Lonesome Poplar Tree: Selected Poems

By Josip Murn and Brane Senegačnik

Though Murn’s oeuvre ranges from erotic pieces to poems about the countryside, from atmospheric and reflective to narrative poems, the boundaries between these categories are often blurred. His most acclaimed works are his countryside lyric poems and atmospheric pieces. The former, seemingly echoing the simplicity of folk songs, render the townsman’s dream of a bucolic idyll. Murn plays through a vast repertory of metres and rhymes, sometimes harking back to traditional folk forms, such as ballads or romances, sometimes even switching to free verse. His atmospheric poems, on the other hand, paint miniature impressions – usually melancholy ones – of natural scenes. Noteworthy is Murn’s masterful use of sound devices, from general euphony to expressive sound repetition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Slovene Writers' Association
• Release date: Jul 24, 2017
• ISBN: 9789616995283

Book preview

1/2016/LIV/142

Josip Murn Aleksandrov

Lonesome Poplar Tree: Selected Poems

Originally published in Slovene as: Topol samujoč: izbrane pesmi

Copyright © 1996 by Mladinska knjiga, Ljubljana

Translation copyright © 2016 by Nada Grošelj

Translated by

Nada Grošelj

English language consultant

Jason Blake

Afterword

Nada Grošelj and Brane Senegačnik

Editors for the Litterae Slovenicae Series

Tina Kozin, Tanja Petrič

Editor for this edition

Tina Kozin

Issued and published by

Društvo slovenskih pisateljev (DSP) = Slovene Writers’ Association (SWA),

Ljubljana, represented by Ivo Svetina, President

Graphic design

Ranko Novak

Ljubljana 2017

This project has been funded with support from the

European Commission. This publication reflects the views only of

the author, and the Commission cannot be held responsible for any

use which may be made of the information contained therein.

CIP - Kataložni zapis o publikaciji

Univerzitetna knjižnica Maribor

821.163.6-1(0.034.2)

MURN, Josip

Lonesome poplar tree [Elektronski vir] : selected poems / Josip Murn Aleksandrov ; translated by Nada Grošelj ; afterword by Nada Grošelj and Brane Senegačnik. - El. knjiga. - Ljubljana : Društvo slovenskih pisateljev = Slovene Writers’ Association, 2017. - (Litterae Slovenicae : Slovenian literary magazine)

Prevod dela: Topol samujoč

ISBN 978-961-6995-28-3

COBISS.SI-ID 91867393

Josip Murn Aleksandrov

Lonesome Poplar Tree

Selected Poems

Translated by

Nada Grošelj

Afterword by

Nada Grošelj and Brane Senegačnik

Društvo slovenskih pisateljev

Slovene Writer’s Association

Ljubljana 2017

Songs and Romances

A Spring Romance

Open windows, open doors,

here rides our knight, Saint George,

Saint George on his horse,

his fine horse,

Saint George, grant us grace!

Saint George is a mighty saint,

God’s right hand, who slew the snake,

that snake was the winter-snake:

blood bright splotches,

dragon splotches

spring up in the budding dale.

Open windows, open doors,

knocking comes our knight, Saint George,

Saint George in such splendid garb

that he’s bringing, in this garb,

lovely days again.

All these days,

Saint George’s days,

have come to the land.

George is not just May in bloom,

George is God’s own freedom,

nature, life and vigour,

winter-drake was merely gloom…

Sunlike, George bends down his gaze,

through our windows bends his gaze:

open houses wide!

Now, oh holy saint, Saint George,

step with good cheer through our doors

one more time!

A Hint of Spring

Coming to the country

is a hint of spring,

good day, God and sunshine,

good day, fields and hills!

You are known to songbirds,

twittering and blithe,

known to greying twilight,

known to warmer nights.

You are known to grass blades:

having sped through woods

to the lea, a maiden

glows like poppy bloom.

The Counterpart

When Spring comes to the country,

her foster twin appears,

like God she channels, kindly,

into my soul good cheer.

This is my feast of yearning,

the full soul, brimming, spins,

all space and life’s whole image

reflects and fades within.

Oh, world beyond the river

when early blossoms spring,

soft rustle by the river,

and fingers white and slim…

Vast heavens, breath of Spring:

birds cannot chirp their fill,

and hot blood cannot think

its fill in sun or chill.

I Know Not Which Is Sadder

I know not which is sadder,

the little lark or I:

both he and I are haunted,

alas, at the same time.

The lark can fly no longer,

no longer can it sing,

because the night is falling,

because the earth grows dim.

By nightfall I am hindered

from singing, like the lark,

but this night, it is grimmer,

this night is in the heart.

At Twilight

Across the lake came sailing

a gaggle of wild geese,

at twilight in the autumn,

when mists lie heavily.

The misty world lies silent

and silent lies the lake,

but sometimes a wild gander

lets out a desolate wail.

Like him, I am despondent,

my heart is crushed by weight:

who knows if it is grieving

for sad or happy days…

Two Pretty Doves

Two pretty doves, two pretty doves,

alighted on the slope

and to each other neatly bowed

and, eager, to each other rushed

in joy which overflowed,

as though that loving pair, flown up

to sloping rooftops, had announced

the mutual heart’s glow.

Two lovely swans, two lovely swans

were sailing on the pond

with wings that fluttered sleek and strong,

the water purled, subdued,

as if a merry breeze sang on

and whispered in a secret song

with pines in murky wood.

But two and two, another pair

were lost in dreaming, standing there,

and laying to each other bare

their hearts and all their craving;

and like two couples, white and fair,

two bodies bowing in the air,

all blood to hearts was racing.

Romance

Praising God, a young

student sings to his guitar

night and day,

from the wall Saint Magdalen,

glowing in eternal flame,

bends her gaze.

From its leafy bowers

sighs an ash tree through his hours,

softly stirred,

far away, across the plains,

with unmoving grassy blades

soars a bird.

Not in vain his soul

hears the ash and longs to go

far away,

singing nameless harmonies,

praising God eternally

night and day.

Woodlands Growing Dark

With the woodlands growing dark,

I am overwhelmed by sounds,

like lamenting secret sighs,

rising from a grieving heart.

On the earth there settles peace,

hovering beyond my grasp,

never can my soul sink down

into sweet repose of sleep.

Silence of the midnight time,

trembling of the stars on high,

a voice crying in the wild,

a lone bulrush – they are I.

Come to me, you lightning bolts,

come to me, life full of fire,

come, you murmur of desire,

come to me, outshout my soul!

Give me sunny days and bright,

full of struggle, full of moan!

Softly, softly night goes on

dreaming with her lustrous eyes.

July: The Month of Hay

Daybreak dawns beyond the hills,

in the air the morning chill,

landscape folded in the mists,

ancient manor dreaming still.

In the far-off, faded east

day is bleeding from the night

and a prancing cloud wisp speeds

over early windy skies.

When will golden day, my love,

lure you from between the sheets,

past the pious holy nuns,

where the spotless convent gleams?

When begins this heart to beat

with the joy which long lay dead?

Or the flaming sun to heat

love and hope and youthful step?

I Have Mused on Days Gone By

I have mused on days gone by,

mused on present times,

hoar is glittering on boughs

dusted by the rime.

Burning cold and morning frost,

winds have risen up,

Michaelmas has come and gone,

wintry days have come.

Now huffs Winter in her clogs,

wrapped up in her fell,

all my high-nosed airs are gone,

for what use are they…?

And I muse: I’ll marry her,

you will be my guests –

with my bride I’ll dance and whirl

till the moon has set.

The Fair

In the white square tents are raised,

merry tents, pure white,

and before them folks parade,

strolling up and down.

Mayor sits beneath the lime,

‘Praise God,’ greets the priest.

‘Amen,’ Mayor makes reply,

comments on the heat.

At the rear, a grim guard stands

with a scythe moustache,

and the judge’s daughter chats

with the office clerk.

In the crowd, I wish I were

peddling wares in town,

but I strayed into the world

at a luckless time.

Song

Dazzling, dazzling, this bouquet

laced with golden thread,

who would not be hearty, sound

up until his death?

Lasting, lasting is the song

which does thus begin,

softly wells up from the heart

yearning melody.

By that twitter of a bird

old men were enticed

from Lussari’s holy mount,1

found it hard to die…

But I roam around the world

with no love or hope –

easily I’ll breathe my last,

easily I’ll go.

1 Lussari’s holy mount: Monte Santo di Lussari (‘Svete Višarje’ – pronounced ‘Svay-tay Vee-shar-ye’ in Slovene) is a popular pilgrimage destination in Northern Italy. (All notes have been supplied by Nada Grošelj and Jason Blake.)

Field Carnations

Field carnations did I bring,

bright and red as blood,

in the summer days you thrived,

blossoming, my love.

You are gone now, yellow sun,

quiet rests the plain,

barren plain with grass cut down,

clouds which fly away.

You are gone, my dearest love.

Where is peace for me?

You are gone and now I flee

from both rest and peace.

I rush out, into the plain,

on, still on I press,

listening to my boundless grief,

listening to myself.

No, I Will Not Cross the Plains

No, I will not cross the plains,

on the plain a black crow waits,

on the plain all nights and days.

Now I am beset by fright,

dark and gleaming is his eye,

dark foreboding by my side.

In a strange land shall I fall,

through my eyes the crow shall bore

and grieve not but only caw.

Would I Knew Your Mother, Dear

Would I knew your mother, dear,

would I knew your father, too.

Lovely, warm-hearted girl,

I ask happiness of you.

Open spreads the distant road,

but I dawdle and reflect,

yearning for the trusty hand

of a friend – and nothing else.

Come, dear girl, and if you will,

walk this journey by my side:

pleasing neither God nor men,

puzzling is, alas, my life!

A Pilgrim’s Song

Sing, oh sing, for me a song

of Saint Mary with a sword,

peasants’ song, a lasting song,

I have heard it and want more.

People’s hearts speed far away –

travelling to Velesovo,

Brezje, Log2 – while, error-struck,

like a heathen’s sighs my own.

Praying people, kindly say

two, three prayers for my soul,

light a candle for my heart

if there’s any left to glow.

2 Velesovo (‘Vay-lay-so-vo’), Brezje (‘Braze-ye’) and Log (rhymes with ‘Moog’) are names of popular pilgrimage destinations in Slovenia, all of them connected with the Virgin Mary.

In Springtime

Again you arise with quickening glow,

oh yellow sun, so clear you shine,

again has the hearth of nature grown warm,

lit up by red clouds is the sky.

Reborn in these clouds does the western side glow,

a new life bears hope in her lap,

a zephyr is timidly stroking the boughs,

still bare but pulsating with sap.

Ten thousands of forms sprout under the earth,

announced by the deepening dark;

now, night, come you too – it’s no longer a life

when heart does not feast with a heart.

Hey, I Shall Buy a Pipe

Hey, I shall buy a pipe,

a pipe wrought prettily,

engraved upon this pipe

shall be a house or tree.

I’ll smoke through dragging days,

of course, it must be so –

I’ve gone into the world,

been snubbed and – I should smoke!

I’ve come back grim of mien

and sick of drudgery,

I’d smoke the day away

and drive the clouds from here!

Rustle of