Phong cảnh Paysage

Giống như các vị Chiêm tinh
Tôi tìm một chốn yên lành nghỉ ngơi
Nơi đây gần đất gần trời
Tâm hồn trong sáng ngẫm lời thơ quê

Gác chuông tôi ở gần kề
Tôi nằm mơ mộng mà nghe chốn nào
Gió như đang thổi ào ào
Hồi chuông thánh tụng ném vào không gian
Trước song tay để tựa cằm
Tôi xem xưởng máy hát vang, chuyện trò

Gác chuông, ống khói, cột cờ
Ngửa nhìn Trời rộng, tôi mơ...VĨNH HẰNG
Xiết bao ân ái dịu dàng
Mỗi khi tôi thấy qua làn sương đêm
Dần dần lấp lánh hiện lên
Sao trên trời biếc ngọn đèn trước song
Khói lên trời cuộn như sông

Vầng trăng rót ánh mông lung nhạt mờ
Nhìn Xuân, nhìn Hạ, nhìn Thu
Và khi Đông đến tuyết từ từ rơi
Phòng tôi cửa đóng then cài
Tôi nằm xây những lâu đài thần tiên
Chân trời xanh mát đường viền
Vườn cây, tia nước khóc trên thạch tòa
Chiếc hôn nồng, tiếng chim xa
Vẻ chi nũng nịu bài ca huê tình
Âm thanh bạo loạn bất bình
Bên ngoài cửa kính vô tình, tự nhiên
Chẳng làm tôi ngẩng đầu lên
Bởi tôi đang đắm trong niềm mê say
Muốn mời Xuân lại về đây
Hoà chung ý chí mà xây mộng đời
Tim tôi chói ánh mặt trời
Biết bao ý nghĩ sáng ngời cháy lên
Để cho không khí dịu hiền
Và bầu khí quyển trở nên mát lành

Landscape


I would, to compose my eclogues chastely,
Lie down close to the sky like an astrologer,
And, near the church towers, listen while I dream
To their solemn anthems borne to me by the wind.
My chin cupped in both hands, high up in my garret
I shall see the workshops where they chatter and sing,
The chimneys, the belfries, those masts of the city,
And the skies that make one dream of eternity.

It is sweet, through the mist, to see the stars
Appear in the heavens, the lamps in the windows,
The streams of smoke rise in the firmament
And the moon spread out her pale enchantment.
I shall see the springtimes, the summers, the autumns;
And when winter comes with its monotonous snow,
I shall close all the shutters and draw all the drapes
So I can build at night my fairy palaces.
Then I shall dream of pale blue horizons, gardens,
Fountains weeping into alabaster basins,
Of kisses, of birds singing morning and evening,
And of all that is most childlike in the Idyl.
Riot, storming vainly at my window,
Will not make me raise my head from my desk,
For I shall be plunged in the voluptuousness
Of evoking the Springtime with my will alone,
Of drawing forth a sun from my heart, and making
Of my burning thoughts a warm atmosphere.


— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)




The Landscape

More chasteness to my eclogues it would give,
Sky-high, like old astrologers to live,
A neighbour of the belfries: and to hear
Their solemn hymns along the winds career.
High in my attic, chin in hand, I'd swing
And watch the workshops as they roar and sing,
The city's masts — each steeple, tower, and flue —
And skies that bring eternity to view.

Sweet, through the mist, to see illumed again
Stars through the azure, lamps behind the pane,
Rivers of carbon irrigate the sky,
And the pale moon pour magic from on high.
I'd watch three seasons passing by, and then
When winter came with dreary snows, I'd pen
Myself between closed shutters, bolts, and doors,
And build my fairy palaces indoors.

A dream of blue horizons I would garble
With thoughts of fountains weeping on to marble,
Of gardens, kisses, birds that ceaseless sing,
And all the Idyll holds of childhood's spring.
The riots, brawling past my window-pane,
From off my desk would not divert my brain.
Because I would be plunged in pleasure still,
Conjuring up the Springtime with my will,
And forcing sunshine from my heart to form,
Of burning thoughts, an atmosphere that's warm.


— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)




Landscape


I want to write a book of chaste and simple verse,
Sleep in an attic, like the old astrologers,
Up near the sky, and hear upon the morning air
The tolling of the bells. I want to sit and stare,
My chin in my two hands, out on the humming shops,
The weathervanes, the chimneys, and the steepletops
That rise like masts above the city, straight and tall,
And the mysterious big heavens over all.

I want to watch the blue mist of the night come on,
The windows and the stars illumined, one by one,
The rivers of dark smoke pour upward lazily,
And the moon rise and turn them silver. I shall see
The springs, the summers, and the autumns slowly pass;
And when old Winter puts his blank face to the glass,
I shall close all my shutters, pull the curtains tight,
And build me stately palaces by candlelight.

And I shall dream of luxuries beyond surmise,
Gardens that are a stairway into azure skies,
Fountains that weep in alabaster, birds that sing
All day — of every childish and idyllic thing.
A revolution thundering in the street below
Will never lure me from my task, I shall be so
Lost in that quiet ecstasy, the keenest still,
Of calling back the springtime at my own free will,
Of feeling a sun rise within me, fierce and hot,
And make a whole bright landscape of my burning thought.


— George Dillon, Flowers of Evil (NY: Harper and Brothers, 1936)