Linguistic Treason

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.

Mihai Eminescu--My faith is not in Jehova

Mihai Eminescu does not need any introduction for Romanians, and by rights, it shouldn't need any introduction for non-Romanians, either. I've hesitated to translate anything by him because, well, Corneliu M. Popescu has done a pretty good job of it before. Also, Eminescu is a cultural icon not to be taken lightly.

Also, he's very difficult to translate.

This poem below is one of my (many) favorites; not to mention, it's a fairly accurate reflection of my state of spirit of late. Here's my crack at it (no comments this time):

EU NU CRED NICI ÎN IEHOVA de Mihai Eminescu Eu nu cred nici în Iehova, Nici în Buddha-Sakya-Muni, Nici în viaţă, nici în moarte, Nici în stingere ca unii. Visuri sunt şi unul ş'altul, Si tot una mi-este mie De-oiu trăi în veci pe lume, De-oiu muri în vecinicie. Toate - aceste taine sfinte Pentru om frânturi de limbã — În zădar gândeşti, căci gândul, Zãu, nimic în lume schimbã. Si fiindcă în nimica Eu nu cred—o, daţi-mi pace! Fac astfel cum mie-mi pare Si faceţi precum vã place. Nu mã 'ncântaţi nici cu clasici, Nici cu stil curat şi antic — Toate-mi sunt de o potrivã, Eu rămân ce-am fost:—romantic.

MY FAITH IS NOT IN JEHOVAH by Mihai Eminescu My faith is not in Jehovah, Nor in Buddha-Sakya-Muni, Nor in life or death, not even In extinction, like some loony. All of them are but a dream, And it’s all the same to me Whether I will live forever, Or I’ll die for all eternity. All these many hallowed secrets Language crumbs and broken thought— Think about it all you want, for Thinking, sadly, changes naught. And because there’s really nothing I believe in, let me be! I will do as I will feel like, And you’ll do as you agree. You can’t try to sell me ‘classics’ Or a style that’s scrubbed pedantic, I don’t care for any of it— I will always stay romantic.

Translation or Re-writing: where do you draw the line?

I've recently joined ProZ, a wonderful translators' web community, where I started to participate in some discussions and answer various translation questions (there is a forum where you can accumulate points for answering such questions, in hopes that a potential employer may use that to gauge your "real" expertise in a field). I continue to be amazed at how much I still have to learn, and the extent to which some of the questions asked stump me is almost comical ("remittance leveraging," anyone?). All in all, I'm learning a lot and I'm enjoying myself.

Some questions are in fields so specialized that there is no way even a normal native speaker would know the term in question. I am still amazed at how tough the translator's job must be when he/she is translating concepts that have basically no equivalent in his/her native language, not to mention that in some fields the terminology is still fluid. All in all, juggling these terms is extremely complicated--hats off to those who do so on a regular basis.

Yesterday, I participated in answering a question that raised some interesting issues for me. The question was, how do you translate "Sorcova vesela" into English? (The whole thread is here.)

"Sorcova" is one of those ancient folk customs in which, on New Year's Day, kids go around with a little stick adorned with flowers and tap someone's shoulder to wish them all the best in the New Year. They also sing a cute little song. Sorcova means only that, the little flower-wrapped stick, so it's a highly idiosyncratic word with no equivalent in English. Thus, the first answer that comes to mind is: you don't translate it. No more than you'd translate "Greensleeves" through "mâneci verzi." Or "Auld Lang Syne" through...gee, I don't know, really.

But then one of the respondents wrote hey, the whole thing has been translated already (the song and all), and copied the whole translation in there. Everybody agreed that that's a very good translation, very sweet, very well done; it helped, I guess, that the translation apparently belongs to Ion Minulescu, one of our best-known poets. As an aside, I did not know he did this, I could find no reference to the fact that he translated anything into English, plus he died in the 1940s, so really, I'm not sold on that reference, plus I'm deeply mistrustful of Romanian web references, for reasons I won't go into here. But let's roll with it and say he did translate the "Sorcova" song. What I respectfully would like to say here is, it's not really a translation. To illustrate, I will provide the original, a literal translation, then my (deeply flawed) attempt at translating it with the original rhyme pattenr; and then I'll provide the alleged Minulescu translation. Ready? Here goes:

Sorcova, vesela, Să trăiţi, să-mbătrâniţi, Peste vară, primăvară, Ca un păr, ca un măr, Ca un fir de trandafir Tare ca piatra, Iute ca săgeata, Tare ca fierul, Iute ca oţelul. La anul şi la mulţi ani!

Sorcova, merry one, May you live long, may you grow old, Over summer, over spring, Like a pear tree, like an apple tree, Like a rose stem Tough like a rock Fast like an arrow Tough like iron, Fast like steel. Happy New Year!

Dogwood twig, merry sprig, May you live long, may you grow strong, And the spring will summer bring, Like a cherry tree so merry, Like a rose tuberose, Tough as a stone, Sharp as a bone, Tough like iron grip, Sharp as a steel tip. Happy New Year!

Now here's the alleged Minulescu translation:

The Wishing Carol   May you look with merry eyes   at that little bunch I rise,   tiny flowers may they bring   you an everlasting spring !     All the fragrance, all the bloom,   shall a fairy on her loom   weave for you, and smile, and wait   to open the golden gate !     May your steps be quick and strong,   always right and never wrong !   May you always find the 'clue',   see your dearest dreams come true,   have it always as you like,   and each time a lucky strike !     Healthy,   wealthy,   spick-and-span,   and as merry as you can !

Pretty, isn't it It gets the spirit of the song beautifully, no doubt; it expresses the same warm sentiments; it loosely follows and "translates" the ideas in the original folk songs. But a translation of the original? Hardly. The original is a simple folk song that accompanies an ancient tradition. I have researched this a little bit and "sorcova" comes from the bulgarian сурва̀кам, another super-idiosyncratic word which means, literally, "to wish a Happy New Year by tapping someone's back with a decorated cornel twig"--which is exactly what the Romanian verb, "sorcovi," means. Cornel is a kind of dogwood, hence my translation. And the ancient tradition did require that "sorcova" be made of such dogwood twigs, artificially forced into bloom for that occasion (nowadays, the flowers are made of colored paper tied to a stick).

The folk song is formulaic, with internal rhymes and impenetrable similes ("tare ca piatra" etc.), hardened by usage into self-contained lexical units that don't easily crack open to be translated or interpreted. While the "Minulescu" translation does a beautiful job of interpreting and unpacking some of those meanings, the quasi-hypnotic rhythm of the original is lost. Really, there is little left of it in that version. The version is very literate--which is to say, not folk-ish at all--in its choice of vocabulary, the use of a title, of stanzas, of complex syntactic units (just look at that second stanza) that do not echo the simplicity and cadence of the original. Plus, there are about extra 8 lines in there.

Of course, I am aware that any good translation is just a good interpretation or approximation of the original--just take a peek at my site's title. But I think that, in order to qualify as a translation, a text has to strive to reproduce the intentions, format, meaning, and (very importantly!) sound of the original--not just its general direction. The "Minulescu" translation does not qualify as a translation--it does qualify as a poem in its own right, a pretty one at that, one that reinterprets in a modern manner the spirit of the original. But, in my opinion, it's a re-writing at best, and hardly a translation.

What do you think? Where do you draw the line between a translation and a "new" work of art only loosely based in the original? Are there "degrees" of translation? Is there any way to define them? What are the points on the continuum that we're looking at?

 

And don't tell me that you prefer a beautiful reinterpretation to a flawed but more faithful translation. I get that already!

Mircea Cartarescu--Levantul (3)

A third installment of The Levant (first here, second here). To recap: so far, the young Manoli, traveling on a fast boat in the Levantine archipelago to go meet with his sister and 30 soldiers, is deeply distressed about the fate of his dear country, Wallachia, suffering until a cruel foreign tyrant.The year is somewhere in the first half of the 19th century--anything up to 1848, really; the vocabulary and mood reflect that. The story takes a digressive turn to discuss the charms of the women of different ethnicities (mostly from the Levant, but not only); this makes up for the bulk of today's installment. Of course, none of those charms can be topped by those of the Romanian women, as exemplified by Zenaida, Manoli's sister.

Until now the whole thing can be regarded as a gentle parody bordering on pastiche of the mannerisms, style, etc. of 19th century poets animated by Romantic revolutionary and nationalistic ideas. But something happens at the end of this fragment that, when I first read it 14+ years ago, made my heart flutter--and in a way, it still does. Can you spot it?

Before you get at it, though, you'll see a link, corresponding to the Romanian line: "Multe flori sînt, dar puţine rod in lume o să poarte." If you're Romanian, you probably already know what I'm talking about. If you're not, let me explain: that line is actually taken in its entirety from a famous Eminescu poem, Criticilor mei (To my critics), and in fact, it represents the first two lines of that Eminescu poem. They are pretty famous and will sound familiar to anybody who got a basic education in Romanian (say, at least high school level?). I included the link to the Romanian original; here's a well-accepted translation, which I couldn't use for reasons of rhyme and rhythm. Cartarescy borrows that line, and it works seamlessly here, but definitely not in the sense that it was initially used by Eminescu (which was more aphoristic, and referring to poets and their work's endurance, rather then to women). (If you want to know more about Eminescu, just do a basic Google search--there are too many sites and at the moment I don't feel I can recommend one over the other.)

No time for a long tedious account of my treasons....too numerous....just enjoy!

Greaca are drăgănele, şi perfum, şi-nţelepciune Ce primit-a de la graţii, musulmana ca de prune Are ochii ce prin deasa feregea abia-i prevezi; Frînca are dinţi de boabe de sidef şi ochii verzi; O chirghiză face-n piaţă mahmudele zece mii, Vai, nebun ar fi acela ce pe ea ar tîrgui, Că i-ar soarbe sărutarea peste perne de şiraz De-ar rămîne fără suflu, făr’ bujorii din obraz! Machedoana, nu am coarde l-a mea arfă îndestule Să îi cînt zulufii negri, sînurile nesătule Şi sprîncenele-mbinate, parcă-i arcul lui Amor; E trufaşă dar e dulce şi-are ciucuri la botfor; Neagră este egipţianca, ca o noapte de iubire, Se topeşte in desmierduri, gungureşte în delire, Arde şi se-ncolăceşte ca o viţă pe arac Pe un boi de june mîndru; talianca e un drac Ce te-nşeala şi te vinde şi se uită numa-n punge Şi ibovnicul îşi pune la răscruci de te împunge; Sîrba cea cu salbe multe peste peptul ca de crin E sfioasă ca şi ciuta, după ea cu toţi suspin. Nimărui ea nu-i dă floarea junii sale feciorii Şi se face maică blînda într-un schit de pe pustii; Multe flori sînt, dar puţine rod in lume o să poarte Multe mărgaritarele sus pe ceriu ard departe; Multe sînt femei cu ochii neguratici şi codaţi Dar nici una nu-i mai dulce ca rumânca din Carpaţi. Pletele prea lunge-i curge ca o apă volutoasă Pîn’la la gleznele ivite sub şalvarii de mătasă, Pîn’la imineii d’aur şi cu vîrfuri răsucite, Faţa-i este alabastru, pleoapele-i sînt înnegrite Cu kohl scump de Kios, pleoape ca ghiocii zuvelcaţi; Gene grele şi-ncurcate, paşi mărunţi şi cletinaţi Inima-i se duce-n taină dup-al ţării beizade, Calimachi, suflet putred, dar frumos ca viaţa e, Fiul cînelui ce ţara o mînca şi-o bea la masa Şi curvarul mahalalei ce din răutăţi nu iasă. El e ghimpele ce-n sînul Zenaidei, rotunzior, Işi făcu sălaş ca furii.                               Dar, effendi narator, Cam grăbişi cu diegesis şi te luă gura-nainte Să purcedem dar din locul ce-l lăsarăm fără minte, Să ne înturnăm la junul Manoil, ce lîngă cîrmă Valul verde, orizonul cu privirea el le scîrmă..

The Greek woman has gold trinkets, perfumes, wisdom and insight— Gifts from Graces; the' Arab woman is so dear to the sight And her eyes are plums you barely see through the veil’s screen; The French woman’s teeth are made of pearls, her eyes are green; A Kyrgyz woman’s worth ten thousand gold piastres in the market, Why, a fool would be the one to bargain for that charming packet, For she’d sip his kiss for hours on the satin bed sheet hollow Till he’s left utterly breathless, till his cheeks are pale and sallow. For the girl that’s Macedonian, my harp’s chords may fail the test, When it sings of her black curls, or of her hungry heaving breasts, And her interlocking eyebrows like Cupid’s bow between her tresses She is proud but sweet as honey and her shoes are hemmed with tassels. The Egyptian’s dark and fragrant like a night of sinful love, She will melt under caresses, moan and coo just like a dove, Burn and coil around a handsome youth like vines on posts, In her ecstasy; but the Italian is a devil at her most, Who’ll betray you and will only have her eyes set on your gold, And will have her lover stab you in the heart, you poor cuckold! And the Serbian, her bosom hidden under rows of charms, Is fair and shy just like a deer, and all want her in their arms. But to no one does she yield the flower of her virgin youth, In a hermitage she’ll hide then, as a nun seeking the truth. This world has so many flowers, but so few will sweet fruit bear, Many tiny stars are burning up above in the tall air; Many women of the world have dark and pretty almond eyes, But none sweeter than the girl who’s born under Romanian skies. Her too long and shiny tresses flow like a voluptuous stream Down and round her tiny ankles which in silky shalwars gleam, Down to her embroidered golden shoes with curled-up toes. Cheeks are sculpted alabaster, eyelids darkened with Kios, Costly black kohl—so her eyelids are like furtive cowrie shells. Eyelashes are long and heavy, her steps small and hip-propelled. Secretly her heart belongs to Calimach, the heir to throne, Rotten soul, but fairer than the Alexander Macedon. Son of the infernal bastard who this country drinks and eats, And the neighborhood’s philanderer who will terrorize the streets. He’s the thorn who’n Zenaida’s round and cozy breast Nested like a thief.                           Effendi story-teller, you should rest, Methinks that your diegesis is a little rushed and scurried; Let’s proceed from the same place we left before you hurried, Let’s go back to our young Manoli, at the prow, Who the green wave, the horizon, scopes under his eager brow.

Miron Radu Paraschivescu--Zapezi

It's been snowing all day here in Philly, and as is the case with urban snow, the results are, at least during the day, less than spectacular. Trucks of iron and exhaust turn the snow instantaneously into unattractive mush. The last breath of fall is still lingering above the leaves in the trees, enough to melt the first layer of hesitant snow into a dripping blanket of sleet. The transparency of the snow, even when it accumulates, makes it look gray under the downcast sky.

And so it is that I long for clear, blue skies over canopies of pure white snow in wide-open spaces. Like in this sweet little poem by Miron Radu Paraschivescu:

Zăpezi de Miron Radu Paraschivescu Acum, pe-ntregul câmp n-ai să citeşti Decât cuneiforme păsăreşti. Dar spre-a fi scrise, trebuia să vină Din cer, transport de linişti şi lumină. Atâta alb, atâta dăruire, Ca un ecou din nemărginire. Atâta alb, tot alb jur împrejur, Dând celor vii şi mai exact contur.

Snow by Miron Radu Paraschivescu Th’entire field has turned, from tree to tree,  Into a bird cuneiform marquee. One needs, however, to properly write, A heavenly cargo of quiet and light. Such selfless white, such generosity, --A boundless echo from infinity. So white, so white is all around, so pure, Giving the living a finer contour.

Dorothy Parker--One Perfect Rose

Dorothy Parker is not nearly as famous in Romania as she is in the US, and that's, frankly, a shame. Here's one of her most famous poems in my inaccurate rendition. I wanted to preserve the abab rhyme all over (notice there are only two rhymes in the whole poem)--which gave way to quite a bunch of linguistic treasons:

- "deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet"--basically, "pure" and "scented" have no equivalent in the translation--but the meaning is roughly preserved;

- I added three "extra" epithets: "cocheta" for "flower" (first stanza); "suav" (suave) for the "language of the floret" (2nd stanza), and "desueta" (old-fashioned) for her "fate" in the last stanza. Yes, to preserve rhythm/rhyme. Leave me alone.

Dorothy Parker One Perfect Rose A single flower he sent me, since we met.      All tenderly his messenger he chose; Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet--     One perfect rose. I knew the language of the floweret;    "My fragile leaves," it said, "his heart enclose." Love long has taken for his amulet    One perfect rose. Why is it no one ever sent me yet    One perfect limousine, do you suppose? Ah no, it's always just my luck to get    One perfect rose.

Dorothy Parker Un trandafir perfect Ne-am întâlnit, şi-o floare el mi-a trimis, cochetă.    Cu grijă mesagerul şi l-a ales, direct Din inimă, cu roua încă sclipind, discretă—,    Un trandafir perfect. Ştiam suavul grai vorbit de-acea floretă    “Gingaşele-mi petale ţin inima-i din piept.” Căci dragostea de mult şi-a luat drept amuletă    Un trandafir perfect. De ce nu îmi trimite nimeni o perfectă,    Frumoasă limuzină, oare-i drept? Ah, nu, aceasta-i soarta mea, mai desuetă:    Un trandafir perfect.

Alexandru Andries--The Fog

Here's the video for Ceaţa (The Fog), this bitter-sweet song, with a Citizen-Kane vibe to it. Simply beautiful. I would comment more on my translation but I'm so tired today...

Ceaţa de Alexandru Andrieş De departe bărbat, de aproape copil, Strîngînd tare la piept un secret inutil, Un cuvînt nerostit nici cînd scria poezii... De departe bărbaţi, de aproape copii! Oameni vin şi se duc şi de el se ciocnesc, Trenuri zboară pieziş, telefoane-i vorbesc, Noaptea n-are opt ore, ziua n-are sfîrşit De departe cărunt, de-aproape-obosit... Trei femei îi zîmbesc, toate trei ca de vată, Tipărite cu grijă pe hîrtie cretată, De departe-s frumoase, de aproape la fel: O revistă şi-o carte-ntr-un pat de hotel. Şi nevasta-l aşteaptă şi copiii lui cresc, Avioane îl iau şi îl duc şi-l opresc, Cifre-n loc de cuvinte, peste răni care dor Şi nimic nu rimează într-un astfel de zbor... Poţi să nu-l laşi să doarmă, poţi să nu-i dai mîncare, Poţi să-i tai bucăţele fiecare ţigară, Poţi să-i faci praf maşina, banii... banii poţi să-i arunci, Ochii lui încă vor jucăria de-atunci... De departe bărbat, de aproape copil, Strîngînd tare la piept un secret inutil, Un cuvînt nerostit nici cînd scria poezii... De departe bărbaţi, de-aproape copii ! De departe bărbaţi, de aproape copii...

The Fog by Alexandru Andrieş From a distance a man, from close-up just a kid, Holding fast to his chest all the secrets he hid, Words unspoken and lost even back when he rhymed From afar look like men, but they’re children inside… People come, people go, people bump into him, Telephones blare and shout, trains take flight on a whim, Nights have never eight hours, days are endless and wired From afar he has grays, from close-up he’s too tired… Women smile straight at him, made of cotton and vapor, Printed with proper care on high-end glossy paper, From afar they are pretty, in close-up they still are: Shiny magazine covers on the room’s mini bar. And his wife keeps on waiting, and his children grow up, Planes take him far away, and they fly and they stop, Words replaced by dry numbers, over wounds that cause pain, And there’s nothing that rhymes while he’s riding this train. You can deprive him of sleep, give him nothing to eat, You can throw all his smokes, in the trash, on the street, You can spend all his money, his car—you can destroy, His eyes still long to see his beloved old toy. From a distance a man, from close-up just a kid, Holding fast to his chest all the secrets he hid, Words unspoken and lost even back when he rhymed, From afar look like men, but they’re children inside… From afar look like men, but they’re children inside…