2013 to rok Tuwima. Niezależnie od tego, czy Sejm tak chciał (a w końcu jednak chciał), albo czy Młodzieszy Wrzehpolskiej się to podoba czy nie (się nie podoba).  Poeta urodził się w roku 1894, zmarł w 1953. Ale jest inny powód, dla którego obchodzimy rok tuwimowski. Przed stu laty – 6 stycznia 2013 roku – Kurier Warszawski opublikował wiersz Prośba. Autor miał wtedy 18 lat i była to jego pierwsza publikacja. Wiersz, który dziś publikuję – Berlin 1913 – powstał dopiero kilkanaście lat później, ale chyba jasne jest, dlaczego z całego bogactwa wierszy Tuwima wybrałam właśnie ten.

Julian Tuwim, Berlin 1913, śpiewa Leszek Długosz, muzyka Leszek Długosz albo Zygmunt Konieczny, źródła plączą się w zeznaniach.

O, smętne, śnieżne, nevermore!
Dni utracone, ukochane!
Widzę cię znów w Cafe du Nord
W mroźny, mglisty poranek.

Strach, słodki strach od stóp do głów,
Dygot błękitnych, czułych nerwów,
I sen był znów, i list był znów:
Mgła legendarnych perfum.

Lecz nie ma mnie i nie ma mnie,
I nigdy w życiu mnie nie będzie.
Zostanę w liście, zostanę w śnie,
W tkliwej, śnieżnej legendzie.

Nic o tym nie wiesz. Czekasz, drżąc.
Dzień sennie sypie się i szepce.
Ach, serce moje i młodość mą
W srebrnej nosisz torebce.

Wczoraj? A co to było? Tak:
Carmen, kareta, wino, walce…
Mignęło w oczach. Nie – to ptak,
Wyszyty na woalce.

Pusto i ciepło w tym Cafe.
Zima się w oknie szronem perli.
Nie przyjdę. Idź. Nie spotkasz mnie.
… Wielki, Wielki jest Berlin.

Wiersz powstał w roku 1926. Podobno poeta nie znał Berlina, ani w roku 1913 ani 1926. Podobno było to miasto symbol wolności twórczej i mit pięknej epoki.

Oh klägliches verschneites nevermore!
Verlorene geliebte Tage!
Ich seh´dich erneut im Café du Nord
An einem frostigen Morgen im Nebel.

Angst, süßer Angst, vom Scheitel bis zur Sohle.
Ein Zittern der blauen, empfindsamen Nerven.
Und der Traum war wieder da, und der Brief war wieder da:
Der Nebel der legänderem Pärfume.

Doch ich bin nicht da und bin nicht da,
und nie im Leben werde ich da sein.
Ich bleibe im Brief, ich bleibe im Traum,
in der zärtlichen, verschneiten Legende.

Nichts weißt du darüber. Du wartest zitternd.
Der Tag plätschert schlaftrunken dahin und flüstert.
Ach, mein Herz und meine Jugend
trägst du in einer silbernen Handtasche.

Gestern? Und was war das? Ja:
Carmen, Kutsche, Wein, Walzer…
Es blinkte in den Augen. Nein – es war ein Vogel,
Gestickt an einem Hutschleier.

Leer und warm ist´s in diesem Café.
Der Winter perlt am Fenster mit Rauhreif.
Ich komme nicht. Du triffst mich nicht.
… Groß, groß ist Berlin.

Übersetzt RL Andreas, wobei RL “Reiseleiter” bedeutet. Er ist nämlich einer.

Oh, dismal, snowy nevermore!
Days lost and adored!
I see you again in the Café du Nord
On a frosty, foggy morn.

Fear, sweet fear from head to toe,
The quiver of blue and tender nerves,
A dream came so, and a letter came so:
Fog of legendary perfumes.

Though I am not and I am not,
And I will never be.
In a letter caught; in a dream, caught
In a gentle, snowy mythology.

You know not of this. Only wait, trembling.
As the day sleepily spills and whispers.
Oh, this heart of mine, this youth,
You carry with you in your silver purse.

Yesterday? But what was that?
Carmen, coaches, wine, and waltzes…
Flash before my eyes. No – a bird,
Sewn onto the veil around your hat.

It’s empty and warm in this Café.
Winter frosts the glass like skin,
I won’t come. You won’t see me. Go away.
…Great, great is the city of Berlin.

Translation Pacze Moj

Kolejny wpis na niedzielę, przypominający wiersze, o których nie sposób zapomnieć, a których przecież nie pamiętamy. W poprzednią  niedzielę był tu utwór niemieckiego poety Hölderlina, dziś przypomnę niezwykły wiersz T.S. Eliota o spacerze J. Alfreda  Prufrocka. Pod tekstem wiersza jego recytacja – najlepiej słuchać i czytać jednocześnie. Główną część wpisu stanowi zawsze utwór w języku oryginału i jego recytacja. Tym razem jest to więc wpis po angielsku.
Tekst po polsku                                                                             Text auf Deutsch

T.S. Eliot

The Love Song of  J. Alfred Prufrock

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Dante Inferno (XXVII, 61-66)

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question….
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”

.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (in: Prufrock and other Observations 1917)
T.S. Eliot (September 26, 1888–January 4, 1965), was a major Modernist Anglo-American poet, dramatist, and literary critic.  Here the record of poet speaking his poem himself.

Translation of Dante’s verses:

“If I but thought that my response were made
to one perhaps returning to the world,
this tongue of flame would cease to flicker.
But since, up from these depths, no one has yet
returned alive, if what I hear is true,
I answer without fear of being shamed.”