Poem
Lêdo Ivo
SNOW AND LOVE
On this day of burning heat, I’m waiting for snow.I’ve been waiting for it always.
When I was a boy, I read Notes from the House of the Dead
and saw snow falling on Siberian steppes
and on the tattered coat of Fyodor Dostoevsky.
I love snow because it doesn’t separate day from night
or distance heaven from the sufferings of earth.
It unites what’s separate:
the footsteps of those condemned to darkened ice
and sighs of love vanishing in the air.
One has to have a fine-tuned ear
to hear the music of falling snow, something almost silent
like the touch of an angel’s wing, assuming there are angels,
or the dying breath of a bird.
One shouldn’t wait for snow the way one waits for love.
They are different things. It’s enough to open our eyes to see the snow
falling on a deserted field. And it falls on us, cold white snow
that doesn’t burn like the flame of love.
To see love our eyes do not suffice,
nor our ears, nor our mouth, nor even our hearts
that beat in the dark with the same sound
as snow falling on the steppes
and on the roofs of darkened hovels
and on the tattered coat of Fyodor Dostoevsky.
To see love, nothing suffices. Both winter cold and searing heat
keep it from us, from our open arms
and our tormented hearts.
Faithful to my childhood, I prefer to see snow
that unites heaven and earth, night and day,
rather than be a helpless prey to love,
love that is neither white nor pure nor cold as snow.
© Translation: 2010, Alexis Levitin
Publisher: First published on PIW, , 2010
Publisher: First published on PIW, , 2010
DE SNEEUW EN DE LIEFDE
Het is gloeiend heet vandaag en ik wacht op de sneeuwIk heb er altijd al op gewacht.
Als jongen las ik Aantekeningen uit het dodenhuis
en zag de sneeuw op de Siberische steppe
en op de gaten in de jas van Fiodor Dostojevski vallen.
Ik houd van sneeuw, ze scheidt de dag niet van de nacht
en houdt de hemel niet weg bij aardse smart.
Ze verenigt wat gescheiden is:
de stappen van tot donker ijs veroordeelde mannen
met de zuchten van liefde die in de lucht verloren gaan.
Je moet heel scherpe oren hebben
om de muziek van vallende sneeuw te kunnen horen, die is bijna even geluidloos
als het wrijven van een engelenvleugel, zo die al bestaat,
of het doodsgereutel van een vogel.
Op sneeuw moet je anders wachten als op liefde.
De één is niet de ander. Je hoeft je ogen maar open te doen om de sneeuw te zien vallen
op een verlaten veld. En ze valt op ons, de witte koude sneeuw
en brandt niet zoals het vuur van de liefde.
Als je de liefde wil zien heb je aan je ogen niet genoeg,
noch aan je oren of je mond, zelfs niet aan je hart
dat in de duisternis klopt met evenveel gerucht
als de sneeuw, wanneer die op de steppe valt
en op de dakpannen van de donkere hutjes
en op de gaten in de jas van Fiodor Dostojevski.
Als je de liefde wil zien, is niets genoeg. Zowel de winterse kou als de kokende hitte
halen hem bij ons weg, uit onze open armen
en onze gekwelde harten.
Trouw aan mijn jeugd zie ik liever dat sneeuw
hemel en aarde, dag en nacht verenigt,
dan dat ik argeloos prooi van de liefde word,
de liefde die niet wit is, niet zuiver en niet koud zoals de sneeuw.
A NEVE E O AMOR
Neste dia de calor ardente, estou esperando a neve.Sempre estive à sua espera.
Quando menino, li Recordações da Casa dos Mortos
e vi a neve caindo na estepe siberiana
e no casaco roto de Fédor Dostoievski.
Amo a neve porque ela não separa o dia da noite
nem afasta o céu das aflições da terra.
Une o que está separado:
os passos dos homens condenados ao gelo escurecido
e os suspiros de amor que se perdem no ar.
É necessário ter um ouvido muito afiado
para ouvir a música da neve caindo, algo quase silencioso
como o roçar da asa de um anjo, caso os anjos existissem,
ou o estertor de um pássaro.
Não se deve esperar a neve como se espera o amor.
São coisas diferentes. Basta abrirmos os olhos para ver a neve
cair no campo desolado. E ela cai em nós, a neve branca e fria
que não queima como o fogo do amor.
Para ver o amor os nossos olhos não bastam,
nem os ouvidos, nem a boca, nem mesmo os nossos corações
que batem na escuridão com o mesmo rumor
da neve caindo nas estepes
e nos telhados das cabanas escuras
e no casaco roto de Fédor Dostoievski.
Para ver o amor, nada basta. E tanto o frio do inverno como o calor escaldante
o afastam de nós, de nossos braços abertos
e de nossos corações atormentados.
Fiel à minha infância, prefiro ver a neve
que une o céu e a terra, a noite e o dia,
a ser a presa indefesa do amor,
o amor que não é branco nem puro nem frio como a neve.
Poems
Poems of Lêdo Ivo
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SNOW AND LOVE
On this day of burning heat, I’m waiting for snow.I’ve been waiting for it always.
When I was a boy, I read Notes from the House of the Dead
and saw snow falling on Siberian steppes
and on the tattered coat of Fyodor Dostoevsky.
I love snow because it doesn’t separate day from night
or distance heaven from the sufferings of earth.
It unites what’s separate:
the footsteps of those condemned to darkened ice
and sighs of love vanishing in the air.
One has to have a fine-tuned ear
to hear the music of falling snow, something almost silent
like the touch of an angel’s wing, assuming there are angels,
or the dying breath of a bird.
One shouldn’t wait for snow the way one waits for love.
They are different things. It’s enough to open our eyes to see the snow
falling on a deserted field. And it falls on us, cold white snow
that doesn’t burn like the flame of love.
To see love our eyes do not suffice,
nor our ears, nor our mouth, nor even our hearts
that beat in the dark with the same sound
as snow falling on the steppes
and on the roofs of darkened hovels
and on the tattered coat of Fyodor Dostoevsky.
To see love, nothing suffices. Both winter cold and searing heat
keep it from us, from our open arms
and our tormented hearts.
Faithful to my childhood, I prefer to see snow
that unites heaven and earth, night and day,
rather than be a helpless prey to love,
love that is neither white nor pure nor cold as snow.
© 2010, Alexis Levitin
Publisher: 2010, First published on PIW,
Publisher: 2010, First published on PIW,
SNOW AND LOVE
On this day of burning heat, I’m waiting for snow.I’ve been waiting for it always.
When I was a boy, I read Notes from the House of the Dead
and saw snow falling on Siberian steppes
and on the tattered coat of Fyodor Dostoevsky.
I love snow because it doesn’t separate day from night
or distance heaven from the sufferings of earth.
It unites what’s separate:
the footsteps of those condemned to darkened ice
and sighs of love vanishing in the air.
One has to have a fine-tuned ear
to hear the music of falling snow, something almost silent
like the touch of an angel’s wing, assuming there are angels,
or the dying breath of a bird.
One shouldn’t wait for snow the way one waits for love.
They are different things. It’s enough to open our eyes to see the snow
falling on a deserted field. And it falls on us, cold white snow
that doesn’t burn like the flame of love.
To see love our eyes do not suffice,
nor our ears, nor our mouth, nor even our hearts
that beat in the dark with the same sound
as snow falling on the steppes
and on the roofs of darkened hovels
and on the tattered coat of Fyodor Dostoevsky.
To see love, nothing suffices. Both winter cold and searing heat
keep it from us, from our open arms
and our tormented hearts.
Faithful to my childhood, I prefer to see snow
that unites heaven and earth, night and day,
rather than be a helpless prey to love,
love that is neither white nor pure nor cold as snow.
© 2010, Alexis Levitin
Publisher: 2010, First published on PIW,
Publisher: 2010, First published on PIW,
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