If one could tell one’s heart…

 

 If one could tell one’s heart…

by Jaroslav Seifert

Translated by Ewald Osers

If one could tell one’s heart:

                       don’t rush!

If one could bid it: Burn!

The flame is dying.

          Only a slipper now,

only a hand,

                only a thimble now

before the key turns, opening the door

through which we pass with tears

for that terrible beauty

                     called Life.

Don’t feel ashamed. Lord Jesus also wept.

Last night the stars shone so brilliantly.

 

But why should a single blade speak of

                                        Itself

When there is grass?

               I do apologize,

I only want a few words.

 

When I collapsed with pain

and death already was licking its finger

to snuff out

the small red flame of blood,

came the one woman who was closest to me,

knelt down beside me

                 and bent low

to breathe, with her long kisses,

her breath into my lungs, as to a drowned man.

 

And he, already leaving

            opened his eyes again

and desperately with his hands hung on

to her shoulders and hair.

 

May be it’s possible to live without love—

But to die without it

       is sheer despair.

 

Just one more little leaf,

            just one more grain,

only a pinhead’s worth!

So I can just a little longer stagger

In the balmy attraction of womanhood,

which draws us close and leads us away,

          seeks and passes,

urges and restrains,

        strikes down and rises up,

binds and loosens,

         caresses and kills,

wing and anchor

        fetter and ray,

rose and claw to the end.

 

Poet Jaroslav Seifert was the first Czech to win the Nobel Prize for literature in 1984. His poetry is worth reading, reciting, and memorizing for its rich texture. He was a poet in love with humanity, in love with nature, in love with cities, in love with beautiful women young and old, indeed, in love with all true things. He lived through two world wars, and two brutal occupations, suffered mightily at the hands of ignorant and cruel men, and yet managed to keep his humanity and his dignity, find joy amidst the cruelties of this world, and live life to the fullest.

This love poem written when he was ill is heart-wrenchingly beautiful. The contrary emotions in conjugal bliss is beautifully evoked in the last stanza. I am going to write these lines in my heart:

“May be it’s possible to live without love—

But to die without it

       Is sheer despair.”

Painting : Le Couple by Picasso 

 

Autobiography

by Jaroslav Seifert

Translated by Ewald Osers

 Autobiography

Sometimes
when she would talk about herself
my mother would say:
My life was sad and quiet,
I always walked on tip-toe.
But if I got a little angry
and stamped my foot
the cups, which had been my mother's,
would tinkle on the dresser
and make me laugh.

At the moment of my birth, so I am told,
a butterfly flew in by the window
and settled on my mother's bed,
but that same moment a dog howled in the yard.
My mother thought
it a bad omen.

My life of course has not been quite
as peaceful as hers.
But even when I gaze upon our present days
with wistfulness
as if at empty picture frames
and all I see is a dusty wall,
still it has been so beautiful.

There are many moments
I cannot forget,
moments like radiant flowers
in all possible colours and hues,
evenings filled with fragrance
like purple grapes
hidden in the leaves of darkness.

With passion I read poetry
and loved music
and blundered, ever surprised,
from beauty to beauty.
But when I first saw
the picture of a woman nude
I began to believe in miracles.

My life unrolled swiftly.
It was too short
for my vast longings,
which had no bounds.
Before I knew it
my life's end was drawing near.

Death soon will kick open my door
and enter.
With startled terror I'll catch my breath
and forget to breathe again.

May I not be denied the time
once more to kiss the hands
of the one who patiently and in step with me
walked on and on and on
and who loved most of all.

Jaroslav Seifert was born on 23 September 1901 into a working-class family living in Zizkov, a suburb of Prague. He attended secondary school and soon began devoting himself to writing poetry and to journalism. He published his first collection of poems in 1921 and has authored more than twenty books of poetry . In 1969, he was elected chairman of the Czech writers union, even though his books had been suppressed as the results of his activities encouraging free speech during the ill-fated "Prague Spring" of 1968. Though he spoke out throughout his lifetime against the oppression of Nazi and later Soviet rule in Czechoslovakia, he was protected from retaliation in part by the people's well-deserved love for him. 

The "conscience" of Czechoslovakia during the Communist regime, Jaroslav Seifert (1901-86) was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature in 1984 "for his poetry which endowed with freshness, sensuality and rich inventiveness provides a liberating image of the indomitable spirit and versatility of man". For over 60 years, Seifert commemorated his native heritage and landscape. When he  died in 1986 at the age of 85, he was as popular among the Czech people as movie stars are among Americans. He might be rightly called  the "Grand Old Man " of modern Czech poetry. 

Seifert is a straightforward, direct, accessible poet who speaks of common human concerns: aging, lust and longing, reminiscing, love for his homeland, grief for dead friends. "The Selected Poetry of Jaroslav Seifert " is a wonderful collection  ably translated by Ewald Osers, who renders Seifert's easy, flowing style into seemingly effortless English while giving hints of the "inner rhythms".

The above poem radiates with warmth. The way he sums up his life with  graceful acceptance of  his destiny and without any shadow of malice  shows his persona .

Ref: "The Poetry of Jaroslav Seifert".Translated from the Czech by Ewald Osers. Publisher- Coller Books , New York