Beowulf II - Heorot Saldırıya Uğruyor

       Geceleri gezinen bir kara şeytan,
koyu kin besliyordu o ara,
dahası, kanı donuyordu duydukça
şölenden yükselen şen sesleri:
Arpın telleri tınlar tınlamaz
şakımaya duruyordu duru dilli bir ozan:
İnsanın nasıl yaratıldığını naklediyordu,
dünyanın dört yanı dümdüz
bir ova halinde halk edilişini,
dünyaya fener olsunlar diye
göğe asılışını Güneşle Ayın,
yerin geniş kucağının yaprakla,
dalla cömertçe doldurulup
hayat verilişini hareket eden her şeye.
       Kısaca, hayatından hoşnuttu herkes,
cehennem çukurundan çıkıp gelinceye dek
olanca şerriyle bir kara şeytan:
Grendel'di bu gaddar canavarın adı,
sınırlara musallat oluyor, meralarda
bomboş bataklıklarda barınıyordu.
       Tanrı'nın sürgün ettiği, Kabil'in soyundan
kovgun canavarlarla kalmıştı bir süre.
Habil'in canına karşılık ağır bir cezaya
layık görülmüştü Kabil, lanetlenmişti.
Bu sürgün sırasında insan yiyiciler, cinler,
kötücül ruhlar ve devler doğmuştu kanından.
Tanrı'yla dövüşürlerdi durup durup,
ağızlarının payını alıp otururlardı sonra.
       Gece yarısını geçmişken, Grendel,
heybetli yapıya doğru yola çıktı,
içkilerini yuvarlayıp yatan Danları
ziyaret edecekti. Ziyafet sonrasında,
en seçme savaşçılardan oluşan bir grup
sızıp kalmışlardı, insani kaygılardan,
her tür acıdan uzak. Hızla hücum
etti cani canavar, doymaz bir iştihayla
ve dehşet saçarak daldı,
otuz yiğidi kaldırıp kaçırdı inine,
katliamın hazzıyla halinden hoşnut,
salak sarhoş sendeleyerek, parçalanmış cesetlerle.
       Gün ışıyıp güneş yükselince
Grendel'in imha gücü apaçık görüldü:
Çalgı cümbüş bitmişti, çığlık çığlığa
ağlaştılar, yas tuttular sabahta.
Şanlı kral çöküp kaldı çaresizce,
hakareti taa yüreğinde hissetti,
içini çeke çeke bomboş gözlerle baktı
korkunç geceden geriye kalanlara.
Acısı dayanılmazdı ama daha bitmemişti,
çünkü ertesi gece zalim Grendel
yine vurdu ve vahim bir katliam yaptı.
Doğuştan kötüydü, pişmanlık duymuyordu.
Bunun üzerine, korkan kimseler
oradan uzaklaşmakta buldular çareyi,
çevredeki çiftlik evlerine çekildiler.
Göz önündeydi her şey, kimse göze alamazdı
salonu gözetleyen gözün gazabını,
kurtulan, aman deyip uzakta kaldı.1
       Böylece Grendel üstünlüğü ele geçirdi,
Hükmü yetti Heorot'a tek başına,
sonunda bomboş kaldı binaların en büyüğü.
On iki kış geçti kederle dolu,
Shielding Kralı kahroldu kederinden,
çok geçmeden her yana yayıldı haber.
Hüzünlü türküler yakıldı yenik krala,
korkunç katliamını anlatan Grendel'in,
son vermek niyetinde değildi canavar kan dökmeye,
barışın yakınına bile yanaşmıyordu,
kan bedeli ödemeye... kimse onun
tazminat ödeyeceğini tahmin etmiyordu.2
Kimse güvende değildi, uzun gecelerde
bu gözü dönmüş, ölümcül gölge,
genç yaşlı gözetmeden çullanıyordu.
Pusuda bekleyip puslu bataklıklar
üzerinden süzülüp geliyordu. Sahiden de,
cehennem firarisi bu ifritler nerelerde
dolaşır bilinmez ki.
       Böylece sürüp gitti,
her fırsatta felaket yağdırdı Grendel,
onmaz hasarlar verdi Heorot'a,
ışıltılı salonu karanlık bastıktan sonra
işgale geliyordu artık her gece.
Şu var ki, tahtın yanına yaklaşamıyordu,
Tanrı tarafından korunuyordu o taht.
Zor zamanlardı, zayiat ağır,
kederi kalındı Shielding Kralı'nın.
Sözü dinlenen danışmanlar,
memleketin en yüksek mevkide adamları
sürekli tavsiye veriyorlardı ani tacizlere
son vermek için yürekli yiğitlerle.
Pagan tapınaklarına gidip tanrılara
yakarıyor, yeminler veriyorlardı, yeter ki
yardıma yetişsindi o Ruhları Yok Eden.3
İnanışları buydu, Pagancaydı umutları.
Yüreklerinin bir yerinde, derinde,
cehennemi hatırlıyorlardı, ama haberleri yoktu
Hayır ve Şerrin Kaynağı, Yerin ve Göğün Kralı,
Her Şeye Gücü Yeten Yaradan'dan.
Ah yazık, zor zamanda
ateşe sarılmak zorunda kalan zavallıya,
ondan yardım umana, yönelecek başka
bir yeri olmayana. Ne mutludur oysa
ölümden sonra Yaradan'a yaklaşabilen,
huzur bulan, babanın şefkatli kucağında.
       Yürek yoran günler art arda yığılıyor,
acısı bitmek bilmiyordu Halfdane oğlunun,
koyu bir korku kaplıyordu kalpleri,
gecenin kabusu asla gecikmiyordu.


Anonim
Eski İngilizce'den Uyarlayan: Seamus Heaney
İngilizce'den Çeviren: Nazmi Ağıl



1. Çiftlik evleri daha çok bekar işçiler içindi. Grendel Danimarka tahtının merkezi
olan şölenevini işgal etmekle yetinip çevredeki öteki binalara dokunmuyor. (ç.n.)
2. Anglo-Sakson kanunlarına göre cinayet işleyen birinin kurbanın ailesine kan bedeli
ödemesi gerekiyordu. Bu uygulamanın amacı kan davalarını, dolayısıyla daha
fazla kan dökülmesini önlemekti. (ç.n.)
3. Hıristiyanlar eski Pagan tanrılarını Şeytanla bir tutuyorlardı. (ç.n.)

Beowulf - Kim Kimdir?

Aelfhere: Wiglaf'ın akrabası.
Aeschere: Hrothgar'ın yakın dostu, baş danışmanı
Beow: Eski Danimarka kralı, Shield'in oğlu
Beowulf: Ecgtheow'un oğlu, sonradan Gotların kralı olur.
Breca: Açık sularda Beowulf'la yüzme yarışına giren Bronding lideri.
Dayraven: Hygelac'ın Frizya baskını sırasında Beowulf tarafından öldürülen bir savaşçı.
Eadgils: Beowulf tarafından desteklenen İsveç prensi, Ohthere'nin oğlu.
Eanmund: Ohthere'nin diğer oğlu, Weohstan tarafından öldürülür.
Ecglaf: Unferth'in babası olan bir Dan.
Ecgtheow: Beowulf'un babası.
Ecgwela: Tanınmayan eski bir Danimarka kralı.
Eofor: İsveç kralı Ongentheow'u öldüren bir Got.
Eomer: Offa'nın oğlu, Angles kralı.
Eormenric: Doğu Gotları'nın kralı.
Finn: Hnaef'in kız kardeşi Hildeburh ile evli olan Frizya kralı.
Fitela: Sigemund'un yeğeni.
Folcwald: Finn'in babası.
Freawaru: Hrothgar'ın kızı.
Garmund: Offa'nın babası.
Grendel: Beowulf tarafından öldürülen korkunç bir insanyıyen.
Guthlaf: Danimarkalı bir savaşçı.
Habil: Adem'in iki oğlundan biri.
Haereth: Hygd'ın babası.
Haethcyn: Got kralı Hrethel'in ikinci oğlu.
Halga: Hrothgar'ın erkek kardeşi.
Halfdane: Hrothgar'ın babası.
Heardred: Kral Hygelac'ın oğlu, babasının ölümünden sonra Gotların kralı olur.
Heatholaf: Wulfing Kabilesi'nden bir savaşçı.
Hemming: Offa ve Eomer'in akrabası.
Hengest: Hnaef Finn'in adamları tarafından öldürülünce Danimarka ordusunun komutanı olur.
Heorogar: Hrotgar'ın ağabeyi.
Heoroweard: Heorogar'ın oğlu.
Herebeald: Got kralı Hrethel'in en büyük oğlu.
Heremod: Danların kralı.
Hildeburh: Frizya kralı Finn'in karısı, Danimarkalı Hnaef'in kız kardeşi.
Hnaef: Finn'i ziyaret eden Danların lideri, Hildeburh'ün erkek kardeşi.
Hoc: Hildeburh ve Hnaef'in babası.
Hondscio: Beowulf'un Grendel tarafından öldürülen ahbaplarından biri.
Hrethel: Got kralı, Hygelac'ın babası ve Beowulf'un dedesı.
Hrethrich: Hrothgar'ın oğlu.
Hrothgar: Darıların kralı, Wealhtheow'un kocası.
Hrothmund: Hrothgar'ın oğlu.
Hrorthulf: Halga'nın oğlu, Hrothgar'ın yeğeni.
Hrunting: Unferth'in kılıcı.
Hunlafing: Hengest'in ordusundan bir Dan savaşçısı.
Hygd: Hygelac'ın karısı, Haereth'in kızı.
Hygelac: Got kralı, Hygd'ın kocası ve Beowulf'un amcası.
Ing: Danların efsanevi ataları.
Ingeld: Heatho-Bards prensi.
Kabil: Ademin öteki oğlu. Kardeşi Habil'i öldürmüştü. Aynı zamanda Grendel ile annesinin ataları.
Modthryth: Angles kraliçesi, Offa'nın karısı.
Naegling: Beowulf'un emektar kılıcı.
Offa: Angles kralı, Modthryth'in kocası.
Ohthere: Ongentheow'un oğlu.
Onela: Ongentheow'un oglu.
Ongentheow: İsveç kralı.
Oslaf: Danimarkalı bir savaşçı.
Shield: Danimarka kraliyet ailesinin kurucusu, efsanevi kral.
Sigemund: Dillere destan bir Alman kahraman.
Swerting: Hygelac'ın dedesi.
Unferth: Hrothgar'ın hanedanlığının bir üyesi.
Wael: Sigemund'un babası.
Wealhtheow: Danların kraliçesi, Hrothgar'ın karısı.
Weland: Kılıçlarıyla ünlü, efsanevi bir Alman demirci ustası.
Weohstan: Wiglaf'ın babası, Eanmund'un katili.
Wiglaf: Beowulf'un sadık bir akrabası.
Withergeld: Heatho-Bard savaşçısı.
Wonred: Wulf ve Eofor'un babaları olan bir Got.
Wulf: Bir Got savaşçısı, Wonred'in oğlu.
Wulfgar: Hrothgar'a sadık bir Wendel Beyi.
Yrmenlaf: Aeschere'nin erkek kardeşi olan bir Dan.

Beowulf I - Prolog: Danların Yükselişi

Evet. Mazide yaşayan Mızraklı Danlar (1)
ve kralları gözü pek adamlardı, görkemliydiler.
Hep dinledik onların destanlarını.
           Başta Shield Sheafson, şimşek hızıyla
dağıtırdı şölenleri, hışımla dalıp,
salonlara korku salardı. Terk edilmiş bir çocuk
olarak başladıysa da açıldı sonra bahtı,(2)
kudret kazandı, kendini kanıtladı.
Boyun eğdirdi balina yolunun öte
kıyısındaki kavimlere. Tam bir kraldı.
           Sonraları bir oğlu oldu Shield'in,
huzur bulsunlar diye bağışladığı
bir hediye, başsız geçen günlerde
uzun süren sıkıntılarını gören Tanrı'nın.
Çok şöhret kazandı Shield'in oğlu:
Beow adı bilindi koca Kuzey'de.(3)
Her prens, onun gibi, görmeli geleceği,
hediyeler dağıtmalı babası sağken daha
ki sonra yaşlanınca bir savaşa girerse
sadık dostlar bulsun saflarında.
Dört yanında dünyanın, böylesi takdir
gören davranışlar götürür başarıya.
Shield gücünün doruğundayken
çattı ecel, Tanrı çağırdı onu yanına.
Askerleri yaptılar sağken dediğini,
her kelamı kanunken Danlar arasında:
Sırtlanıp sahile taşıdılar bedenini,
hürmetle bunca yıllık hükümdarlarına.
Kıvrık burunlu, kırağı kaplı bir tekne
hazır duruyordu demir almaya.
Getirip gemi direğinin hemen dibine
yatırdılar kralı ve yığdılar üzerine
uzak memleketlerden gelen mücevherleri.
Doğrusu, daha evvel duymadım
kılıçla, kalkanla, kemerle, zırhla
böyle tepeleme dolu bir tekne.
Göğsünün üstünde bir öbek mücevherle
açılacaktı kral usulca kıyıdan,
onu çocukken dalgaların koynuna koyup,
yalnız başına sürgüne yollayanlardan
daha az cömert davranmamıştı Danlar
böyle değerli taşlarla bezerken bedenini.
En son, altın sancağını alnına serip
üzülerek razı oldular rüzgarın
alıp sürümesine onu derin sulara.
Ne bilge bir danışman, ne bir emektar asker,
bugüne dek bilen yok, hazinenin
hangi kıyıda, kime kısmet olduğunu.
           Beow'a kaldı böylece kaleyi savunmak,
babasını yitirdikten sonra yıllar boyu
yönetti halkını, büyük hürmet gördü.
Sonra veliahdı, büyük Halfdane başladı
devranına, dört çocuk doğurttu:
Heorogar, Hrothgar, iyi kalpli Halga
ve bir kız duyduğuma göre, İsveç kralı
yüzü yaralı Onega'nın karısı oldu.
           Savaştan yana şansı yaverdi Hrothgar'ın,
bileği güçlü, gencecik adamlardan
koca bir ordu kurdu. Derken,
bir salon yaptırmak sevdasına düştü,
ve bir bina buyurdu ki devasa,
yeryüzünde benzeri yok bir yapı;
taht odası yapacaktı burayı ve genç yaşlı
herkese oradan verecekti hediyelerini,
ortak araziler hariç, bir de insan hayatı.(4)
Duydum ki, dünyanın dört bucağına
ulaklar salınıp ustalar seçildi,
az zaman zarfında çıktı ortaya
bu harika bina. Heorot dedi adına (5)
Beğenisi Buyruk Olan. Sözünü tutup
yüzükler, mücevherler dağıttı masada.
Yüksek tavanlı, geniş yapıyı
korkunç bir yangın bekliyordu yalnız,
birbirine düşünce kralla damadı.(6)


Anonim
Eski İngilizce'den Uyarlayan: Seamus Heaney
İngilizce'den Çeviren: Nazmi Ağıl


(1) Aynı Dan kabilesi için farklı adlar kullanılıyordu: Mızraklı Danlar, Batı Danları, Zafer Shieldingleri vs.
(2) Burada nakledildiği gibi Shield denizden bulunmuş bir çocuktu fakat sonra Danimarka kraliyet ailesinin kurucusu oldu. (ç.n.)
(3) Beowulf değil, onunla daha sonra tanış acağız. (ç.n.)
(4) Güçlü bir hükümdar bile halkından birini keyfi için öldüremez, ortak arazileri istediği gibi dağıtamazdı. (ç.n.)
(5) Heorot asalet sembolü olan "erkek geyik"' anlamına geliyor. (ç.n.)
(6) Burada Danlarla Heatho-Bardlar arasındaki bir çatışma yüzünden şölenevinin harap olacağına bir gönderme var. Yurduna, sonraki bölümlerde Gotların arasına geri dönen Beowulf Dan kralı Hrothgar"ın kızını Heatho-Bard kralı İngeld'le evlendirerek aradaki düşmanlığı gidermeyi umduğunu ama bunun aslında çözüm olmayacağını söyleyecek. (ç.n.)

Ceza ve Suç

zehirli yanılgılar içinden geçiyor zaman
gururunu ve tekbaşınalığını yeniden yaratıyor
maskelere aldırma–, cezayı umursamayan
tragedyaya gülüyor, komedyaya ağlıyor
her şeyin yeri değişmiş diyor: görmüyor musunuz
cezalar suçlarımıza ne güzel uyduruluyor
kıpkızıl bir resim: işte kardeşlik anısı
zevkini çıkarıyor havada uçuşan cinayetlerin
mevsimin ayarttığı uzun ağaçların en yenisi
acısına yaslanıyor kökünden çektiklerinizin
dağdağa büyüyor: giderek ayrılıyor ırmaklar
nabzını dinleyin, zehrini alın kalbinize
bırakılırsa küstah bir yabancıya satılacaklar
ne kayıt ne bilgelik ne erdem ne gökyüzü
dağılıyor her şey suçun ağırlığında
zehirli zamanlar içinden geçiyor yanılgılar da

 

 

Baki Ayhan T.

Fırtınaya Hazırlık

Fırtından Ses

kalbini daya fırtınadan süzülen sese
herkesten kendine kaygılı bir yolculuk
çığlığı tuhaf rüzgârlardan herkese
bir ses ki yalnız vahşi kuşlara yakışır
bir sis ki kanyonlara yaraşır yalnız
kendini ısırır dudak: soluk mu soluk
çürümüştür kurdu tanımayan orman
uzayıp giden yalnızlıktır ulumalarından
bir gökyüzü gerilir gecenin üstüne
başladığı yerde ansızın biter zaman
yol ne kadar uzunsa, kısaysa dünya
yürüsün azgın bir kısrakla dünyaya
uzayıp giden renkli ufuklar gibi
yaban çığlıkların umudu kesilse
açılacaktır yeniden vahşi kanatlarıyla atlar
daya kalbini fırtınadan süzülen sese

 

 

Baki Ayhan T.

Fırtınaya Hazırlık

Karışık Zamanlar

şekil verilmemiş gümüş ruhu yansıtır
gereksizdir tozunu silmek eşyanın
alınsa da anlatır itirazın güzelliğini
güzeldir itiraz yazın fırtınayla dolmasına
gecenin gece sanılmasına düşünülmeden
şaşırmayın: birkaç karga uçabilir serçeden
aynayı ayna sanırsınız: ruhun göğüdür
sır: üşümüş halidir güzün bilmezsiniz
saatli maarif takviminden öğrendikleriniz
filizkıran fırtınasının vakitsiz söküğüdür
ben-, sen-, şey-, tedavisiz durur gece
saklanan köşeleri bir bir görülmüş
hastanın zamandan habersiz öldüğüdür
yıldızlar düşkırıklarıdır uzak tanrıların
kör kütük bıçaklarla yanlış kesilmiş
ruhu yansıtır şekil verilmeyen gümüş

 

 

Baki Ayhan T.

Küstah Yabancı

sen burda bir yabancısın, üstelik küstah
bilmezsin tende dolaşan rüzgârın tadını
kâğıttaki mürekkebe üflemenin hazzını
ellerini yağmurla yıkadığın görülmemiştir
sislere boğulmuştur sırtlan bakışların
istersen gümrah ormanları yanında getir
en çok da kara sular içersin uzak iklimlerden
kum ve okyanus çizersin yol haritalarına
cesaretin korkuya gizlendiği bellidir gözlerinden
kurnazlığın hazırdır kurgulanmış oyuna
sen bu haritanın kırık çizgisisin, yabancısın:
arıların, kuşların ve atların bakir çığlığına
kızıl akan nehirlere karışır çürük yaprağın
ipeği yıpratan zehir saçılır sözcüklerinden
demir kuşlar derin vadilere akarken
dünden daha yabancı, üstelik de barbarsın

Baki Ayhan T.

Flower of Love

Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault
was, had I not been made of common clay
I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed
yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day.

From the wildness of my wasted passion I had
struck a better, clearer song,
Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled
with some Hydra-headed wrong.

Had my lips been smitten into music by the
kisses that but made them bleed,
You had walked with Bice and the angels on
that verdant and enamelled mead.

I had trod the road which Dante treading saw
the suns of seven circles shine,
Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening,
as they opened to the Florentine.

And the mighty nations would have crowned
me, who am crownless now and without name,
And some orient dawn had found me kneeling
on the threshold of the House of Fame.

I had sat within that marble circle where the
oldest bard is as the young,
And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the
lyre’s strings are ever strung.

Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out
the poppy-seeded wine,
With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead,
clasped the hand of noble love in mine.

And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms
brush the burnished bosom of the dove,
Two young lovers lying in an orchard would
have read the story of our love;

Would have read the legend of my passion,
known the bitter secret of my heart,
Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as
we two are fated now to part.

For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by
the cankerworm of truth,
And no hand can gather up the fallen withered
petals of the rose of youth.

Yet I am not sorry that I loved you—ah!
what else had I a boy to do,—
For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the
silent-footed years pursue.

Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and
when once the storm of youth is past,
Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death
the silent pilot comes at last.

And within the grave there is no pleasure,
for the blindworm battens on the root,
And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree
of Passion bears no fruit.

Ah! what else had I to do but love you?
God’s own mother was less dear to me,
And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an
argent lily from the sea.

I have made my choice, have lived my
poems, and, though youth is gone in wasted days,
I have found the lover’s crown of myrtle better
than the poet’s crown of bays.


Oscar Wilde
Flower of Love
Selected Poems

From "The Burden Of Itys"

This English Thames is holier far than Rome,
Those harebells like a sudden flush of sea
Breaking across the woodland, with the foam
Of meadow-sweet and white anemone
To fleck their blue waves,—God is likelier there
Than hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale monks bear!

Those violet-gleaming butterflies that take
Yon creamy lily for their pavilion
Are monsignores, and where the rushes shake
A lazy pike lies basking in the sun,
His eyes half shut,—he is some mitred old
Bishop in Partibus! look at those gaudy scales all green and gold.

The wind the restless prisoner of the trees
Does well for Palaestrina, one would say
The mighty master’s hands were on the keys
Of the Maria organ, which they play
When early on some sapphire Easter morn
In a high litter red as blood or sin the Pope is borne

From his dark House out to the Balcony
Above the bronze gates and the crowded square,
Whose very fountains seem for ecstasy
To toss their silver lances in the air,
And stretching out weak hands to East and West
In vain sends peace to peaceless lands, to restless nations rest.

Is not yon lingering orange after-glow
That stays to vex the moon more fair than all
Rome’s lordliest pageants! strange, a year ago
I knelt before some crimson Cardinal
Who bare the Host across the Esquiline,
And now—those common poppies in the wheat seem twice as fine.

The blue-green beanfields yonder, tremulous
With the last shower, sweeter perfume bring
Through this cool evening than the odorous
Flame-jewelled censers the young deacons swing,
When the grey priest unlocks the curtained shrine,
And makes God’s body from the common fruit of corn and vine.

Poor Fra Giovanni bawling at the Mass
Were out of tune now, for a small brown bird
Sings overhead, and through the long cool grass
I see that throbbing throat which once I heard
On starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady,
Once where the white and crescent sand of Salamis meets sea.

Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves
At daybreak, when the mower whets his scythe,
And stock-doves murmur, and the milkmaid leaves
Her little lonely bed, and carols blithe
To see the heavy-lowing cattle wait
Stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard gate.

And sweet the hops upon the Kentish leas,
And sweet the wind that lifts the new-mown hay,
And sweet the fretful swarms of grumbling bees
That round and round the linden blossoms play;
And sweet the heifer breathing in the stall,
And the green bursting figs that hang upon the red-brick wall,

And sweet to hear the cuckoo mock the spring
While the last violet loiters by the well,
And sweet to hear the shepherd Daphnis sing
The song of Linus through a sunny dell
Of warm Arcadia where the corn is gold
And the slight lithe-limbed reapers dance about the wattled fold.

* * *

It was a dream, the glade is tenantless,
No soft Ionian laughter moves the air,
The Thames creeps on in sluggish leadenness,
And from the copse left desolate and bare
Fled is young Bacchus with his revelry,
Yet still from Nuneham wood there comes that thrilling melody

So sad, that one might think a human heart
Brake in each separate note, a quality
Which music sometimes has, being the Art
Which is most nigh to tears and memory;
Poor mourning Philomel, what dost thou fear?
Thy sister doth not haunt these fields, Pandion is not here,

Here is no cruel Lord with murderous blade,
No woven web of bloody heraldries,
But mossy dells for roving comrades made,
Warm valleys where the tired student lies
With half-shut book, and many a winding walk
Where rustic lovers stray at eve in happy simple talk.

The harmless rabbit gambols with its young
Across the trampled towing-path, where late
A troop of laughing boys in jostling throng
Cheered with their noisy cries the racing eight;
The gossamer, with ravelled silver threads,
Works at its little loom, and from the dusky red-eaved sheds

Of the lone Farm a flickering light shines out
Where the swinked shepherd drives his bleating flock
Back to their wattled sheep-cotes, a faint shout
Comes from some Oxford boat at Sandford lock,
And starts the moor-hen from the sedgy rill,
And the dim lengthening shadows flit like swallows up the hill.

The heron passes homeward to the mere,
The blue mist creeps among the shivering trees,
Gold world by world the silent stars appear,
And like a blossom blown before the breeze
A white moon drifts across the shimmering sky,
Mute arbitress of all thy sad, thy rapturous threnody.

She does not heed thee, wherefore should she heed,
She knows Endymion is not far away;
'Tis I, 'tis I, whose soul is as the reed
Which has no message of its own to play,
So pipes another’s bidding, it is I,
Drifting with every wind on the wide sea of misery.

Ah! the brown bird has ceased: one exquisite trill
About the sombre woodland seems to cling
Dying in music, else the air is still,
So still that one might hear the bat’s small wing
Wander and wheel above the pines, or tell
Each tiny dew-drop dripping from the bluebell’s brimming cell.

And far away across the lengthening wold,
Across the willowy flats and thickets brown,
Magdalen’s tall tower tipped with tremulous gold
Marks the long High Street of the little town,
And warns me to return; I must not wait,
Hark! ‘tis the curfew booming from the bell at Christ Church gate.


Oscar Wilde
From "The Burden Of Itys"
Selected Poems

The Harlot’s House

We caught the tread of dancing feet,
We loitered down the moonlit street,
And stopped beneath the harlot’s house.

Inside, above the din and fray,
We heard the loud musicians play
The "Treues Liebes Herz" of Strauss.

Like strange mechanical grotesques,
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.

We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin,
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.

Like wire-pulled automatons,
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille,

Then took each other by the hand,
And danced a stately saraband;
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.

Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast,
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.

Sometimes a horrible marionette
Came out, and smoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live thing.

Then, turning to my love, I said,
"The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust."

But she—she heard the violin,
And left my side, and entered in:
Love passed into the house of lust.

Then suddenly the tune went false,
The dancers wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.

And down the long and silent street,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.


Oscar Wilde
The Harlot’s House
Selected Poems

From "The Garden Of Eros"

     In this poem the author laments the growth of materialism in the nineteenth century. He hails Keats and Shelley and some of the poets and artists who were his contemporaries, although his seniors, as the torch-bearers of the intellectual life. Among these are Swinburne, William Morris, Rossetti, and Brune-Jones.

Nay, when Keats died the Muses still had left
One silver voice to sing his threnody,1
But ah! too soon of it we were bereft
When on that riven night and stormy sea
Panthea claimed her singer as her own,
And slew the mouth that praised her; since which time we walk alone,

Save for that fiery heart, that morning star2
Of re-arisen England, whose clear eye
Saw from our tottering throne and waste of war
The grand Greek limbs of young Democracy
Rise mightily like Hesperus and bring
The great Republic! him at least thy love hath taught to sing,

And he hath been with thee at Thessaly,
And seen white Atalanta fleet of foot
In passionless and fierce virginity
Hunting the tusked boar, his honied lute
Hath pierced the cavern of the hollow hill,
And Venus laughs to know one knee will bow before her still.

And he hath kissed the lips of Proserpine,
And sung the Galilaean’s requiem,
That wounded forehead dashed with blood and wine
He hath discrowned, the Ancient Gods in him
Have found their last, most ardent worshipper,
And the new Sign grows grey and dim before its conqueror.

Spirit of Beauty! tarry with us still,
It is not quenched the torch of poesy,
The star that shook above the Eastern hill
Holds unassailed its argent armoury
From all the gathering gloom and fretful fight—
O tarry with us still! for through the long and common night,

Morris, our sweet and simple Chaucer’s child,
Dear heritor of Spenser’s tuneful reed,
With soft and sylvan pipe has oft beguiled
The weary soul of man in troublous need,
And from the far and flowerless fields of ice
Has brought fair flowers to make an earthly paradise.

We know them all, Gudrun the strong men’s bride,
Aslaug and Olafson we know them all,
How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd died,
And what enchantment held the king in thrall
When lonely Brynhild wrestled with the powers
That war against all passion, ah! how oft through summer hours,

Long listless summer hours when the noon
Being enamoured of a damask rose
Forgets to journey westward, till the moon
The pale usurper of its tribute grows
From a thin sickle to a silver shield
And chides its loitering car—how oft, in some cool grassy field

Far from the cricket-ground and noisy eight,
At Bagley, where the rustling bluebells come
Almost before the blackbird finds a mate
And overstay the swallow, and the hum
Of many murmuring bees flits through the leaves,
Have I lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves,

And through their unreal woes and mimic pain
Wept for myself, and so was purified,
And in their simple mirth grew glad again;
For as I sailed upon that pictured tide
The strength and splendour of the storm was mine
Without the storm’s red ruin, for the singer is divine;

The little laugh of water falling down
Is not so musical, the clammy gold
Close hoarded in the tiny waxen town
Has less of sweetness in it, and the old
Half-withered reeds that waved in Arcady
Touched by his lips break forth again to fresher harmony.

Spirit of Beauty, tarry yet awhile!
Although the cheating merchants of the mart
With iron roads profane our lovely isle,
And break on whirling wheels the limbs of Art,
Ay! though the crowded factories beget
The blindworm Ignorance that slays the soul, O tarry yet!

For One at least there is,—He bears his name
From Dante and the seraph Gabriel,3—
Whose double laurels burn with deathless flame
To light thine altar; He4 too loves thee well,
Who saw old Merlin lured in Vivien’s snare,
And the white feet of angels coming down the golden stair,

Loves thee so well, that all the World for him
A gorgeous-coloured vestiture must wear,
And Sorrow take a purple diadem,
Or else be no more Sorrow, and Despair
Gild its own thorns, and Pain, like Adon, be
Even in anguish beautiful;—such is the empery

Which Painters hold, and such the heritage
This gentle solemn Spirit doth possess,
Being a better mirror of his age
In all his pity, love, and weariness,
Than those who can but copy common things,
And leave the Soul unpainted with its mighty questionings.

But they are few, and all romance has flown,
And men can prophesy about the sun,
And lecture on his arrows—how, alone,
Through a waste void the soulless atoms run,
How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled,
And that no more ‘mid English reeds a Naiad shows her head.


Oscar Wilde
From "The Garden Of Eros"
Selected Poems

1. Shelley
2. Swinburne
3. Rossetti
4. Burne-Jones

Roses And Rue

To L. L.

Could we dig up this long-buried treasure,
Were it worth the pleasure,
We never could learn love’s song,
We are parted too long.

Could the passionate past that is fled
Call back its dead,
Could we live it all over again,
Were it worth the pain!

I remember we used to meet
By an ivied seat,
And you warbled each pretty word
With the air of a bird;

And your voice had a quaver in it,
Just like a linnet,
And shook, as the blackbird’s throat
With its last big note;

And your eyes, they were green and grey
Like an April day,
But lit into amethyst
When I stooped and kissed;

And your mouth, it would never smile
For a long, long while,
Then it rippled all over with laughter
Five minutes after.

You were always afraid of a shower,
Just like a flower:
I remember you started and ran
When the rain began.

I remember I never could catch you,
For no one could match you,
You had wonderful, luminous, fleet,
Little wings to your feet.

I remember your hair—did I tie it?
For it always ran riot—
Like a tangled sunbeam of gold:
These things are old.

I remember so well the room,
And the lilac bloom
That beat at the dripping pane
In the warm June rain;

And the colour of your gown,
It was amber-brown,
And two yellow satin bows
From your shoulders rose.

And the handkerchief of French lace
Which you held to your face—
Had a small tear left a stain?
Or was it the rain?

On your hand as it waved adieu
There were veins of blue;
In your voice as it said good-bye
Was a petulant cry,

"You have only wasted your life."
(Ah, that was the knife!)
When I rushed through the garden gate
It was all too late.

Could we live it over again,
Were it worth the pain,
Could the passionate past that is fled
Call back its dead!

Well, if my heart must break,
Dear love, for your sake,
It will break in music, I know,
Poets’ hearts break so.

But strange that I was not told
That the brain can hold
In a tiny ivory cell
God’s heaven and hell.


Oscar Wilde
Roses And Rue
Selected Poems

Libertatis Sacra Fames

Albeit nurtured in democracy,
And liking best that state republican
Where every man is Kinglike and no man
Is crowned above his fellows, yet I see,
Spite of this modern fret for Liberty,
Better the rule of One, whom all obey,
Than to let clamorous demagogues betray
Our freedom with the kiss of anarchy.
Wherefore I love them not whose hands profane
Plant the red flag upon the piled-up street
For no right cause, beneath whose ignorant reign
Arts, Culture, Reverence, Honour, all things fade,
Save Treason and the dagger of her trade,
Or Murder with his silent bloody feet.


Oscar Wilde
Libertatis Sacra Fames
Selected Poems

*Libertatis Sacra Fames: The Hunger of Liberty

Ave Maria Gratia Plena

Was this His coming! I had hoped to see
A scene of wondrous glory, as was told
Of some great God who in a rain of gold
Broke open bars and fell on Danae:
Or a dread vision as when Semele
Sickening for love and unappeased desire
Prayed to see God’s clear body, and the fire
Caught her brown limbs and slew her utterly:
With such glad dreams I sought this holy place,
And now with wondering eyes and heart I stand
Before this supreme mystery of Love:
Some kneeling girl with passionless pale face,
An angel with a lily in his hand,
And over both the white wings of a Dove.


Oscar Wilde
Ave Maria Gratia Plena
Selected Poems
Florence, Italy.

Sonnet On Hearing the Dies Irae Sung in the Sistine Chapel

Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring,
Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted dove,
Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love
Than terrors of red flame and thundering.
The hillside vines dear memories of Thee bring:
A bird at evening flying to its nest
Tells me of One who had no place of rest:
I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing.
Come rather on some autumn afternoon,
When red and brown are burnished on the leaves,
And the fields echo to the gleaner’s song,
Come when the splendid fulness of the moon
Looks down upon the rows of golden sheaves,
And reap Thy harvest: we have waited long.


Oscar Wilde
Sonnet On Hearing the Dies Irae Sung in the Sistine Chapel
Selected Poems

Phedre

To Sarah Bernhardt

How vain and dull this common world must seem
To such a One as thou, who should’st have talked
At Florence with Mirandola, or walked
Through the cool olives of the Academe:
Thou should’st have gathered reeds from a green stream
For Goat-foot Pan’s shrill piping, and have played
With the white girls in that Phaeacian glade
Where grave Odysseus wakened from his dream.

Ah! surely once some urn of Attic clay
Held thy wan dust, and thou hast come again
Back to this common world so dull and vain,
For thou wert weary of the sunless day,
The heavy fields of scentless asphodel,
The loveless lips with which men kiss in Hell.


Oscar Wilde
Phedre
Selected Poems

Fabien Dei Franchi

To my Friend Henry Irving

The silent room, the heavy creeping shade,
The dead that travel fast, the opening door,
The murdered brother rising through the floor,
The ghost’s white fingers on thy shoulders laid,
And then the lonely duel in the glade,
The broken swords, the stifled scream, the gore,
Thy grand revengeful eyes when all is o’er,—
These things are well enough,—but thou wert made
For more august creation! frenzied Lear
Should at thy bidding wander on the heath
With the shrill fool to mock him, Romeo
For thee should lure his love, and desperate fear
Pluck Richard’s recreant dagger from its sheath—
Thou trumpet set for Shakespeare’s lips to blow!


Oscar Wilde
Fabien Dei Franchi
Selected Poems

Portia

To Ellen Terry. Written at the Lyceum Theatre

I marvel not Bassanio was so bold
To peril all he had upon the lead,
Or that proud Aragon bent low his head
Or that Morocco’s fiery heart grew cold:
For in that gorgeous dress of beaten gold
Which is more golden than the golden sun
No woman Veronese looked upon
Was half so fair as thou whom I behold.
Yet fairer when with wisdom as your shield
The sober-suited lawyer’s gown you donned,
And would not let the laws of Venice yield
Antonio’s heart to that accursed Jew -
O Portia! take my heart: it is thy due:
I think I will not quarrel with the Bond.


Oscar Wilde
Portia
Selected Poems

Greece

The sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky
Burned like a heated opal through the air;
We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair
For the blue lands that to the eastward lie.
From the steep prow I marked with quickening eye
Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek,
Ithaca’s cliff, Lycaon’s snowy peak,
And all the flower-strewn hills of Arcady.
The flapping of the sail against the mast,
The ripple of the water on the side,
The ripple of girls’ laughter at the stern,
The only sounds:- when ‘gan the West to burn,
And a red sun upon the seas to ride,
I stood upon the soil of Greece at last!


Oscar Wilde
Greece
Selected Poems
Katakolo, Greece

Theocritus - A Villanelle

O singer of Persephone!
In the dim meadows desolate
Dost thou remember Sicily?

Still through the ivy flits the bee
Where Amaryllis lies in state;
O Singer of Persephone!

Simaetha calls on Hecate
And hears the wild dogs at the gate;
Dost thou remember Sicily?

Still by the light and laughing sea
Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate;
O Singer of Persephone!

And still in boyish rivalry
Young Daphnis challenges his mate;
Dost thou remember Sicily?

Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee,
For thee the jocund shepherds wait;
O Singer of Persephone!
Dost thou remember Sicily?


Oscar Wilde
Theocritus - A Villanelle
Selected Poems

Magdalen Walks

After gaining the Berkeley Gold Medal for Greek at Trinity College, Dublin, in 1874, Oscar Wilde proceeded to Oxford, where he obtained a demyship at Magdalen College. He is the only real poet on the books of that institution.

The little white clouds are racing over the sky,
And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March,
The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled larch
Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.

A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze,
The odour of deep wet grass, and of brown new-furrowed earth,
The birds are singing for joy of the Spring’s glad birth,
Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees.

And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring,
And the rose-bud breaks into pink on the climbing briar,
And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire
Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring.

And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love
Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green,
And the gloom of the wych-elm’s hollow is lit with the iris sheen
Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove.

See! the lark starts up from his bed in the meadow there,
Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of dew,
And flashing adown the river, a flame of blue!
The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air.


Oscar Wilde
Magdalen Walks
Selected Poems

To My Wife - With a Copy of My Poems

I can write no stately proem
As a prelude to my lay;
From a poet to a poem
I would dare to say.

For if of these fallen petals
One to you seem fair,
Love will waft it till it settles
On your hair.

And when wind and winter harden
All the loveless land,
It will whisper of the garden,
You will understand.


Oscar Wilde
To My Wife - With a Copy of My Poems
Selected Poems

Ave Imperatrix

Set in this stormy Northern sea,
Queen of these restless fields of tide,
England! what shall men say of thee,
Before whose feet the worlds divide?
 

The earth, a brittle globe of glass,
Lies in the hollow of thy hand,
And through its heart of crystal pass,
Like shadows through a twilight land,
 

The spears of crimson-suited war,
The long white-crested waves of fight,
And all the deadly fires which are
The torches of the lords of Night.
 

The yellow leopards, strained and lean,
The treacherous Russian knows so well,
With gaping blackened jaws are seen
Leap through the hail of screaming shell.
 

The strong sea-lion of England’s wars
Hath left his sapphire cave of sea,
To battle with the storm that mars
The stars of England’s chivalry.
 

The brazen-throated clarion blows
Across the Pathan’s reedy fen,
And the high steeps of Indian snows
Shake to the tread of armed men.
 

And many an Afghan chief, who lies
Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees,
Clutches his sword in fierce surmise
When on the mountain-side he sees
 

The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes
To tell how he hath heard afar
The measured roll of English drums
Beat at the gates of Kandahar.
 

For southern wind and east wind meet
Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire,
England with bare and bloody feet
Climbs the steep road of wide empire.
 

O lonely Himalayan height,
Grey pillar of the Indian sky,
Where saw’st thou last in clanging flight
Our winged dogs of Victory?
 

The almond-groves of Samarcand,
Bokhara, where red lilies blow,
And Oxus, by whose yellow sand
The grave white-turbaned merchants go:
 

And on from thence to Ispahan,
The gilded garden of the sun,
Whence the long dusty caravan
Brings cedar wood and vermilion;
 

And that dread city of Cabool
Set at the mountain’s scarped feet,
Whose marble tanks are ever full
With water for the noonday heat:
 

Where through the narrow straight Bazaar
A little maid Circassian
Is led, a present from the Czar
Unto some old and bearded Khan,—
 

Here have our wild war-eagles flown,
And flapped wide wings in fiery fight;
But the sad dove, that sits alone
In England—she hath no delight.
 

In vain the laughing girl will lean
To greet her love with love-lit eyes:
Down in some treacherous black ravine,
Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies.
 

And many a moon and sun will see
The lingering wistful children wait
To climb upon their father’s knee;
And in each house made desolate
 

Pale women who have lost their lord
Will kiss the relics of the slain—
Some tarnished epaulette—some sword—
Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain.
 

For not in quiet English fields
Are these, our brothers, lain to rest,
Where we might deck their broken shields
With all the flowers the dead love best.
 

For some are by the Delhi walls,
And many in the Afghan land,
And many where the Ganges falls
Through seven mouths of shifting sand.
 

And some in Russian waters lie,
And others in the seas which are
The portals to the East, or by
The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar.
 

O wandering graves! O restless sleep!
O silence of the sunless day!
O still ravine! O stormy deep!
Give up your prey! Give up your prey!
 

And thou whose wounds are never healed,
Whose weary race is never won,
O Cromwell’s England! must thou yield
For every inch of ground a son?
 

Go! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head,
Change thy glad song to song of pain;
Wind and wild wave have got thy dead,
And will not yield them back again.
 

Wave and wild wind and foreign shore
Possess the flower of English land—
Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more,
Hands that shall never clasp thy hand.
 

What profit now that we have bound
The whole round world with nets of gold,
If hidden in our heart is found
The care that groweth never old?
 

What profit that our galleys ride,
Pine-forest-like, on every main?
Ruin and wreck are at our side,
Grim warders of the House of Pain.
 

Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet?
Where is our English chivalry?
Wild grasses are their burial-sheet,
And sobbing waves their threnody.
 

O loved ones lying far away,
What word of love can dead lips send!
O wasted dust! O senseless clay!
Is this the end! is this the end!
 

Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead
To vex their solemn slumber so;
Though childless, and with thorn-crowned head,
Up the steep road must England go,
 

Yet when this fiery web is spun,
Her watchmen shall descry from far
The young Republic like a sun
Rise from these crimson seas of war.


Oscar Wilde
Ave Imperatrix
Selected Poems