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.