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This poem is taken from PN Review 276, Volume 50 Number 4, March - April 2024.

SET 3: Mondo de Dormo
Translated by John Gallas
John Gallas
1
Sleepless                   Ise no Taifu early eleventh century/Japan

Sleepless... tired of thinking...
turn over... and look dumbly out at my dark garden –
to see some careless hand meantimes
has lighted lines of dew along the cabbageheads.


2
I come from foggy, faroff lands...           Amado Nervo 1870–1919/Mexico

I come from foggy, faroff lands.
The king is old, the king is sad.
My soul seeks only what is strange.
My soul loves what cannot be had.

You weep for dreams a world away.
You wait on loves that will not come.
Your eyes are sleepy, wet and wild,
like wind-dipped wings; your heart is numb.

Ah, both of us were born the same –
still seeking what cannot be had:
that foggy, faroff country where
the king is old, the king is sad.


3
Lullaby                   Anonymous (undated)/Myanmar

on the moon’s round cay
a gold hare squats
nip-eyed
nip-eyed
sleep now... sleep now... sleep

an old bone man
is mashing rice
on the moon’s round cay
so sleep... sleep... sleep

the Nats are dancing
on the moon’s round cay
tree-high
tree-high
sleep now... sleep now... sleep

an old red sun
is painting your eyes
hush now and shut them
and sleep... sleep... sleep


4
Tomorrow                  Amalia Guglielminetti (1891–1941)/Italy

I feel tomorrow’s shadow, stuck,
waiting, by my pillow,
with Good and Bad held in its hands.

Is Bad kept hid in the left?
Is Good kept hid in the right?
Which will be offered me. Which?

And sleep comes, down waving ways,
and hums to me – Don’t worry... sleep now!
and lays its finger softly on my eyes.

Sleep. Bitter hours may be fastened
in tomorrow’s fist. Better not to worry.
Forget the shadow’s silent spy that waits

to pounce, all ready, when you wake.


5
Death Poem                Hjálmar Jónsson(1796–1875)/Iceland

How stiff I find it now to write
and wag my trembled pen aright.
Alas, I barely sleep at night.
The dark admits of little light.
And I am cold, arthritic, bent and beat.

I stare into the darkness of defeat.
I hold my way along a dead-end street.
My grave gapes cold. I see my winding-sheet.
I cut my hope-shield runes to spite defeat –
read them who may, beyond my long, last fight.
                                               *


Notes
1. Sleepless: new
2. I come from foggy, faroff lands: new
3. Lullaby: from ‘The Song Atlas’ (slightly revised)
4. Tomorrow: from ‘52 Euros’ (slightly re-lined)
5. Death Poem: new

This poem is taken from PN Review 276, Volume 50 Number 4, March - April 2024.



Readers are asked to send a note of any misprints or mistakes that they spot in this poem to editor@pnreview.co.uk
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