Linguistic Treason

George Topârceanu - Jealousy

I think Topârceanu will always be remembered for this kind of poems--fun, light, good for a chuckle, making you think about pretty deep things while making fun of them at the same time. I love this one, in particular:

Gelozie de George Topârceanu Dacă nu ne-am fi-ntâlnit (Absolut din întâmplare), Tu pe altul oarecare Tot aşa l-ai fi iubit. Dacă nu-ţi ieşeam în drum Ai fi dat cu bucurie Altuia străin, nu mie, Mângâierile de-acum. Ai avea şi vreun copil Care, poate (idiotul!), Ar fi semănat în totul Cu-acel tată imbecil. Şi aşa... ce lucru mare Că-ntr-o zi ne-am întâlnit Şi că-s foarte fericit, -- Absolut din întâmplare!

Jealousy by George Topârceanu If you and I had never met (Absolutely happenstance) You’d have found perhaps romance With some other guy, I bet. If I hadn’t crossed your way You’d have offered happily To a stranger, not to me, This affectionate display. You’d most likely have a child Who, (the idiot!) would look Every cranny, every nook, Like his dad, that imbecile. And so…what a lucky chance That the two of us should meet And I’m happy and upbeat— Absolutely happenstance!

Nichita Stanescu--Of course

DESIGUR de Nichita Stănescu Desigur, ea e o brăţară purtată la mână de un zeu ea e mai liniştită spre seară deşi e neliniştită mereu. Ea luceşte toată în luna când zeul îsi ridică braţul zâmbind, o lebădă brună cu plisc de argint Zeul e invizibil. Nu se vede decât ea la glezna mâinii lui, bătând în cerul negru şi verde vederea mea ca un cui.

OF COURSE by Nichita Stănescu She is, of course, a bracelet, that a god wears on his hand, she’s more quiet in the evening, though she’s always without rest. She shimmers in the moon dawn when the god lifts his arm, oblique, a beautiful brown swan with a silver beak. The god is invisible. You can spy only her, on the ankle of his wrist, nailing into the green black sky my eyesight, like a fist.

Dorothy Parker--A Pig's Eye View of Literature

It's impossible to translate "A Pig's Eye View of..."--too much of a pun. Possibly, "O vedere din cocina" (a view from the pigsty"), but I went for "o perspectiva sumara" (a brief view). Otherwise, fun little poem; I wish I knew it in college when I was actually studying this trio!

A Pig's-Eye View Of Literature by Dorothy Parker The Lives and Times of John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelley, and George Gordon Noel, Lord Byron Byron and Shelley and Keats Were a trio of Lyrical treats. The forehead of Shelley was cluttered with curls, And Keats never was a descendant of earls, And Byron walked out with a number of girls, But it didn't impair the poetical feats Of Byron and Shelley, Of Byron and Shelley, Of Byron and Shelley and Keats.

O perspectivă sumară asupra literaturii de Dorothy Parker Vieţile şi vremurile lui John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelley, şi George Gordon Noel, Lord Byron Byron şi Shelley şi Keats— Un trio de lirici vestiţi. Fruntea lui Shelley avea cârlionţi Şi Keats niciodată n-avu neamuri conţi, Curta fete Byron cu alţi bagabonţi, Dar ca poeţi nu fură nicicând stăviliţi, Nici Byron nici Shelley, Nici Byron nici Shelley, Nici Byron nici Shelley nici Keats.

Nichita Stanescu - Song

Cântec Din Necuvintele de Nichita Stănescu Echilibru, vertical, de suflet, între guri cu colţi rânjiti mai spre-o parte, mai spre-o alta cu peretii răstigniti Se dărâmă casa, o, tu rămâi în echilibru Acheronul pentru noi s-a şi prefăcut în Tibru Numai vârful tău, rotind, taie cercuri, pe tavane, suflet vertical şi trist fără urme de ciolane.

Song from The Unwords by Nichita Stănescu Vertical equilibrium, of the soul between mouths with fangs, grinned to this or other side with walls sprawled The house is falling, o, you keep your balanced fiber The Acheron for us has turned into the Tiber Only your sharp edge, spinning, cuts circles, in the ceilings, sad soul, so vertical no trace of bones concealing.

Ion Minulescu--Watercolor

One of my favorites by Minulescu...The city he talks about is, evidently, Bucharest.

Acuarelă de Ion Minuescu În oraşu-n care plouă de trei ori pe săptămână Orăşenii, pe trotuare, Merg ţinându-se de mână, Şi-n oraşu-n care plouă de trei ori pe săptămână, De sub vechile umbrele, ce suspină Şi se-ndoaie, Umede de-atâta ploaie, Orăşenii pe trotuare Par păpuşi automate, date jos din galantare. În oraşu-n care plouă de trei ori pe săptămână Nu răsună pe trotuare Decât paşii celor care merg ţinându-se de mână, Numărând În gând Cadenţa picăturilor de ploaie, Ce coboară din umbrele, Din burlane Şi din cer Cu puterea unui ser Dătător de viaţă lentă, Monotonă, Inutilă Şi absentă... În oraşu-n care plouă de trei ori pe săptămână Un bătrân şi o bătrână - Două jucării stricate - Merg ţinându-se de mână...

Watercolor by Ion Minulescu In the city where it rains for just about three days a week City dwellers, on the sidewalk, Stroll hand in hand and cheek to cheek, In the city where it rains for just about three days a week, From under the old umbrellas, which moan and squeak And can’t sustain The wet burden of the rain, City dwellers on the sidewalk, Look like automatic puppets, straight out of the window shop. In the city where it rains for just about three days a week Just one sound will fill the sidewalk: It’s those walking hand in hand and cheek to cheek, Counting In their head The cadence of the rain drops Dripping from umbrellas, From water pipes, And from the brink Of the sky, like a drink Giving life-- Jaded, Futile, Full of strife. In the city where it rains for ust about three days a week An old man and an old lady – Two mechanic, broken toys – Walk hand in hand and cheek to cheek.

Nichita Stanescu--Sign 1

SEMN 1 de Nichita Stanescu Plutea o floare de tei înlauntrul unei gîndiri abstracte desertul se umpluse cu lei si de plante. Un tînar metal transparent subtire ca lama taioasa taia orizonturi curbate si lent despartea privirea de ochi cuvîntul, de idee, raza, de stea pe cînd plutea o floare de tei înlauntrul unei gîndiri abstracte.

SIGN 1 by Nichita Stanescu A linden flower was floating inside an abstract thought the desert was filled with lions and plants. A young transparent metal thin and sharp like a razor was cutting through curved horizons and slowly was splitting sight from eye word from idea, ray from star, while a linden flower was floating inside an abstract thought.

Vasile Voiculescu--Sonnet CLXXIII

I've hit a translation slump lately. I blame the holidays, filled with delicious food, delightful guests--family and friends--and all sorts of merriment and excitement. So, every time I tried to sit down and translate some new material, nothing came out right, and after a half hour or so I would quit in disgust.

Last night, after the carbohydrate daze had somewhat dissipated and the last guests had long been gone, I finally had a chance to sit down and concentrate a little better on a text. I wouldn't say I'm back en pleine forme, as the results are somewhat modest, but at least I'm back in the saddle!

I chose to translate a sonnet by Vasile Voiculescu from his volume Ultimele sonete închipuite ale lui Shakespeare în traducere imaginara de Vasile Voiculescu ("Shakespeare's Last Imagined Sonnets, in the fictional translation of V. Voiculescu"), which he wrote in the 1950s.

After I translated this, I found out that there is a bilingual edition of this volume published in Romania, which I don't have, and I expect it's in Romanian and English (rather than any other pair of languages). I also found a translation of this very sonnet here; the English is soooo painful I'd rather not read it again, but by all means, go there and compare.

First, I'm going to  give you the Romanian original and its literal translation:

CLXXIII de Vasile Voiculescu Te mistuie iubirea? Credeai că-i o păpuşă, Să-ţi faci un joc cu toane, ca în copilărie. Când ea-ţi cerea o fire de salamandră vie, În tainica-i văpaie să arzi făr' de cenuşă. Ea nu stă-n trup, stăpână a cărnii şi-a plăcerii, Înflăcăratu-i spirit, urgie, le consumă; Îşi cată-n noi duh geamăn... şi, de-l îmbii cu humă, Rămâi o biată urnă cu zgurile durerii... Te ispiteşte jindul să-mbraci şi fericirea Cum pui, pentru petreceri, o rochie de brocarte? Dar trebuie-nfruntată cu spaimă, ca o moarte... Căci ea, ca să pătrundă, îţi sparge-alcătuirea, Preface în genune lăuntrul tău, anume Ca să încapă-acolo, cu ea, întreaga lume.

CLXXIII by Vasile Voiculescu Are you being consumed by love? You though it was a doll, So you can make up a game on a whim, like in your childhood. While she was asking you to be a live salamander So you can burn in her secret flame and leave no ashes. She does not stay in your body, mistress of flesh and pleasure, Her fiery spirit, a scourge, consumes them both; She seeks for her twin soul within us….and if you tempt her with dust [=flesh/body], You’ll remain a poor urn filled with the slag of pain…. Does your lust tempt you to dress up your happiness, The same way you put on a brocade dress for parties? But she must be faced with dread, as if she’s death… For she, to penetrate, breaks down your mold, It turns your inside into an abyss, precisely So that she and the whole world will fit within

The original is obviously different from the classic Shakespearean sonnets in several regards: 1) the lines are 14 rather than 10 syllables; 2) the rhyme pattern is different: (a) (b) (b) (a) -- (c) (d) (d) (c) etc, rather than (a) (b) (a) (b) -- (c) (d) (c) (d) etc. Otherwise, the iambs are still there, as are the two last defining lines, and the general theme (the pangs of love).

The extent of my damage should be fully apparent below. I had a hard time compressing 14 syllables into 10 and preserving the rhyme pattern. I had to cut chunks of ideas or rephrase them to make it sound like a sonnet.

I debated whether I should archaize the translation (you know, all sorts of "thou," "thy," "shalt" and "doth"). But, given that this sonnet is quasi-contemporary and does not use archaisms in Romanian, and that it doesn't generally conform to a T to the Shakespearean form, I felt it wasn't necessary. After all, it's not a pastiche after Shakespeare, it's a translation of a Romanian poem.

CLXXIII de Vasile Voiculescu Te mistuie iubirea? Credeai că-i o păpuşă, Să-ţi faci un joc cu toane, ca în copilărie. Când ea-ţi cerea o fire de salamandră vie, În tainica-i văpaie să arzi făr' de cenuşă. Ea nu stă-n trup, stăpână a cărnii şi-a plăcerii, Înflăcăratu-i spirit, urgie, le consumă; Îşi cată-n noi duh geamăn... şi, de-l îmbii cu humă, Rămâi o biată urnă cu zgurile durerii... Te ispiteşte jindul să-mbraci şi fericirea Cum pui, pentru petreceri, o rochie de brocarte? Dar trebuie-nfruntată cu spaimă, ca o moarte... Căci ea, ca să pătrundă, îţi sparge-alcătuirea,       Preface în genune lăuntrul tău, anume       Ca să încapă-acolo, cu ea, întreaga lume.

CLXXIII by Vasile Voiculescu Is love a flame? You thought it was a doll, To play with, like a child, with fickle glee, A salamander she wants you to be, Devour’d by the same flame in which you fall. She is the cruel mistress of the flesh, And pleasure, as her spirit both consumes; Twin soul she seeks in our heart's frail bloom... Don’t tempt her, or you’ll end up in her mesh, A slag-filled urn of pain. Does your lust claim To dress your joy as though a party dress? You dread her like she’s death and nothing less… For, to succeed, she breaks your human frame,          It turns you into an abyss, so there          She and th’entire world will worm a lair.

Lewis Carroll--I'll Tell Thee Everything I Can

Very few people would need an introduction to Lewis Carroll and his absurd sense of humor--but just try to translate it! I have to admit though that this project was a lot of fun, and I had to invent about half of it, and try to stay true to the spirit of the original. Even so, I have a couple of really lame rhymes in there--oh well. That's partially due to the fact that I don't have access to a decent Romanian rhyme dictionary, so...yeah. Sometimes, I have to say, I was less preoccupied with a faithful translation and more with duplicating the same sense of the absurd.

It gave me a good chuckle, and I hope it does the same for you:

I'LL TELL THEE EVERYTHING I CAN by: Lewis Carroll (1832-1898) I'LL tell thee everything I can; There's little to relate, I saw an aged, aged man, A-sitting on a gate. "Who are you, aged man?" I said. "And how is it you live?" And his answer trickled through my head Like water through a sieve.   He said, "I look for butterflies That sleep among the wheat; I make them into mutton-pies, And sell them in the street. I sell them unto men," he said, "Who sail on stormy seas; And that's the way I get my bread-- A trifle, if you please."   But I was thinking of a plan To dye one's whiskers green, And always use so large a fan That they could not be seen. So, having no reply to give To what the old man said, I cried, "Come, tell me how you live!" And thumped him on the head.   His accents mild took up the tale; He said, "I go my ways, And when I find a mountain-rill, I set it in a blaze; And thence they make a stuff they call Rowland's Macassar Oil-- Yet twopence-halfpenny is all They give me for my toil."   But I was thinking of a way To feed one's self on batter, And so go on from day to day Getting a little fatter. I shook him well from side to side, Until his face was blue, "Come, tell me how you live," I cried, "And what it is you do!"   He said, "I hunt for haddocks' eyes Among the heather bright, And work them into waistcoat-buttons In the silent night. And these I do not sell for gold Or coin of silvery shine, But for a copper halfpenny, And that will purchase nine.   "I sometimes dig for buttered rolls, Or set limed twigs for crabs; I sometimes search the grassy knolls For wheels of hansom-cabs. And that's the way" (he gave a wink) "By which I get my wealth-- And very gladly will I drink Your honor's noble health."   I heard him then, for I had just Completed my design To keep the Menai bridge from rust By boiling it in wine. I thanked him much for telling me The way he got his wealth, But chiefly for his wish that he Might drink my noble health.   And now, if e'er by chance I put My fingers into glue, Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot Into a left-hand shoe, Or if I drop upon my toe A very heavy weight, I weep, for it reminds me so Of that old man I used to know-- Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow, Whose hair was whiter than the snow, Whose face was very like a crow, With eyes, like cinders, all aglow, Who seemed distracted with his woe, Who rocked his body to and fro, And muttered mumblingly and low, As if his mouth were full of dough, Who snorted like a buffalo-- That summer evening long ago, A-sitting on a gate.

Ţi-oi zice tot ce pot să-ţi spun de Lewis Carroll (1832-1898) Ţi-oi zice tot ce pot să-ţi spun; Nu-i mult de relatat Am întâlnit un om bătrân, Pe-o poartă, cocoţat “Tu cine eşti, bătrâne?”-am spus, “Şi cum trăieşti tu oare?" Prin cap răspunsul mi s-a scurs Ca prin strecurătoare. A spus, “Eu caut fluturi, ştii, Prin grâne, în ogradă; Îi coc pe toţi în dulci iahnii, Şi-i vând la colţ de stradă. Îi vând la oameni ce pe-ocean Înfruntă brav furtuna— Şi-aşa câştig şi eu un ban Sau pâinea—e totuna.” Dar eu visam la favoriţi, Să îi vopsesc în verde, De-un mare evantai umbriţi, Să nu se poată vede. Şi ce să zic? N-aveam poveşti Ca acel bătrân ţap, Zbierat-am, “Spune-mi cum trăieşti!” Şi i-am tras una-n cap. Cu un accent uşor grotesc, El zise, “Merg pe drum Izvor de munte când găsesc Îl trec prin foc şi fum; Aşa se face-al lui Rowland Ulei de Macassar— Insă primesc numai un cent, Şi munca-mi e-n zadar. Dar eu visam un plan: un fel De cocă-n loc de hrană, Ca zi de zi să fim niţel Mai graşi şi mai cu slană. Mai viguros l-am scuturat --S-a-nvineţit la faţă! “Zi-mi cum trăieşti!” iar am urlat, “Ce faci de dimineaţă?” El zise, “Colo-n buruieni Vânez ochi de batog, Nasturi de vestă fac din ei, La mine în bârlog. Şi nu îi vând, bagă de seamă, Pe aur sau argint, Ci doar pe un bănuţ de-aramă Dau nouă—zău nu mint! Sap după chiflele cu unt, Pun clăpci de crabi în crâng, Şi dealuri bat cu pas mărunt Roţi de căruţi să strâng. Şi uite-aşa,” zise şiret, “Am adunat parale. Cu drag voi bea, doar am bănet, În cinstea dumitale.” L-am auzit, căci să termín Putusem a mea schemă: Podul Menai să-l fierb în vin, Ferindu-l de rugină. I-am mulţumit c-a povestit Cum banii şi-i făcea, Dar mai ales că şi-a dorit Să bea în cinstea mea. Şi-acum, dacă vreodată-mi pun În clei a mele deşte, Or dau să vâr, ca un nebun, Piciorul stâng în cleşte, Sau dacă scap peste picior O piatră foarte grea, Eu plâng, căci mi se face dor, De-acel bătrân încântător— Cu glasul bland, moleşitor, Cu părul alb ca neaua-n zbor, Cu nasul cârn, puţin cam chior, Cu ochi arzând scânteietor, Cu gând umbrit de câte-un nor, Ce trupu-şi legăna, uşor, Şi mormăia încetişor, Cu limba prinsă în mosor Şi fornăind ca un porcuşor De mult, în luna lui Cuptor, Şezând pe-o poartă-n şa.

Me, in translation: Fragment with swallowed moon

I've been working on an epic poem for a while, in English, of course; it goes by leaps and bounds. I kinda like it (I think it's sort of funny)--but I'm totally aware that it's completely derivative of my beloved Cartarescu's Levantul. In English, however, it's not that derivative (right? right?) and every once in a while, I am able to create images I really really like. Is it wrong to like your own poetry? Given that I am dissatisfied with about 99% of it, I'll just go ahead and say it's ok to like at least 1%.

The fragment in question occurs right after the heroine of the epic manages to escape curious early 19-th century Prussian crowds in a narrow street in Berlin, a time and place she had been teleported for mysterious reasons (well, for you, the reader--not so much to me at this point!):

Dark the night and dark the alley, and the walls around felt grimy,

The Teutonic clouds above her crept over the roofs like slimy

And gigantic slugs who turn your dreams into black jelly--

A drunk cat howled sadly at the moon that’s hidden in their belly.

There is something to be said about form: I am trying very hard to write this in 16-lines, 16-syllables, with an aabbcc etc. rhyme pattern. I've written about 14 "units" like this so far, and every time I start one, I have no idea how it's going to end, what I'm going to say, etc.; the form I chose, however, often compels me to come up with twists I would have never otherwise dreamed of.

Since this is a translation site, here's an obliging translation:

 

Neagră noaptea şi aleea, iară murii par slinoşi,

Teutonici nori deasupra se târăsc ca melci băloşi

Şi gigantici, ce transformă visurile în gel negru—

Urlă mâţe către luna’ascunsă în stomacul lor funebru.

I think I like it better in English.
___

Oh, note to self to discuss: Yesterday we watched Louis Malle's Souffle au coeur (1971); in one of the scenes, boys at a camp reenact Goethe's famous poem The Erlking--in French, of course. D. had not realized this was Goethe (he knew about the poem)--and wondered aloud why they did it, because, I quote approximately, "a poem in translation is useless." I let it go because that was not the time for that kind of discussion and because I wanted to see the movie, but it stuck with me. I wonder, is this the general sentiment? I know that, to a certain extent, he's right--but on the other hand..... 

Nichita Stanescu--In memoriam

On this day 24 years ago, Nichita Stanescu died. December 13th, 1983. He was just 50 years old.

Nichita taught me what poetry is. I discovered him when I was 12 or so, thanks to an exceptional teacher, to whom I owe much more than I could ever repay her (and than she could ever imagine). Because of her I started reading his poetry, and I can't imagine how much I understood at the time, but I know I understood this much:

This came from another realm. The land of Ur-poetry. If language were a tri-dimensional space for us to move and play within, his poetry was like the fourth dimension of language. It was just as incomprehensibly beautiful, odd, out of this world. And it transformed me forever.

The day before he died, he wrote this poem. I can't find a full version of this anywhere on the net, so I'm just transcribing this from memory--from the memory of my 13-year old self. I am aware that this memory is patchy beyond repair, so before I go back to Romania and retrieve my old Nichita volumes, I'm afraid that's the best I got. So, here goes.

Sa ninga peste noi cu miei doar astazi, Sa ninga inima din noi. Noi niciodata nu am fost noroi O spun si mieii care ning pe noi. O, dulce, mult prea dulce tu, fecioara, Care mi l-ai facut pe Iezus chiar din flori Ce zici ca ninge mieii peste noi Ce zici ca ninge mieii peste seara Si pe zapada ca noi ningem amandoi.

Let lambs snow over us today, and only, Let our hearts inside us snow within We never, ever made of dirt have been The lambs say so, who're snowing without sin. Oh, sweet, oh much too sweet you virgin bright Who did make Jesus out of flowers, you Who say the lambs are snowing over us, Who say the lambs are snowing over twilight And over snow that we are snowing, too.