tirsdag den 28. juni 2016


- fra engelsk oversættelse af Ovids latinske forbandelsesdigt Ibis, som Anders Abildgaards overlegent onde langdigt af samme navn (sent, men opgejlet anmeldt af mig i WA Bøger fredag) tager sit formelle afsæt fra (= en hel masse forbandelser, mange af dem med link til mytologi, litteratur, virkelighed, af én person, den pseudonyme Hr. Ibis):

While Thracians fight with bows, Iazyges with spears,
while the Ganges runs warm, and Danube cold:
while mountains produce oaks, and plains soft grass,
while the Tuscan Tiber flows with its clear waters,
I’ll wage war on you: death will not end my anger, rather
among the shades it will set a cruel weapon in my hands.
Then, too, when I shall be dissolved in empty air,
my bloodless ghost will still revile all your ways,
then, too, my remembering shadow will pursue
remedy for your deeds, and my bony form your face.
Whether, as I’d not wish, I’m exhausted by long years,
whether I’m dissolved in death by my own hand:
whether I’m lost, shipwrecked by mighty waves,
while the foreign fishes feed on my entrails:
whether wandering birds pick at my limbs:
whether wolves stain their jaws with my blood:
whether any will deign to place me in the earth,
or give my corpse in vain to the common pyre:
wherever I may be, I’ll strive to break from Styx’s shores,
and, in vengeance, stretch an icy hand to where you are.
You’ll see me watching, in the shades of silent nights,
appearing as a vision, I’ll drive away your sleep.
Whatever you do, I’ll flit before your lips and eyes,
and moan so there can be no peace in your house.
Cruel whips, and twining snakes, will hiss, and funeral
torches, forever smoke before your guilty face.
Living, you’ll be haunted by the furies, dead as well,
and the shorter then will be your punishment in life.
Your funeral will not affect you or your tears: you’ll forgo
your life, unlamented: and the mob will all applaud
while you are dragged away, at the executioners’ hands,
and their hooks are buried deep in your bones.
Let the flames that snatch at all men, flee from you:
let the honest earth reject your hated corpse. May
the cruel vulture tear your entrails, beak and claw,
and the greedy dogs rip out your treacherous heart,
and let there be (though you may be proud to be so
loved) a quarrel for your body, among the wolves.
May you be in a place far from Elysian Fields,
and be exiled, where the guilty host abide.

Ingen kommentarer:

Send en kommentar