Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
At the Matra, in a country,
Lives my elder and dear auntie,
Warmhearted, hardworker and hale,
She is from whom I know this tale.

A bumbling deerling on a day,
Went astray onto the highway,
He fell over a fallen trunk,
Breaking his leg with crack and clunk.

While the poor was sadly weeping,
The old lady stopped there, seeing.
Taking him up, right to the lap,
She took the fawn home for a nap.

Curing him and cherishing him,
Not just healing his broken limb,
But giving him fresh hay, water,
As if she were his dear mother.

Katy the cat and Doug the dog,
Nestled to him next to the stove's log,
Sharing humanely their one nest,
They could not hurt the little guest.

The fawn's leg is quickly mending,
He could dance without pretending,
He could dance since he is not *****,
However, he wasn't in the mood.

His doleful brown eyes in the far,
Are hanging on the morning star,
While the morning's red-purple lights,
Are playing on the mountain's sights.

Evening winds are chasing the haze,
Then, they get lost in the hills' maze.
"My fresh crops are waiting for you,
Come home, deerling! We all love you!"

Tears sprang into the deerling's eyes,
He wished to go back, without lies,
Only if his mother wouldn't worry,
Only if his auntie wouldn't pity.

Day and night he wants to go back,
Whither the smooth grass is his snack,
Where are fancy fields of flower,
Waiting for their deerling brother.

Where squirrels are jumping around,
Woodpeckers are hitting the trees' crown,
Cuckoos are singing *** sonnets,
And ants are wearing heavy puppets.

He's waited by the stream, by the wind,
By the running clouds there sky-pinned,
By the dewy blue-bell flower,
By the fields in colour-shower.

The old dame is weeping for him,
However, she won't hold back him,
Each one has a home to live in,
Being deer woods or human housin'.

Escorting him until the gate,
The dame must tip-tap back and wait,
Waving to him until seeing:
"Farewell, my dear little deerling!"

Pacing slowly, ambling stilly,
Door is clacking, curtain's swishy,
She is watching her dear from there,
For last, he may look back to her.

Her helpless little animal,
Hurries more and more his footfall,
And then, as fast as the lightning,
He is on the mountain, climbing.

But on the top, under the sky,
He turns back to say a goodbye:
"God bless you, field, and my old dame" -
Like the wind, he left as he came.

The summer fleets, the leaf falls down,
Every beech tree balds its ex-crown,
Snow blankets the houses, the lawn,
The old lady's living alone.

Nature's waking up, flowering,
She doesn't forget her deerling,
The Earth is turning once and twice,
The gate is knocked by someone nice.

She looks out the window lattice,
What a strange nightly guest that is?
Moonlight beems upon the country,
She opens wide the wooden entry.

Her hands opens in hugging blow:
A deer, deerling and a mother doe,
Standing there, then letting them in,
Her heart's beating, recognizing:

Her deerling became a deer dad,
Having a son now being sad:
His forefoot's broken a little;
They visited the hospital.

He asked her with his bare eyes:
Please Dame, cure my son with your ties,
Don't let him crying dear auntie,
May God return you your bounty.

Mist is afore them, fog behind,
They dressed the cape of night to hide,
Leaving their little in her arm,
Knowing, she will cure all his harm.

The little got cured one by one,
He was almost able to run,
And before the beech throws its mast,
The young buck is in the forest.

At the Matra, village border,
The Old Dame within the portal,
She's not alone why she would be,
Cold or hot, she's a busy bee.

She's surrounded by bucks and does,
They're coming back as visitors,
Winter-summer, from year to year,
They bow their head to Mother Deer.

The village folks loving her too,
They give her nicknames, one or two:
The Old Lady within the dear,
Or just simply Dear Mother Deer.

Red poppy, carnation, sage bloom,
Are decorating her mild room,
In big vases and little jugs,
Rainbow colours like made of drugs.

A flower from Steven Peter,
Another from Flower Esther,
A third one from Johhny Seral,
Surely, they'll be good persons all.

The wild flowers followed by songs,
The room's full of musical tongues,
Children singing is far and near,
While laughes and cries Dear Mother Deer.

At the Matra, in a country,
Lives my elder and dear auntie,
Warmhearted, hardworker and hale,
Her golden heart is in this tale.

Salt loaves wait the little deerlings,
Swiss rolls wait for the new-comings,
Be her guest, you too, I just say:
This is the tale's end; run away!
Fazekas Anna - "Öreg néne özikéje" translated by me, Benyamin Bensalah, from Hungarian.

Extern and intern
From the prowling death itself
(like an afeard mouse into the hole)

Still heating,
You will be to a woman escaping,
For protection at her arms, laps and knees.

Not just the fire,
That calls with ease, not just the desire,
But you are also pushed there by the must -

For this, you'd hug,
If you were on her drug,
Hugging her till the whiteness of the mouth.

A double burden,
'n double treasure is the must to love.
For the one who cannot find a simple mate,

So homeless,
As so suportless
As the wild animal doing excrete.

There's nowhere to hide
No resort; even you get a knife
And as a brave, you aim at your mother!

See now, it happened
A woman who understand'
These words, but she pushed you away.

I have no place,
In this way, among livings. Pains,
In my head' to flourish my troubles;

Like a toddler,
Rattling the rattler
If he is left all alone.

What to do
Being contra or pro?
I have no shame to find out,

Since gets castaway
Even the poor who is a prey
Of the sun's and night's nightmares.

The culture's
Falling of me like costumes
While from others, they fall in big love -

But where it is written,
To be tossed by death hither-thither
In fact of that I'm suffering all alone?

The baby
Is also in pain, being born by the lady,
Since the shared pain is eased by humbleness.

But for me
My painful chants bring money
Enjoined with disgrace and more sorrow.

Help me, guys!
You, little boys, let your eyes,
Let them burst where this woman goes.

O' innocents,
Scream under the boots of dissidents
And tell them, please: It hurts so much.

O' faithful dogs,
Get under cars' wheels and smogs,
Then bark to them: It hurts so much.

O' women with burden,
Abort your half-living *****,
Then cry painfully: It hurts so much.

O' healthy men,
Fall down and ******* then,
Just to mutter: It hurts so much.

O' men,
Fighting each other for a woman,
Don't keep it silent: It hurts so much.

O' horses and bulls,
For the yoke loosing your *****,
Don't miss a moo: It hurts so much.

O' dumb fish,
Getting a hook to become dish,
Gawp and articulate: It hurts so much.

All who's alive,
Join the life-long strife,
Let burn the forest, the house, the hutch.

And then, at his bed,
Mortified, slumber-near, almost dead,
Gibber with me for last: It hurts so much.

So, she can hear while alive.
This is what she denied, if worthwhile.
She did restrict it by her own pleasure

Extern and intern
Escaping from living itself
That was his last resort.
Attila József - "Nagyon Fàj" Translated by me from the original Hungarian language.

Like a frozen stone
Without a glance being blown,
I got thrown away.

I was flying in silence,
Then, I moaned up without resilience
On a brick.

Through an eaves,
I fell into the stream's waves,
Unheard, unhurt.

Frozen imprisonment
Where the jailer is the detachment,
Not somewhat cold.

The spring is sobbing,
Its tears are smoothly rushing,
Pushing to a land.

Among stones standing,
Patience is suffocating, ending,
Drying crying.

Smooth hands,
Promising their hold never ends,
They disbanded.

In a new stream,
Me and solitude in a team,
But it's all fine.

Sleeping is the only way,
Not seeing when we're thrown away,
Again, again.
Translation of my old Hungarian poem, "Kört kör követ".

I love that love of marines
They kiss, and then they go
They won't take their promises
But either will come home

In every port, there's a sad lady
But they kissed, and now they're gone
Some night , as everyother
They'll kiss the waves to forget shore
Partial Translation of Pablo Neruda's farewell from Spanish language
OpenWorldView Apr 12
Your sinful mouth is my tomb,
intoxicating its sweet bloom,
for all my virtues are put to sleep.
I drink uncontrollably from its well
and sink freely into its depths,
gazing blissfully into hell.

My hot flesh glows in his breath,
I tremble, like a spring rosebush
kissed by warm May rain.
- I follow you into the wild land of sin
and pick fire lilies by the roads,
- even if I can’t find home again…
From my favorite German poet:
Else Lasker-Schüler (1869 - 1945)


Dein sünd'ger Mund ist meine Totengruft,
betäubend ist sein süßer Atemduft,
Denn meine Tugenden entschliefen.
Ich trinke sinnberauscht aus seiner Quelle
und sinke willenlos in ihre Tiefen,
verklärten Blickes in die Hölle.

Mein heißer Leib erglüht in seinem Hauch,
er zittert, wie ein junger Rosenstrauch,
geküsst vom warmen Maienregen.
- Ich folge dir ins wilde Land der Sünde
und pflücke Feuerlilien auf den Wegen,
- wenn ich die Heimat auch nicht wiederfinde...

I found one translation, but wanted to try it myself. Work in progress.
Jules AA Apr 4
It felt like I was basking in the sun’s rays,
such wonderful warmth.
I looked at the light so long
I forgot to look down
to see the fire rising.

Unlike Icarus,
I only sought the warmth
of the loving sun,
not the freedom
not the ability to


I too was punished.
Arrogant. Foolish boy.
Thinking I could have
One pleasant moment.

O deī! Quantoperō cōnflāgrāntia mē sum!

I thought the warmth was nice,
mistaking the flame
for the sunlight’s warmth
before the blistering
and the bubbling
of my skin
as it melts,
the crackling of my bones
a brilliant cacophony like
the early morning birds
with high pitch squeals with every
of my now blackened skeleton.

O gods! O gods!
The fire! The fire!
It burns! It burns!

My funeral pyre
billowing with stinging ashes
now smolders,
my remains soon to be
discarded, and no Iris
or Mercury
will come to send my soul
to Asphodel.

I will sever my own soul and walk on my own.
Gabriel burnS Mar 31
What leaves won’t leave you
What’s rooted holds you
What flies sees you exposed
What lies stays a child
What dries up won’t remain dry
What’s come to pass shall roll again
Old songs don’t go when new ones play
Things drip and flood, dance out their pace
A snaking river knows its way
No tongue to speak or eyes to see
This realm spins to realign
So every sunbeam finds its tree

*   *   *

Което те напуска, няма да те пусне
Което корени е пуснало, държи те
Което лети, те вижда открит
Което лъже, дете си остава
Което пресъхва, няма сухо да остане
Което е минало, пак ще се търколи
Не изчезват старите песни пред новите
Неща капят, заливат, танцуват си темпото
Лъкатушеща река пътя си знае
Без език да говори и очи да види
Тази шир се върти до подреждане
За да може всеки лъч да намери дървото си
Translated my own poem from Bulgarian, my native language...
Crestfall Mar 10
What wicked intent, wretched little Ravidus,
casts you headlong into my iambics?
Which god, ill-invoked by you, readies to stir up a crazed fray?
Or was it so that you can become the subject in popular chatter?
What do you want? Is it pleasing to be famous in whatever way you desire?
You will be, since you determined to covet my loves, along with eternal retributions.
(C) Crestfall
My translation of Catullus' Carmen 40
Crestfall Mar 10
I would like, papyrus, that you tell the young love poet,
my friend, Caecilius, that he should come to Verona,
leaving behind the walls of New Como and the shore of Larius:
for I wish that he receives certain cogitations
of a friend of his and mine.
On which account, if he will be wise, he will devour the road,
although a glittering girl might call him back a thousand times as he is leaving,
and, flinging both arms around his neck,
she might beg that he delay,
who now, if true things are announced to me,
perishes through uncontrollable love of him:
for from which time she reads his incomplete "Mistress of Dindymus,"
from that time, flames consume the innermost marrow of the poor girl.
I forgive you, girl more learned than the Sapphic Muse;
for the "Great Mother" of Caecilius is elegantly incomplete.
(C) Crestfall
My translation of Catullus' Carmen 35
Crestfall Mar 10
You shall dine well, Fabullus, at my house
in a few days, if the gods favour you,
if you will have brought with you a good and large dinner,
not without a shining girl
and wine and wit and all your laughter.
If you will have brought these things, I say, our charming one,
you shall dine well: for the purse of your Catullus is full of cobwebs.
But, in turn, you will receive undiluted loves
of anything which is either more delightful or more elegant:
for I will give to you perfume,
which the Venuses and Cupids gave to my girl,
which, when you will smell it,
you will ask the gods so that they might
make all of you, Fabullus, a nose.
(C) Crestfall
My translation of Catullus' Carmen 13.
Next page