POOR DIONIS' REFLECTIONS

For a candlestick is serving my dear old big-bellied bottle!

And the tallow of the candle sizzling burns and sizzling dies...

In this penury, oh, minstrel, raise thy songs unto the skies!

Money I've not seen for ages, I've not washed for weeks my throttle.

For a cigarette a kingdom! The snow-bringing clouds I'll pamper

With chimeras! Whence?... The window in the tempest knows no rest,

Cats are wauling in the garret, turkeys with benumbed crest

Strut about the courtyard brooding in a melancholy temper.

Breath, like steam, allays the coldness, and my fur-cap is pulled tighter

O'er my eyes - as to my elbows, much, indeed, for them I care!

Like the fingers of a gipsy fumbling through the meshes rare

Of a net, they scan the weather: will it not get any brighter?

Were I but a mouse, o, Heavens! he is furred, upon my life!

I would feed upon my volume and the frost I would outwit;

I would think a piece of Homer the most toothsome dainty bit,

The wall-hole a stately palace, and the icon there my wife!

On the walls long over-dusty, on the cobweb-ridden ceiling,

Clinches swarm - it is delightful just to watch them walk and ply;

They don't fancy the straw-mattress, and my skin is now so dry,

They won't suck it any longer. - Clusters in a frenzy rolling.

They enjoy the short excursion. - And the sight will drive me frantic.

Hi, how coyly that old matron strolls and spreads about her stench!

And the bachelor, how nimble! Does he actually speak French?

Over there, besieged by legions, you may see a girl romantic.

With the biting chill I shiver... On my hand a flea's sight-seeing;

In my mouth I'll wet my finger. I shall catch him on the spot.

If he sojourned with a woman, oh then he would get it hot!

But I care so very little - why destroy the helpless being?

And the blasé cat is purring by the fireside. Tommy, hello!

Let us have a chat together, my sole time-piece and sole brother!

In a pussy-peopled village I'd make you a judge, none other,

So that you may lord it, learning what is to be rich, my fellow!

Is the slyboots thinking of it, as he purrs, rolled over there?

What ideas flutter gently in his cat's imagination?

Has some white-furred lady led him into love's most sweet temptation?

Will there be an assignation in a loft or shed or lair?

I would still remain a poet if but cats the world should people;

I would, tragically mewing, set up eulogies - like Garrick, -

Watch, while basking in the sunlight, the mouse-tails beside a hay-rick,

And by moonlight walk the garret, ramble on the roof and steeple!

If I were a sage, my feelings would experience mad division;

In a hall of public lectures for ideals I'd boldly fight,

And I'd show the gen'rous youngsters, the young ladies gay and bright

That this world is merely dreamland and a tom-cat's senseless vision.

As a priest, in yonder temple, dedicated to the power

Which, repeating its own image, has created the cat-kind,

I would shout, "O tribe of tommies! woe to you and yours! for, mind,

You have disregarded fasting! Kneel in awe, o cats and cower!

Are there such as hold the Tables in a reverence uncivil,

Disbelieving supernature and the dreaded oversoul,

Which the destiny of kittens can upon demand unroll?

Don't they fear, the Godless creatures, Hell and bats, its spirits evil?

Anathema sit! - Spit on him, honest cats, and - with no nonsense!

Don't you see what lavish wisdom lies concealed in you? Your claws,

Soulless brutes, he gave for scratching, whiskers - to purr with, and paws

To feel gently - is it with them that you mean to touch his essence?

Ah! the wick in my poor bottle is diminishing to naught.

Go to sleep, my dear old Tommy. It is night. And we'll be dreaming,

Each on his own wretched bedstead, dreams of gold and fortune beaming.

If I could but sleep, yet can I? - Sleep, thou balm of my sick thought,

Wrap my being in thy stilly harmony - come, restitution,

Sleep, or death - whiche'er is willing? It's the same to me - all's rot.

Whether cats and fleas and moonshine will be still my mates or not,

I don't care a button, do I? - Poetry is destitution.

Translated by Leon Levitchi

HOME > LITERATURE > POETRY > EMINESCU’S POEMS