That touch of yellow

I took this boat portrait Sunday through the window of the Greens Restaurant at Fort Mason. The window alone is worth the trip, but the food is very good too: intelligent, wholesome and delicious. What makes the picture sing, I think is that yellow jacket and the yellow thingamajigs near the rear.

These lemons, still uncut, were a still life subject one night at printmaking class of beloved memory. There are cut lemons in tonight's poem. After I decided to use it, I found the first translation online. It differs only slightly from the translation I chose from a book, The Eye of the Poet (below this poem.) But I think it is interesting and instructive to look at these slight variations in translations of the same poem.

Miniature

The woman stood up in front of the table. Her sad hands
begin to cut thin slices of lemon for tea
like yellow wheels for a very small carriage
made for a child's fairy tale. The young officer sitting opposite
is buried in the old armchair. He doesn't look at her.
He lights up his cigarette. His hand holding the match trembles,
throwing light on his tender chin and the teacup's handle. The clock
holds its heartbeat for a moment. Something has been postponed.
The moment has gone. It's too late now. Let's drink our tea.
Is it possible, then, for death to come in that kind of carriage?
To pass by and go away? And only this carriage to remain,
with its little yellow wheels of lemon
parked for so many years on a side street with unlit lamps,
and then a small song, a little mist, and then nothing?

From Exile and Return; Selected Poems, trans. Edmund Keeley)

Before you see the second translation, here's a little more yellow from last Saturday in Almaden Quicksilver Park, a duo of little yellow wild violets.

Miniature

The woman stood before the table. Her sad hands
cut thin slices of lemon for tea
like yellow wheels for a very small carriage
in a child's fairy tale. The young officer across from her
is sunk deep in the old armchair. He does not look at her.
He lights his cigarette. His hand holding the match trembles,
lighting up his tender chin and the teacup's handle. The clock
for a moment holds its heartbeat. Something has been postponed.
The moment has gone. It is now too late. Let's drink our tea.
Well then, is it possible for death to come in such a carriage?
To pass by and disappear? Until only this carriage
remains with its little yellow wheels of lemon
halted for so many years on a side street with darkened lamps,
and then a small song, a bit of mist, and then nothing.

From Yannos Ritsos, Selected Poems, 1938-1988, edited and translated by Kimon Friar and Kostas Myrsiades (BOA Editions, 1989, page 29 as reprinted inThe Eye of the Poet; six views of the art and craft of poetry, David Citino, Oxford University Press, 2002.

Do you prefer one translation over the other?? The yellow stamens of this afternoon's epiphyllum can please you while you think about it. I like parts of each and am not ready to pick a clear favorite. Yannos Ritsos has long been one of my favorite poets. Sleep well, dream finely.