I salivated all through the intense labor of translating this poem. I hope you will, too! Lots of linguistic treasons, unfortunately, which is why I've included at the end, a very literal translation which will reveal exactly how much I've played in order to preserve the rhythm and rhyme. No small feat, especially with such suave, subtle nuances--which end in a Kantian reference, for good measure! I did agonize over the use of the German phrase (Das Ding an sich) for "the thing in itself," but 1) the literal English translation cannot be tamed into the iambic cadence of the poem, so it tends to sound bad no matter where I put it; 2) the two phrases are often used interchangeably, and anyone who understands the reference to "thing in itself" will automatically know the German original; 3) the German phrase gives a much, much better rhythm. There!
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elegie
O, vechi şi dragi bucătării de vară, |
elegy
[final version] O, summer kitchens, cherished, old, and dear, I taste again the vesper’s dainty snacks, And in the sadness that surrounds me here, My childhood dreams again of scrumptious stacks: Of juniper and peppercorn with bite, Fat fish that fell asleep in saucy cream, Whole turkeys marinated overnight Until their tenderness is quite extreme— The mushrooms—sofa-sized and dressed in lace, Fish eggs with slimy grain in their vicinity, Upholstered doughs which rise with heavy grace, In an angelic, stupefied bovinity, Soft liver bits in barreled juicy splendor, Glazed by the sweetest tears of snail egg custard, Surreal garlic sauce, and hams so tender Your soul will want to go to sleep in mustard, While teapots proudly show through beamy glass With iridescent pomp, so very slick, Fine teas boiled down until the very last And rosy essence of das Ding an sich! |
Here's the literal translation:
Elegy
O, old and dear summer kitchens
Again I feel the suave taste of the afternoon in my mouth
And in the sadness that surrounds me
My childhood dreams again of
Juniper and peppercorn roasted on the stove
Fat fish that fell asleep in milky sauce
Turkeys kept in their own juices for a night
In order to achieve an infinite delicacy—
Mushrooms as big as the sofa, in lace,
Fish eggs with slimy grain and fixed stare,
Upholstered doughs rising heavily
In an angelic bovinity,
Soft liver cores in tiny barrels
Glazed by sweet tears of snail eggs,
/
Surreal garlic sauces, tender hams
until your soul wants to go sleep in mustard
And in teapots one can see quite clearly
Through the iridescent pomp and very fine
/
Teas boiled down until the very rosy essence
Of the thing in itself!