Linguistic Treason

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.

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.

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.

In the style of Robert Burns--Winter days with pants

And now, for something completely different: a change of pace today, as I'm trying my hand at an English>Romanian translation, and as is my wont, I pick a largely untranslatable text. Via the most excellent blog Whoopee, I found this hilarious parody after Robert Burns (not by him, Antonia cleared that up!) and all of a sudden, I simply itched to translate it. The result is pretty funny if I dare say so myself (if you're Romanian, that is); I tried to use a lot of archaisms AND regionalisms plus odd and antiquated spellings to capture the quaint and all-too-funny Scottishness of the poem. It was hard, very hard, and I may have invented one or two novel meanings, but I'm relatively pleased with the result.

Winter Days With Pants Robert Burns Antonia Cornwell By candlelight I cast ma mind awa' Tae long dark nights noo buried in the past, For autumn's come again, and brought the dark O' winter: I fear this will be ma last. Och, that I cuid once more a young man be! No fear had I of January's chill; When I wis young I had ma woolly pants Tae wear around ma bum and keep me well. Ma bonny pants of Highland lambswool spun! Wi' drawstrings pulled up tight around ma chuff; They kept me warm from sun tae rising sun, And kept ma wizened balls from falling off. But, reckless fool! I frolick'd in the spring Through prickly fields o' bonnie purple heather, Ma undercrackies snagged upon a sprig, And made a hole tae let in all the weather. Young men take heed, don't underestimate How much can hang on such a slender thread; Ma woolly kecks unravelled in the wind And noo I hae a chilly bum instead. Ma shrivelled nuts in winter's icy hand Have lost all girth, and dinnae stand a chance O' basking in the Summer sun again; I can but dream o' winter days with pants.

Zile de iarnă cu nădragi Robert Burns La lumin’ de lumânare io cuget pe-ndelete La nopţi prealungi şi negre demult ce-s îngropate Căci uite-i toamn-acilea şi-aduse bezna iernii: Mă tem că-i cea din urmă de cari avea-voi parte! Of, cum aş mai pohti să fiu din nou flăcău! De frigul lui ianuar io nu m-aş mai feri; Când fui dănac, aveam nădragi de lână Să-mi ţină cald la cur în nopţi târzii. Ghizdavi nădragi de Highland, din ţigaie lână! Cu şnurul straşnic strâns pe şodolan, Ei mi-au ţinut de cald în orşce săptămână, Şi coaiele-mi-nălbite păstrat-au pe ciolan. Dar, dobitoc ce sunt! Zburdai în primăvară Prin câmpuri prea ţepoase cu mândre buruieni, Şi turul acăţat-a-mi cât să făcea de sară, Şi-o gaură făcut-ai, să între şapte ierni! Aşa că juni, luaţi de samă al mieu acest cuvânt, Şi preţuiţi ce-atârnă de-aşa şubredă aţă; Izmenele-mi de lâna se destrămară-n vânt Iară acuma iacă, mi-s bucile de ghiaţă. Iar ouăle-ovilite în mâna iernii rece Se micşurară groaznic, o ce amară strişte! Şi vara-n soare nu s-or mai petrece; Visez zile de iarnă cu nădragi pe chişte.