light a candle or turn on the light
You must have certainly written…
Take out your notebook…
Read only one aloud, come on!
You were called crazy, huh?
They all were making fun of you, right?
And censored as well
Demanding to hang you, huh?
They also copied your lines, stanzas, and verses?
They stole them, is it true?
You shall write for certainty
They will copy in falsehood
The more you shall rebel
Do roar like a lioness!
Go demented on the circus stage!
Smack at will inside the cage!
Let them put you in a straitjacket
And tie the sleeves!
Let you be judged for your poems
Get impaled on a pole smiling!
Always stay odd
Be told deranged.
For being different from them
For not raising a toast with them
For not giving them what they asked
Emptying your pockets
Keep writing poems
Despite they keep mistreating you.
How would they defeat you
Because you are
Deranged in their eyesIf you say it’s a lie,
You carved your name
On the wall of an asylum
You drenchedIts pillow with your tears
You played sliding
On its roof
Remember you were like this
I don’t forget
I was like that
They will ask you about me
Tell them that
My name is Ezra Pound!
The door of your dreams
Sorry for not knocking gently
Your neighbors, of course
Didn’t hear.
Everyone around
Who is not called deranged
Who isn’t dragged to asylums
Is true deranged ones!
November 28, 2022 (05:23 am)
SHORT DAYS OF LONG WINTER
I
Though migrating birds fly away
Immersing into the saddened horizon
Thickets, lakes, and plains are not deserted.
A few larks and crows of the village
Resound tunes all winter long
Even hoopoes are there
And magpies keep chattering
What a large crowd, indeed.
II
Sweeping the snow from the porch
The clanging of axes and the grumbling of saws
Are heard from a firewood shop
Snow crunches and sledges slide
The frost bites
The ice freezes to bones
Short days of a long winter
Go by so dully yet noisily.
III
The snow, when whirling loudly down from the roof,
Magically extinguishes the chimney sparks
The full moon
Emits a bright glow
Through the gauzy clouds of storm.
Watching from a distance
The house of my two elders,
The orange light of their lamp
Warms up my heart
Through the old veil curtain
IV
The vast steppe
Blanketed in snow flurriesare full of snow drifts
Mountain slopes
Old log houses
With white snow roofs
An ordinary winter has come
To the fairy-like extraordinary village.
September 6-October 1, 2022
IN A SMALL COTTAGE NEXT TO A CROP FIELD
My dearly beloved, you
Would plant barley…
Pour it on my palm…
Roasting it rustling
On a cast iron cauldron…
Turning the mill stone together
Preparing barley flour
Making barley congee with ghee
Enjoying the relish all day long…
Sitting together on the porch
Of the wide spacious door
Of our cottage, not tall but short…
Pointing at the Oriental moon
Saying “We two will get there”…
Beaming and leaning on each other’s shoulders…
A single seed of barley
Brought holding tight in hand
Growing all over the steppe…
Swaying all over the valley…
Swinging in gold back and forth…
A’, my dearly beloved, you
Would plant barley…
Pour it on my palm…
February 23, 2020
BREAD BAKER
The rusted plaque was taken down
Of the boulangerie
On the first floor of the adjacent apartment!
For more than thirty yearsI’ve gone there
Every morning, and have nibbled
On the crust while going upstairs
To my home holding large and small
And
Spherical and cubic-shaped loaves of bread
Those are warm and somehow
Sweetly and pleasantly redolent.
The rusted plaque was taken down
Of the boulangerie
On the first floor of the adjacent apartment!
Living on a few coins of salary
For us, quite rich than penurious
A loaf of bread is a divine food.
My father would peck at crumbs
After slicing one bread we purchase
Every morning into four equal quarters.
The rusted plaque was taken down
Of the boulangerie
On the first floor of the adjacent apartment!
The owner is going to distant America
This bread bakery is closed.
The tiny bakery!
That fed my childhood and my stomach!
The bread bakery!
My boulangerie
That fed my memories.
The boulangerie
That made me hold a warm loaf of bread
In the frost of winter.
That bread maker whom I would search for
And whom I will never forget anywhere anytime!
June 24, 2017 (06.40 pm)
SHE’S GOING BACK
***
The big city is bustling
The cars dash
The noises
Reach the sky
The dust
Swirls in the distance
Still unemployed,
All are busy
Yet blessed,
All are smileless
A village girlIn an apron
Toils at a diner
Gets expelled in two months
From the rental roomIn two months
Came to the city
To live a good life
As an urbanite
But she didn’t fit in the city
Couldn’t find anyone to rely on
She’s going back
Carrying chestful of sadness
And incessant despair
That has no end
She’s going back
Toward the east where the birds migrate
On a postal train
Missing her old mother
And cotton-padded jacket
The fibers of cocoons
The valley with mole crickets and frogs
The tiny village
Where they live, although a few, happily
She’s going back.
December 22, 2019.
MANAZURU GLIMMERS
The full moon
A pendant worn by the sky
Its figure afloat on the ocean surface
Like a lantern
Illuminates the port.
Fishing boats
Ships with anchors down
Bobbing gently along the coast
Lullabied in the quiet night.
As though there were no wars
Curtained by gunpowder smoke
Such a quiet evening
Happening here.
The beach is peaceful
Tranquil here
As though the water did not spill over the beach
Continuously for a century
Such a peaceful evening prevails.
Through the shoji windows
The soft beams of lamps radiating
Like shards of the moon
Manazuru glimmers.
2022.10.23
