Emil Brumaru writes such bawdy, ribald poetry, it's hard for a girl to translate it without turning red up to the tip of her ears. After all, it's hard to translate "pizda" with something other than "(four-letter word that rhymes with punt)." Yet he does it with such sincerely horny tenderness, with such unrestrained and delicate lust, with such gingerly stirring passion, that you can't help but smile, feel a little liberated, and wish you could express yourself as freely and colorfully as he does.
I've decided to tackle a less...let's say, raw (or direct) poem, and so I chose this one, which is rather sweet. My linguistic treasons will become apparent when you compare the final version (right column) with the literal translation (middle).
Verlaine mi-a spus Verlaine mi-a spus în după-amiaza tristă: |
Verlaine told me Verlaine told me that sad afternoon: |
Verlaine told me Verlaine told me one gloomy afternoon: |
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