Linguistic Treason

Weak Probability

I wrote this about four years ago (in English, of course!), and found it while cleaning up my files (which have migrated through at least 4 computers by now). The translation is quite unfaithful and sounds worse than the original (I guess that's a given, although given that I'm both the author and the translator....oh well!)

Some days are like bookworms, they’re quiet and small, Confined and insipid and munching on letters.   Some days are verbose and relentlessly call On my whimpering brain, and their shouts are like fetters.   Some days are so heavy, maybe heavier still Than a thousand slaves’ burden, all dropped onto one.   Some days are again like a copious meal I want to devour while I bask in the sun.   And then there are days when I probably love you And then there are days when I probably don’t.   Those days are the best and the worst of my lot I would hope I’m in love, but I’m probably not.

Sunt zile ca ceața, tăcute și reci Închise în sine, cum cariul în carte.   Sunt altele iuți, zgomotoase și seci, țipându-mi în creierii dați deoparte.   Sunt zile ce-apasă mai grele decât Povara a sute de sclavi peste unul.   Iar altele sunt ca un picnic, atât De sețoase sub soarele, bunul.   Și-apoi sunt și zile când chiar te iubesc, Și-apoi sunt sunt și zile când nu, nicidecum.   Acelea mă prind în coșmar îndoită: Aș vrea să iubesc, dar nu-s îndrăgostită.

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.....