MUNDUS ARTIUM A Journal of International Literature and the Arts MUNDUS ARTIUM A Journal of International Literature and the Arts Volume XIV, Number 2, 1984 STAFF EDITOR IN CHIEF, Rainer Schulte ASSOCIATE EDITORS, Thomas J. Hoeksema, Roma A. King, Jr. CONTRIBUTING EDITOR. Samuel Hazo ASSISTANT EDITOR. Sheryl St. Germain COPY EDITORS, Sandra Smith, Stephanie Stearns Mundus Artium, A Journal of International Literature and the Arts, publishes two issues per volume. Subscription rates per volume are $8.00 for individuals, $10.00 for institutions; single copies $4.50. The Editors MUNDUS ARTIUM University of Texas at Dallas Box 830688 Richardson, Texas 75083-0688 U.S.A. Mundus Artium is a journal of translations and interdisciplinary studies. It will consider for publication contemporary poetry, fiction, short drama, essays on literature and the arts, photography, and photographic reproductions of paintings and sculpture. The editors of Mundus Artium gratefully acknowledge support from the National Endowment for the Arts which made the publication of this issue possible. Copyright. 1984, Rainer Schulte 3 CONTENTS LEOPOLDOCHARIARSE-trs.MiriamandGerdJoel 8 End of Autumn Eternal Walls GEVORG EMIN-tr. Diana Der Hovanessian 12 Why Has This Ache Clever Lamb MARTIN ROBBINS . 13 Notes/Maker of Death Masks Passacaglia JAIME HAGEL-tr. Pam Carmell 15 Abraxas HUGO LINDO-tr. Elizabeth Gamble Miller 20 Winter of the Race ANGHEL DUMBHAVEANU-trs.AdamSorkinandlrinaGrigorescu ... 26 Heralds Horses of Time The Masks At Night on the Shore RODICA S. JACKSON 32 Caltrop C SUSANA THENON-tr. Renata Treitel 33 Excerpts from Distances EUGENIO DE ANDRADE-tr. Alexis Levitin 38 Inhabited Body Crystallizations Silence Since Dawn Inhabited Heart LIN.DA BERMAN 46 Excerpts from Interview 5 MARIA T. JACKETT! 48 Speaking Three Languages Inside My Lover's Mouth Soccer Field Optimism Meteor Slices JANE SPENCER _ 50 My Black Wool Coat Meanings The Dark Summer in New York ROBERT GREGORY , 52 Sheet & Sleeping Woman Only This Window WOLFGANG BACHLER: A PORTRAIT AND POEMS- tr. Rainer Schulte . 53 Roads My Boundaries The Dead On the Train Behind the Shutters JORGE DEBRA VO-tr. Michael Johnson 60 A Hymn for the Eye Psalm to the Animal Earth of Your Abdomen ANGELA BALL 64 What Tower GLEN DOWNIE 66 I Am the Light of the World HINA FAISAL IMAM 67 Creation She Difference R.M. CHUCKOVICH 69 Overdose ALAIN BOSQUET-tr. GeorgeBog in 80 Four Poems 6 SAUL YURKIEVICH-tr. Cola Franzen 86 Why Bother to Read It The Door Rounds SOPHIA DE MELLO BREYNER ANDRESEN-tr. LisaSapinkopf .. 92 Seven Poems PINA PIPINO 96 Weak Threads FRANK JAEGER-tr.Frank Hugus 98 One Summer 7 Leopoldo Chariarse AL FINAL DEL OTONO l Ad6nde llegaras, otofio, con tus tardes, con tus glorietas tristes, con tu voz? i Ad6nde con tu amargo silencio, con tus mananas frias y rotas? Doblandote, tropezando, golpeandote contra las casas y arboles. Como un nino escondido entre los pinos, tiemblas, huyes a tus rincones sordos, tras la sombra de paredes y huertos, o a los dias dados a mala muerte, con la lluvia, con los vocablos subitos, con todo lo que el reflejo triste de un cielo retuviera. Y comprendes, persistes y te miras llegar, cuan torpemente, cuan desolado y turbio entre los veraneantes. l Como llorar, c6mo salirte afuera y gritarlo? Si tu, como un insecto en un vaso te debates, bebes lo que no es tuyo, en silencio, y a la brisa das tu mirada honda de amor mal avenido. Quedate en calma, no prosigas con tus cuatro paredes de espanto en todas partes. Cede. deja al olvido cuanto supiste dia de sol, claro quebranto y enseflanza de amor, en tu costado. 8 Translators Miriam and Gerd Joel Leopoldo Chariarse END OF AUTUMN Where will you end, autumn, with your afternoons, your sad pavillions, your voice? Where will you end with your bitter silence, your cold and broken mornings? Twisting, stumbling, beating yourself against houses and trees. Like a child hiding behind pine trees, you tremble, you flee into your soundless alleys, behind the shadow of walls and orchards, or into days haunted by misery, with rain, with sudden outcries, with everything which the sad reflection of the sky might retain. And you understand, persist and watch yourself arrive awkward, desolate, dismal, among the summer guests. How can I cry out, how can I defy you, shout at you? When you struggle like an insect in a cup, drink in silence what is not meant for you, and give the breeze your deep look of reluctant love. Be quiet, do not go on with your four walls of terror everywhere. Give in, forget the days of sunshine you have known the pure grief, the gifts of love now distant. 9 Leopoldo Chariarse En el fondo de un suefio estamos solos y tu me estas mirando, todavia a traves de los humedos ojos del alba. No me preguntas nada, no me reprochas ni uno tan solo de los instantes perdidos, de las palabras perdidas. Encima de nosotros la noche alza sus brazos lobregos, sus paredes rocosas. Ciudades de silencio y hojas muertas, estaciones de sombra, oquedades de los muros eternos. Bajo la yedra todavia unas frases de lluvia, unas manos entrelazadas, todavia un manana para mirarnos despiertos. 10 Leopoldo Chariarse ETERNAL WALLS In the depth of a dream we are alone and you are still looking at me through the humid eyes of dawn. Ask me nothing, reproach me not for even one last moment, one last word. Above us the night raises its dark arms, its stony walls. City of silence and dead leaves, places of shadow, cracks between eternal walls. Under the ivy still some sounds of rain, some interlaced hands, still one tomorrow to see each other awake. 11 Translator Diana Der Hovanessian Gevorg Emin WHY HAS THIS ACHE Why has this ache returned, the pain that's more than one man's share? There's no love left but still it hurts as if still there. What is this punishment that banished-love leaves, as unfair as revenge? I wake up in the night as the old soldier does with pain in that amputated arm he no longer has. Gevorg Emin CLEVER LAMB The clever lamb sucks on two mothers. Proverb Why bother maneuvering back and forth between two? It will only hasten your journey into lamb stew. 12 Martin Robbins NOTES/MAKER OF DEATH MASKS The look of life preserved by my touch, I closed Beethoven's eyes, disdaining Mourners who shuffled on Black Spaniard Street. They took off hats to an emperor Whose music they ignored. Unbuttoned Laughter through tears seldom concerned them. While he couldn't hear fame's cheap whispers, They cheered for the ease of Rossini, Deaf to his soul's victories, answering "It must be" for himself. Some hand-spans later I took impressions with a white wind, My fingers blurring spectacles perched On Isaac Babel's nose as it smelled out Lies-and the truths of Siberia. The death certificate rattled from That file which muffles evil: "It was His time to die." But I saw his trunkful Of stories spilled into snow that sealed His last words: "Not permitted to finish." 13 Martin Robbins PASSACAGLIA Knees driving, back hunched, my fingers Holding the Great C's diapason Against prophets of dissonance, I pump Music from this little fortress. The line Wavers, I pull out another stop And fire tracers as thin as sunlight Filtered through the rain forest at Lambarene-> And jungle birds swell the descant: Holy, holy, bones of fingers, Bones of wings, hosts of order Encircling figures bent to praise. Punching "trumpet," with an F sharp, I slip The attack of sorcerer-devils, dark cults; At this console I build ladders of bright chords, And from the dominant's stronghold I flame The leading tone to "C," breathe in An "ah," return to the root, "men." 14 Translator Pam Carmell Jaime Hagel ABRAXAS Juan: I found him in a kind of cave. A black beard covered his face; his hair hung down to his shoulders. He looked at me with shining eyes, half amused, half friendly, gesturing to me in a likable way with his eyebrows. A campfire burned between four rocks; over them rested a black, soot• covered tin pot where something was boiling. Dirty sacks were spread out on the ground. He didn't say a word to me (he must have been mute), but he talked to me with his eyes and movements of his eyebrows that were very agile. After that I went to the hill every day. My mom was still living, and being alive was wonderful. I didn't tell anyone about my find. I always took him small presents-bread with butter, pieces of layer cake, old magazines, and even a pair of clodhoppers my dad wasn't wearing anymore. The day my dad was discussing religion with his guests, he talked about Abraxas, a god of who knows what; right then, I baptized him with that name. I did the same for Abraxas as my mom did sometimes when she placed candles in front of the statue of the Virgin at church. He would look at me through his enormous, dancing eyebrows with those friendly dog eyes. Dad: I casually met Sibylle at the home of a very sociable neighbor. As soon as I looked at her to shake hands, she became frightened. I only had that impersonal look on my face you use to greet someone being introduced, but her features changed; she had the look of a defenseless, terrified animal. The general conversation distracted us. The host, fat and exuberant, was talking excitedly about the electronic games he could hook up to the TV, tank battles, planes, and boats-you could drive the tank straight ahead, you aim, you fire, and everything goes red ...