Még annyit akartam mondani, hogy olvassatok Sapphót. Vagy Szapphót. Vagy Szaffót. Frank Éva a megmondhatója, hogy már a Veresben is sok bajom volt ezzel a névvel.

De a versek, már ami maradt belőlük, remekek. Sajnos csak angolul áll rendelkezésemre. És épp igen befolyásolható voltam, mikor olvastam. Olyan hathatós volt.

És igen, tudom, hogy ez egy és ugyanaz a vers. De úgy tűnik, sokaknak tetszett eléggé ahhoz, hogy lefordítsák. David Hayes, aki ezt az elsőt készítette, az egyik itteni tanár, s azért cselekedett ily nemesen, mert remélte, hogy majd jól meghökkenünk, miből lesz a cserebogár.

(Nekem különösen a Lewell tetszik valami furcsa okból. Érdemes hangosan olvasni.)

Phainetai moi kênos isos theoisin
He seems to me that like/equal to the gods
emmen'ôner, hottis enantios toi
is man, who opposite you
isdanei kai plasion adu phônei-
sits and nearby [your] sweet speaking
sas upakouei
listens-closely

kai gelaisas imeroën, to m'ê man
and [your] lovely/desirable laughter, which truly
kardian en stêthesin eptoaisen.
the heart in my breast makes flutter.
ôs gar eisidô broche', ôs me phônai-
For whenever I look-upon briefly, then for me speaking
s'oud'en et'eikei,
is no longer possible,

alla kam men glôssa ‹m'›eäg lepton
but <my> tongue is broken, a delicate
d'autika chrô pur upadedromêken,
immediately skin/body fire runs beneath,
oppatessi d'oud'en orêmm', epirrhom-
eyes no-thing see, thunder
beisi d'akouai,
ears,

kad de m'idrôs kakcheëtai, tromos de
down and me sweat pours, a trembling
paisan agrei, chlôrotera de poias
all over seizes, greener than grass
emmi, tethnakên d'oiligo 'pideuês
I am, death little short of
phainom'em auta.
I seem to myself.

Alla pan tolmaton epei †kai penêta†
But all must be dared-endured since even a poor...

(hyperliteral trans. David Hayes)

Equal to Jove that youth must be —
Greater than Jove he seems to me —
Who, free from Jealousy’s alarms,
Securely views thy matchless charms.
Ah! Lesbia! though ’tis death to me,
I cannot choose but look on thee;
But, at the sight, my senses fly,
I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die;
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears,
Parch’d to the throat my tongue adheres,
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short,
My limbs deny their slight support;
Cold dews my pallid face o’erspread,
With deadly languor droops my head,
My ears with tingling echoes ring,
And life itself is on the wing,
My eyes refuse the cheering light,
Their orbs are veil’d in starless night:
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath,
And feels a temporary death.

(Lord Byron, ca. 1820)

Peer of gods he seemeth to me, the blissful
Man who sits and gazes at thee before him,
Close beside thee sits, and in silence hears thee
     Silverly speaking,
Laughing love’s low laughter. Oh this, this only
Stirs the troubled heart in my breast to tremble!
For should I but see thee a little moment,
     Straight is my voice hushed;
Yea, my tongue is broken, and through and through me
’Neath the flesh impalpable fire runs tingling;
Nothing see mine eyes, and a noise of roaring
     Waves in my ears sounds;
Sweat runs down in rivers, a tremor seizes
All my limbs, and paler than grass in autumn,
Caught by pains of menacing death, I falter,
     Lost in the love trance.

(John Addington Symonds, 1883)

Like the very gods in my sight is he who
sits where he can look in your eyes, who listens
close to you, to hear the soft voice, its sweetness
          murmur in love and

laughter, all for him. But it breaks my spirit;
underneath my breast all the heart is shaken.
Let me only glance where you are, the voice dies,
          I can say nothing,

but my lips are stricken to silence, under-
neath my skin the tenuous flame suffuses;
nothing shows in front of my eyes, my ears are
           muted in thunder.

And the sweat breaks running upon me, fever
Shakes my body, paler I turn than grass is;
I can feel that I have been changed, I feel that
           death has come near me.

(Richmond Lattimore, 1949)

I set that man above the gods and heroes —
all day, he sits before you face to face,
like a cardplayer. Your elbow brushes his elbow —
if you should speak, he hears.

The touched heart madly stirs,
your laughter is water hurrying over pebbles —
every gesture is a proclamation,
every sound is speech . . .

Refining fire purifies my flesh!
I hear you: a hollowness in my ears
thunders and stuns me. I cannot speak.
I cannot see.

I shiver. A dead whiteness spreads over
my body, trickling pinpricks of sweat.
I am greener than the greenest green grass —
I die!

(Robert Lowell, 1962)

THE ARBOR

He seems to he a god, that man
Facing you, who leans to be close,
Smiles, and, alert and glad, listens
To your mellow voice

And quickens in love at your laughter
That stings my breasts, jolts my heart
If I dare the shock of a glance.
I cannot speak,

My tongue sticks to my dry mouth,
Thin fire spreads beneath my skin,
My eyes cannot see and my aching ears
Roar in their labyrinths.

Chill sweat glides down my back,
I shake, I turn greener than grass.
I am neither living nor dead and cry
From the narrow between.
(Guy Davenport, 1976)

He seems to me equal to the gods that man
whoever he is who opposite you
sits and listens close
     to your sweet speaking

and lovely laughing — oh it
puts the heart in my chest on wings
for when I look at you, even a moment, no speaking
     is left in me

no: tongue breaks and thin
fire is racing under skin
and in eyes no sight and drumming
     fills ears

and cold sweat holds me and shaking
grips me all, greener than grass
I am and dead — or almost
     I seem to me.

But all is to be dared, because even a person of poverty . . .