Diana Anphimiadi
PIANO
How long is it since I lifted the piano's heavy lid,
such a challenge in childhood
to lift it without squashing your fingers,
a present from my mother's parents
who weren't rich enough
to buy a piano inscribed with a solid German name,
like Bach's grave in Leipzig.
It would be better for the poem if the name Iberia
was inscribed on the piano
but instead it has the name of some russian city.
How long is it since I lifted the piano's heavy lid
and seen white keys offer an embarrassed smile like an old man I know
who's become old from head to toe
but whose artificial teeth shine white like a child's smile.
Really, how long since I noticed
the piano standing in the corner of the house,
there are fewer and fewer houses where a piano's still visible.
I haven't lifted the lid, I've arranged pots of violets on it,
sometimes I throw house keys, glasses, loose change there too.
In the past, my child used to ask me to play and I'd awkwardly
try to get rid of him
but then I'd bang out some children's songs, as if these fingers had never run
between Chopin and spring gardens, from sound to sound
in the gentlest, suspended minor.
Then he forgot it and so did I, gawky and clumsy
as broken keys.
Sometimes I glance at it, sometimes polish it.
How long is it since I lifted the heavy lid of the old piano,
how long since I looked into my mother's slightly dry
but the most beautiful, tired eyes.
PIANO
Wat is het lang geleden dat ik het zware deksel van de oude piano openklapte,
Een van de moeilijkste obstakels uit mijn kindertijd.
Klap het zo open dat je vingers niet in gevaar komen.
Wat is het lang geleden dat ik het zware deksel van de oude piano openklapte,
Een geschenk van mijn grootouders aan moeders kant,
Die niet rijk genoeg waren
Voor een piano met een zwaar opschrift in het Duits,
Zoals op Bachs graf in Leipzig.
Het zou het gedicht sieren, stond er ‘Iveria’ op de piano,
Maar in plaats daarvan was het de naam van een Russische stad.
Wat is het lang geleden dat ik het zware deksel van de oude piano openklapte,
En de witte toetsen me verlegen toelachten
Als een oude bekende die door en door oud is geworden,
En toch dankzij kunsttanden een glimlach van een kind tevoorschijn tovert.
Hoe dan ook, wat is het lang geleden
Dat ik erop lette dat er in een hoek van het huis een piano stond.
Het aantal huizen waar nog zichtbaar een piano staat, neemt af.
Wat is het lang geleden dat ik het deksel openklapte; er staat nu een verzameling potten met viooltjes op.
Ik gooi er vaak de huissleutel op, mijn zonnebril of wat wisselgeld.
Mijn kind vroeg me ooit om op de piano te spelen, eerst weigerde ik ongemakkelijk,
Maar uiteindelijk tokkelde ik er een paar kinderliedjes op,
Alsof deze vingers nooit gespeeld hadden, tussen Chopin en lentetuinen,
In tedere mineuren zwevend van de ene klank naar de andere.
Later vergat mijn kind, ook ik, het ongemak van in elkaar gezakte toetsen.
Soms staar ik naar de piano, stof ik hem af, boen ik het deksel.
Wat is het lang geleden dat ik het zware deksel van de oude piano openklapte,
Wat is het lang geleden dat ik in de droge
En allermooiste, vermoeide ogen van mijn moeder keek.
პიანინო
რამდენი ხანია, არ ამიხდია ძველი პიანინოს მძიმე თავსახური,
ბავშვობის ერთ-ერთი ყველაზე რთული დაბრკოლება-
ისე ახადო, რომ თითები არ მოიყოლო.
რამდენი ხანია, არ ამიხდია ძველი პიანინოს მძიმე თავსახური,
დედაჩემის მშობლების საჩუქარი,
რომლებიც არც ისე მდიდრები იყვნენ, რომ პიანინოს
მძიმე, გერმანული წარწერა ჰქონდეს, რაღაც ისეთი,
როგორც ბახის საფლავს ლაიპციგში.
ლექსს მოუხდებოდა, პიანინოს რომ ეწეროს „ივერია“,
მაგრამ მას რუსეთის რომელიღაც ქალაქის სახელი აწერია.
რამდენი ხანია, არ ამიხდია ძველი პიანინოს მძიმე თავსახური,
საიდანაც თეთრი კლავიშებით, უხერხულად გამიღიმებდა
მოხუცი ნაცნობივით, რომელსაც ყველაფერი დაუბერდა,
ხელოვნური კბილები კი ბავშვის ღიმილივით უქათქათებს.
საერთოდაც, რამდენი ხანია აღარ შემიმჩნევია,
რომ სახლის ამ კუთხეში ეს პიანინო დგას,
სულ უფრო ცოტავდება სახლები, სადაც სადმე, გამოსაჩენ ადგილზე, პიანინოს ადგილია.
მეც დიდი ხანია არ ამიხდია,ზედ იის რამდენიმე ქოთანი ჩამოვაწყვე
და სახლის გასაღებს მივაგდებ ხოლმე, სათვალეს ანდა მორჩენილ ხურდას.
ადრე შვილი მთხოვდა ხოლმე დაკვრას, მეც ჯერ უხერხულად ვიცილებდი,
მერე რამდენიმე საბავშვო სიმღერას წავუბარტყუნებდი,
თითქოს ეს თითები არ დაქროდნენ აქ,შოპენისა და გაზაფხულის ბაღებს შორის,ბგერიდან ბგერამდე გაკიდულ უნაზეს მინორებში.
მერე მასაც დაავიწყდა, მეც, ჩავარდნილი კლავიშების უხერხულობასავით.
ხანდახან გავხედავ, მტვერს გადავწმენდ, ზოგჯერ გავაპრიალებ.
რამდენი ხანია არ ამიხდია ძველი პიანინოს მძიმე თავსახური,
რამდენი ხანია არ ჩამიხედავს დედაჩემის ოდნავ ამომშრალ,
ულამაზეს, დაღლილ თვალებში.
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PIANO
How long is it since I lifted the piano's heavy lid,
such a challenge in childhood
to lift it without squashing your fingers,
a present from my mother's parents
who weren't rich enough
to buy a piano inscribed with a solid German name,
like Bach's grave in Leipzig.
It would be better for the poem if the name Iberia
was inscribed on the piano
but instead it has the name of some russian city.
How long is it since I lifted the piano's heavy lid
and seen white keys offer an embarrassed smile like an old man I know
who's become old from head to toe
but whose artificial teeth shine white like a child's smile.
Really, how long since I noticed
the piano standing in the corner of the house,
there are fewer and fewer houses where a piano's still visible.
I haven't lifted the lid, I've arranged pots of violets on it,
sometimes I throw house keys, glasses, loose change there too.
In the past, my child used to ask me to play and I'd awkwardly
try to get rid of him
but then I'd bang out some children's songs, as if these fingers had never run
between Chopin and spring gardens, from sound to sound
in the gentlest, suspended minor.
Then he forgot it and so did I, gawky and clumsy
as broken keys.
Sometimes I glance at it, sometimes polish it.
How long is it since I lifted the heavy lid of the old piano,
how long since I looked into my mother's slightly dry
but the most beautiful, tired eyes.
PIANO
How long is it since I lifted the piano's heavy lid,
such a challenge in childhood
to lift it without squashing your fingers,
a present from my mother's parents
who weren't rich enough
to buy a piano inscribed with a solid German name,
like Bach's grave in Leipzig.
It would be better for the poem if the name Iberia
was inscribed on the piano
but instead it has the name of some russian city.
How long is it since I lifted the piano's heavy lid
and seen white keys offer an embarrassed smile like an old man I know
who's become old from head to toe
but whose artificial teeth shine white like a child's smile.
Really, how long since I noticed
the piano standing in the corner of the house,
there are fewer and fewer houses where a piano's still visible.
I haven't lifted the lid, I've arranged pots of violets on it,
sometimes I throw house keys, glasses, loose change there too.
In the past, my child used to ask me to play and I'd awkwardly
try to get rid of him
but then I'd bang out some children's songs, as if these fingers had never run
between Chopin and spring gardens, from sound to sound
in the gentlest, suspended minor.
Then he forgot it and so did I, gawky and clumsy
as broken keys.
Sometimes I glance at it, sometimes polish it.
How long is it since I lifted the heavy lid of the old piano,
how long since I looked into my mother's slightly dry
but the most beautiful, tired eyes.
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