EVA DOBELL [11.278]

Eva Dobell 

(1876–1963), enfermera, poeta, y editora nació en Inglaterra,  Gloucestershire, es conocida fundamentalmente por los  poemas  que escribió durante la guerra mundial. Su poesía, como otras poetisas de guerra,  se alimentó de su experiencia como enfermera en el Voluntary Aid Detachment; sus  vivencias junto a los soldados heridos del frente le llevó a escribir poesía en la que reflejó el impacto que le supuso. Entre los más conocidas se encuentran “Night Duty,”  y “Pluck,”   incluida esta última en el The Cambridge Companion  sobre literatura de la primera guerra mundial y aún hoy día editada en revistas especializadas en la poesía de la primera guerra como la revista A Corner of a Foreing field .

He elegido el poema traducido aquí, A Kiss, porque  refleja una imagen hasta ahora inédita en la poesía seleccionada; la despedida  tras un verano de permiso, quizás en una estación tras lo que parece fue un breve encuentro veraniego en su breve permiso, breve el encuentro, breve el verano, breve posiblemente su vida, en el contexto de una despedida también breve, entre unos aún casi desconocidos, imaginando un encuentro que nadie sabe si se dará. Inspira ternura su inocente  mirada, su esperanza en el futuro,  sus movimientos tímidos, sus sentimientos casi sin nacer que imagino  en una estación de idas y venidas, de vapor y vagones con ventanillas abiertas, con andenes y besos furtivos, de besos  fraternales más colegiales  de contenidas palabras por lo el viaje a un frente más que incierto.

Traducción y nota bibliográfica: Ignacio Pemán

http://anglopoesia.wordpress.com/2014/02/04/resena-5/

Un beso

Ella me dio un beso cuando se despidió -

Beso infantil, ni atrevido  ni tímido.

Nos conocíamos  de unas pocas  horas en el verano ;

Hablamos del sol, del viento , de las flores ,

Deportes y personas; había paseado ante  nosotros

Una popular canción pegadiza o dos,

Y caminamos con los brazos  unidos al vagón

A la luz de una sola estrella brumosa.

(Eran tiempos de guerra ,  entiendes, y las calles estaban oscuras

No fuera que el arrebatador Huno encontrara una señal.)

Y así nos volvimos a decir adiós ;

Pero de una manera u otra, no sé por qué,

- Tal vez   fuera el tacto de la capa de color caqui

(Ella  tenía un hermano en Flandes entonces) que golpeó

Su corazón con una ternura súbita

Qué expresó con esa rápida caricia -

De alguna manera, a ella, en todo caso,

Un simple apretón de manos le parecía inadecuado;

Y así levantó su  cara inocente

Y me besó , pero sin dejar rastro

De  pasión, y nos despedimos …

Beso de un niño … ni atrevido ni tímido.

Amigo mío , me gustas – parecía decir -

Brindo por nuestro nuevo encuentro algún día !

Algún día más feliz …

Adiós.

A Kiss

She kissed me when she said good-bye—

A child’s kiss, neither bold nor shy.

We had met but a few short summer hours;

Talked of the sun, the wind, the flowers,

Sports and people; had rambled through

A casual catchy song or two,

And walked with arms linked to the car

By the light of a single misty star.

(It was war-time, you see, and the streets were dark

Lest the ravishing Hun should find a mark.)

And so we turned to say good-bye;

But somehow or other, I don’t know why,

—Perhaps `t was the feel of the khaki coat

(She’d a brother in Flanders then) that smote

Her heart with a sudden tenderness

Which issued in that swift caress—

Somehow, to her, at any rate

A mere hand-clasp seemed inadequate;

And so she lifted her dewy face

And kissed me—but without a trace

Of passion,—and we said good-bye…

A child’s kiss,…neither bold nor shy.

My friend, I like you—it seemed to say—

Here’s to our meeting again some day!

Some happier day…

Goodbye.

In A Soldiers' Hospital 1: Pluck

Crippled for life at seventeen,

His great eyes seems to question why:

with both legs smashed it might have been

Better in that grim trench to die

Than drag maimed years out helplessly.

A child - so wasted and so white,

He told a lie to get his way,

To march, a man with men, and fight

While other boys are still at play.

A gallant lie your heart will say.

So broke with pain, he shrinks in dread

To see the 'dresser' drawing near;

and winds the clothes about his head

That none may see his heart-sick fear.

His shaking, strangled sobs you hear.

But when the dreaded moment's there

He'll face us all, a soldier yet,

Watch his bared wounds with unmoved air,

(Though tell-tale lashes still are wet),

And smoke his Woodbine cigarette.

Advent 1916

I dreamt last night Christ came to earth again 

To bless His own. My soul from place to place 

On her dream-quest sped, seeking for His face 

Through temple and town and lovely land, in vain. 

Then came I to a place where death and pain 

Had made of God's sweet world a waste forlorn, 

With shattered trees and meadows gashed and torn, 

Where the grim trenches scarred the shell-sheared plain. 

And through that Golgotha of blood and clay, 

Where watchers cursed the sick dawn, heavy-eyed, 

There (in my dream) Christ passed upon His way, 

Where His cross marks their nameless graves who died 

Slain for the world's salvation where all day 

For others' sake strong men are crucified.

Night Duty

The pain and laughter of the day are done

So strangely hushed and still the long ward seems,

Only the Sister’s candle softly beams.

Clear from the church near by the clock strikes ’one’;

And all are wrapt away in secret sleep and dreams.

Here one cries sudden on a sobbing breath,

Gripped in the clutch of some incarnate fear:

What terror through the darkness draweth near?

What memory of carnage and of death?

What vanished scenes of dread to his closed eyes appear?

And one laughs out with an exultant joy.

An athlete he — Maybe his young limbs strain

In some remembered game, and not in vain

To win his side the goal — Poor crippled boy,

Who in the waking world will never run again.

One murmurs soft and low a woman’s name;

And here a vet’ran soldier calm and still

As sculptured marble sleeps, and roams at will

Through eastern lands where sunbeams scorch like flame,

By rich bazaar and town, and wood-wrapt snow-crowned hill.

Through the wide open window on great star,

Swinging her lamp above the pear-tree high,

Looks in upon these dreaming forms that lie

So near in body, yet in soul so far

As those bright worlds thick strewn ion that vast depth of sky.

In A Soldiers' Hospital II: Gramophone Tunes

Through the long ward the gramophone

Grinds out its nasal melodies:

“Where did you get that girl?” it shrills.

The patients listen at their ease,

Through clouds of strong tobacco smoke:

The gramophone can always please.

The Welsh boy has it by his bed,

(He’s lame – one leg blown away -

He’ll lie propped up with pillows there,

And wind the handle half the day.

His neighbour, with the shattered arm,

Picks out the records he must play.

Jock with his crutches beats the time;

The gunner, with his head close-bound,

Listen with puzzled, patient smile:

(Shell shocked-he cannot hear a sound).

The others join in from their beds,

And send the chorus rolling round.

Somehow for me these common tunes

Can never sound the same again:

They’ve magic now to thrill my heart

And bring before me, clear and plain,

Man that is master of his flesh,

And has the laugh of death and pain.