Linguistic Treason

George Toparceanu--Parody after Homer

I've worked for quite a while on this one and it's just as imperfect as when I started it, it seems. No matter: I had to put it up here or I would have never gotten out of my blogging rut! So, here he is, the delightful (and regrettably forgotten) Topârceanu, with his impeccable linguistic genius, gently poking fun at Ulysses' torments at sea. (Hint: it ain't as noble a suffering as you thought it was). (Oh, ok: Ulysses is horny. Like, Austin Powers-horny.)

And he does it all in perfect dactylic hexameters--down to preserving caesurae and other such stuff that ancient poets cared about.

At first you might think that it's a bit easier to translate a large chunk of poetry that doesn't need rhyming, only some sort of rhythm adjustment. If you didn't think that, congratulate yourself. And if you did think it, let me quote Mr. T: I pity the fool.

(Speaking of fools: Have I introduced myself yet? Hi. I'm Cristina.)

So! A Romanian parody after the "Odyssey" and its randy hero, translated into English? What could go wrong, indeed...

Just keep in mind that you need to "read" this aloud conforming to the rhythm: six dactyls (/ _ _, or heavy-light-light), the last one a trochee (/ _) or a spondee (/ /) As in: Arma vi/rumque ca/no,// Troiae qui/ primus ab/ oris. Ok, this is Latin (the Aeneid, of course--Virgil)--which uses the caesura (the pause right there, after "cano"). This is closer to home: a transliteration of the first line of the Odyssey (found here):
ândra  moi / ênnepe, / Moûsa,  po/lûtropon, / hôs  mala / pôlla
Read that with the right emphasis and you'll get the idea.

Topârceanu preserves this rhythm to a T in Romanian (although he sometimes introduces the caesura) , plus has a few Homeric comparisons and stereotyped epithets for good measure (Ulysses is "prudent," Athena is "wise," etc.). He even has notes (in hexameters!) to his own parody! To explain these notes: 1) Murnu was a famous Romanian translator (ancient Greek and Latin); 2) "Ananghi" is an invented "goddess" (of fate) derived from the Romanian "ananghie" (=dire straits), which comes from the Greek "ananki"=need. I invented my own goddess in the translation--"Plightiké" (stress on the final syllable)--a composite of "plight" and a vaguely Greek-sounding ending. (Ahem.) I'm quite certain Topârceanu knew very well that this was a Greek word, and used it intentionally (as in, this is a word as good as any to generate a deity, and by Golly, that's what I'm going to do).

The Romanian text is brimming with irony--in a really subtle, literate way. I've tried to convey that playfulness here and there, but my efforts are still patchy. However, I'm willing to accept criticism, or even better, suggestions!

Here it is:

George Topârceanu Homer: Chinurile lui Ulise Fragment apocrif din Odiseea, în hexametri şi pentametri ... Astfel corabia-n fugă plutea cu uşoarele-i pânze Doldora pline de vânt, peste noianul de ape. Singur pe navă prudentul Ulise privea cu-ntristare, Cât ţi-i oceanul de larg, zările fără catarguri. Căci părăsind pe frumoasa Calipso cea aprigă-n şolduri (Pentru că nu-i mai plăcea) şi navigând la-ntâmplare Trei săptămâni împlinite departe de ţărmuri, eroul Nu mai zărise de-atunci dulce obraz de femeie... Cum, la sfârşit de ospăţ, muritorul aruncă la mâţe Restul juncanului fript, fără să-i treacă prin minte Că mai apoi flămânzind cerceta-va-n zadar să găsească O bucăţică de zgârci ca să-şi astâmpere foamea; Astfel eroul simţise de-amor că lehamite-i este Cât l-a avut din belşug lângă Calipso, iar astăzi Jalnic striga peste valuri de dorul histericei nimfe Care-l ţinuse captiv, ca să-l iubească cu sila: ,,Cine m-a pus să te las şi să plec pe pustiile ape Fără să ştiu încotro, nici până când rătăci-voi? Valul uşor clipotind îmi aduce zadarnic aminte Sunetul glasului tău, blondă şi dulce Calipso! O, ce neghiob am putut într-o clipă să fiu de-a lăsare, După himere-alergând, nimfa cea grasă din mână! Geaba umblat-am atâtea pământuri şi mări depărtate, Asta să-mi fie de-acum pentru-nvăţare de minte..." Deci cam în chipul acesta plângând cu bărbată strigare Bietul Ulise gemea, gata să sară în valuri. Cel ce cu agera-i minte sub zidul troian născocise Gloaba cea mare de lemn care-a pătruns în cetate [Nota 1] Nu era-n stare acum, la strâmtoare fiind, să găsească Vai! nici un mijloc onest pentru-a scăpa de ispită. Nobilu-i trup se zbătea, legănat de mişcările navei, Pradă destinului orb şi nemiloasei Ananghi... [Nota 2] Dar din lăcaşu-i divin de pe vârful Olimpului falnic, Fiica măreţului Zeus, Pallas-Atena-nţeleaptă, Cea care-i poartă de grijă la orice nevoie, îl vede Cum rătăceşte pe mări, singur — cu mâna pe cârmă... Iată-aşadar că din valul adânc răsărind fără veste, Ca un agil cufundar, fiica lui Cadmus cea mică, Ino, cu trupul gingaş s-a ivit scuturându-şi în soare Părul ei galben şi ud leoarcă de apă amară. — O, nestatornice fiu al bătrânului rege Laerte! Ce curioase idei vin să-ţi întunece mintea? Oare puţine răbdări păn-acum pribegind îndurat-ai, Ca să te-arunci în adânc pentru o treabă ca asta?... Când mă gândesc ce de nopţi a tânjit Penelopa cea castă După doritul ei soţ, care stă gata să piară, Nu pot răbda să te ştiu la-ndemână, prin apele mele, Fără să-ţi dau ajutor, mare fiind filantroapă! Iat-am venit să-ţi aduc aşadar un colac de salvare, Numai atâta mă-ntreb — dacă ţi-a fi pe măsură... Zise şi-n chip de pretext îi aruncă o mică eşarfă. Iar încercatul erou, făr-a-i întoarce cuvântul, Grabnic s-apleacă spre nimfă şi cât ai clipi o ridică De subţiori din ocean — sus pe covertă, trăgând-o... * Unde zglobii împrejur clipotind se-nălţau curioase, Nava plutea uşurel, fără pilot în lumină. Valuri fugeau după valuri spre ţărm depărtat călătoare, Cerul era liniştit — marea pustie şi verde. ________________________________________ Note de subsol [1] Lucruri expuse pe larg în traducerea dlui Murnu, Harnicul nostru tălmaci care-a tradus Iliada, Carte ce fu mintenaş premiată cu premiul cel mare, Pentru că suntem un stat eminanente agricol... (n. a.). [2] Zeiţa sorţii.

George Topârceanu Homer: Ulysses’ Woes Apocryphal Odyssey fragment In hexameters and pentameters …Thus was the fast-faring sailboat afloat with her feathery light sails Chockfull of wind, over seas, and traversing vast stretches of water. Lone on the vessel the prudent Ulysses looked back with dejection, Sorrowful sight he beheld, with the skies without masts over oceans, For, after leaving the pretty Calypso with fiery hips (As he had ceased to enjoy her), and having thus sailed quite at random Three bitter weeks far away from the shore, our hero had not yet Touched, or just seen a sweet woman’s visage to perhaps tide him over, Just like the mortal who full from the feast will casually toss to the cats Leftovers of roasted calf,  without even thinking a second Later when famished, that vainly he’ll try to discover Cartilage bits for himself to sate his formidable hunger, Thus our hero had felt at one time much too sick of love’s rut Back when with fair-haired Calypso plenty of it he had had For his hysterical nymph he extends his too pitiful cries She as a slave had him kept, to love him against his dear wishes: “Who made me leave you to roam like a ghost over desolate waters Knowing not when, nor how long I will wander in silence, so lonely? Waves softly lapping remind me in vain of the sound of your singing, Beauty incarnate, oh blonde nymph Calypso, sweet mistress of mine! Oh what a lout have I been to have left, in a moment of blindness, Out of my hand, the fat nymph, while pursuing chimeras at sea! Oh but in vain have I roamed foreign lands and cold oceans so many Let this sad fate be a cruel and unfortunate lesson to me…” Wailing some more in this manner, with many a too manly bellows, Ulysses moaned for a while, ready to jump in the water. He who with cunning maneuvers in Troy by himself had concocted The huge wooden jade that could finally break through the castle [Note 1] For the sake of his life, or of Pete’s, couldn’t find in this hour of need An honest way out of these frightening straits to get rid of temptation. Nobly his body was twisting and turning while rocked by the ship, Prey to blind fate and to cruel Plightiké without pity…[Note 2] But from her heavenly home, from the top of majestic Olympus, Great Zeus’s daughter, that Pallas Athena, formidably wise, She who takes care of Ulysses when needed, sees him in distress Wandering all by himself on the seas with his hand on the helm… Thus from the depths of the ocean, who suddenly rose without notice, Limber and slim like a loon? It was Cadmus’s youngest of daughters, Ino, with delicate body, emerging from waves all aflutter, Shaking her fair-colored tresses that drip with the bitter salt water. "Oh, you capricious and fickle offspring of the old king Laertes! What weird ideas are coming and clouding your mind at this hour? Haven’t you suffered enough in your long and peculiar travels To now throw yourself overboard, and for such a ridiculous matter? Oh, when I think of the nights chaste Penelope longed for Soul of her soul, her beloved Ulysses, now ready to perish, I cannot stand knowing you're floating around in my waters, Helpless without me, so now I will prove my philanthropist chops! Thus have I come to present you my special and own life preserver, Only one question remains to be answered, which is, does it fit you?" Said she, and promptly as pretext, a scarf (multicolored!) she gave him. Hardened Ulysses, without even trying to answer her back, Quickly bends over and lightly he pulls her on board in an instant, Up from the ocean, and gently he lays her right there on the deck. * Playfully, curious waves lapped around as they craned foamy crests, Gently the ship was afloat, with no pilot or lights, in the ocean, Waves after waves chased each other to far-away shores, all too quiet, Cloudless, the sky was asleep, the ocean was green and deserted. Notes: 1. Things all too clearly explained in Mr. Murnu’s translation, Our interpreter, brave and so tireless Iliad-wrestler, Book that was pronto rewarded with first class accolades,  Because evidently we are an agrarian state first of all… 2. The goddess of fate.

Mircea Cartarescu--Levantul (2)

Ok, second installment from my Levantul saga (first one here). Some of it is so, so funny, and I'm not sure the irony comes through. Especially the switch from a very serious, sorrowful registry to a lewd, soft, romantic one (towards the end).

Tînărule, a ta faţă îmi apare străvezie, Gemetul ce scoţi e oare de amor sau de mînie, Mîna cu inele grele şi cu petre răsucite Pe jungher sau pe şold fraged va voi să se invite? Ah, pe junghiu! Si degrabă, căci tiranii înca rîde Conjurati de arvaniţii cu a lor turbane hîde, Incă mai jupoi ţeranii, înca junele le smulge Din a mumelor lor braţe, inca ţara o mai mulge! Tu de duci la Zante, unde în barcaz, la felinari Te aşteaptă a ta soră cu treizeci de palicari A ta soră! Zenaida! Cine-o vede se uimeşte Cine buzele de rujă, cine ochii i-i zăreşte I se pare cum că Hero vie s-au împeliţat Să-l aştepte iar pe Leandros lîng-al mărilor palat.

Young man, your visage appears all translucent to my eyes, The deep moan you heave, it’s rage, or is it amour in disguise? Your hand, covered with old heavy golden rings, will perhaps grip The quick knife, or will it want to touch a tender, curvy hip? Ah, the knife! And quickly, for the tyrants laugh and roar Guarded by the fierce Albanians in their turbans laced with gore They still rob the peasants and they cruelly rape their young, who cry, In their mothers’ arms, and they will suck this country dry! You—you leave for Zante, to the sailboat by whose light, Your dear sister with her thirty palikars await to fight. Oh, your sister! Zenaida! He who sees her is amazed— Who her rouge lips or her bright eyes glimpses, will be dazed, And believe that he can once again sweet Hero see, As she waits for her Leander in the palace by the sea.

NOTES:
1. On arvaniţi=Albanians. Arvanit/pl. arvaniţi is an archaic word no longer used in Romanian, which comes from the Modern Greek arvanitis, for Albanian. To this day there is a small ethnic Albanian community in Greece called Arvanits (more here).There are many other names in Romanian for ethnic Albanians -- skiptari, schipetari (from the official name of Albania, Shqiperia), arbinasi, or the more common arnauti. I think this word is a wonderful example of Balkan syncretism, where an Albanian word becomes Romanian via Greek. Well, I'm not sure how Albanian the word "Albanian" is (I know, very confusing), but Wikipedia provides some clues.

Regrettably, while Romanian seems to have at least 5-6 words for "Albanians" floating around, due to a long history of intermingling and what not, I can only seem to find one such word in English. Unfortunately, "Albanian" doesn't carry within the rich connotations of "arvaniţi<," only one of which is linguistic, and others having to do with the social and political role Albanian soldiers played in the Ottoman Empire.

2. Palicari=palikar//brave men. Another wonderful archaism employed by Cartarescu for maximum linguistic authenticity and color. Again, it's derived from a Greek word, pallikári, which used to mean a Greek volunteer during the 1821-1828 Greek independence war; it came to mean, by extension, a "brave man." I initially translated "palicari" with "brave men," which is quite accurate, but lacks local color, then I discovered that "palikar" is a legitimate (though esoteric) word in English, so...I went ahead and used it! I'm still waffling a little on this one--mainly, because the English meaning of "palikar" is very restrictive ("Greek soldier in the war of independence against Turkey, 1821-1828") and does not include the general meaning that it has acquired in Romanian (and possibly throughout the Balkans, who knows?) of brave, strong man.

3. If you need your memory refreshed re: Hero and Leander, here's a nice summary.

Alexandru Andries--Like the sand all women are

Another one of my favorites--Andries's Like the sand all women are. My linguistic treasons--oh, boy. Let's see:

- "Si viata e un hotel"="And life is a hotel"--translated through "and life is so surreal." I needed a rhyme for "steel"--which I couldn't really give up.

- I went a little overboard with the next to last stanza: "Au camere mari, cu multe oglinzi,/ Ca-ntr-o plasa în ele te prinzi... / Cînd sub patura moale te-ntinzi /Nici nu stii cît de adînc te prinzi." Literally, this is "They have big rooms with lots of mirrors/ You get caught in them like in a net/ When you lie down under the soft blanket/ You have no idea how deep you're getting in." This a monorhyme, so I needed to use the same rhyme for all the four lines, which was tough. And so the "catch you in their net" became "weave you inside their silvery room"; "under the blanket" became "blanket's womb", and so on and so forth.

I love this little song, a little playful, a little sad, a little  bittersweet, Andries at his best, in my opinion.  Enjoy.

CA NISIPUL FEMEILE SUNT de Alexandru Andries Barbatii-s facuti din carne, Femeile - din otel, Ar fi trebuit sa fie invers, Dar Dumnezeu mai greseste si el... Femeile zic ca-s din carne, Barbatii ca-s din otel, Si de-aia e noaptea-ntuneric Si viata e un hotel... Ca nisipul femeile sînt, Le ia pe sus orice boare de vînt Si-napoi nu mai vin nicicînd... Ca nisipul femeile sînt ! Au camere mari, cu multe oglinzi, Ca-ntr-o plasa în ele te prinzi... Cînd sub patura moale te-ntinzi Nici nu stii cît de adînc te prinzi ! Au ochi sa te-opreasca, Si-aceiasi ochi sa te goneasca Curînd... Ca nisipul femeile sînt...

LIKE THE SAND ALL WOMEN ARE by Alexandru Andries All men are made of flesh, All women are made of steel, It should have really been the other way, But even God can err, and He will. Women claim they’re made of flesh, And men, that they’re made of steel, And that’s why the nights are so dark And life is so surreal. Like the sand all women are Winds take them away up to a star And they never return from afar Just like the sand all women are. They have lots of mirrors up in their room Which weave you inside their silvery loom And when you lie in the blanket’s womb You will get lost in their perfume. Their eyes will seduce you And the same eyes will chase you Away… Just like the sand all women are.

Alexandru Paleologu--Why do I write? What do I believe in?

I just found this book by Alexandru Paleologu, Despre lucrurile cu adevarat importante (On the really important things) and the preface is the author's answer to a questionnaire which asks--well, you see for yourself. I did a quick and dirty translation (don't shoot me!) and didn't include the original because it was already getting way too long. I found myself nodding vigorously through some passages (like, the intrinsic value of art and writing), and saying "Huh" and "Hm" through others, like the last paragraph about the intrinsic evil of stupidity, or perhaps viceversa, which raised more problems than it solved, and it's in my opinion absolutely untenable.

But! I'm too tired to talk about it now! Tomorrow perhaps, gentle readers (yes, you two in the back, playing Scrabble. I can see you!)--tomorrow, perhaps, I'll have more stamina to disagree with this intellectual giant. Until then, enjoy!

_________________________________________________________________

Why do I write? What do I believe in?
Alexandru Paleologu

Why do I write? I’ve asked myself that question many times. I can quote this sentence by Eugene Ionesco: Pourquoi j’écris ? Je suis encore à me le demander. Yes. Besides the fact that I cannot do otherwise, what can I answer? Although that’s not completely true. I’ve spent whole years without writing anything. Every year, weeks and sometimes months pass without my writing a single word. That doesn’t mean I don’t work, that I don’t create. There are some who plan their writing, a certain (fixed) number of hours per day and a certain number of pages, more or less, irrespective of the quality of the text and irrespective of whether the text will be preserved/kept or not; genie ou non, as Stendhal would say. I think these people are graphomaniacs. Graphomania doesn’t exclude genius, only pretentiousness does. Baudelaire or maybe someone else, I can’t remember, said: qui ne TRAVAILLE pas tous les jours, ne travaille jamais, and not qui n’ECRIT pas tous les jours (underlining mine). Sadoveanu, who, as everybody knows, wrote a lot, confessed in an interview to Ion Biberi in 1945 that he only really writes, in fact, for about three months a year.

It’s rather rude to talk about me now, after all the names I just mentioned, but the question compels me to. I start writing when what has been accumulating for a long time calls me implacably to express it. I cannot write anything without a long gestation, which is largely subconscious. Very often, most of the time in fact, while I’m busy with something else, or with nothing (busy with nothing), or engaged in conversation, lapidary formulations cross mind, expressions of thoughts that seem to me to be worthy of remembering, but, as I’m counting on my memory, I’m not writing them down (it’s usually not even possible at the moment) and I forget them. I don’t regret them. I find it highly presumptuous, this avarice, this drive to not lose any of one’s own thoughts, to hoard them. It’s normal to lose about 80 percent of them. Spiritual life consists largely of such losses, and the achievements are just the rest. Most of the times, a page can be just the residue, the remainder of entire years of reverie, reflections, accumulations. The moment things become unbearable and demand the material action of putting them on paper, or when an accident, usually one that seems minor, but is decisive in this complicated process, triggers this act, only and only then the true transmutation takes place, or, to use an improper but accredited term, “creation.” Thoughts only matter when they are expressed, which is, when they become text. This transmutation is the gift I-don’t-know-who gives you, but only then labor starts, which for me is usually a painful process, when I lose track of meals or of normal sleeping time, I sleep when I can, for one or two hours on the couch in my study, I eat when I can, whether writing flows seamlessly, or, as it’s most often the case, whether I have to rewrite the same page God knows how many times. Sometimes I start to despair; it’s pure hell. But in the end some kind of exaltation takes place, an exultation comparable with erotic triumphs, repaying with hefty interest all the pangs, exasperations, and losses of self esteem. Who made me, who cursed me to write? What’s the point? All these vituperations are then forgotten, or linger in memory like ridiculous yammers, like the whims of an old coquette.

The eventual success of the written piece pleases me, of course, it’s only human, after all, but it ranks much lower compared to the delight of the act itself and the feeling, perhaps illusory, that you get out of your accomplishment in your craft. I cannot know for sure whether what I write deserves to be remembered (to be honest, I think so), nor can I know whether, deserving or not, it has any chance to. There is authorial vanity. I said it on another occasion why in my case, for deeply personal reasons, this vanity is reduced to a minimum. But it does exist, there’s nothing I can do about it, and I’m not even too ashamed to admit it.

But there, I’ve covered how I write, but not why. I don’t know how to answer that question. Some may write with a purpose in mind, for example, to reform mores, society, educate the nation, a.s.o. Among these, some are actually writers, despite that goal. For others, many, even, writing means money or glory, but still, they’re a secondary incentive. The essential finality of literature, of art in general, which includes, willy-nilly, literary criticism, essays, philosophy, even great oratory, whose objective is usually persuasion with a view to accomplishing an immediate practical goal, is ultimately a purposeless finality, that is, one that implies knowledge, contemplation, and apprehending the truth. Which is to say, beauty (which will save the world). This is even more evident in the case of oratory, for its practical interest is the fastest to expire, but its aesthetic interest survives centuries or even millennia.

Fate, over which I have no control, made it so that the genre I write is the essay, a term which I’ve come to abhor, because for a while now it’s been subjected to a totally devaluing inflation process. Before you can count to three, there it is—essay, essayistic. It’s come to mean (and excuse/absolve) incompetence and pseudo-elegance. As a matter of fact, the essay claims total competence in the most ignored of fields, of being human (a field in which anthropology is rarely competent, and even then, very little). The word “essay,” popularized, of course, by Montaigne, expresses an (ironic!) prudent modesty, understood, as I said on other occasions, as technical rather than moral virtue, and it also means the need to test realities, to try them, to subject experience and thought to a process of check and balances, to testify about the human trials and tribulations.

What do I believe in?

I could simply answer, in God, a term you can interpret as you like (energy, matter, spirit, force, natura naturans…) But I prefer to affirm the traditional Credo, without circumlocutions. I therefore believe also in the reality of the Cunning one, which is to say, I notice the cunningness of stupidity and the stupidity of cunningness. For that’s what the Devil is: Stupidity. He is not, as people tend to believe, smart, subtle, ironic, Mephistophelean, etc. No. He’s stupid. “Diabolical intelligence”: this phrase is stupid, it’s nonsensical. Only stupidity is diabolic (meanness and Evil are its side effects). Stupidity and Evil are transcendental realities, of numinous character, are something ungeheuer, as Rudolf Otto would say. Look (there are countless opportunities to do so) how cunning the imbeciles can be, what kind of tricks they have up their sleeves, that intelligence can’t really construe, not because it’s incapable of it, but because it doesn’t waste its time with the stupid purposes of tricks (tricks only have stupid purposes, and of course, evil, and destructive). Stupidity is eternal and invincible; it’s a hydra with countless heads which sprout back every time you cut them, which is why they need to be cut again and again with the acids of intelligence, to keep it in check; it’s all one can do against it. Have you noticed that every time one talks about stupidity, in the most general sense of the word, a lot of people get upset? It’s wrong to believe that the stupid don’t realize they are stupid. They know very well they are and they have an infallible instinct to detect intelligence and mobilize against it, spontaneously and organically, systematically and savagely. That’s why we have, manifested either directly or dissimulated, but always tenacious, so much hostility towards Caragiale, the abyssal Caragiale, the genius of radical intelligence, the most efficient of the great Romanians at unmasking Stupidity. There are too many stupid people in the world, but luckily there are also lots of Romanians who’d rather take a smart man in loss than a stupid man in gain! The stupid, in the moonlight or under the lamps of meeting rooms, are horrified of laughter. They must know why.

Ion Minulescu--With autumn in my room

Minulescu (who, to my surprise, has a surprisingly well developed entry in the English Wikipedia) sometimes seems a little dated, but he's always hopelessly, incurably romantic, and extremely likable.

A few notes on the translation:

- Romanian seasons are always feminine. I never really really thought about it until now. I'm sure there's some linguistic psychoanalysis to be conducted there. So anyway, that's why "Autumn" is a "she." I chose "Autumn" because it obviously sounds much better than "Fall" in this context. Or to me, anyway. I did use "fall" later when it's used as an adverb immediately before it's used as a noun (middle of third stanza).

- "cutie de Capstan" and "tigari de foi din Rotterdam"--dated references, of course. "Capstan box" doesn't mean anything to anyone these days, but I'm thinking it's an old tobacco brand. I did not translate it and chose instead "tobacco for my pipe." I kept Rotterdam for local charm!

- "bate...in geam"--it's really "knock at my window"--but for rhyme's sake I embellished it a little (much!)--"the door of my slum." Hey, it rhymes. Shut up.

- that Sybil prophecy was only "lying" (or "false") in Romanian; I added the "vicious."

- in the last stanza, the smoke came from a pipe, not from a flue, but I was desperate for a rhyme, any rhyme, so.... there. Another smoke-related accoutrement!

Cu toamna în odaie de Ion Minulescu Mi-a bătut azi-noapte Toamna-n geam, Mi-a bătut cu degete de ploaie... Şi la fel ca-n fiecare an, M-a rugat s-o las să intre în odaie, Că-mi aduce o cutie cu Capstan Şi ţigări de foi din Rotterdam... Am privit în jurul meu şi-n mine: Soba rece, Pipa rece, Mâna rece, Gura rece, Doamne!... Cum puteam s-o las să plece? Dacă pleacă, cine ştie când mai vine? Dacă-n toamna asta, poate, Toamna-mi bate Pentru cea din urmă oară-n geam? "Donnez-vous la peine d'entrer, Madame..." Şi femeia cu privirea fumurie A intrat suspectă şi umilă Ca o mincinoasă profeţie De Sibilă... A intrat... Şi-odaia mea-ntr-o clipă S-a încălzit ca un cuptor de pâine Numai cu spirala unui fum de pipă Şi cu sărutarea Toamnei, care mâine O să moară... vai!... Bolnavă de gripă...

With autumn in my room de Ion Minulescu Autumn knocked on my window last night, She knocked with fingers of cold rain— As usual, she asked, very polite, For me to let her in my room, again, Then she’ll bring tobacco for my pipe, And expensive cigarettes from Rotterdam. I looked around, I looked inside me: The stove is cold, The pipe is cold, The hand is cold, The mouth is cold. God! … How could I ever let her go? If she leaves, who knows how long she’ll be? What if this fall, to my shock, Autumn will knock For the last time at the door of my slum? "Donnez-vous la peine d'entrer, Madame..." And the woman with the eyes of smoke, Entered, all humble and suspicious, Like a prophecy the Sybil spoke— False and vicious… She came in… And my room in just an instant Warmed up like a bread oven, With a spiral of smoke in the flue, And with the kiss of Autumn, who tomorrow, Will die—oh heavens!... Sick with the flu...

Ion Barbu--Uvedenrode

Q: How do you translate a modernist, quasi-dadaist poem whose primary reason of being is musical rather than "meaningful"?
A: You don't.
Oh, I forgot. Just because it can't be translated doesn't mean yours truly won't try!

Ion Barbu (pen name of Dan Barbilian) was a very gifted mathematician and one of Romania's most important modern poets. Uvedenrode (which doesn't really mean anything) is a surrealistic cross between precise, crystalline rhymes and unabashed sensual undertones.

So here are some of the betrayals I chose to make:
- I translated "Uvedenrode" as a plural in English (with a final -s) because, although it does not mean anything, it has a plural form in Romanian (and it also rhymes with plural nouns).
- I invented "gastropodists" out of "gastropods" in order to make it rhyme with "rhapsodists" and with "modistes," the first of which is a faithful translation, the second of which it is not. (But what would you do with "moduri de ode"--"modes of odes"? Hmph.) More to the point: Barbu uses two plurals for "gastropod"--of which only the first one is technically correct ("gasteropode," in the first stanza); "gasteropozi" sounds grammatical, but it's not. If it were grammatical, it would be a masculine plural (as opposed to "gasteropode," which is a feminine form). Given that "gasteropod" is a neutral noun in Romanian (that means that the  singular form is masculine, and the plural form is feminine, and the entire species asexual (not really, but go with it for now))--you can see how Barbu gently suggests the sexualization of a rather  primitive life form to sing his wonderfully crazy ode to a fertile, music-ordered chaos.
- "din  setrele mari/apari"--tough one! "Satra"=gypsy camp, basically, but try working that one in here! I just opted for..."spheres."
- "O cal de val/ Peste cavală/ Cu varul deasupra-n spirală!"--nonsensical wordplay on consonants--c and v, and the liquids l and r. I kept most of them in my equally nonsensical (though definitely not as inspired) translation: "Oh knave of wave/Over the cavalcade,/The cave over it in an arcade!"

There are many others, so in the end it will turn out that I haven't exactly translated the poem as much as I re-wrote it. Nevertheless, it's a fun, strange, sonorous piece that will at least make you say, whaa? jus' wait a minute, before you actually stop and think about it for a minute and figure that it's pretty cool, after all.

Uvedenrode de Ion Barbu La râpa Uvedenrode Ce multe gasteropode! Suprasexuale Supramuzicale; Gasteropozi! Mult limpezi rapsozi, Moduri de ode Ceruri eşarfă Antene în harfă; Uvedenrode Peste mode şi timp Olimp! Ceas în cristalin Lângă fecioara Geraldine! Dantelele sale Ca floarea de zale, Prin braţele ei Gheţari în idei, La soarele sfânt, Egal - acest cânt: Ordonată spiră, Sunet Fruct de liră, Capăt paralogic, Leagăn mitologic, Din şetrele mari Apari: O cal de val Peste cavală Cu varul deasupra-n spirală! Încorporată poftă, Uite o fată, Lunecă o dată, Lunecă de două Ori până la nouă, Până o-nfăşori În fiori uşori, Până-o torci în zale Gasteropodale; Până când, în lente Antene atente O cobori: Pendular de-ncet, Inutil pachet, Sub timp, Sub mode În Uvedenrode.

Uvedenrode by Ion Barbu At the ravine Uvedenrodes So many gastropods! Suprasexual, Supramusical. Gastropodists! Such clear rhapsodists Ode-singing modistes The skies are all scarves Antennae in harps. Uvedenrodes Over time, over modes— Palinodes! The hour, crystalline, Next to virgin Geraldine! Her lacy veil— Flower of chain mail, And through her arms— Icebergs with charms! To the sacred sun— This song, bar none. Ordered spire, Sound, Fruit of a lyre, Ending  paralogical Cradle mythological, From the high spheres You appear: Oh knave of wave Over the cavalcade, The cave over it in an arcade! Self contained lust, A girl with a bust Slides, but just Once, then she slides Twice, then nine times, Until she feels Light shivers and thrills Until you spin her, Gastropodal blur; Until into many Attentive antennae You lower her down: Like a pendulum rocks, A useless box, Under times, Under modes, In Uvedenrodes.

Unknown--Ode to Tanase

When I was young (really young), and the Communists still ruled Romania, one of the simple pop culture joys that was not denied to us was almanacs. Charmingly antiquated, right? Well, traditional media was  all propaganda, and the computer culture hadn't yet entered the scene, and there was nothing to shop for. Did I forget something? Oh yeah: movie theaters sucked and good music was hard to impossible to find. I think that pretty much covers all bases.

So! One such almanac that I read and enjoyed when I was about nine (3rd grade, I remember) was some sort of Humorous or Satire Almanac (possibly, "Almanah Satira"?), packed with...well, I guess, whatever passed for humor those days. Often, references were made to a happier, freer, pre-communist time, and that's what I was attracted to.

I remember liking this poem, a lot for my 9-year old self, so much so that I did the only thing I knew in order to pay homage to it and learned it by heart. 24 years later, I still remember it quite well--well, except for two lines in the first stanza, which seem to have completely vanished from my memory.

This is one of those ephemeral pieces of art that are funny only insofar you know the person or object it is referring to. Also, in this case, knowing the culture and local hangouts would probably also help. To my regret, I have no idea who wrote it--it's not anonymous, for sure, but it's next to impossible for me to discover now the author of this funny poem.

The poem was written probably in the 30s (possibly 20s) and it's about Constantin Tanase, arguably our greatest comic of the interwar years (yes, that's an English Wikipedia entry). He was apparently "retired" by Communists in 1945, after he made fun of the nasty habits of the invading Red Army in Romania. To understand this poem, however, all you need to know is that he had a really, really big nose. (As an aside, he was born in Vaslui, where I was born, too, and not too many famous Romanians were born there, you know--so I'll take that!).

Without further ado, I give you...

Odă lui Tănase O, zeilor, mi-aţi dat, în glumă, un nas aşa de prelungit Că spintecă văzduhu-n două şi se propteşte-n infinit. Când joc pe scenă şi spre stele-nalţ bicisnica-mi trompetă Observatoarele anunţă că-n România e-o cometă; Nemţoaicele de la Alhambra uimite ţipă: Gott sei Dank! Căci nasul meu, privit din faţă, îţi dă iluzia de tanc! Eroii cârni ai Capitalei care-au luptat pe metereze Ii cer guvernului, ca jertfă, de nas să mă exproprieze, Iar invalizii cu tarabe cer să le facă chilipir: Din nara-mi dreaptă o regie, iar din cea stângă un tractir. Cu toate criticile aspre, incontestabil ai rămas Dintre talente, cel mai mare, o, respectabilul meu nas. Aş prefera mai bine moartea, sau să ma calce chiar tramvaiul Decât cu ploile de-acuma să dea în tine guturaiul. Ar fi curată catastrofă—din mine s-ar allege praful Să fiu constrâns pe-aşa scumpete, să-mi fac batista cât cearceaful! O, nas, tu singura-mi podoabă, a treia partea-a mea din trup, Izvor de pozne şi de glume, întoarce vârful, să te pup! Amici, când voi muri, deasupră-mi, nu vreau nici piatră funerară, Nu vreau nici sălcii aplecate, lăsaţi-mi nose meu afară, Să-mi ţină loc de ornamente şi de cadou şi de statui, Şi liniştit să odihnească tot cimitiru-n umbra lui.

Ode to Tănase O, gods, in jest, no doubt, you gave me a nose so horribly enormous, It cuts straight through the stratosphere and comfortably rests in cosmos. When I’m on stage and want to raise towards the stars my precious trumpet, Observatories in Romania announce that they have seen a comet The German girls from the Alhambra are screaming, panicked, Got sei Dank! --You see, my nose, in frontal view, looks very much just like a tank! Our snub-nosed heroes, who the ramparts defended bravely, with elation, Ask, from the state, repairs: my speedy nose-expropriation; And invalid street vendors ask for proper street space, all too keen: From my left nostril, a tobacconists, and from the right one, a canteen. Despite the harsh critiques and hatred, undoubtedly you always rose Above the others as my biggest talent, oh, much-respected nose! I’d rather that I’m struck by lightning, and bid this cruel world adieu, Than with the latest epidemic, you should contract that pesky flu. It would be simply catastrophic, they’d lock me up in a straitjacket, To be under such massive pressure, to use for handkerchief a blanket! Oh, nose! A third of my whole body! I know th’entire world would miss you! Fresh spring of farces, jokes, and wonder, please turn around so I can kiss you! And so, my friends, upon my death, I want no boring funeral stone, I want no weeping willows over, I want my nose out, all alone— Instead of flowers, angels, statues, or other ornamental piece , And in its shadow, I would hope that the whole graveyard rests in peace.

Me, in translation, again

I'm a very messy record-keeper. I know I have it in me to be super-organized (no, seriously!), but for some reason I've been putting it off and as a result the innards of my computer are a mess. There are all these old files and duplicates and jumbled ramblings and pieces of poetry and pieces of translation that pop out of nowhere and then I can never find again (ask me how often I've done the dreaded "search for a phrase in the document" thing in the past month, just go ahead and ask)--and as a result, I often feel lost when left alone with my best friend, my laptop.

You know what's worse, though? When I try to make amends and start going through the files with a fine-tooth comb, deciding what's there to keep, what to delete, etc.--and then I waste half a day on that, and never finish, and dread coming back to it, and as a result, the files continue to be, if possible, even more disorganized than before.

Especially when I get distracted by things I find and I can't even remember writing. Like this little poem:

Dragă Şeherezada,
Vraja s-a risipit ca zăpada;
A rămas doar o şuviţă de fum,
Lipită cu scoci într-un album;
O amintire ciufulită de ploi,
Dar tivită cu soare—
Tu şi el, la plimbare,
Şi trei nu rimează cu doi.

At first I thought it belonged to someone else--the "Draga Seherezada" line is a famous Andries song--but no, I think it belongs to me (how sad is that, to forget your own creation? pretty sad, indeed!). So, in order to further postpone my organizational fervor, I've done a quick and dirty translation here:

Dear Scheherazade,
The magic has started to fade;
There’s only a thin strand of fume,
Locked in an album in a room;
A memory rain muddled through,
But hemmed with sunlight—
You and him, walking tight,
And three never does rhyme with two.

For all it's worth, I like the original better. *Cough.* I think it's inspired by the aftermath of my brief (but real!) email correspondence with Andries, which came to an abrupt halt when we actually crossed paths, however briefly, in Bucharest, about three years ago, in front of the Cărtureşti bookstore (from where I did, indeed, purchase an Andries concert DVD). Anyway, after that brief face-to-face, our correspondence ceased and desisted. Heh! And so, to commemorate that, I think I wrote this little poem.

Ok, now I know why it sounded so strange: I never write poetry in Romanian anymore. It's been ages and ages since I've done it; all my current productions are, in fact, in English. So perhaps it wasn't me who wrote this, after all? But then, who? Or was I sleep-rhyming? God, my so-called artistic life is more tenebrous than a postmodern theory opus.

Nichita Stanescu--Ensitteren

A strange, troubling, haunting poem by Nichita. As far as I can see, I could find absolutely no meaning for "ensitteren." Yes, it does "sound" Nordic and all, but I've looked up in a bunch of dictionaries for Nordic languages (granted, I haven't exhausted them!) and there wasn't even an approximation of it. Anyone has any idea if this word actually means something? Hint: it means nothing in Romanian. It just sounds...sonorously and very vaguely Germanic.

Honestly, I think Nichita probably had one of those dreams poets have, in which they maybe invent if not a new language, new words, or at least dream up whole pieces of poetry--sort of like Coleridge with his Kubla Khan--and then woke up and wrote this poem, with all its atavistic, Ice-age memories, and its evocative chilly solitude.

The rhyming on this one was a bitch--no, really, it was pure hell, and I still haven't gotten it right; you'll see a few odd syllables, or a few extra words thrown in there for the sake of rhyme, such as "flake" in "Nordic frozen flake," which does not appear in the original, but without which I had no chance of getting that rhyme--I tried!--and hey, flake is sort of winterish, right? Despite the sacrifices I made for them, what with inserting whole new words in there, the rhyming Gods deserted me in the third stanza, in which I completely blew it. I simply could not rhyme. Ok, so "ice" and "life" are barely passable as similar end-sounds (barely!), but then the other two would not bend to my will! Confound it!

I also agonized over the "codrul verde" in the last stanza, a phrase that's as common in Romanian as, say, "apple pie" is in English. It's a leitmotif of folk songs, and it always means a place of refuge and freedom, and one in which outlaws ("haiduci"--think Eastern-European Robin Hoods, minus the medieval charm and Lady Marion) used to reside. So--is there such a phrase in English? I would very much like to know. "The deep forest"? Something like that? Something that will pick up on some folkloric motif? I simply don't know!

 

ENSITTEREN de Nichita Stanescu Din nou sunt singur ca o gheata lasîndu-si marginea-n topire, îmbratisat cu o viata a lui " a fi" si a lui "fire" Ensitteren, ensitteren, cuvîntul acesta nordic si-nghetat îmi întareste lacuit, pamîntul cu lacuri în diagonala si brazdat... Ensitteren, sunt singur ca o gheata în care pesti macabri, suspendati la începutul meu de viata, în nemiscare mi-au fost frati sau în tot ceea ce se pierde mai jos, spre Sud, în codrul verde.

ENSITTEREN by Nichita Stanescu Alone I am again like the ice letting its margin go melting, embraced with a life of “to be” and of “being” Ensitteren, ensitteren, this word, this Nordic frozen flake, hardens my earth, all lacquered furrowed with diagonal lakes… Ensitteren,  I am alone like the ice in which macabre fish, suspended at the beginning of my life in their stillness, were my brothers. or in all that will vanish unseen down South, in the woods so green.

Alexandru Andries--That's What You Do

A fun, sweet, heart-melting song from Andries.

ASTA FACI TU de Alexandru Andries Pîn' la tine ma simteam Ca un abtibild pe geam, Stiu cum e fara, Stiu acum cum e cu... Te-am dorit - nu mi-e rusine - Si de-atunci am tevi în mine: Tevi mici pentru da, Tevi mai mari pentru nu... Asta faci tu... Asta faci tu... Asta faci tu... Pielea s-a-ngrosat treptat Si de-aia cad bucati din pat, De-aia mai scîrtîi Si fara bere, si cu... Uite-ma cum stau si tac Ca o boala fara leac; Fara reteta Ce sa iau si ce nu ? Asta faci tu... Asta faci tu... Asta faci tu... Ora 7 - ma trezesc, Din cauza ta zîmbesc; Ora 9 - chiar ma scol Si te caut pîna-n hol; Ora 5 - manînc ceva, (Mi-e) pofta de dumneata... 10 noaptea - nu mi-e somn, Ajuta-ma tu sa dorm, Ajuta-ma tu... Soricei la mine-n burta Fac scandal si nu m-asculta, Se-ntîmpla la fel Fara mîncare si cu... O vrabie mica cît o stea Da din aripi în inima mea: Asta nu-i bine, Poti sa fii sigur ca nu! Asta faci tu... Asta faci tu... Asta faci tu... Daca crezi ca exagerez, Te las sa ma controlezi...

THAT'S WHAT YOU DO by Alexandru Andries Until you, I felt so lost-- Like a sticker on a post, I know life without you, And now I know it with you. I wanted you, I’m not ashamed, And since then I got pipes laid-- Small pipes for yes, Bigger pipes for no, too. That’s what you do… That’s what you do… That’s what you do… The skin thickened bit by bit And that’s why the bed has split That’s why I’m squeaking, Beer in or without. Look at me, I’m so unsure Like an illness with no cure, Without prescription— What should I take in and out? That’s what you do… That’s what you do… That’s what you do… Seven a.m.—I wake up You make me smile and I shut up Nine a.m.—get out of bed Look for you inside my head. Five pm—I’m having lunch But it’s you I want to munch 10 at night—not dreaming yet Help me sleep and then forget, Help me sleep and then… Butterflies inside my gut Cause a rattle and won’t stop It’s always the same Whether I ate or not. A bird as little as a star Flaps her wings inside my heart This can’t be too good, Oh, you bet that it’s not! That’s what you do… That’s what you do… That’s what you do… If you think I exaggerate Why don’t you investigate...