Linguistic Treason

Emil Brumaru--Amnesia

Ooof...long hiatus here, as I took a break to finish off my dissertation...now it's in the hands of the adviser, and now I'm barely containing my jitters (major revisions are sure to come, and that's the optimistic scenario). I'm taking a break from .. doing anything, really, and trying to forget, like in this sweet little poem by Brumaru, which teaches us how to forget everything:

Amnezie de Emil Brumary dacă iei o portocală şi-o dezbraci in pielea goală ca să-i vezi miezul adânc peste care îngeri plâng cu căpşune-n loc de ochi şi aripi de foi de plopi se întâmplă să uiţi totul...

Amnesia by Emil Brumary Take an orange, strip it down Of its juicy fleshy gown Look into its core so deep Over which the angels weep Strawberries for eyes and sleeves And its wings of poplar leaves That’s how you forget everything.

Emil Brumaru--Elegy

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!

elegie O, vechi şi dragi bucătării de vară, Simt iar în gură gust suav de-amiază Şi în tristeţea care mă-nconjoară Din nou copilăria mea visează: Ienibahar, piper prăjit pe plită, Peşti groşi ce-au adormit în sos cu lapte, Curcani păstraţi în zeama lor o noapte Spre o delicateţe infinită, Ciuperci cât canapeaua, în dantele, icre cu bob bălos ce ochiu-şi cască, Aluaturi tapisate crescând grele Într-o dobitocie îngerească, Moi miezuri de ficaţi în butoiaşe De ou de melc, înlăcrămate dulce, Mujdeiuri ireale, şunci gingaşe Când sufletu-n muştar vrea să se culce, şi-n ceainice vădindu-şi eminenţa Prin fast de irizări şi toarte fine Ceaiuri scăzute pînă la esenţa Trandafirie-a lucrului în sine!

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!

Emil Brumaru--Verlaine told me

Emil Brumaru writes such bawdy, ribald poetry, it's hard for a girl to translate it without turning red up to the tip of her ears. After all, it's hard to translate "pizda" with something other than "(four-letter word that rhymes with punt)." Yet he does it with such sincerely horny tenderness, with such unrestrained and delicate lust, with such gingerly stirring passion, that you can't help but smile, feel a little liberated, and wish you could express yourself as freely and colorfully as he does.

I've decided to tackle a less...let's say, raw (or direct) poem, and so I chose this one, which is rather sweet. My linguistic treasons will become apparent when you compare the final version (right column) with the literal translation (middle).

Verlaine mi-a spus by Emil Brumaru Verlaine mi-a spus în după-amiaza tristă: "De ce îţi laşi femeia ta frumoasă Închisă-vis. Un fluture există Numai o clipă-n vîntul de mătasă. Tu uiţi mereu că-ntr-un izvor căzută Căpşuna, de n-o sorbi, lin putrezeşte Chiar de-i atinsă doar de-un voal de peşte Portocaliu sau de un bot de ciută. Fiindcă pe tine-anume te aşteaptă. Nu-ntîrzia, ci-mbracăte-n veşminte De in curat şi amîndoi, cuminte, Iubiţi-vă, cît roua-i înţeleaptă. Paharul golit laş, pe jumătate, Rămîne-n veci cu buzele umflate."

Verlaine told me by Emil Brumaru (raw version) Verlaine told me that sad afternoon: "Why do you leave your beautiful woman Trapped in a dream. A butterfly exists Only for a moment in the silky wind. You keep forgetting that, if fallen into a spring, The strawberry, if you don't sip [slurp] it, rots Even if just the orange veil of a fish touches it, Or the muzzle of a deer. Because she's waiting especially for you, Don't be late, get dressed in Clean linen clothes, and both, sensibly, Make love, while the dew is still wise [i.e., on]. The glass that's cowardly half-emptied Will never get anything in return for its troubles."

Verlaine told me by Emil Brumaru Verlaine told me one gloomy afternoon: “Why do you trap your girl in a cocoon Of dreams. A butterfly will live For just a second in the wind’s silk sieve. A strawberry that falls into a spring Will slowly molder if touched by the thin And soft resemblance of an orange fin, Or maybe by a deer’s nosy swing. Because it’s only you she’s waiting for, Delay no more, put on your very best And purest garb, and in the nest Of dawn, make love to her—and then some more. The cowardly half-emptied glass will be Forever disappointed and love-free.