Philip Larkin. Poetry of departures.

Sometimes you hear, fifth-hand,
As epitaph:
He chucked up everything
And just cleared off,
And always the voice will sound
Certain you approve
This audacious, purifying,
Elemental move.

And they are right, I think.
We all hate home
And having to be there:
I detest my room,
Its specially-chosen junk,
The good books, the good bed,
And my life, in perfect order:
So to hear it said

He walked out on the whole crowd
Leaves me flushed and stirred,
Like Then she undid her dress
Or Take that you bastard;
Surely I can, if he did?
And that helps me stay
Sober and industrious.
But I’d go today,

Yes, swagger the nut-strewn roads,
Crouch in the fo’c’sle
Stubbly with goodness, if
It weren’t so artificial,
Such a deliberate step backwards
To create an object:
Books; china; a life
Reprehensibly perfect.


Traducció de Josep M. Jaumà
Poesia dels qui marxen.

Sentim a dir de tant en tant
com a epitafi:
Ho engegà tot al botavant
i desaparegué.
I sempre la veu sona
segura que aprovem
l’audaç, purificador,
elemental gest.

I tenen raó, em sembla.
Tots odiem casa nostra
i haver de ser-hi sempre.
Jo detesto el meu cau,
els trastos escollits,
els bons llibres, bon llit,
la vida en perfecte ordre;
així, quan sento dir:

Foté el camp ben lluny
em quedo avergonyit
com si diguessin: Es quedà nua
o: Té, malparit!
Si ell pot, jo no podria?
I això em permet seguir essent
sobri i diligent.
Però, sí, me n’aniria

a fer el fatxenda pels camins,
dormir ajupit a proa
malafaitat, bonàs, si
no fos tot tan artificial
un pas deliberat enrera
per a crear un objecte:
llibres; porcellana; una vida
reprensiblement perfecta.