Linguistic Treason

George Bacovia, "Rar" (Slowly)

In Romania, you say "rain," you say "Bacovia" (and sometimes, but less so, Minulescu).

George Bacovia Rar Singur, singur, singur, Într-un han, departe - Doarme și hangiul, Străzile-s deșarte, Singur, singur, singur... Plouă, plouă, plouă, Vreme de beție - Și s-asculți pustiul, Ce melancolie! Plouă, plouă, plouă... Nimeni, nimeni, nimeni, Cu atât mai bine - Și de-atâta vreme Nu știe de mine Nimeni, nimeni, nimeni... Tremur, tremur, tremur... Orice ironie Vă ramâne vouă - Noaptea e târzie, Tremur, tremur, tremur... Veșnic, veșnic, veșnic, Rătăciri de-acuma N-or să mă mai cheme - Peste vise bruma, Veșnic, veșnic, veșnic... Singur, singur, singur, Vreme de beție - I-auzi cum mai plouă, Ce melancolie! Singur, singur, singur...

Geoge Bacovia Slowly Lonely, lonely, lonely, In a distant suite— Innkeeper’s asleep, Empty are the streets, Lonely, lonely, lonely… Raining, raining, raining, Time to get real drunk— And listen to the void, --Melancholy funk, Raining, raining, raining… No one, no one, no one, And I don’t give a damn— For a long time, no one Has known where I am No one, no one, no one… I tremble, tremble, tremble… Irony—my fate I leave up to you— And the night is late, I tremble, tremble, tremble… Always, always, always, Wandering, it seems Won’t do anymore— Frost over my dreams, Always, always, always… Lonely, lonely, lonely, Time to get real drunk— Hark the falling rain, Melancholy funk! Lonely, lonely, lonely…

The video below--another Nicu Alifantis adaptation of a classic--perfectly captures the mood.

George Bacovia--July

It's a delayed, sticky Indian summer here--otherwise known as global warming--and everything feels unnatural (Halloween is in a few days, and it's still flip-flop and T-shirt weather--tell me that's not messed up!). Naturally, my thoughts turned to my favorite morbid poet, George Bacovia, who could expertly blend death and love in one rotten, hypnotic cocktail, like in this poem entitled "July." Well, there's my first linguistic treason right there: he used the old Romanian name for the month of July, which is "Cuptor," which means, appropriately, "Oven." I've had this problem before with Blaga's "Risipei se deda Florarul"; then and now, I cannot find an appropriately antiquated translation that will convey the same connotation as in Romanian. In this case, "cuptor" makes me think of hellish heat and sweat and death. So, we're stuck with July. Oh well.

Cuptor de George Bacovia Sunt cîţiva morţi în oraş, iubito, Chiar pentru asta am venit să-ţi spun; Pe catafalc, de căldură-n oraş, Încet, cadavrele se descompun. Ce vii se mişcă şi ei descompuşi, Cu lutul de căldură asudat; E miros de cadavre, iubito, Şi azi, chiar sînul tău e mai lăsat. Toarnă pe covoare parfume tari, Adu roze pe tine să le pun; Sunt cîţiva morţi în oraş, iubito, Şi-ncet, cadavrele se descompun...

July by George Bacovia There are a few dead bodies downtown, my love, I came right away to tell you, before closing— On the catafalque, in the heat, downtown, The corpses are slowly decomposing. They seem to be alive while decomposed, The heat has turned them into sweaty matter, The air around us smells like corpses, love, And today, even your breast seems flatter. Please pour strong perfumes on your rugs, Let me cover you in roses—I’m proposing; There are a few dead bodies downtown, my love, And the corpses are slowly decomposing…

To me, the key of the poem, the line that gives it its whole meaning, is "(Si)-ncet, cadavrele se descompun" ("And the corpses are slowly decomposing"), repeated twice. That's where the meaning lies; that's also where the rhyme lies. Do you have any idea how hard it is to rhyme "decomposing" in English? Trust me: it's hard. And I really needed to preserve "decomposing" in the last position, for emphasis and rhythm. Thus, I've committed two relatively major betrayals, rhyming it with "closing" and "proposing," neither of which are mentioned in the original. If "closing" is relatively minor and meh, "proposing" can easily be interpreted as, well, a proposal to his flat-chested beloved, a turn of events which Bacovia probably didn't intend, but adds an ironic and surprisingly morbid twist to the final stanza, in my opinion. However, be warned: it's a twist totally invented by me, and I apologize for it!

George Bacovia--High School

I've recently been exposed to a blast from the past--a bunch of high school classmates got back together in Bucharest and have started a group email correspondence. I ended up on the email list and the nostalgia was almost unbearable.

Romanian high schools are...different than American ones, that's for sure. However, it's universally agreed that high school is one of the most intensely awkward and quasi-painful times for us literary types. I'm not sure I completely share Bacovia's worldview in the poem below, but I do sympathize.

Again, the melodic, hypnotic rhythms are an integral part of the tragic undertones of the poem. Because the lines are so short and simple, this was, needless to say, extremely difficult to translate in a faithful manner. I had to add the "a sham" part in the refrain, because of the disparity of syllables in the translation of "tineretii" (youth): 4 to 1! Plus, it rhymes with "exam" and it sort of fits with the general feeling of doom and gloom.

   

Liceu by George Bacovia Liceu, - cimitir Al tineretii mele – Pedanti profesori Si examene grele... Si azi ma-nfiori Liceu, - cimitir Al tineretii mele! – Liceu, - cimitir Cu lungi coridoare – Azi nu mai sunt eu Si mintea ma doare... Nimic nu mai vreau – Liceu, - cimitir Cu lungi coridoare... – Liceu, - cimitir Al tineretii mele – In lume m-ai dat In valtorile grele, Atat de blazat... Liceu, - cimitir Al tineretii mele!

High School by George Bacovia High school, a graveyard Of my youth—a sham! Pedantic teachers And hardcore exams… You still make shiver High school, a graveyard Of my youth, a sham! High school, a graveyard With endless aisles I’m not me today, And my brain cries— Don’t care either way— High school, a graveyard With endless aisles High school, a graveyard Of my youth—a sham! You spit me out Not giving a damn, Blasé and burnt-out. High school, a graveyard Of my youth—a sham!

George Bacovia--Lacustrine

Bacovia is a delicate task to undertake, because his essence is in the somber rhythms; you've got to read his poems aloud, allow yourself to be caught in their dark melody, in the repetitive, monotonous, obsessive rhymes, which are so much a part of his depressive message. He is deceptively simple, and for that matter, so very hard to translate. A lot of his work has, in fact, been translated; however, I was disappointed with many of the solutions the translators came with. Case in point: this is the translation of "Lacustrine" from aboutromania.com (by Tatiana Murzin, apparently), which I'm reproducing below in its entirety:

LACUSTRA de George Bacovia De-atâtea nopti aud plouând, Aud materia plângând... Sunt singur, si mã duce un gând Spre locuintele lacustre. Si parca dorm pe scânduri ude, În spate ma izbeste-un val -- Tresar prin somn si mi se pare Ca n-am tras podul de la mal. Un gol istoric se întinde, Pe-acelasi vremuri ma gasesc... Si simt cum de atâta ploaie Pilotii grei se prabusesc. De-atâtea nopti aud plouând, Tot tresarind, tot asteptând... Sunt singur, si mã duce-un gând Spre locuintele lacustre.

LACUSTRINE by George Bacovia So many nights I've heard the rain, Have heard matter weeping ... I am alone, my mind is drawn Towards lacustrine dwellings. As though I slept on wet boards, A wave will slap me in the back - I start from sleep, and it seems I haven't drawn the bridge from the bank. A void of history extends, I find myself in the same times ... And sense how through so much rain The heavy timber stilts are tumbling. So many nights I've heard the rain, Always starting, always waiting ... I am alone, my mind is drawn Towards lacustrine dwellings ...

The meter, the rhymes, are all wrong. Too many or too few syllables and the wrong emphasis. The hypnotic rhythm of the original is all but lost.

I also translated Lacustrine--long before I ever saw this version--and I did my darndest to preserve that elusive and idiosyncratic cadence Bacovia is so famous for. You be the judge:

LACUSTRINE
by George Bacovia

So many nights I’ve heard the rain,
I’ve heard the matter cry in vain…
I’m lonely, and my putrid brain
Takes me to the lacustrine dwellings.

It seems I sleep on soggy floorboards,
A wave will slap me in my shack—
I shudder in my sleep, and reckon
I didn’t pull the drawbridge back.

An ageless vacuum surrounds me,
I am again under that weather…
And feel the massive rain will cause
The heavy pillars to surrender.

So many nights I’ve heard the rain,
I shudder and I wait in vain…
I’m lonely, and my putrid brain
Takes me to the lacustrine dwellings.

At the very least, I think I preserved the rhyme and rhythm patterns, which are so crucial to experiencing Bacovia--if you want to experience his poetry at all.