I
Gloom!
An October like November;
August a hundred thousand hours,
And all September,
A hundred thousand, dragging sunlit days,
And half October like a thousand years . . .
And doom!
That then was Antwerp . . .
In the name of God,
How could they do it?
Those souls that usually dived
Into the dirty caverns of mines;
Who usually hived
In whitened hovels; under ragged poplars;
Who dragged muddy shovels, over the grassy mud,
Lumbering to work over the greasy sods . . .
Those men there, with the appearance of clods
Were the bravest men that a usually listless priest of God
Ever shrived . . .
And it is not for us to make them an anthem.
If we found words there would come no wind that would fan them
To a tune that the trumpets might blow it,
Shrill through the heaven that's ours or yet Allah's,
Or the wide halls of any Valhallas.
We can make no such anthem. So that all that is ours
For inditing in sonnets, pantoums, elegiacs, or lays
Is this:
"In the name of God, how could they do it?"
II
For there is no new thing under the sun,
Only this uncomely man with a smoking gun
In the gloom. . . .
What the devil will he gain by it?
Digging a hole in the mud and standing all day in the rain by it
Waiting his doom;
The sharp blow, the swift outpouring of the blood
Till the trench of gray mud
Is turned to a brown purple drain by it.
Well, there have been scars
Won in many wars,
Punic,
Lacedaemonian, wars of Napoleon, wars for faith, wars for honor,
for love, for possession,
But this Belgian man in his ugly tunic,
His ugly round cap, shooting on, in a sort of obsession,
Overspreading his miserable land,
Standing with his wet gun in his hand. . . .
Doom!
He finds that in a sudden scrimmage,
And lies, an unsightly lump on the sodden grass . . .
An image that shall take long to pass!
III
For the white-limbed heroes of Hellas ride by upon their horses
Forever through our brains.
The heroes of Cressy ride by upon their stallions;
And battalions and battalions and battalions—
The Old Guard, the Young Guard, the men of Minden and of
Waterloo,
Pass, for ever staunch,
Stand, for ever true;
And the small man with the large paunch,
And the gray coat, and the large hat, and the hands behind the
back,
Watches them pass
In our minds for ever. . . .
But that clutter of sodden corses
On the sodden Belgian grass—
That is a strange new beauty.
IV
With no especial legends of marchings or triumphs or duty,
Assuredly that is the way of it,
The way of beauty. . . .
And that is the highest word you can find to say of it.
For you cannot praise it with words
Compounded of lyres and swords,
But the thought of the gloom and the rain
And the ugly coated figure, standing beside a drain,
Shall eat itself into your brain:
And you will say of all heroes, "They fought like the Belgians!"
And you will say, "He wrought like a Belgian his fate out of
gloom."
And you will say, "He bought like a Belgian
His doom."
And that shall be an honorable name;
"Belgian" shall be an honorable word;
As honorable as the fame of the sword,
As honorable as the mention of the many-chorded lyre,
And his old coat shall seem as beautiful as the fabrics woven in
Tyre.
V
And what in the world did they bear it for?
I don't know.
And what in the world did they dare it for?
Perhaps that is not for the likes of me to understand.
They could very well have watched a hundred legions go
Over their fields and between their cities
Down into more southerly regions.
They could very well have let the legions pass through their woods,
And have kept their lives and their wives and their children and
cattle and goods.
I don't understand.
Was it just love of their land?
Oh, poor dears!
Can any man so love his land?
Give them a thousand thousand pities
And rivers and rivers of tears
To wash off the blood from the cities of Flanders.
VI
This is Charing Cross;
It is midnight;
There is a great crowd
And no light—
A great crowd, all black, that hardly whispers aloud.
Surely, that is a dead woman—a dead mother!
She has a dead face;
She is dressed all in black;
She wanders to the book-stall and back,
At the back of the crowd;
And back again and again back,
She sways and wanders.
This is Charing Cross;
It is one o'clock.
There is still a great cloud, and very little light;
Immense shafts of shadows over the black crowd
That hardly whispers aloud. . . .
And now! . . . That is another dead mother,
And there is another and another and another. . . .
And little children, all in black,
All with dead faces, waiting in all the waiting-places,
Wandering from the doors of the waiting-room
In the dim gloom.
These are the women of Flanders:
They await the lost.
They await the lost that shall never leave the dock;
They await the lost that shall never again come by the train
To the embraces of all these women with dead faces;
They await the lost who lie dead in trench and barrier and fosse,
In the dark of the night.
This is Charing Cross; it is past one of the clock;
There is very little light.
There is so much pain.
L’Envoi:
And it was for this that they endured this gloom;
This October like November,
That August like a hundred thousand hours,
And that September,
A hundred thousand dragging sunlit days
And half October like a thousand years. . . .
Oh, poor dears!
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
هؤلاء نساء "فلاندرز" .. اقتباسات الطيب صالح
"""""""""""""""
اللواء الركن عزالدين حسن قرشي
دراسة نقدية
" ولما لعبت الخمر برأس مصطفي سعيد في رواية موسم الهجرة للشمال, وسكر بالرغم منه بسبب الحاح "محجوب" , رنا ببصره بعيداً , ثم طفق ينشد بلسان انجليزي فصيح , قصيدة أثبت الطيب صالح ترجمة لأحد مقاطعها الي اللغة العربية , ثم قال علي لسان الراوي " ان هذا الآخير عثر عليها لاحقاً ضمن قصائد اخر , تتحدث عن أهوال الحرب العالمية الأولي, والواقع أن الذي عثر علي تلك القصيدة, وهي من قصائدالعقد الثاني من القرن العشرين, وترجم منها ذلك المقطع المؤثر الي اللغة العربية هو الطيب صالح نفسه, مما دل علي بصره بترجمة الشعر وملكته الشعرية, التي تتجلي بصورة واضحة في عدد من المقاطع الشعرية التي الفها بكلتا اللغتين العامية السودانية والفصحي, ونحلها الي شخوص رواياته.
2. ان المدلول العام لذلك المقطع الذي ترجمه الطيب صالح من الشعر الانجليزي يكمن في صلته الوثيقة بالرواية , وخصوصاً بالحالة الوجدانية لبطل الرواية مصطفي سعيد الذي كان يحس احساساً عميقاً بالضياع والعبث والكآبة.
3. ومقطع الشعر الذي ترجمه الطيب صالح هو من قصيدة انجليزية الاصل, للشاعر الانجليزي فورد مادوكس هيوفر Ford Madox Huffer (1873- 1939), والذي صار يعرف فيما بعد باسم فورد مادوكس فورد.
4. والقصيدة المعنية عنوانها هوAntwerp , وقد نظمها هذا الشاعر في تصوير حصار مدينة " أنتويرب " البلجيكية الساحلية وسقوطها في أيدي القوات الألمانية بتاريخ 9 اكتوبر 1914م في أوائل الحرب العالمية الأولي, وذلك بعد أن دافعت عنها قوات بريطانية وبلجيكية دفاعاً مريراً باسلاً, سقط من جرائه الكثيرين من أفراد تلك القوات صرعي, وهم, هم أنفسهم " الضائعون " الذين لم يأتي بهم القطار, والذين كانت تنتظرهم أمهاتهم وأخواتهم وزوجاتهم من نساء فلاندرز في محطة تشارينغ كروس بلندن علي أحر من الجمر.
5. وهذه القصيدة منشورة باكملها في كتاب بعنوان " مختارات من الشعر الجديد The Newal Poetry AN Anthology,1917من تحريرهارييت مونورHarriat). Monroe (1860 – 1936).
6. وقد أستهل الشاعر تلك القصيدة بهذا المقطع الكئيب, ذي الظلال والمعاني والايحاءات الثقيلة الوطء علي النفس والشعور, بل والمنذرة بالشؤم والفجيعة :
: Gloom,
An October like November,
August a hundred thousand hours,
, And all September,
, A hundred thousand, dragging sunlit days,
, And half October a thousand years
: And doom
….. That was Antwerp
* ****
This is Charring Cross
It’s one O’clock
There is still a great cloud, and very
….Little light
: These are the women of Flandners
, They await the lost
They await the lost that
Shall never leave the dock
They await the lost that shall
Never again come by the train
To the embraces of all
These women with dead faces,
They await the lost who lie dead
In the trench and barrier
, and fosse in the dark of the night
This is Charring Cross, It is past one of the
, clock
There is very
Little light
There is so much pain
7. والترجمة العربية ( مني عزالدين ) كما يلي:
غم قدر مشؤم !!!
اكتوبر كنوفمبر
أغسطس مائة الف ساعة, وهكذا كل سبتمبر,
مائة الف تسحب بجهد الأيام المشرقة
ونصف اكتوبركألف سنة
ومن ثم الهلاك !!!
... تلك هي أنتويرب
هذه تشارينغ كروس
الساعة الواحدة
لا تزال هناك سحابة ضخمة. و قليل من الضوء
هؤلاء هن نساء فلاندرز.....
ينتظرن الضائعين
ينتظرن الضائعين الذين لن يغادروا الميناء أبداً
ينتظرن الضائعين الذين أبداً لن يأتي بهم القطار ثانية
الي أحضان كل أؤلئك النسوة ذوات الوجوه الميته
ينتظرن الضائعين الذين يرقدون موتي في الخندق والحاجز
والخندق في ظلام الليل
هذه تشارينغ كروس,
الساعة تجاوزت الواحدة
هنالك ضوء قليل جداً
هنالك آلم كثير
8. أما ترجمة دينيس جونسون ديفيذ, لذلك المقطع الذي أختاره الطيب صالح فقد جأءت علي النحو الآتي :
Those women of Flanders
, Await the lost
Await the lost who never will
Leave the harbor
They await the lost whom the
Train never will bring
To the embraces of those women
With dead faces
They await the lost who lie dead
In the trenches, the barricade,
And the mud ,
In the darkness of the night
This is Charring Cross station,
The hour’s past one
There was a
Faint light
There was a
Great pain
9. والترجمة العربية كما أوردها الطيب صالح لهذا المقطع الذي أختاره كما يلي:
هؤلاء نساء فلاندرز .....
ينتظرن الضائعين
ينتظرن الضائعين الذين أبداً لن
يغادروا الميناء
ينتظرن الضائعين الذين أبداً لن يأتي
بهم القطار
الي أحضان هؤلاء النسوة
ذوات الوجوه الميته
ينتظرن الضائعين
الذين يرقدون موتي
في الخنادق والحاجز والطين
في ظلام الليل
هذه محطة تشارينغ كروس
الساعة تجاوزت الواحدة
ثمة ضوء ضئيل
ثمة آلم عظيم .
Gloom!
An October like November;
August a hundred thousand hours,
And all September,
A hundred thousand, dragging sunlit days,
And half October like a thousand years . . .
And doom!
That then was Antwerp . . .
In the name of God,
How could they do it?
Those souls that usually dived
Into the dirty caverns of mines;
Who usually hived
In whitened hovels; under ragged poplars;
Who dragged muddy shovels, over the grassy mud,
Lumbering to work over the greasy sods . . .
Those men there, with the appearance of clods
Were the bravest men that a usually listless priest of God
Ever shrived . . .
And it is not for us to make them an anthem.
If we found words there would come no wind that would fan them
To a tune that the trumpets might blow it,
Shrill through the heaven that's ours or yet Allah's,
Or the wide halls of any Valhallas.
We can make no such anthem. So that all that is ours
For inditing in sonnets, pantoums, elegiacs, or lays
Is this:
"In the name of God, how could they do it?"
II
For there is no new thing under the sun,
Only this uncomely man with a smoking gun
In the gloom. . . .
What the devil will he gain by it?
Digging a hole in the mud and standing all day in the rain by it
Waiting his doom;
The sharp blow, the swift outpouring of the blood
Till the trench of gray mud
Is turned to a brown purple drain by it.
Well, there have been scars
Won in many wars,
Punic,
Lacedaemonian, wars of Napoleon, wars for faith, wars for honor,
for love, for possession,
But this Belgian man in his ugly tunic,
His ugly round cap, shooting on, in a sort of obsession,
Overspreading his miserable land,
Standing with his wet gun in his hand. . . .
Doom!
He finds that in a sudden scrimmage,
And lies, an unsightly lump on the sodden grass . . .
An image that shall take long to pass!
III
For the white-limbed heroes of Hellas ride by upon their horses
Forever through our brains.
The heroes of Cressy ride by upon their stallions;
And battalions and battalions and battalions—
The Old Guard, the Young Guard, the men of Minden and of
Waterloo,
Pass, for ever staunch,
Stand, for ever true;
And the small man with the large paunch,
And the gray coat, and the large hat, and the hands behind the
back,
Watches them pass
In our minds for ever. . . .
But that clutter of sodden corses
On the sodden Belgian grass—
That is a strange new beauty.
IV
With no especial legends of marchings or triumphs or duty,
Assuredly that is the way of it,
The way of beauty. . . .
And that is the highest word you can find to say of it.
For you cannot praise it with words
Compounded of lyres and swords,
But the thought of the gloom and the rain
And the ugly coated figure, standing beside a drain,
Shall eat itself into your brain:
And you will say of all heroes, "They fought like the Belgians!"
And you will say, "He wrought like a Belgian his fate out of
gloom."
And you will say, "He bought like a Belgian
His doom."
And that shall be an honorable name;
"Belgian" shall be an honorable word;
As honorable as the fame of the sword,
As honorable as the mention of the many-chorded lyre,
And his old coat shall seem as beautiful as the fabrics woven in
Tyre.
V
And what in the world did they bear it for?
I don't know.
And what in the world did they dare it for?
Perhaps that is not for the likes of me to understand.
They could very well have watched a hundred legions go
Over their fields and between their cities
Down into more southerly regions.
They could very well have let the legions pass through their woods,
And have kept their lives and their wives and their children and
cattle and goods.
I don't understand.
Was it just love of their land?
Oh, poor dears!
Can any man so love his land?
Give them a thousand thousand pities
And rivers and rivers of tears
To wash off the blood from the cities of Flanders.
VI
This is Charing Cross;
It is midnight;
There is a great crowd
And no light—
A great crowd, all black, that hardly whispers aloud.
Surely, that is a dead woman—a dead mother!
She has a dead face;
She is dressed all in black;
She wanders to the book-stall and back,
At the back of the crowd;
And back again and again back,
She sways and wanders.
This is Charing Cross;
It is one o'clock.
There is still a great cloud, and very little light;
Immense shafts of shadows over the black crowd
That hardly whispers aloud. . . .
And now! . . . That is another dead mother,
And there is another and another and another. . . .
And little children, all in black,
All with dead faces, waiting in all the waiting-places,
Wandering from the doors of the waiting-room
In the dim gloom.
These are the women of Flanders:
They await the lost.
They await the lost that shall never leave the dock;
They await the lost that shall never again come by the train
To the embraces of all these women with dead faces;
They await the lost who lie dead in trench and barrier and fosse,
In the dark of the night.
This is Charing Cross; it is past one of the clock;
There is very little light.
There is so much pain.
L’Envoi:
And it was for this that they endured this gloom;
This October like November,
That August like a hundred thousand hours,
And that September,
A hundred thousand dragging sunlit days
And half October like a thousand years. . . .
Oh, poor dears!
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
هؤلاء نساء "فلاندرز" .. اقتباسات الطيب صالح
"""""""""""""""
اللواء الركن عزالدين حسن قرشي
دراسة نقدية
" ولما لعبت الخمر برأس مصطفي سعيد في رواية موسم الهجرة للشمال, وسكر بالرغم منه بسبب الحاح "محجوب" , رنا ببصره بعيداً , ثم طفق ينشد بلسان انجليزي فصيح , قصيدة أثبت الطيب صالح ترجمة لأحد مقاطعها الي اللغة العربية , ثم قال علي لسان الراوي " ان هذا الآخير عثر عليها لاحقاً ضمن قصائد اخر , تتحدث عن أهوال الحرب العالمية الأولي, والواقع أن الذي عثر علي تلك القصيدة, وهي من قصائدالعقد الثاني من القرن العشرين, وترجم منها ذلك المقطع المؤثر الي اللغة العربية هو الطيب صالح نفسه, مما دل علي بصره بترجمة الشعر وملكته الشعرية, التي تتجلي بصورة واضحة في عدد من المقاطع الشعرية التي الفها بكلتا اللغتين العامية السودانية والفصحي, ونحلها الي شخوص رواياته.
2. ان المدلول العام لذلك المقطع الذي ترجمه الطيب صالح من الشعر الانجليزي يكمن في صلته الوثيقة بالرواية , وخصوصاً بالحالة الوجدانية لبطل الرواية مصطفي سعيد الذي كان يحس احساساً عميقاً بالضياع والعبث والكآبة.
3. ومقطع الشعر الذي ترجمه الطيب صالح هو من قصيدة انجليزية الاصل, للشاعر الانجليزي فورد مادوكس هيوفر Ford Madox Huffer (1873- 1939), والذي صار يعرف فيما بعد باسم فورد مادوكس فورد.
4. والقصيدة المعنية عنوانها هوAntwerp , وقد نظمها هذا الشاعر في تصوير حصار مدينة " أنتويرب " البلجيكية الساحلية وسقوطها في أيدي القوات الألمانية بتاريخ 9 اكتوبر 1914م في أوائل الحرب العالمية الأولي, وذلك بعد أن دافعت عنها قوات بريطانية وبلجيكية دفاعاً مريراً باسلاً, سقط من جرائه الكثيرين من أفراد تلك القوات صرعي, وهم, هم أنفسهم " الضائعون " الذين لم يأتي بهم القطار, والذين كانت تنتظرهم أمهاتهم وأخواتهم وزوجاتهم من نساء فلاندرز في محطة تشارينغ كروس بلندن علي أحر من الجمر.
5. وهذه القصيدة منشورة باكملها في كتاب بعنوان " مختارات من الشعر الجديد The Newal Poetry AN Anthology,1917من تحريرهارييت مونورHarriat). Monroe (1860 – 1936).
6. وقد أستهل الشاعر تلك القصيدة بهذا المقطع الكئيب, ذي الظلال والمعاني والايحاءات الثقيلة الوطء علي النفس والشعور, بل والمنذرة بالشؤم والفجيعة :
: Gloom,
An October like November,
August a hundred thousand hours,
, And all September,
, A hundred thousand, dragging sunlit days,
, And half October a thousand years
: And doom
….. That was Antwerp
* ****
This is Charring Cross
It’s one O’clock
There is still a great cloud, and very
….Little light
: These are the women of Flandners
, They await the lost
They await the lost that
Shall never leave the dock
They await the lost that shall
Never again come by the train
To the embraces of all
These women with dead faces,
They await the lost who lie dead
In the trench and barrier
, and fosse in the dark of the night
This is Charring Cross, It is past one of the
, clock
There is very
Little light
There is so much pain
7. والترجمة العربية ( مني عزالدين ) كما يلي:
غم قدر مشؤم !!!
اكتوبر كنوفمبر
أغسطس مائة الف ساعة, وهكذا كل سبتمبر,
مائة الف تسحب بجهد الأيام المشرقة
ونصف اكتوبركألف سنة
ومن ثم الهلاك !!!
... تلك هي أنتويرب
هذه تشارينغ كروس
الساعة الواحدة
لا تزال هناك سحابة ضخمة. و قليل من الضوء
هؤلاء هن نساء فلاندرز.....
ينتظرن الضائعين
ينتظرن الضائعين الذين لن يغادروا الميناء أبداً
ينتظرن الضائعين الذين أبداً لن يأتي بهم القطار ثانية
الي أحضان كل أؤلئك النسوة ذوات الوجوه الميته
ينتظرن الضائعين الذين يرقدون موتي في الخندق والحاجز
والخندق في ظلام الليل
هذه تشارينغ كروس,
الساعة تجاوزت الواحدة
هنالك ضوء قليل جداً
هنالك آلم كثير
8. أما ترجمة دينيس جونسون ديفيذ, لذلك المقطع الذي أختاره الطيب صالح فقد جأءت علي النحو الآتي :
Those women of Flanders
, Await the lost
Await the lost who never will
Leave the harbor
They await the lost whom the
Train never will bring
To the embraces of those women
With dead faces
They await the lost who lie dead
In the trenches, the barricade,
And the mud ,
In the darkness of the night
This is Charring Cross station,
The hour’s past one
There was a
Faint light
There was a
Great pain
9. والترجمة العربية كما أوردها الطيب صالح لهذا المقطع الذي أختاره كما يلي:
هؤلاء نساء فلاندرز .....
ينتظرن الضائعين
ينتظرن الضائعين الذين أبداً لن
يغادروا الميناء
ينتظرن الضائعين الذين أبداً لن يأتي
بهم القطار
الي أحضان هؤلاء النسوة
ذوات الوجوه الميته
ينتظرن الضائعين
الذين يرقدون موتي
في الخنادق والحاجز والطين
في ظلام الليل
هذه محطة تشارينغ كروس
الساعة تجاوزت الواحدة
ثمة ضوء ضئيل
ثمة آلم عظيم .
