… cata vreme un ziar, precum The Guardian, inca mai are o rubrica intitulata „Poemul Saptamanii”, pilotii mor, cursa continua!

In aceasta saptamana, poemul unui tanar (23? 28 de ani?) scris in noaptea dinaintea executiei (spanzurat, eviscerat si taiat in bucati), in Turnul Londrei, in anul de gratie 1586. Iertare nevorbitorilor de limba engleza, dar n-are rost nici macar sa incerc sa-l traduc. As mai tortura autorul inca o data.

Pentru ceilalti, enjoy!

This week’s poem, popularly known as „Tichborne’s Elegy”, was written either by a terrorist or a Christian martyr, depending on your point of view. Chidiock Tichborne was born into a devout Catholic family in Southampton, circa 1558. His life became increasingly difficult after Elizabeth I made the practice of Catholicism illegal, and he and his father, who had already spent time in prison, found themselves under constant surveillance.

The younger Tichborne joined the conspiracy known as the Babington Plot, which aimed to assassinate Queen Elizabeth I, and replace her with Mary, Queen of Scots. The plot was foiled, and Tichborne arrested. Three of his poems survive, of which this week’s choice is by far the best, and the best-known. It was enclosed with a letter to his wife Agnes, despatched from the Tower of London on the eve of his execution for treason.

Tychbornes Elegie, written with his owne hand in the Tower before his execution

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of paine,
My Crop of corne is but a field of tares,
And al my good is but vaine hope of gaine.
The day is past, and yet I saw no sunne,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

My tale was heard, and yet it was not told,
My fruite is falne, & yet my leaves are greene:
My youth is spent, and yet I am not old,
I saw the world, and yet I was not seene.
My thred is cut, and yet it is not spunne,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

I sought my death, and found it in my wombe,
I lookt for life, and saw it was a shade:
I trod the earth, and knew it was my Tombe,
And now I die, and now I was but made.
My glasse is full, and now my glasse is runne,
And now I live, and now my life is done.