On the Clarence Bicknell site I just blogged about, I found this pdf file of some original Esperanto poems with English translations:
O dearest, shall we ever meet again?
These are poems of separation and displacement. The poems are:
Clarence Bicknell:
La elmigrintoj /
"The Emigrants": translated by William Auld
Kálmán Kalocsay: Sunsubiro, 1931 / "Sunset": translated by Katelina Halo
Karolo Pič: Rememoro post vi / "Remembrance of you": translated by Roy McDonald
. . . and the entry on Lajos Tárkony is reproduced in its entirety below.
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Critics have described Lajos Tárkony as master of the sonnet, of polished verse, and perhaps the most musical poet in Esperanto. “Evening on a Balcony” is regarded as one of his three most accomplished poems. The sonnet dates from Tárkony’s early period. It was published in Dekdu poetoj (Twelve Poets) in 1934 and was written in Abbazia, Italy. The poem was republished in the collection Soifo (Thirst) in 1964. The translation, with the original, appeared in La Brita Esperantisto (The British Esperantist) in the edition of May/June 1996.
Lajos Tárkony
Balkona vespero,
1934
Lit-seĝo. Lankovriloj. Dua etaĝ’. Balkono.
Siajn vualojn densajn faligas jam vespero.
Sonorilvoĉo velke traŝvebas en l’ aero.
Torpor’ postfebra. Kape vaganta pensĉifono.
Sur transa bord’ de l’ golfo, en fee fora fono
ekbrilas lumserpento: vibranta koliero
sur kolo de l’ mallumo. Anoncas ĝi pri tero,
pri urbo kaj loĝantoj, pri homo kaj pri ŝtono.
Ho stranga pens’: ĉi urbe, kies stratetojn plande
ankoraŭ mi ne tuŝis kaj kien mia febre
sopira okulparo rigardas lace, lante,
ĉi urbe eble homo – same soleca, trista –
algapas nun la maron, niaj rigardoj eble
sin krucas en saluto, ho ve, senpove dista ...
Translation (W. Auld)
Evening on a Balcony,
1934
A balcony. Two-up. Some rugs. A bed.
Evening has now let down, opaque, its veils,
floats through the air a wilting voice of bells.
Sloth after fever. Thought-scraps in my head.
Across the gulf a snake of light illumines
A far-off fairy realm: a sparkling band
adorns the neck of darkness, tells of land,
a city and its dwellers, stones and humans.
How strange to think: there where my feet have never
trod narrow streets and where my eyes now look,
tired and reluctant, with a longing fever,
perhaps, there, someone – sad and lonely – may
be staring at the sea, our glances hook
in greeting, but, alas, too far away ...
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