Author Topic: Thomas Hardy -> Τόμας Χάρντι, Τόμας Χάρντυ  (Read 4295 times)

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Thomas Hardy, (2 June 1840 – 11 January 1928) was an English novelist and poet. While his works typically belong to the Naturalism movement, several poems display elements of the previous Romantic and Enlightenment periods of literature, such as his fascination with the supernatural.

While he regarded himself primarily as a poet who composed novels mainly for financial gain, during his lifetime he was much better known for his novels, such as Tess of the d'Urbervilles and Far from the Madding Crowd, which earned him a reputation as a great novelist. The bulk of his fictional works, initially published as serials in magazines, were set in the semi-fictional land of Wessex (based on the Dorchester region where he grew up) and explored tragic characters struggling against their passions and social circumstances.

Hardy's poetry, first published in his fifties, has come to be as well regarded as his novels and has had a significant influence over modern English poetry, especially after The Movement poets of the 1950s and 1960s cited Hardy as a major figure.




Ο Τόμας Χάρντι (Thomas Hardy, 2 Ιουνίου 1840 – 11 Ιανουαρίου 1928) ήταν Βρετανός συγγραφέας και ποιητής του κινήματος του νατουραλισμού. Στα έργα του συχνά απεικονίζει χαρακτήρες που παλεύουν ενάντια στα πάθη τους, καθώς και ενάντια στις περιστάσεις. Το μεγαλύτερο μέρος του έργου του, που τοποθετείται στην ημι-φανταστική περιοχή του Ουέσσεξ, χαρακτηρίζεται από ποιητικές περιγραφές, και από μια τάση μοιρολατρίας.
https://el.wikipedia.org/wiki/%CE%A4%CF%8C%CE%BC%CE%B1%CF%82_%CE%A7%CE%AC%CF%81%CE%BD%CF%84%CE%B9



  Thomas Hardy

Poems published in Translatum:
  • In Tenebris
« Last Edit: 18 Feb, 2018, 17:22:43 by spiros »


spiros

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In Tenebris
Thomas Hardy


Percussus sum sicut foenum, et aruit cor meum.
—Ps. ci.
(Ἐπλήγη ὡσεὶ χόρτος καὶ ἐξηράνθη ἡ καρδία μου.
Ψαλ. 101,5)
     


Wintertime nighs;
But my bereavement-pain
It cannot bring again:
Twice no one dies.

Flower-petals flee;
But since it once hath been,
No more that severing scene
Can harrow me.

Birds faint in dread:
I shall not lose old strength
In the lone frost's black length:
Strength long since fled!

Leaves freeze to dun;
But friends cannot turn cold
This season as of old
For him with none.

Tempests may scath;
But love cannot make smart
Again this year his heart
Who no heart hath.

Black is night's cope;
But death will not appal
One, who past doubtings all,
Waits in unhope.


Ο χειμώνας κοντοζυγώνει
Αλλά της απώλειας τους πόνους
Δεν μου τους ξαναφέρνει
Δύο φορές ποιος αφήνει χρόνους;

Πέφτουν τα πέταλα των ανθών
Αλλά μιας και έχει ξαναγίνει
Αυτή η σκηνή των αποχωρισμών
Ασυγκίνητο με αφήνει.

Τα πουλιά σβήνουν απ' τον τρόμο
Οι παλιές δυνάμεις δεν θα απολεσθούν
Μες της παγωνιάς το μαύρο κλώνο
Μιας και από καιρό θε να χαθούν

Τα φύλλα ολόγκριζα παγώνουν
Μα οι φίλοι δεν ξαναπληγώνουν
Τώρα, όπως στα παλιά
Εκείνον δίχως φίλους πια.

Ο βοριάς ίσως τα πάντα σαρώσει
Μα η αγάπη δεν μπορεί ξανά
Την καρδιά του φέτος να λαβώσει
Μιας και δεν έχει καρδιά.

Μαύρ' είν' της νύχτας η θωριά
Μα ο Χάρος δεν τρομάζει πια
Κείνον που πέρα από κάθε αμφιβολία
Περιμένει δίχως ελπίδα καμία


(μετάφραση: Σπύρος Δόικας)

https://www.enotes.com/topics/tenebris/in-depth
http://www.eliteskills.com/analysis_poetry/In_Tenebris_by_Thomas_Hardy_analysis.php
« Last Edit: 18 Feb, 2018, 17:43:59 by spiros »

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In Tenebris II
Thomas Hardy


Considerabam ad dexteram, et videbam; et non erat qui cognosceret
me.... non est qui requirat animam meam
—Ps. CXLI


When the clouds' swoln bosoms echo back the shouts of the many and strong
That things are all as they best may be, save a few to be right ere long,
And my eyes have not the vision in them to discern what to these is so clear,
The blot seems straightway in me alone; one better he were not here.

The stout upstanders say, All's well with us; ruers have nought to rue!
And what the potent say so oft, can it fail to be somewhat true?
Breezily go they, breezily come; their dust smokes around their career,
Till I think I am one born out of due time, who has no calling here.

Their dawns bring lusty joys, it seems; their evenings all that is sweet;
Our times are blessed times, they cry: Life shapes it as is most meet,
And nothing is much the matter; there are many smiles to a tear;
Then what is the matter is I, I say. Why should such a one be here?...

Let him in whose ears the low-voiced Best is killed by the clash of the First,
Who holds that if way to the Better there be, it exacts a full look at the Worst,
Who feels tht delight is a delicate growth cramped by crookedness, custom and fear,
Get him up and be gone as one shaped awry; he disturbs the order here.
« Last Edit: 18 Feb, 2018, 17:53:08 by spiros »


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In Tenebris III
Thomas Hardy


Heu mihi, quia incolatus meus prolongatus est! Habitavi cum
habitantibus Cedar. Multum incola fuit anima mea.
—Ps. CXIX

(οἴμμοι ὅτι ἡ παροικία μου ἐμακρύνθη κατεσκήνωσα μετὰ τῶν σκηνωμάτων
Κηδαρ πολλὰ παρῴκησεν ἡ ψυχή μου)


THERE have been times when I well might have passed and the ending have come -
Points in my path when the dark might have stolen on me, artless, unrueing -
Ere I had learnt that the world was a welter of futile doing:
Such had been times when I well might have passed, and the ending have come!

Say, on the noon when the half-sunny hours told that April was nigh,
And I upgathered and cast forth the snow from the crocus-border,
Fashioned and furbished the soil into a summer-seeming order,
Glowing in gladsome faith that I quickened the year thereby.

Or on that loneliest of eves when afar and benighted we stood,
She who upheld me and I, in the midmost of Egdon together,
Confident I in her watching and ward through the blackening heather,
Deeming her matchless in might and with measureless scope endued.

Or on that winter-wild night when, reclined by the chimney-nook quoin,
Slowly a drowse overgat me, the smallest and feeblest of folk there,
Weak from my baptism of pain; when at times and anon I awoke there -
Heard of a world wheeling on, with no listing or longing to join.

Even then! while unweeting that vision could vex or that knowledge could numb,
That sweets to the mouth in the belly are bitter, and tart, and untoward,
Then, on some dim-coloured scene should my briefly raised curtain have lowered,
Then might the Voice that is law have said 'Cease!' and the ending have come.
« Last Edit: 18 Feb, 2018, 18:19:23 by spiros »