Ētahi whakamāoritanga o ngā ruri a Emily Dickinson
Some translations into Māori of Emily Dickinson’s poetry
I pātōtō te Hau — me he tāne ngenge
Ā, Whakamanuhiri au, ‘Haere ki roto,’
Tāku i whakautu toa ai — i Uru mai
Ki roto ki taku Nohoanga
He Manuhiri Tere — waewae-kore —
Huakore te homai Tūru mōna
Me te homai
Hōpa ki te Āngi —
Kāore he Kōiwi Tōna hei herenga,
Tōna Kōrero he rite ki te Mauri o te
Tini Pōpokotea kōripo tahi ana
I te Ngahere.
He Popohau — tōna Kanohi —
Ōna matimati, i a ia i hihipa,
Ka tukua he Pūoro me ngā rangi
Mātāhehengitia i te Karāhe.
I toro mai — tītakataka tonu ana —
Ā, me he tāne whakamā,
I pātōtō anō — haupongi noa —
Ā, tahanga haere ahau.
The Wind — tapped like a tired man —
And like a Host, “Come in,”
I boldly answered — Entered then
My Residence within
A Rapid — footless Guest —
To offer whom a Chair
Were as impossible as hand
A Sofa to the Air —
No Bone had He to bind Him,
His Speech was like the Push
Of numerous Humming-Birds at once
From a Superior Bush.
His Countenance — a Billow —
His fingers, as He passed
Let go a Music as of tunes
Blown tremulous in Glass.
He visited — still flitting —
Then, like a timid Man
Again, He tapped — ’twas flurriedly —
And I became alone.
Pō marangai — Pō marangai!
Mei konei koe —
Ko ngā pō marangai
Ō tāua hāneanea!
Mūhore — ngā hau —
Ki te ngākau i te whanga —
Hei aha te Kāpehu —
Hei aha te Mahere!
Hoe ana kei Erena —
Ē! Te Moana!
Mei ū ahau
Ā te pō nei
I a koe!
Wild nights — Wild nights!
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile — the winds —
To a heart in port —
Done with the Compass —
Done with the Chart!
Rowing in Eden —
Ah! The Sea!
Might I but moor
Tonight
In thee!
Ko “Tūmanako” te mea whakahurutia —
Ka tau i te ngākau —
Waiata ai i te rangi kupu-kore —
Ā, kore rawa mutu ai —
Reka rawa atu — i te Āwhā — ka rangona —
He tātāhau taua marangai
Ka whakamā i te manu nei
Nāna te marea i whakaahuru —
Kua rangona i te whenua tio rawa —
Kei te Moana tino tauhou —
Engari — kore rawa — i te Aitua,
I tonoa he mea — i a au.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers —
That perches in the soul —
And sings the tune without the words —
And never stops — at all —
And sweetest — in the Gale — is heard —
And sore must be the storm —
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm —
I’ve heard it in the chillest land —
And on the strangest Sea —
Yet — never — in Extremity,
It asked a crumb — of me.
I taku matenga — rangona he hohō Rango —
Te Marino i te Rūma
Rite ki te Marino i te Hau
I waenga i ngā Nguru o te Āwhā —
Ngā karu popō — kua maringi kia maroke
Me ngā Hau e hui kaha ana
Mō taua tīmata whakamutu — hei tā te Kīngi
Kitearanga — i te ruma —
I wiratia aku Taonga — Hainatia atu
Aua para ōku ka taea te
Tiritiri — nā, i haere rā ki
Waenga he Rango —
He purū — rangirua — Hohō tatutatu -
Ki waenga i te rama — i a au —
Nā, i aukatia ngā Māpihi — ā
Kāore taku kite hei kite —
I heard a Fly buzz — when I died —
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air —
Between the Heaves of Storm —
The Eyes around — had wrung them dry —
And Breaths were gathering firm
For that last Onset — when the King
Be witnessed — in the Room —
I willed my Keepsakes — Signed away
What portions of me be
Assignable — and then it was
There interposed a Fly —
With Blue — uncertain — stumbling Buzz —
Between the light — and me —
And then the Windows failed — and then
I could not see to see —
Ko tētahi Tītaha o te aho,
Ahiahi Hōtoke,
Ka pēhi kino, me te Taumaha
O ngā Rangi Whare Karakia.
Mamae Tapu, ka homai nei —
Kāore e kitea he nawe,
Engari he huri nō roto
Kei te wāhi o ngā Māramatanga.
E kore e taea te whakamārama —
Ko te Hīri a te Kaimōhū —
He taru whakatuanui
Homaingia nei e te Hau —
Nā tōna taenga, ka whakarongo te Whenua —
Ngā Ātārangi — ka kumu i ō rātou manawa —
Nā tōna haerenga atu, he ōrite ki te Tawhiti
Kei te kanohi o te Mate.
There’s a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons,
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes.
Heavenly Hurt, it gives us —
We can find no scar,
But internal difference
Where the Meanings are.
None may teach it Any —
’Tis the Seal Despair —
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air —
When it comes, the Landscape listens —
Shadows — hold their breath —
When it goes, ’tis like the Distance
On the look of Death.
I te mea, kāore au i mutu mō te Mate —
I mutu atawhai ia mōku —
I mau te Kāreti ko Māua anake —
Me te oranga tonutanga.
I taraiwa pōturi — kāore tōna tere
Kua whakarere atu au i
Taku mahi me taku whakatā hoki,
Mō tōna huatau —
I pahemo mātou i te kura, oke ana Tamariki
I te Hiki — kei te Papa —
I pahemo mātou i ngā Whīra Wīti Mātai ana —
I pahemo mātou i te Rā e Tō ana —
Engari pea — Nāna Mātou i pahemo —
Nā te Haukū i puta te kakapa me Makariri —
He Hiraka noa hoki, taku Kāone
Taku Kāmeta — Angiangi noa —
I okioki mātou i mua i tētahi Whare,
He Kōpuku Whenua te āhua —
He ākahukahu te Tuanui —
Ngā Pakitara — i te Whenua —
Mai rānō — Rautau maha — engari
Te āhua nei, tere ake i taua Rā
I whakaaro tuatahi au, ka whakaanga
Nga Ūpoko Hōiho ki te Āke Tonu Atu —
Because I could not stop for Death —
He kindly stopped for me —
The Carriage held but just Ourselves —
And immortality.
We slowly drove — He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility —
We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess — in the Ring —
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain —
We passed the Setting Sun —
Or rather — He passed Us —
The Dews drew quivering and Chill —
For only Gossamer, my Gown —
My Tippet — only Tulle —
We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground —
The Roof was scarcely visible —
The Cornice — in the Ground —
Since then — ’tis Centuries — and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were towards Eternity —
Image: The prevailing wind on the Wilson Property, Invercargill, circa 1924, by Una Garlick. Purchased 1999. Te Papa. Catalogue entry here.