GUITAR
(KITARRA)
Maltese Poetry with English Translations
By
Stephen Cachia
"..let me play the guitar. Let me sound the lament of the yellow sky..."Please note that these poems were originally written in Maltese and then translated into English by the author himself. Because of this the English versions may have lost some of their effect. Enjoy!
IKHAL
Il-bahar abjad qalb l-ghasel tal-franka
m'ghadux ilissen il-bikja tar-romol.
Huwa zejt iz-zebbug
li jolfoq mill-igfna
u johlom bl-ikhal.
L-ikhal ta' Spanja.
L-ikhal tas-swar.
L-ikhal tal-Wardija.F'naghas
hut u dghajjes
jghannu 'l oleander,
u jzejjnu l-qroll bil-mitt ghajn tas-sema.
Fid-dlam tal-isponoz
jitkesshu l-paguni
u n-nahal joholmu
b'galassji tan-nektar,
Bi qmura kohol fi stalel tas-shabGhax ahna ghaddejna wkoll mill-bajunetti.
L-isqra tac-comb is-sahta taghna!U tghaffigna mill-barri,
mungbelli tan-nar ihejju fl-irhula
biex minn palk taz-zingari jsiru oqbret l-iljuni.F'demmna mitt ziemel ikhal jissarra mal-mewt,
l-ikhal tal-igsma jistennew taht ix-xaghra,
bi lsien itambar qamar midluk biz-zebbug
fl-iswieq u mqades.
BLUE The white sea amid the honey limestone no longer murmurs the weeping of widows. It is oil of olives which seeps from the ships and dreams of the blue. The blue of Spain. The blue of bastions. The blue of Wardija. In sleep fish and boats sing to the oleander, decorate the coral with the hundred eyes of the sky. In the darkness of the sponges the peacocks flaunt and the bees dream of galaxies of nectar, of blue moons in stables of cloud. For we have also passed through the bayonets, the lead kestrels have been our curse! And been stamped over by the bull, mountains of fire preparing in villages to be turned from the stage of gypsies to the tomb of lions. In our blood a hundred blue horses fight against death, the blue of bodies waiting under the rocky steppe, with a tongue which beats a moon anointed in olive in souks and temples.-----------------------------------------
KITARRA
Il-kordi tal-Madaliena infirxu fuq pjazza sewda.
Kitarra.Meta jigu ghalija,
halluni ndoqqha l-kitarra.
Halluni nsemma' l-ilment tas-sema safrani.
Meta jigu ghalija,
halluni nilghab il-loghba tan-noli
fuq l-ghajn tonda tal-bahar,
u nisma' l-hoss tal-mewg inewwah
fl-arzella sewda tal-qamar.
Halluha thabbat
qalb ta' tfajjel maqbuda f'demgha.
Halluhom inixxu
n-noti fietla mill-ibhra bojod tal-melh.
Meta jigu ghalija,
halluni ndoqqha l-kitarra.
Halluni ha ndoqqha!
Stunata! Skurdata! Imma hierga mill-qalb!
Halluni ha ndoqqha l-kitarra,
u nohlom bil-forom zengulija
tal-widien filghaxija!Sakemm fl-ahhar johduni,
u mbaghad nisma' biss id-daqq tal-banda.
Sakemm fl-ahhar johduni lejn l-gholja,
u mbaghad nisma' biss l-ghadam tal-ahhar irmied.
Sakemm fl-ahhar johduni,
u mbaghad nisma' biss in-noti ta' kitarra
wara l-giggifogu tat-tmiem.Kitarra.
Il-kordi tal-Madaliena jinfirxu fuq pjazza sewda.
Kitarra.
Halluni ha ndoqqha l-kitarra.
Stunata! Skurdata! Imma hierga mill-qalb!
GUITAR Magdalene's chords spread out on the black village square. Guitar. When they come for me, let me play the guitar. Let me sound the lament of the yellow sky. When they come for me, let me play hide and seek on the round eye of the ocean, and hear the sound of waves moaning from the moon's black seashell. Let it beat, the heart of a boy caught in a tear. Let them seep, lukewarm notes from white seas of salt. When they come for me, let me play the guitar. Let me play it! Out of tune! Chords not right! But straight from the heart! Let me play, let me play the guitar! And to dream of the shapely curves of valleys at dusk! Until at last they come to take me, and then I'll only hear the band playing. Until at last they come to take me to the hilltop, and then I'll only hear the bone of last ashes. Until at last they come to take me, and then I'll only hear the notes of the guitar after the fireworks' final show. Guitar. Magdalene's chords spread out on the black village square. Guitar. Let me play, let me play the guitar. Out of tune! Chords not right! But straight from the heart!----------------------------------
SANTA MARIJA
Ghatxana ghax-xita tinghi il-Mosta f'Awwissu.
Tistenna l-ewwel dmugh ma' haddejha,
l-Mosta bajda tar-rahhala!M'ghadhomx imcappsa t-toroq
bid-demm iswed tal-ikkatnati.
Il-Gimgha l-Kbira tal-klieb minghajr laham
u tal-barnuzi mgarrba.
Il-Koppla.
Il-Koppla biss ghadha tilghaq ir-rih isfel
nhar Ghid il-Hamsin.
Bil-hamrija tnixxi
mis-sema fuq ghorfiet u sqaq,
u l-ward hamrani jdemma',
mix-xtieli tal-kaktus.Ghatxana ghax-xita tinghi il-Mosta f'Awwissu.
Tistenna l-ewwel tajn ma' haddejha,
l-Mosta bajda tar-rahhala!Santa Marija fuq l-ispallejn!
Hierga l-vara!
Tghajjat il-folla taht bnadar u standardi!
Murtali u bombi!
U l-koppla titrieghed!
Miraklu! Miraklu!
Santa Marija fuq l-ispallejn!Ghatxana ghax-xita tinghi il-Mosta f'Awwissu.
Fil-wied tal-Madonna
jghannu xmux bl-uriezaq tal-labar,
imdeffsa f'sider omm l-imhaggar fil-pjazza.Int habbejt ukolL, ja mara!
Is-suldat sakranazz mitluf fid-daghdiegha!
Il-waqgha mill-garigor marradi
u hamiema bajda mifuda b'lanza
thabbar il-wasla tas-saltna tal-qamh.Ghatxana ghax-xita tinghi il-Mosta f'Awwissu.
F'sema tqil iduru hjut suwed ta' huttaf
minsuga bizzilla skura fuq ix-xghir,
jistkennu mir-raghad tal-koppla.
Tibki l-folla taht bnadar u standardi!U l-koppla titrieghed!
Gorruh fuq l-ispallejn!
Sac-cipress ifuh bl-incens!Iva, sac-cipress ifuh bl-incens,
gorruh,
fejn il-laring isir zahar
u Santa Marija tiksi l-imgarrbin
b'bews u petali.
SANTA MARIJA Thirsty for rain moans Mosta village in August. Waiting for the first teardrops on its cheeks, white Mosta of the peasants! The streets are no longer stained with the dark blood of the chained. Good Friday of dogs without flesh, and afflicted hoods. The Dome. Only the dome still licks the Scirocco wind, on Pentecost day. With fine red dust spilling from the sky on attics and alleys and red roses weeping on cactus plants. Thirsty for rain moans Mosta village in August. Waiting for the first mud on its cheeks, white Mosta of the peasants! Lift Santa Marija on our shoulders! Her statue coming out of the church! Shouts the crowd under flags and staffs! Petards and bombs in the sky! And the Dome trembles! It's a miracle! Lift Santa Marija on our shoulders! Thirsty for rain moans Mosta village in August. In the valley of Our Lady suns sing of needle cicadas, stuck into the breast of a mother whose son was stoned in the village square. For you have also loved, woman! The soldier drunkard lost in rage! The fall from the old sickly stone stairs and the white dove pierced by a spear which announces the coming of the kingdom of wheat. Thirsty for rain moans Mosta village in August. In the heavy sky, black threads of swallows fly round, embroidered in dark lace over the barley, sheltering themselves from the Dome's thunder. The crowd weeps under flags and staffs! Thunder and lightning! Carry him on your shoulders! To the cypress grove which smells of incense! Yes, to the cypress grove which smells of incense, have him carried, where oranges become blossoms and Santa Marija covers the afflicted with kisses and petals.------------------
MAJJISTRAL
Ghadni qieghed nisma' l-
Majjistral isejjah.
Ghadni qieghed nisimghu niezel, isejjah.
Jokrob, jidwi, jonfoh in-nifs qawwi tieghu.
U fis-sema tal-blat
ghadhom jigru zwiemel bojod tal-galopp,
lesti ghall-battalja.Halli jinfethu l-bnadar!
Halli jiccarrtu!
Jitperrcu berah ghall-irwiefen!Bid-demm tal-arja neffieda
tobrom f'widnejja!
Majjistral! Majjistral!
Li tfarrag il-mahbubin solitarji.
Li timsah id-dmugh minn fuq haddejn ir-romol.
Li tperper il-weraq tal-luq fil-wied
u tibdilhom f'mitt holma tal-fidda.
Int tiekol brimb u tuffieh
u tilghab noli mal-hrief.Majjistral! Majjistral!
Mifruxa l-eghlieqi tieghek tal-qoton
fis-sodda tal-qamar kaccatur.Majjistral!
Majjistral!
Sidrek inixxi l-mewg ihabbat
fil-bottijiet u l-laned,
bic-cekcik ta' flus il-ggant.
Okrob, idwi, onfoh
in-nifs selvagg u nej tieghek.
Obrom fil-garigori ta' mohhi,
fejn ghadhom jigru zwiemel bojod taz-zonqor,
f'sema tal-battalji.Majjistral! Majjistral!
Meta ma nnaqqaxx izjed
fuq il-wesghat taz-zonqor
xettluni fejn jonfoh.Halli meta jaqbel,
jitla' hdejja bir-raxx mielah tieghu
u jifdini b'ruhu
nhar il-Vitorja.
MAJJISTRAL I can still hear the Majjistral wind calling. I can still hear it coming, calling. Wailing, echoing, breathing its mighty air. And in the sky of rock white horses still run, galloping and ready for battle. Unfold the flags! Tear them open to the wind! Bare them to the gale! With the blood of piercing air howling in my ears! Majjistral wind! Majjistral! You console solitary lovers. You wipe away tears from the cheeks of widows. You wave the valley-poplar's leaves and turn them into a hundred silver dreams. You eat up apples and spiders and play hide and seek with the wavecrests. Majjistral wind! Majjistral! Laid out are your cottonfields on the hunter moon's bed. Majjistral wind! Majjistral! Out of your breast seep waves beating in tins and cans, with the clinking sound of the giant's coins. Wail, echo and breathe your wild, raw air! Howl through the maze in my mind, where white granite horses still run in a sky of battle. Majjistral wind! Majjistral! When I no longer carve the expanses of granite, place me where it's open to the Majjistral. So when it blows, it rises up with its salt-laden spray and with its soul saves me on Victory Day------------------
F'GHAJNEJK RAJT IL-MEWT TAL-QAMAR KIESAH
F'ghajnejk rajt il-mewt tal-qamar kiesah,
is-sajjetti ghomja jixorbu mill-ghadira,
u jibqghu niexfa.F'ghajnejk rajt il-mewt tal-qamar kiesah,
ghasfur minfud mill-vlegga tal-kaccatur
li mill-hajja daq biss
il-hlewwa tal-luminata tan-nemel,
il-bewsa tal-ghafrid imbezzgha,
il-mewga tal-gilda tar-ramel.F'ghajnejk rajt il-mewt tal-qamar kiesah,
ix-xufftejn hodor ta' statwa tal-bronz,
li baqghet mejta fl-ebusija
u t-tidlik tal-wirdien mghaffga.
I SAW THE COLD MOON DYING IN YOUR EYES I saw the cold moon dying in your eyes, the blind flashes of lightning drinking from the lake and remaining dry. I saw the cold moon drying in your eyes, you little bird pierced by the hunter's arrow for which life only had in store the sweetness of the lemonade of ants, the kissing of the frightened little devil, the ripple of the skin of sand. I saw the cold moon dying in your eyes, the green lips of a bronze statue remaining dead with stiffness and slime of flattened roaches.
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