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Emily Dickinson - Poesias

Emily Dickinson, poesie N. 404-405-435-500-513-516

Emily Dickinson, poesias N. 404-405-435-500-513-516

Rubrica di letteratura "Chaminar e Pensar" traduzione in lingua occitana a cura di Peyre Anghilante

Emily Dickinson, poesie N. 404-405-435-500-513-516
English

404

How many Flowers fail in Wood –

Or perish from the Hill –

Without the privilege to know

That they are Beautiful –

How many cast a nameless Pod

Upon the nearest Breeze –

Unconscious of the Scarlet Freight –

It bear to Other Eyes –

405

It might be lolinier

Without the Loleliness –

I’m so accustomed to my Fate –

Perhaps the Other – Peace –

Would interrupt theDark –

And crowd the little Room –

Too scant – by Cubits – to contain

The Sacrament - of Him –

I am not used to Hope –

It might intrude upon –

It’s sweet parade – blaspheme the place –

Ordained to Suffering –

It might be easier

To fail – with Land in Sight –

That gain – My Blue Peninsula –

To perish – of Delight –



435

Much Madness is divinest Sense –

To a discerning Eye –

Much Sense – the starkest Madness –

Tis the Majority

In this, as all, that prevail –

Assent – and you are sane –

Demur – yu’re straightway dangerous –

And handlead with Chain – 



500

Within my Garden, rides a Bird

Upon a single Wheel –

Whose spokes a dizzy Music make

As’ twere a travelling Mill –

He never stops, but slackens

Above the Ripest Rose –

Partakes without alighting

And praises as he goes,

Till every spice is tasted –

And then his Fairy Gig

Reels in remoter atmospheres –

And I rejoin my Dog.

And He and I, perplex us

If positive, ‘twere we –

Or borethe Garden in the Brain

This Curiosity –

But He, the Best Logician,

Refers my doller – eye –

To just vibrating Blossoms!

An exquisite reply!



513

Like flowers, that heard the news of Dews –

But never deemed the dripping prize

Awaited their – low Brows –

Or Bees – that thought the summer’s name

Some rumor of Delirium,

No summer – could – for them –

Or Artic Creatures, dimly stirred –

By Tropic Hint – some Travelled Bird

Imported to the Wood –

Or Wind’s bright signal to the Hear –

Making that homely, and severe, Contented, known, before –

The Heaven - unexpected come,

To lives that thought the Worshipping

A too presumptuous Psalm – 



516

Beauty – be not caused – It Is –

Chase it, and it ceases –

Chase it not, and it abides –

Overtakes the Creases

In the Meadow – when the Wind

Runs his fingers thr’o it –

Deity will see to it

That you never do it – 


occitan

404

Qué de flors decheion dins lo bòsc

o perisson da la colina

sensa aver agut la sòrt

de conóisser lor beltat.

Qué tantas confion una grana sensa nom

a un’aureta vesina,

inconscientas dal don escarlat

que portarè a lhi autri uelhs.


405

Benlèu seriu pus soleta

sensa ma solituda -

Siu ben acostumaa a mon destin.

Benlèu l’autra, la patz,

poleira copar la sornura,

emplenir l’estància tròp pichòta,

tròp escafia per contenir

Son Sacrament.

Siu pas abituaa a l’esperança,

seria un’intrusa,

e sa dòuça parada blasfemaria

aqueste luec votat a la sufrença.

Pòl èsser pus de bèl

afondar en vista de la riba

que rejónher ma Blòia Penisla

per murir de jai.



435

Tanta folia es divina saviesa

per un uelh que sàpie destriar.

Tanta saviesa, pura folia.

Mas es la majorança,

en aquò coma en tot, que preval.

Conforme-te e serès san.

Garde-te e serès lèu dangeirós,

e estachat a la chaena.



500

Dins mon jardin cavalca un aucèl

sus una roa soleta.

Un molin sens relam que despreisona

una musica vertiginosa.

S’arrèsta pas jamai, mas chasque tant

ralenta son vòl sus la ròsa pus maüra.

Sensa se pausar, chucha un pauc

e se’n vai sensa remerciar.

Sabora chaque espècia -

e puei sa giga enfadaa.

S’enaura en d’atmosfèras pus luenhas

e mi rejonho mon chan.

Sen tuchi dui perplèx -

da bòn avem vist aquò,

o aquela drollaria s’es passaa

dins lo jardin de la ment?

Mas mon amís, lo mai logician,

vira mon uelh enfoscat vèrs las flors

que fremisson encara!

Una responsa exquisia!



513

Coma de flors qu’an auvit parlar de rosaa,

sensa jamai pensar que lo prèmi gisclant

atendia lor frònt umile,

o d’abelhas qu’an cregut lo nom de l’istat

la vòutz d’un deliri,

Gis d’istat – poleria - per elas;

o de creaturas àrticas, sornament tormentaas

da presagis tropicals – d’aucèls forestiers

immigrats dins lo bòsc,

o lo senh treslusent de l’aura per l’auvit,

qu’aquel rend familiar, auster, saciat,

conoissut, derant

que lo Paradís davale inatendut

a de vitas que creïon lor adoracion

un salm tròp ambiciós.



516

La beltat a pas una causa: exist.

Cèrche-la e esvanís.

Cèrche-la pas e es aquí.

Enganta las crespaduras

dal prat quora lo vent

las atravèrsa embe si dèts.

Diu proveierè

qu’aquò t’arribe pas.