Elizabeth Macklin 
Translator

on Lyrikline: 10 poems translated

from: baskovščina to: angleščina

Original

Translation

Urrezko eraztuna

baskovščina | Kirmen Uribe

Aitak itsasoan galdu zuen ezkontzako eraztuna. Marinel guztiek bezala, kendu
egiten zuen hatzetik eta lepokoan jarri, sarea largatzean hatza gal ez zezan.
            Handik marea batzuetara izebak, legatz batzuk garbitzen ari zelarik, urrezko
eraztun bat aurkitu zuen arrainetako baten sabelean.
            Eraztuna garbitu, eta grabatuta zituen letra eta zenbakiei jarri zien arreta.
Gezurra zirudien arren, gurasoen ezkontza eguna ematen zuten aditzera datak eta
inizialek.
            Itxura guztien arabera, aitak berak harrapatu zuen eraztuna jan zion legatz
hura. Itsasorik zabalenean.

            Udako gau bareak barruko haizea dakar eta oroitzapenak.
            Kasualitateak orbita zabal-zabaleko planetak direla otu zait zeruari begira.
            Behin edo behin ageri dira bakarrik.

            Eraztunarena kasualitate handiegia da. Baina ez du axola. Inportanteena orain
hauxe da: urte askoan eraztunaren istorio hori sinesgarri egin zitzaiela gure haur
adimen txikiei.

            Gauez, itsasoak legatz baten distira du.
            Izarrek salto egiten dute ezkaten antzera.

© Kirmen Uribe
from: Zaharregia, txikiegia agian
Soraluze: Gaztelupeko hotsak, 2003
ISBN: Gaztelupeko hotsak
Audio production: 2005, M.Mechner / Literaturwerkstatt Berlin

The gold ring

angleščina

Father lost his wedding ring in the ocean once. Like all the trawlermen, he’d
take it from his finger to put on a neck chain, not to lose the finger as the net went out.
            Several tides after that, our aunt, while cleaning some hake, found a gold ring
in the belly of one of the fish.
            Once she’d washed it off, she examined the letters and numbers engraved
inside. Though it couldn’t be true, the date and the initials were those of our parents’
wedding.
            By all appearances, Father himself had caught the hake that had swallowed the
ring. In all of the wide blue sea.
            That’s how we learned it.
            Peaceable summer nights bring the inland wind, and the memories.
            I look at the sky, and it dawns that coincidences are the planets with the
amplest orbits.
            Only every so often have they come round.
            The ring’s is far too great a coincidence. It would have been lost and found in
that same stone sink. But it doesn’t matter. What’s most important now is this: for
years and years, the story of the ring was entirely believable to our child-sized
children’s intelligence.

             Nights, the ocean has the shimmer of hake.
            The stars go leaping around like the scales.

Translated from the Basque by Elizabeth Macklin

Txoriak neguan

baskovščina | Kirmen Uribe

Gure betebeharra txoriak salbatzea zen.
Elurretan preso geratu ziren txoriak salbatzea.

Hondartza aldean egoten ziren gorderik gehienak
itsaso beltzaren abarora.
Txoriak ere beltzak ziren.
Haien babeslekutik atera eta
etxera eramaten genituen
patrikaretan sartuta.
Txori txiki-txikiak, gure haur eskuetan ere
doi-doi sartzen zirela.

Etxean, berogailuaren ondoan jartzen genituen.
Txoriek baina ez zuten luzaroan irauten.
Bi edo hiru orduren buruan hil egiten ziren.
Guk ez genuen ulertzen zergatik,
ez genuen ulertzen haien esker txarra.
Izan ere, esnetan bustitako ogi apurrak
ematen genizkien jatera ahora
eta ohantzea ere prestatzen genien
gure bufandarik koloretsuenekin.

Alferrik baina, hil egiten ziren.

Gurasoek haserre, esaten ziguten
ez ekartzeko txori gehiago etxera,
hil egiten zirela gehiegizko beroagatik.
Eta natura jakintsua dela
eta iritsiko zela udaberria bere txoriekin.

Gu pentsakor jartzen une batez,
beharbada gurasoak zuzen izango dira.

Hala eta guztiz ere, biharamonean
berriro joango ginen hondartzara txoriak salbatzera.
Gure ahalegina itsasoan elurra
bezain alferrekoa zela jakin arren.

Eta txoriek hiltzen jarraitzen zuten, txoriek hiltzen.

© Kirmen Uribe
from: unpublished
Audio production: 2005, M.Mechner / Literaturwerkstatt Berlin

Birds in Winter

angleščina

Saving the birds was what we had to do that winter.
Saving the birds imprisoned in the snow.

All along the beach most of them were hidden,
nestled in the shade of the black sea.
The birds were black, too.
From the coverts we’d  take them and carry them home
in our coat pockets.
The teeniest birds, barely contained
in even our child-sized hands.

Later, we’d lay them beside the warm stove.
But the birds never lasted long.
In two or three hours they died.
We didn’t see why,
didn’t understand their bad luck.
After all, we’d given them
breadcrumbs moistened in water,
held to their mouths, to eat,
and  furnished a nest for each
with our most colorful winter scarves.

But it was useless, they kept on dying.

Furious, our parents told us
not to bring home any more birds,
they were dying of too much heat.
And that nature is wise,
spring would come with its own birds.

We sat and considered their statements,
then momentarily doubted,
it could be that they would be right.

Still and all, the very next day
we would flock off back to the beach
to save the birds,
though we knew
it was useless as snow in the sea.

And our birds kept dying, these birds taking life.

Translated from the Basque by Elizabeth Macklin

Musua

baskovščina | Kirmen Uribe

Nire titiak txikiak dira eta begiak biribilak.
Zure zangoak, luzeak eta freskuak
iturritik behera datorren zurrusta bezala.
Hozka egin dizut zaman,
sendoa duzu, heldu gabea oraindik,
intxaur erori berriaren antzeko.
Nire gainera igo zara eta musuka hasi sabelean,
uhin umelak barreiatu dizkidazu azalean,
orain hemen, gero han,
ekaitza hasi baino lehen erortzen diren
lehen tanta lodiek bezala, pla, pla, pla.

Lo geratu gara bizkar eta bular,
biltzen diren moduan ezpainak
hasperenaren ostean.

© Kirmen Uribe
from: Bitartean Heldu eskutik
Zarautz: Susa, 2001
Audio production: 2005, M.Mechner / Literaturwerkstatt Berlin

The Kiss

angleščina

My breasts are small and my eyes round.
Your legs long and cool as the freshet
that runs down from the fountain.
I bite the nape of your neck,
it’s sturdy, still not yet ripe,
like a walnut that has just now fallen.
You clamber on top, start kissing my middle,
strew wet wavelets all over my skin,
now here, now over there,
like the first fat drops to fall before
the storm starts, splat, splat, splat.

We’ve  gone to sleep back to chest,
the way lips rejoin
after sighing.

Translated from the Basque by Elizabeth Macklin

Maite zaitut, ez

baskovščina | Kirmen Uribe

Berrogei urtez labe garaietan lan egin arren,
barru-barrutik,
baserritarra izaten jarraitzen zuen.

Urrian, etxeko balkoian
soldagailuarekin
piper gorriak erretzen zituen.

Denak isilarazten zituen
haren ahots ozenak.
Alabak egiten zion soilik aurre.

Ez zuen inoiz maite zaitut esaten.

Tabakoak eta altzairuaren hautsak
ahots-kordak urratu zizkioten.
Mitxoleta bi hostoak galtzen.

Alaba beste hiri batera ezkondu zen.
Erretiratuak oparia zekarren.
Ez errubirik, zeta gorririk ezta ere.

Urtetan lantegitik ebatsi zituen piezak.
Soldagailuarekin
altzairuzko ohea josi zuen, ezari-ezarian.

Ez zuen inoiz maite zaitut esaten.

© Kirmen Uribe
from: Zaharregia, txikiegia agian
Soraluze: Gaztelupeko hotsak, 2003
ISBN: Gaztelupeko hotsak
Audio production: 2005, M.Mechner / Literaturwerkstatt Berlin

I love you, no

angleščina

He never said I love you.

Even though he worked in the steel mills
in those times, through and through
he remained a farmer.

In October, he’d roast the red peppers
on the farmhouse balcony
with the acetylene torch.

His sounding voice
silenced everyone.
His daughter stood up to him.

He never said I love you.

Tobacco and steel dust
plowed through his vocal cords.
A field poppy less two leaves.

His daughter has married into another city.
The retiree brings a gift.
Not rubies, not red silk, either.

Over the years he lifted the parts from the mill.
With the acetylene torch
inch by inch he made her a bed from the steel.

He never said I love you.

Translated from the Basque by Elizabeth Macklin

Maiatza

baskovščina | Kirmen Uribe

Utzi begietara begiratzen.
                                                   Nola zauden jakin nahi dut.
                                                   RAINER W. FASSBINDER


Begira, sartu da maiatza,
Zabaldu du bere betazal urdina portuan.
Erdu, aspaldian ez dut zure berri izan,
Ikarati zabiltza, ito ditugun katakumeak bezala.
Erdu eta egingo dugu berba betiko kontuez,
Atsegin izatearen balioaz,
Zalantzekin moldatu beharraz,
Barruan ditugun zuloak nola bete.
Erdu, sentitu goiza aurpegian,
Goibel gaudenean dena irizten zaigu ospel,
Adoretsu gaudenean, atzera, papurtu egiten da mundua.
Denok gordetzen dugu betiko besteren alde ezkutu bat,
Dela sekretua, dela akatsa, dela keinua.
Erdu eta larrutuko ditugu irabazleak,
Zubitik jauzi egin geure buruaz barre.
Isilik begiratuko diegu portuko garabiei,
Elkarrekin isilik egotea baita
adiskidetasunaren frogarik behinena.
Erdu nirekin, herriz aldatu nahi dut,
Nire gorputz hau albo batera utzi
Eta maskor batean zurekin sartu,
Gure txikitasunarekin, mangolinoak bezala.
Erdu, zure zain nago,
Duela urtebete etendako istorioa jarraituko dugu,
Ibai ondoko urki zuriek uztai bat gehiago ez balute bezala.

© Kirmen Uribe
from: Bitartean Heldu eskutik
Zarautz: Susa, 2001
Audio production: 2005, M.Mechner / Literaturwerkstatt Berlin

May

angleščina

“Let me look at those eyes.
                     I want to know how you are.”

                     Rainer W. Fassbinder

Look. May has come in.
It’s strewn those blue eyes all over the harbor.
Come, I haven’t had word of you in ages.
You’re constantly terrified,
Like the kittens we drowned when we were little.
Come and we’ll talk over all of the old same things,
The value of being pleasant,
The need to adjust to the doubts,
How to fill the holes we’ve got inside us.
Come, feel the morning reaching your face,
Whenever we’re saddened everything looks dark,
When we’re heartened, again, the world crumbles.
Every one of us keeps forever someone else’s hidden side,
If it’s a secret, if a mistake, if a gesture.
Come and we’ll flay the winners,
Laughing at our self leapt off of the bridgeway.
We’ll watch the cranes at work in the port in silence,
The gift for being together in silence being
The principal proof of friendship.
Come with me, I want to change nations,
Change towns. Leave this body aside
And go into a shell with you,
With our smallness, like sea snails.
Come, I’m waiting for you,
We’ll continue the story that ended a year ago,
As if inside the white birches next to the river
Not a single additional ring had grown.

Translated from the Basque by Elizabeth Macklin

Lagun bat

baskovščina | Kirmen Uribe

Bada gorroto dudan lagun bat.
Zuhaitzean gora egin nahi dudanean
“ez, ez, ez, hobeto ez,” esaten dit,
“laprast eroriko zara lurrera”.

Bada gorroto dudan lagun bat.
Futbolean jolastu nahi dudanean
“ez, ez, ez, hobeto ez,” esaten dit,
“ipurdi azpitik sartuko dizute gola”.

Bada gorroto dudan lagun bat.
Gustuko neskarengana hurreratzean
“ez, ez, ez, hobeto ez,” esaten dit,
“ez du zurekin nahiko berak”.

Bada gorroto dudan lagun bat.
Anaia txikiari musu eman nahi diodanean
“ez, ez, ez, hobeto ez” esaten dit
“esnatu egingo da berehala”.

Bada gorroto dudan lagun bat.
Lagun horren izena Lotsa da.
“Ez, ez, ez, inola ez” esaten diot gauero
“bihar ez dizut kasurik egingo bada”.

© Kirmen Uribe
from: Zaharregia, txikiegia agian
Soraluze: Gaztelupeko hotsak, 2003
ISBN: Gaztelupeko hotsak
Audio production: 2005, M.Mechner / Literaturwerkstatt Berlin

One friend

angleščina

Children’s Song

There’s a friend I hate.
Whenever I want to climb a tree
‘No, no, no, better not,’ he says,
you’ll slip and fall to the ground.

There’s a friend I hate.
Whenever I want to play ball
‘No, no, no, better not,’ he says,
‘they’ll get a goal in right under your butt.’

There’s a friend I hate.
When I go up to the girl I like
‘No, no, no, better not,’ he says,
‘she won’t want to be with you.’

There’s a friend I hate.
When I want to kiss my little brother
‘No, no, no, better not,’ he says,
‘he’ll wake right up if you do.’

There’s a friend I hate.
The name of this friend is Shame.
‘No, no, no, no way,’ I tell him nightly,
‘come tomorrow, I will ignore you.’

Translated from the Basque by Elizabeth Macklin

Kukua

baskovščina | Kirmen Uribe

Apirilaren hasieran entzun zuen aurrena kukua.
Urduri zebilelako beharbada,
kaosa ordenatzeko joera horrengatik beharbada,
kukuak zein notatan kantatzen zuen jakin nahi izan zuen.

Hurrengo arratsaldean, hantxe egon zen basoan zain,
diapasoia eskuan, kukuak noiz kantatuko.
Diapasoiak ez zioen gezurrik.
Si-sol ziren kukuaren notak.

Aurkikuntzak bazterrak astindu zituen.
Mundu guztiak frogatu nahi zuen benetan
nota horietan kantatzen ote zuen kukuak.
Baina neurketak ez zetozen bat.
Bakoitzak bere egia zuen.
Fa-re zirela zioen batek, Mi-do besteak.
Ez ziren ados jartzen.

Bitartean, kukuak kantari jarraitzen zuen basoan:
ez si-sol, ez fa-re, mi-do ezta ere.
Mila urte lehenago bezala,
kukuak kuku, kuku kantatzen zuen.

© Kirmen Uribe
from: Zaharregia, txikiegia agian
Soraluze: Gaztelupeko hotsak, 2003
ISBN: Gaztelupeko hotsak
Audio production: 2005, M.Mechner / Literaturwerkstatt Berlin

The cuckoo

angleščina

He heard the first cuckoo at the beginning of April.
Because he’d been feeling on edge, maybe,
from an inclination to order the chaos, maybe,
he wanted to know which notes the cuckoo sang.

He sat waiting with his pitch pipe
next afternoon: When
would the cuckoo sing?
He finally achieved it:
The pitch pipe told no lies.
Si-sol were the cuckoo’s notes.

The discovery shook the countryside.
Everyone wanted to prove whether truly those
were the notes that the cuckoo sang.
The measurements were not in harmony.
Each had his or her own truth.
One said it was fa-re, another mi-do.
No one managed to agree.

Meanwhile the cuckoo went on singing in the forest,
not mi-do, not fa-re, not si-sol, either.
As it had a thousand years before,
the cuckoo sang cuccu, cuccu.

Translated from the Basque by Elizabeth Macklin

Irla

baskovščina | Kirmen Uribe

Horixe da zoriona,
                                                                  orduka lan egiten duen behargina.

                                                                  ANNE SEXTON


Igandea da hondartzan asmo oneko jendearentzat.
Hango arrabots urruna entzuten da irlatik.

Uretara sartu gara biluzik,
Anemonak, trikuak, barbarinak ikusi ditugu hondoan.
Begira, haizeak garia bezala mugitzen du urak hondarra.
Urpera sartu eta azpitik begiratu zaitut.
Atsegin dut esku eta zangoen mugimendu geldoa,
Atsegin sabelpeek itsasbelarren forma hartzean.

Lehorrera igo gara. Bero da eta itzal egiten dute pinuek.
Gaziak dira zure besoak, gazia bularra, sabela gazia.
Ilargia itsasoarekin lotzen duen indar berak lotu gaitu geu ere.
Mendeak segundu bihurtu dira eta segunduak mende.
Udare zurituak gure gorputzak.

Anemonak, trikuak, barbarinak ikusi ditugu hondoan.
Igandea da hondartzan asmo oneko jendearentzat.

© Kirmen Uribe
from: Bitartean Heldu eskutik
Zarautz: Susa, 2001
Audio production: 2005, M.Mechner / Literaturwerkstatt Berlin

The island

angleščina

So this is happiness,
                        that journeyman.

                        ANNE SEXTON


It’s Sunday on the beach for all people of good desires.
You can hear the faraway noise of it from the island.

We go into the water naked,
We see anemones, red mullets, sea-thistles on the bayfloor.
Look—like the wind the wheat the water moves the sand.
I go under and behold you from underneath.
I like the slow movement of your hands and legs.
I like your underbelly’s taking the form of seaweed.

We go up on dry land. It’s hot and the pines make shadow.
Your arms are salty, your chest salty, belly salty.
The same power that joins the moon with the sea
has joined us, too.
Centuries become a second and seconds centuries.
Our bodies, peeled pears.

We see anemones, red mullets, sea-thistles on the bayfloor.
It’s Sunday on the beach for all people of good desires.

Translated from the Basque by Elizabeth Macklin

Ibaia

baskovščina | Kirmen Uribe

Garai batean ibaia zen hemen
baldosak eta bankuak dauden tokian.
Dozena bat ibai baino gehiago daude hiriaren azpian,
zaharrenei kasu eginez gero.
Orain langile auzo bateko plaza besterik ez da.
Eta hiru makal dira ibaiak hor
azpian jarraitzen duen seinale bakar.

Denok dugu barruan uhola dakarren ibai estali bat.
Ez badira beldurrak, damuak dira.
Ez badira zalantzak, ezinak.

Mendebaleko haizeak astintzen ditu makalak.
Nekez egiten du oinez jendeak.
Laugarren pisuan emakume nagusi bat
leihotik arropak botatzen ari da:
alkandora beltza bota du eta gona kuadroduna
eta zetazko zapi horia eta galtzerdiak
eta herritik iritsi zen neguko egun hartan
soinean zeramatzan txarolezko zapata zuribeltzak.
Hegabera izoztuak ematen zuten bere oinek elurretan.

Haurrak arropen atzetik joan dira arineketan.
Ezkontzako soinekoa atera du azkenik,
makal batean pausatu da baldar,
txori pisuegi bat balitz bezala.

Zarata handi bat entzun da. Izutu egin dira oinezkoak.
Haizeak errotik atera du makaletako bat.
Zuhaitzaren erroek emakume nagusi baten eskua dirudite,
beste esku batek noiz laztanduko zain.

© Kirmen Uribe
from: Bitartean Heldu eskutik
Zarautz: Susa, 2001
Audio production: 2005, M.Mechner / Literaturwerkstatt Berlin

The river

angleščina

There was a time a river ran through here,
there where the benches and the paving start.
A dozen rivers more underlie the city
if you believe the oldest citizens.
Now it’s a square in the workers’ quarter,
that’s all, three poplars the only sign
the river underneath keeps running.

In everyone here is a hidden river that brings floods.
If they are not fears, they’re contritions.
If they are not doubts, inabilities.

The west wind has been shaking the poplars,
people barely make their way along on foot.
From her fourth-floor window an older woman
is throwing articles of clothing.
She’s hurled a black shirt, a plaid skirt,
the yellow silk scarf and the stockings
and the black-and-white patent-leather shoes
she wore the winter day she came in from her town.
In the snow they looked like frozen lapwings.

Children have gone racing after the clothing.
The wedding dress exited last,
has been clumsy and perched on a branch,
too heavy a bird.

We’ve heard a loud noise. The passersby have been startled.
The wind has lifted a poplar out by its roots.
They could be a grown woman’s hand
in hopes of another hand’s touch.

Translated from the Basque by Elizabeth Macklin

Bisita

baskovščina | Kirmen Uribe

Heroina larrua jotzea bezain gozoa zela
esaten zuen garai batean.

Medikuek esaten dute okerrera ez duela egin,
eguna joan eguna etorri, eta lasai hartzeko.
Hilabetea da berriro esnatu ez dela
azken ebakuntzaz geroztik.

Hala ere egunero egiten diogu bisita
Arreta Intentsiboko Unitateko seigarren kutxara.
Aurreko oheko gaisoa negar batean aurkitu dugu gaur,
inor ez zaiola bisitara agertu diotso erizainari.

Hilabetea arrebaren hitzik entzun ez dugula.
Ez dut lehen bezala bizitza osoa aurretik ikusten,
esaten zigun,
ez dut promesarik nahi, ez dut damurik nahi,
maitasun keinu bat besterik ez.

Amak eta biok soilik hitz egiten diogu.
Anaiak lehen ez zion gauza handirik esaten,
orain ez da agertu ere egiten.
Aita atean geratzen da, isilik.

Ez dut gauez lorik egiten, esaten zigun arrebak,
beldur diot loak hartzeari, beldur amesgaiztoei.
Orratzek min egiten didate eta hotz naiz,
hotza zabaltzen dit sueroak zainetan zehar.

Gorputz ustel honi ihes egingo banio.

Bitartean heldu eskutik, eskatzen zigun,
ez dut promesarik nahi, ez dut damurik nahi,
maitasun keinu bat besterik ez.

© Kirmen Uribe
from: Bitartean Heldu eskutik
Zarautz: Susa, 2001
Audio production: 2005, M.Mechner / Literaturwerkstatt Berlin

Visit

angleščina

Heroin had been as sweet as sex
she used to say, at one time.

The doctors have been saying now she won’t get worse,
to go day by day, take things easy.
It’s been a month since she failed to wake up
after the last operation.

Still and all, we go every day to visit her
in Cubicle Six of the Intensive Care Unit.
Today we found the patient in the bed before hers
in tears, no one had come to visit, he’d said to the nurse.

An entire month and we haven’t heard a word from my sister.
I don’t see my whole life stretching before me the way I did,
she used to tell us.
I don’t want promises, I don’t want repentance,
just some sign of love is all.

Our mother and I are the ones who talk to her.
Our brother, with her, never said too much,
and here doesn’t make an appearance.
Our father hangs back in the doorway, silent.

I don’t sleep nights, my sister used to tell us,
I’m afraid to go to sleep, afraid of the bad dreams.
The needles hurt me and I’m cold,
the serum sends the cold through every one of my veins.

If I could only escape from this rotten body.

Meanwhile take my hand, she implored us,
I don’t want promises, I don’t want repentance,
just some sign of love is all.

Translated from the Basque by Elizabeth Macklin