Catalan Poem- "Pleasure Hurts" - Translated by A Z Foreman

Poems Found In Translation: “Ausiàs March: Poem I "Pleasure Hurts" (from Catalan)” Ausiàs March: Poem I "Pleasure Hurts" (from Catalan) Posted: 22 Jul 2015 05:44 AM PDT Poem I: Pleasure Hurts By Ausiàs March Translated by A.Z. Foreman Think of a man delighted in his slumber, The foolishness of dream where he resides. Think thus of me: imagination fastens Onto the past where all my joy abides. I know that Grief awaits but do not waver Knowing my certain end lies in her jaws. The things ahead hold nothing but disaster. The better things are nothing but what was. I find myself no lover of the present, But of the past; adore oblivion; There in the thought of yesterday I revel Till grief returns emboldened under dawn. Think of a man condemned to execution So long he’s blunted to the bitter lot. Suppose they feed him rumors of a pardon Then have him hanged without another thought. I wish to God my thoughts were like a corpse’s, Existence an eternity of sleep, Wretched the man who holds his mind at swordpoint For how it keeps reminding him to weep. And when he begs it for a bit of pleasure It’s like a mother when her child in tow, Shunning all milk, howls to be nursed on poison. She doesn’t have the sense to answer No. The purest of all pain I’d rather suffer Than try to blend a bit of pleasure too Into the ills that rob the brain of reason, And ache for all the goodness that I knew. Dear Lord! Delight transmuted into sorrow Doubles the torment after rest too brief, Like someone sick who sees too a rich morsel, Eats it and turns his dinner into grief. It’s like a hermit long beyond being lonely, Long drained of care for folk, who’s ceased to sigh For his companions in the silly city, And now suppose that one of them drops by, Recalls with him the times they spent in leisure: Back to the past the present moments roam. But, soon alone, he grumbles in annoyance. Joy as it leaves tells grief to come on home. Beauty of Prudence: when love starts to age It's chumbled by the worm of being away Unless you turn a constant heart against it And deafer ears to what the jealous say. The Original: Poema I Axi com cell qui ’n lo somni·s delita e son delit de foll pensament ve, ne pren a mi, que·l temps passat me te l’imaginar, qu’altre be no y habita, sentint estar en aguayt ma dolor, sabent de cert qu’en ses mans he de jaure. Temps de venir en negun be·m pot caure; aquell passat en mi es lo millor. Del temps present no·m trobe amador, mas del passat, qu’es no-res e finit; d’aquest pensar me sojorn e·m delit, mas quan lo pert, s’esforça ma dolor, si com aquell qui es jutgat a mort he de lonch temps la sab e s’aconorta, e creure·l fan que li sera estorta e·l fan morir sens un punt de recort. Plagues a Deu que mon pensar fos mort, e que passas ma vida en durment! Malament viu qui te lo pensament per enamich, fent li d’enuyts report; e com lo vol d’algun plaer servir li·n pren axi com dona ’b son infant, que si veri li demana plorant ha ten poch seny que no·l sab contradir. Ffora millor ma dolor sofferir que no mesclar pocha part de plaher entre ’quells mals, qui·m giten de saber com del passat plaher me cove ’xir. Las! Mon delit dolor se converteix; doble·s l’affany apres d’un poch repos, si co·l malalt qui per un plasent mos tot son menjar en dolor se nodreix. Com l’ermita, qui ’nyorament no·l creix d’aquells amichs que teni’en lo mon, essent lonch temps qu’en lo poblat no fon, per fortuyt cars hun d’ells li apareix, qui los passats plahers li renovella, si que·l passat present li fa tornar; mas com se·n part, l’es forçat congoxar: lo be, com fuig, ab grans crits mal apella. Plena de seny, quant amor es molt vella, absença es lo verme que la guasta, si fermetat durament no contrasta, e creura poch, si l’envejos consella. You are subscribed to email updates from Poems Found in Translation To stop receiving these emails, you may unsubscribe now. Email delivery powered by Google Google Inc., 1600 Amphitheatre Parkway, Mountain View, CA 94043, United States