Stephen Spender Prize 2012 - for poetry in translation - Stephen Spender Trust
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Stephen Spender Prize 2012
for poetry in translationStephen Spender Prize 2012
for poetry in translation
Winners of the 14-and-under category
First Joint second Joint second
David Meijer Damayanti Chatterjee Thomas Franchi
‘The Lion Is Loose!’ ‘Omolkaanthi’ ‘To a Nose’
by Annie MG Schmidt by Nirendranath Chakraborty by Francisco de Quevedo
(Dutch) (Bengali) (Spanish)
Commended Max Birkin
‘Thinking of Holland’ by Hendrik Marsman (Dutch)
Emelia Lavender
‘If It Rained Tears’ by Boris Vian (French)
Isobel Lowe and Chloe Baker
‘The Fox and the Crow’ by Jean de la Fontaine (French)
Joint winners of the 18-and-under category
James Martin Francis Scarr Amanda Thomas
‘Night Impression’ ‘The Destruction of Magdeburg’ ‘Abdication’ by
by Paul Verlaine by Goethe Fernando Pessoa
(French) (German) (Portuguese)
Commended Sarah Fletcher
‘You Want Me Pale’ by Alfonsina Storni (Spanish)
Ryan Frost
‘Moments’ by Jorge Luis Borges (Spanish)
James Martin
‘Untitled’ by Anna Akhmatova (Russian)
Jack Newman
‘To the Princess Ulrique of Prussia’ by Voltaire (French)
3Winners of the Open category
First Second Third
Kaarina Hollo Patricia Hann Jane Tozer
‘Stillborn 1943: Calling Limbo’ ‘The Sunflower’ ‘The Gibbet’
by Derry O’Sullivan by Eugenio Montale by François Villon
(Irish) (Italian) (French)
Commended Antoinette Fawcett
‘Alcyone’ by Ed Leeflang (Dutch)
Commended Margot Harrison
from ‘The Lament for Art O’Leary’ by Eibhlín Dubh Ní Chonaill (Irish)
Seán Hewitt
‘A Jackeen Keens for the Blasket’ by Brendan Behan (Irish)
Brian Holton
‘Spring Sun on the Watterside Clachan’ by Du Fu (Classical Chinese)
John RG Turner
‘Classical Walpurgisnacht’ by Paul Verlaine (French)
Peter Whale
‘A Woman’s Love, Rime 208’ Gáspara Stampa (Italian)
4Introduction
This has been a very good year: more entries than ever; more Susan Bassnett, Edith Hall, Patrick McGuinness and
languages than ever (51 – smashing last year’s record of 43); George Szirtes are the most enthusiastic of judges, seemingly
and entrants ranging in age from 8 to 86. This was the year relishing the difficult task of comparing apples and pears
in which, not content with having an unprecedented three (not to mention lychees and kiwis) in order to agree the
winners in the 14-and-under category, the judges asked me Best Fruit in Show. I thank the four of them, Erica Wagner
whether we couldn’t have five winners in the Open category. I at The Times for her promotion of the prize, and, lastly, the
apologise here to Seán Hewitt and John RG Turner for saying Dr Mortimer and Theresa Sackler Foundation and the Old
‘no’ and cruelly insisting on a vote to decide the top three. Possum’s Trust for their generous sponsorship.
Robina Pelham Burn
Director of the Stephen Spender Trust
Judges’ comments
Judging this prize is a return to a piece that held special motivation had been ‘a desire to stretch
always a pleasure, memories. myself outside of the syllabus’, which I
partly because of the We admired translations of very well would guess motivated several others
great range of work known poems, such as Montale’s ‘The as well. Many translators in all sections
submitted, partly Sunflower’, and translations of poets wrote about the various stages of their
also because of the whose work is very difficult to translate translating, often starting with a word-
interaction between the judging panel. well, such as Gáspara Stampa and Paul for-word rendering and then moving
This year our decisive meeting lasted Verlaine. High on my personal list of on to shape a new poem in English,
longer than usual, not because there fine translations was Peter Mullins’ which of course is how many of the
were major disagreements but because superb rendering of nine short poems greatest poetry translators have also
we had difficulty singling out winners from the Orkneyinga Saga and a comic worked.
from a particularly strong crop of poem I did not know by the Mexican Poetry transcends all kinds of
entries. Our decision to award the poet Renato Leduc, ‘Epistle to a Lady boundaries and speaks to readers
Open prize to an Irish poem was who has never seen an Elephant’, across cultures and generations, as this
unanimous, but we were also deeply translated by Annie McDermott. I also prize continues to demonstrate. We
impressed by two other Irish entries, admired a sequence of poems by Georg had a huge range of languages this
a beautiful short poem by Brendan Heym on the French Revolution, year, and our winners include poems
Behan translated by Seán Hewitt and shockingly violent but very powerfully from Dutch, Bengali, Spanish, German,
Margot Harrison’s version of the rendered by Gilbert Carr. French, Italian and Irish, with our
famous ‘Lament for Art O’Leary’. The same ambitious choice of youngest winning translator being 12,
How does a panel reach its poems was also evident in the 14-and- and our oldest 86, a fact which only
conclusions is a question often asked. under category. We had no hesitation adds to the pleasure and privilege of
There is no simple answer, for all sorts in choosing the winner, and were serving as a judge for this important
of criteria come into play: crucial of impressed by the confidence with prize.
course is the effectiveness of the poem which some very young translators Susan Bassnett
in English, along with evidence of the demonstrated their skills and obviously
strategies employed by the translator in enjoyed the experience of translating, I read all the entries
creating that poem. We also consider the particularly of comic poems. We found this year against
difficulties facing a translator, which is two Dutch poems in our final list, the backdrop of the
not to suggest that the more problems both excellent: Max Birkin’s ‘Thinking Olympics. This turned
posed by a poem, the more likely it of Holland’ did not win, but is a fine out to be a wonderfully
is to win, but rather that it is clear translation that impressed me greatly. appropriate context – it
that in some cases the translator has There were many commentaries was not just that so many different
had to work very hard indeed to find in the 18-and-under category about world languages were to be heard
creative solutions. It was interesting the process of translating, often in British sports venues, but that so
to see how many extremely difficult stressing the difficulties encountered, many British athletes were revealed to
poems were attempted this year in particularly with complex grammatical have roots or ancestry in other lands.
all categories, and it was also notable structures. Interestingly there were It was heartening to feel this inspiring
that many commentaries referred to fewer classical language entries this hybridity reflected in translations
personal encounters with poems and time, though some difficult modern from Bengali and Yoruba, Tamil and
poets, often through hearing a poet language poems were attempted, Sicilian, Ukrainian and Chinese.
read at a literary festival or through and one young translator wrote that Amongst this year’s translators,
5Judges’ comments
moreover, the intensity of the Brilliance at concealing technical refuge-seeking and the consequences
competition seemed to mirror the effort was what for me distinguished of war and revolution.
rivalry on the running track and in the Amanda Thomas’ deceptively simple The presence of Britain and
velodrome. In the Open competition, ‘Abdication’ by Fernando Pessoa in Ireland’s oldest indigenous languages
at least: although deciding who should the 18-and-under category, although – Welsh, Irish, and Scottish Gaelic – in
appear on the final shortlist was not it was impossible to make a qualitative a competition like this is especially
difficult, choosing between these judgement between her translation heartening, and we saw both clas-
finalists proved virtually impossible. and those of the other two winners. sic and contemporary poems in those
A great translation must fulfil In the youngest group, David Meijer’s languages translated with exceptional
several criteria: technical cleverness version of ‘The Lion Is Loose!’ by skill and imaginative sympathy. There
needs to be combined with emotional Annie M.G. Schmidt seemed to me were also some marvellously creative
authenticity, daring image with to combine precociously mature wry translations from the Chinese into
rhythmic discipline. Kaarina Hollo’s humour with a Dutch lilting rhythm Scots by Brian Holton, an act which,
translation of Derry O’Sullivan won and atmosphere. leaving aside the quite excellent results,
because, in the end, we privileged Perhaps it was the Olympic flame challenges us to define what we take to
her gut-wrenching evocation of which lit up this year’s entries. More mean by ‘English’. In any case, the
past tragedy, with its implicit social poets, more languages, and more presence of these languages, carrying
commentary, over the dazzling verbal far flung parts of the world were over their riches into English, seems
artistry of Patricia Hann’s take on represented than I can remember. to me to enlarge our sense of what a
Montale’s ‘Sunflower’ and the grim But more importantly, many more British literary heritage might be, and
Gallic humour, perfectly welded to translators showed a willingness to made me think that if we in the UK
metre, in Jane Tozer’s ‘Gibbet’ by take risks – to speak from the heart as wanted to go beyond Anglocentrism,
Villon. much as the head, to remember that a we could start by seeing the riches
But there were at least thirty other linguistic conversion needs to convey within our shores. This was for me,
outstanding, cogent translations in the clout and outlook-transforming this year at any rate, the competition’s
this year’s Open category. The phrase potential of the original as well as greatest pleasure.
that ran repeatedly round my head its inventiveness. After all, Horace’s Thinking and talking about transla-
was the great Latin poet Horace’s other great dictum was that the tion can be exhausting and repetitive.
advice to all who would express very best art is not only intensely This is because it’s inconclusive, which
themselves in verse: ars est celare pleasurable but ethically and socially is a good thing. It is in fact as incon-
artem, ‘the art lies in concealing the worthwhile. clusive as thinking and talking about
art’. Horace was the greatest of all Edith Hall poetry itself. As with poetry, the
the ancient Latin writers at creative thinking and the talking, the theo-
adoption of Greek metre to his own This was my second rising and the postulating, bear no
tongue, camouflaging the arduous year as a Spender Prize relation to the final product. You can
process of rhythmical assimilation judge, and I continue go to all the translation conferences
under a sheen of effortless grace and to be impressed by in the world, read all the books, write
style. Particular favourites of mine the range – the wid- essay after essay on ‘method’ and
from the metrical standpoint included ening range, I think ‘theory’, but in the end it’s just you
Peter Mullins’ translations from the – of languages entered. This year we and the text. What makes the best of
Orkneyinga Saga, and Peter Whale’s read translations not just from the these entries so good is the way each
‘A Woman’s Love, Rime 208’ by European languages we might have translator had understood that, like
Gáspara Stampa. expected to see, but from Bengali, the acrobat in the circus, when the
There were some fine attempts Romanian, Bulgarian, Polish, Russian, lights go out it’s just them and the
at translating from ancient Greek Chinese, Norwegian, Kurdish and tightrope (let’s leave aside the ques-
and Latin authors, especially Paul more. It’s hardly surprising, since the tion of safety net for the moment). I
Batchelor’s other-worldly version Spender competition postbag must read translations which were better
of Lucan’s witch-scene and Ruth inevitably, despite poetry’s marginal- and more inventive, subtler and more
Muttlebury’s adroit take on ised status, reflect something of the nuanced, than anything I could do
Theocritus. It was refreshing for diversity of the world we inhabit. It myself. Some of the translators here
me to be treated to less well known reflects, too (as the poems from the are so good it’s a wonder they don’t
ancient poets, including Solon the Kurdish, Arabic and other languages have books out. All seem to have come
archaic Athenian singer-lawgiver, and testify), the less comfortable realities to the poems they worked on with a
Aratus who made polished poetry out which make that world diverse: forced mix of complete creative freshness and
of the stars he saw in the night-sky. and often violent migration, exile, deep knowledge not just of the text
6Judges’ comments
but of its eco-system of allusion and of the poem to London without any Tozer from the French of Villon all
reference, its place in its own culture as judder on the rails though it was left me breathless in admiration, each
well as the place it might have in ours run close by Damayanti Chatterjee’s in an entirely different way. But the
once it had made it across into English. version of Chakraborty from the commended poems too were a delight.
What makes this prize unique is Bengali – another pleasure. Antoinette Fawcett, Margot Harrison,
that it requires a translator to write Not that translating from unusual Seán Hewitt, Brian Holton, John
a commentary explaining her or his languages was an advantage of course Turner, Peter Whale, and more... I wish
choices and decisions. This is no mere and Thomas Franchi’s version of I could publish them all. Marvellous.
addendum to the competition: it’s a Quevedo’s gorgeous tease of a poem, George Szirtes
chance for the judges to get an insight ‘To a Nose’, was joint second in the
into the process of art itself. I recom- same section, and the joint winners of
mend the commentaries to you with the 18-and under category – unusually,
almost as much enthusiasm as I rec- it was impossible to split them this
ommend the translations themselves. year – are three very different poems,
The best of these commentaries – and translated from French (Verlaine),
there were many dazzlingly clever and German (Goethe) and Portuguese
penetrating ones – understood that (Pessoa). I don’t think this was the
translation is a mix of critical and best year for this age group but all
creative engagement with the origi- three winners – James Martin, Francis
nal. The translators tested out their Scarr and Amanda Thomas – took
ideas, scrutinised their approaches, but on difficult tasks and made energetic,
they also played with their interpreta- convincing poems from the material.
tions in ways that directly fed into the It was, however, a deep and rich
final product. The process of reflec- year for the Open category and the
tion itself added to the translations list of winners and commended could
and made them better, and we should easily have been double the length.
think of translation in the way it is It was here that the various strategies
presented to us in this brochure and of translation were fully explored.
demonstrated by this competition: as Because there are many strategies, I
a symbiotic process where creativity thought about these in some detail on
and reflection work together to make a blog that people might care to read:
something that, quite simply, would http://georgeszirtes.blogspot.co.uk/
not otherwise exist. 2012/09/judging-translations.html.
Patrick McGuinness Translation is not a simple act. The
conclusion of the blog is that the
Having been a judge for translation of a first-rate poem should
the past few years it has be ‘apprehended as a first-rate poem in
been fascinating to see itself’. The poem is the business in this
tides come and go. The case, not the exhaustive exegetics of a
wave of La Fontaine given text. That exegesis is assimilated
among the youngest in the act of creating the shadow poem
group for example, was nudged aside we call the translation.
by Prévert, and now, goodness knows, It took ages to decide the winner.
it is replaced by Rimbaud, Verlaine Sometimes it is the sheer spell of
and Catullus – the young mature subject matter as treated by the original
ever earlier! In terms of numbers the poem, quietly and subtly conveyed by
major Europeans languages – Spanish, the translation that takes our breath
French, German and Italian – continue away; sometimes it is the grace of
to dominate all three groups, so it is a the original poem as it is applied
great delight this year that the 14-and- to a particular subject, rendered
under category has been won by a into grace in English; sometimes it
remarkably nimble translation from is the appropriate virtuosity of the
the Dutch of Annie M. G. Schmidt. translation against high odds. Kaarina
David Meijer’s ‘The Lion Is Loose’ Hollo from the Irish, Patricia Hann
even manages to transplant the location from the Italian of Montale, and Jane
714-and-under category
De leeuw is los! The Lion Is Loose!
De leeuw is los! De leeuw is los! The lion is loose! The lion is loose!
Hij wandelt al door de straten. He’s strolling down the street.
Hij wil naar ‘t Amsterdamse bos, He wants to go to London’s woods,
Dat heb ik wel in de gaten. and look for something to eat.
Hij bromt en hij briest en hij brult He growls and grumbles and grunts
en iedereen schrikt zich een bult. at everyone that he confronts.
Daar is ie al op de Postzegelmarkt, There he is on Wimbledon lawn,
daar loopt ie al over het Singel! there walks on Downing Street!
De tram blijft staan en klingelt hard The bus has to stop and beeps its horn
van klingeldeklingeldeklingel. like beepedybeepedybeep.
Het hele verkeer staat stil... The whole lane comes to a halt…
en de tramconducteur geeft een gil! and prepares for the lion’s assault!
Nu is hij op de Overtoom! Now he’s there in Bloomsbury!
We worden hoe langer hoe banger... The longer we’re here the more afraid…
En iedereen klimt in z’n eigen boom, And everyone hides in his or her tree,
de timmerman en de behanger. the carpenter and the kitchen maid.
O! Roept de pianostemmer, Oh! shouts the picture framer,
waar blijft nou die leeuwentemmer! where on earth is that lion tamer!
O kijk, daar komt een jongetje aan, Oh look, there comes a boy,
o, zou z’n moeder dat weten? what a brave young soul.
Tjee, kijk dat jongetje daar eens staan! Do you think his mother knows,
Straks wordt ie opgevreten! that lion could swallow him whole?!
Wie is dat jongetje dan? Who is that young boy then?
Werempel, het is onze Jan...! Oh my, that’s little Ben…!
Hij haalt een klontje uit z’n zak, He takes a yarn ball from his bag,
Wat gaat hij toch beginnen? and with an anxious shriek…
De leeuw wordt mak! De leeuw wordt mak! The lion’s gone meek! The lion’s gone meek!
De leeuw begint te spinnen! The lion starts to purr!
Hij aait hem eens over zijn rug He even strokes his fur
en brengt hem naar ‘t circus terug. Hoi! and returns him to the circus. Hurray!
En brengt hem naar het circus terug. And returns him to the circus. Hurrah!!!!
Hoera!!!!
Annie M.G. Schmidt Translated from the Dutch
by David Meijer
Reproduced by kind permission
of the Estate of Annie M.G. Schmidt
and Querido Publishers
David Meijer’s commentary
I have chosen to translate this particular Because they are children’s stories, the words. It was simply a question of trial and
poem because Annie M.G. Schmidt’s rhyming of the scentences plays an impor- error, to make sure I kept the right balance.
stories play a large role in the childhood of tant part in the flow of the poem, so I sim- One other thing I translated was the
any Dutch boy. There are very few Dutch ply couldn’t afford not to have the poem place the poem was set in. The place
children who have never heard of ‘Jip en rhyme in the translation. It is very difficult names featured in the original are well
Janneke’ or ‘Pluk van de Petteflat’. I myself however to keep the balance between keep- known throughout the Netherlands but are
was always read poems by her when I was ing the rhymes and keeping the storyline. virtually unheard of in England. I therefore
young, and therefore thought it was most Sometimes I resorted to changing the rhyme replaced the place names in Amsterdam
appropriate to use her as a representative scheme to avoid such problems, sometimes with place names in London to make the
for Dutch poetry here in England. I had to change the original meaning of the poem more relatable.
814-and-under category
অমলকাি� Omolkaanthi
অমলকাি� আমার বন্ধু, Omolkaanthi, my friend,
ইস্কুলে আমরা একসঙ্গে পড়তাম। We went to school together,
রোজ দেরি করে ক্লাসে আসতো, পড়া পারতো না, He always arrived late,
শব্দরূপ জিজ্ঞেস করলে And he never tested well,
এমন অবাক হয়ে জানলার দিকে তাকিয়ে থাকতো যে When asked about Sanskrit declensions,
দেখে ভারী কষ্ট হত আমাদের। He stared so dumbfounded out of the window,
It was painful to watch,
আমরা কেউ মাষ্টার হতে চেয়েছিলাম, কেউ ডাক্তার, কেউ উকিল।
অমলকাি� সে সব কিছু হতে চায়নি। Some of us wanted to be teachers,
সে রোদ্দুর হতে চেয়েছিল! Some doctors,
ক্ষান্তবর্ষণে কাক ডাকা বিকেলের সেই লাজুক রোদ্দুর, Some lawyers,
জাম আর জামফলের পাতায় Omolkaanthi didn’t want any of that,
যা নাকি অল্প একটু হাসির মতন লেগে থাকে। He wanted to be the sunshine!
The type of sunshine, that
আমরা কেউ মাষ্টার হয়েছি, কেউ ডাক্তার, কেউ উকিল। On rainbowed afternoons filled with birdsong,
অমলকাি� রোদ্দুর হতে পারেনি। Lingers like a shy smile,
সে এখন অন্ধকার একটা ছাপাখানায় কাজ করে। On the leaves of tropical trees.
মাঝে মধ্যে আমার সঙ্গে দেখা করতে আসে,
চা খায়, এটা ওটা গল্প করে, তারপর বলে, ‘উঠি তাহলে’। Some of us became teachers,
আমি ওকে দরজা পর্যন্ত এগিয়ে দিয়ে আসি। Some doctors,
Some lawyers,
আমাদের মধ্যে যে এখন মাষ্টারি করে, But Omolkaanthi didn’t become the sunshine,
অনায়াসে সে ডাক্তার হতে পারত, He now works in a dark printing shop,
যে ডাক্তার হতে চেয়েছিল, From time to time he visits,
উকিল হলে তার এমন কিছু ক্ষতি হত না। Drinks tea,
অথচ সকলেরি ইচ্ছাপূরণ হল, এক অমলকাি� ছাড়া। Makes small talk,
অমলকাি� রোদ্দুর হতে পারেনি। Then says ‘I’ll be rising then’,
সেই অমলকাি�, রোদ্দুরের কথা ভাবতে ভাবতে I show him to the door,
যে একদিন রোদ্দুর হতে চেয়েছিল।।
The one amidst us who became a teacher,
Could have easily been a doctor,
The one that became a doctor,
Wouldn’t have lost out by becoming a lawyer,
However, their dreams all came true,
But not Omolkaanthi’s,
He couldn’t become the sunshine,
That same Omolkaanthi,
Who, every day, was enchanted by the sun,
wanting nothing but to be it
Couldn’t.
Nirendranath Chakraborty Translated from the Bengali
by Damayanti Chatterjee
Damayanti Chatterjee’s commentary
I chose this poem because the original reasons why and how. Most of all, the setting’. I felt I should keep the translation
is simple, with no rhyme or metre, but poet leaves us thinking about the injustice to one word to follow the poetry of the
still conveys a profound message. If I of it, and makes us want to change it original, so I chose ‘rainbowed’, as this
chose a poem like this, I could focus somehow. word has similar connotations.
on getting the message and emotion of When approaching this poem, I decided Another tricky bit is the line ‘Then
the poet across, which I believe is the to twist some of the exact translations to says “I’ll be rising then”,’ – the natural
most important part of any poem. It’s get the emotion across because I felt this verb to use there is ‘getting up’, however
about an ordinary person, who wanted to was more important than a word-for- in the Bengali, the verb for ‘getting up’
do something extraordinary. And when word translation. For example, the phrase is also the one used to say the sun is
all the other ordinary people got their ‘rainbowed afternoon’ was a problem as, ‘rising’ – and this is a direct reference to
ordinary wish, he, Omolkaanthi, was left in the Bengali, one word was used to Omolkaanthi’s dream of becoming the
without his extraordinary dream. The describe this, which exactly meant ‘a sunshine. But in English, the pun’s lost if
poet leaves us without an explanation for summery afternoon just after the rain I use ‘getting up’, so I used ‘rising’ as this
this, so we’re left coming up with our own stops and the sun peeks out just before is the verb we use for the sun.
914-and-under category
A una nariz To a Nose
Érase un hombre a una nariz pegado, There was once a man who had a nose.
érase una nariz superlativa, It was a most impressive nose,
érase una nariz sayón y escriba, the nose of a killer,
érase un peje espada muy barbado. a writer’s nose,
a hairy pointed sword of a nose.
Era un reloj de sol mal encarado,
érase una alquitara pensativa, It was a like a badly-shaped sundial,
érase un elefante boca arriba, pensive and still,
era Ovidio Nasón más narizado. it was an elephant turned upside down,
it was Ovid’s nose, but…nosier.
Érase un espolón de una galera,
érase una pirámide de Egipto, It was like the breakwater from a galley,
las doce Tribus de narices era. it was an Egyptian pyramid,
it was the twelve tribes of noses.
Érase un naricísimo infinito,
muchísimo nariz, nariz tan fiera. It was a peach of a nose,
An infinite mass of nose,
A nose
so
fierce.
Francisco Quevedo Translated from the Spanish
by Thomas Franchi
Thomas Franchi’s commentary
When translating this poem I came to a fact. The second hurdle I hit was when so the historical context is also important
few hurdles but still had fun and enjoyed the poem says, ‘era Ovidio Nasón más as well as the overall humour side of the
the translation. I started by quickly narizado’. I chose to translate the line as poem. The last point which I had to really
translating the poem, just to get the feel ‘it was Ovid’s nose, but…nosier’ because think about was the penultimate line,
of it and then I read the Spanish over and it replicates Quevedo’s word play in the ‘érase un naricísimo infinito’. I wanted
over again to try and get behind it. Once I original Spanish. Secondly, I know that to really emphasise the superlative in an
had properly understood the poem, I went the ón ending in Spanish can be used as interesting way and not by just saying
back to the beginning and went through it an intensifier, and thought that this could ‘the biggest nose’ or something alike.
very slowly. be well expressed by the comparative The way which I found to express the
The first thing that I noticed about adjective ‘nosier’. size of the nose was by using the word
the poem is that it is a sonnet. Although Another challenge which I faced whilst ‘peach’ which I think really expresses
sonnets usually follow iambic-pentameter, translating this poem was the line ‘las the bulbous nature of the nose as well as
this poem doesn’t so I didn’t translate doce Tribus de narices era’. With this line being a good English idiom.
it using this either. The main problem I had to think about either expanding To add to the overall effect of the poem,
I found was that I had to find a way of the meaning or changing it due to racial which is as much for a reader as it is for a
translating the word érase in a way so that overtones. After thinking about this, I listener, I have reshaped the poem and the
the emphasis of the poem didn’t switch decided to leave it in because it gives some lines to look like an old man’s nose, maybe
from the nose to érase. I had to do this due historical context to the poem. This poem even Quevedo’s? I think that this enhances
to the sheer amount of times Francisco was written about one hundred years the poem even more and is a fitting tribute
Quevedo used this word, nine times in after the Jews were expelled from Spain, to Quevedo and indeed Ovid.
1018-and-under category
Effet de nuit Night Impression
La nuit. La pluie. Un ciel blafard que déchiquette Night. Rain. A pale sky serrated
De flèches et de tours à jour la silhouette With spires and open towers by the silhouette
D’une ville gothique éteinte au lointain gris. Of the tenebrous Gothic city in the distant gloom.
La plaine. Un gibet plein de pendus rabougris The plain. A gallows teeming with the shrivelled hanged,
Secoués par le bec avide des corneilles Tortured by the greedy beaks of crows
Et dansant dans l’air noir des gigues nonpareilles, And dancing their inimitable jigs in the black air.
Tandis que leurs pieds sont la pâture des loups. Their feet are the food of wolves.
Quelques buissons d’épine épars, et quelques houx Some thorn bushes and holly trees,
Dressant l’horreur de leur feuillage à droite, à gauche, Standing scattered in all the horror of their foliage,
Sur le fuligineux fouillis d’un fond d’ébauche. To the right and to the left,
Et puis, autour de trois livides prisonniers Against the sooty debris, like the background of a sketch.
Qui vont pieds nus, un gros de hauts pertuisaniers Then, surrounding three prisoners – deathly pale and
En marche, et leurs fers droits, comme des fers de herse, Barefoot, the body of soldiers
Luisent à contresens des lances de l’averse. March, and their straight, upright blades, like harrow rods,
Gleam against the lances of the downpour.
Paul Verlaine Translated from the French
by James Martin
James Martin’s commentary
I chose this particular poem to translate images, I decided to do away with the to do so while keeping the translation
because its vivid imagery made such an rhyme scheme. I have kept, where possible, fluent – for instance, in the phrase ‘Tandis
impact on me; in its description of the the spirit of the irregularity of his sentence que leurs pieds sont la pâture des loups’, I
picture or painting, it reminded me of length (although more in spirit than in have omitted the ‘tandis que’ and formed
shots from the old horror movies I used dogged loyalty to each individual line). a separate sentence with the rest of the
to watch as a child and which gave me At certain points in my translation, I line, emphasising the image. Personally,
nightmares. have felt it necessary to translate a word I found the result and added emphasis
The original poem has no regular or phrase differently from the literal more satisfying to read in English than the
metre, and thus, although it is technically meaning, to preserve the dark atmosphere literal translation.
composed of rhyming couplets, Verlaine of Verlaine’s images: for example, Finally, I have extended some small
deliberately uses the irregularity of the translating ‘éteinte’ (literally ‘without phrases towards the end of the poem, either
metre to play down the rhyme scheme, light’) as ‘tenebrous’, and ‘au lointain gris’ to stress the image, or to make the English
and edge even more towards awkward as ‘in the distant gloom’. read more fluently (while taking into
dissonance instead of harmony. In focusing I chose to stress or emphasise some of account the dissonance and awkwardness
most of my efforts on Verlaine’s powerful the most vivid images, if it was possible intended by Verlaine at points).
1118-and-under category
Die Zerstörung Magdeburgs The Destruction of Magdeburg
O Magdeburg, die Stadt, Ever been to Magdeburg?
Die schöne Mädchen hat, A city of golden girls –
Die schöne Frau’n und Mädchen hat, Loaded with top-class women.
O Magdeburg, die Stadt. You must have heard of it...
Da alles steht im Flor, …where flowers bloom by the roadsides
Der Tilly zieht davor, Count Tzerclaes is coming.
Durch Garten und durch Felder Flor, Trampling the meadows and blossom,
Der Tilly zieht davor. The Count is closing in.
Der Tilly steht davor! ‘Christ! He’s here!’
Wer rettet Stadt und Haus? ‘We’re done for.’
Geh’, Lieber, geh’ zum Tor ‘Stand up to him!’ ‘Man up!’
Hinaus und schlag’ dich mit ihm draus! ‘Go and batter him!’
Es hat noch keine Not, ‘There’s still time!
So sehr er tobt und droht, He’s coming bloody quickly
ich küsse deine Wänglein rot, But we’ve still got time
Es hat noch keine Not. For a roll in the hay…’
Die Sehnsucht mach mich bleich. Listen to them:
Warum bin ich denn reich? Money won’t save me now.
Dein Vater ist vielleicht schon bleich, Your father’s already dead.
Du, Kind, du machst mich weich. Kid, please don’t go.
O Mutter, gib mir Brot! Child 1: Mummy I’m starving.
Ist denn der Vater tod? Child 2: Is Daddy dead?
O Mutter, gib ein Stückchen Brot! Child 3: Please, just some bread!
O welche große Not. Mother 1: We’re stuffed.
Dein Vater lieb ist hin, Mother 2: Daddy’s dead, little one.
Die Bürger alle fliehn. Everyone’s on the run.
Schon fließt das Blut die Straße hin, A crimson cascade there already.
Wo fliehn wir hin, wohin? Mother 3: Where are we going?
1218-and-under category
Die Kirche stürzt in Graus, Our church fears these rosary-grapplers.
Da droben brennt das Haus, The crucifix-clutchers wrapped round that house.
Es qualmt das Dach, schon flammt’s heraus – Hell’s inferno with fire and brimstone.
Nur auf die Straß’ hinaus! Get out of the house!
Ach, keine Rettung mehr We’re stuffed.
In Straßen rast das Heer, The army dances through the streets,
Mit Flammen rast es hin und her, Here and there amongst the pyres.
Ach keine Rettung mehr! Shit! They’ve left us.
Die Häuser stürzen ein. Houses fall everywhere.
Wo ist das Mein und Dein? Is mine alright?
Das Bündelchen, es ist nicht dein, What’s mine isn’t yours!
Du flüchtig Mägdelein. So leave it mate.
Die Weiber bangen sehr, Women scream in fear.
Die Mägdlein noch viel mehr. The girls scream even more.
Was lebt, ist keine Jungfer mehr. They’re screwing everything that moves –
So raset Tillys Heer. And they’ve raped the town as well.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe Translated from the German
by Francis Scarr
Francis Scarr’s commentary
Having heard about this monumental to be direct speech into something more bring out this despair for lovemaking more
ravaging of a city on a radio programme, I creative. This I achieved by using a drama- vividly. As a Lutheran city, Magdeburg was
was interested to discover this poem. The like appearance which gives the poem a threatened by Tilly’s Catholic army and I
poem is particularly archaic and I found that completely different form and captures the thought that to convey this anti-Catholic
my literal translation seemed quite stilted variety of voices caught in the onslaught of feeling I should play with certain phrases.
and unoriginal. Therefore, I have aimed to the Catholic army. Additionally, although For example, Goethe shows the church and
create something entirely different from the Goethe seems to imply the desperation houses burning, personifying the church as
original in terms of structure yet at the same between lovers in the moments before collapsing in horror: ‘Die Kirche stürzt in
time to maintain as much of the meaning as Tilly’s army finally besieges the town, Graus’. I altered this line to ‘Our church
possible. I wanted to play with this formality he does not actually describe any such fears these rosary-grapplers’ which I feel
and make the translation a raw expression of ideas in much detail. In order to make conveys the friction between the Lutheran
the emotions the poem contains. this aspect more immediate, I employed and Catholic faiths in seventeenth century
One particular difficulty I faced in the sexual innuendo of ‘But we’ve still got ‘Germany’ in a better way to a modern
this translation was rendering what seems time/ For a roll in the hay’ which seemed to audience.
1318-and-under category
Abdicaçao Abdication
Toma-me, ó noite eterna, nos teus braços Take me, eternal night, into your arms,
E chama-me teu filho... eu sou um rei And call me your son... for I am a king
que voluntariamente abandonei Who abandoned, quite voluntarily,
O meu trono de sonhos e cansaços. My throne of restless dreams and weariness.
Minha espada, pesada a braços lassos, That sword, so heavy in my tired arms,
Em mão viris e calmas entreguei; I passed on into stronger, calmer hands
E meu cetro e coroa - eu os deixei And left my sceptre and my royal crown
Na antecâmara, feitos em pedaços Broken in pieces in the anteroom.
Minha cota de malha, tão inútil, My chainmail coat, that useless, worthless thing,
Minhas esporas de um tinir tão fútil, My spurs, with their futile, clanging ring,
Deixei-as pela fria escadaria. I left them outside on the cold stairway.
Despi a realeza, corpo e alma, I stripped my monarchy, body and soul,
E regressei à noite antiga e calma And returned to the night, so tranquil, old,
Como a paisagem ao morrer do dia. Like landscapes at the dying of the day.
Fernando Pessoa Translated from the Portuguese
by Amanda Thomas
Amanda Thomas’ commentary
I chose this poem because of the striking day’ in English; the idiom has the same to sacrifice rhyme for fidelity to Pessoa’s
imagery and strong emotions that Pessoa connotations of death or surrender in both words, and instead relied on assonance,
describes in his portrayal of the king languages. especially in the sestet, to replicate the
abandoning his position, all contained in I found that the images were relatively stylistic integrity of the poem. Pessoa’s lines
the concise form of a sonnet. I feel that easy to recreate in English, but it was have a strong rhythmic regularity which
the great linguistic control that the poet harder to get across the idea of movement I tried to echo using lines of pentameter,
demonstrates, using simple syntax and as the king comes away from the chamber, although this sometimes meant I had to
word choice, makes it suited to translation out of the antechamber and down the stairs. think of different phrasing in order to have
as the ideas can be expressed with the same Pessoa uses the strict rhyme scheme of a the right numbers of syllables in the lines,
concentrated images of night and solitude. Petrarchan sonnet, which is hard to achieve such as in line 6 when I chose to use
For example, the sunset of ‘ao morrer do in English if one stays true to the literal comparatives (‘stronger, calmer’) rather than
dia’ can be replicated by ‘the dying of the meaning and images of the original. I decided simple adjectives (viris e calmas).
14Open category
Marbhghin 1943: Glaoch ar Liombó Stillborn 1943: Calling Limbo
(do Nuala McCarthy) (For Nuala McCarthy)
Saolaíodh id bhás thú You were born dead
is cóiríodh do ghéaga gorma and your blue limbs were folded
ar chróchar beo do mháthar on the living bier of your mother
sreang an imleacáin slán eadraibh the umbilical cord unbroken between you
amhail line ghutháin as ord. like an out-of-service phone line.
Dúirt an sagart go rabhais ródhéanach The priest said it was too late
don uisce baiste rónaofa for the blessed baptismal water
a d’éirigh i Loch Bó Finne that arose from Lough Bofinne
is a ghlanadh fíréin Bheanntraí. and cleansed the elect of Bantry.
Gearradh uaithi thú So you were cut from her
is filleadh thú gan ní and wrapped, unwashed,
i bpáipéar Réalt an Deiscirt in a copy of The Southern Star,
cinnlínte faoin gCogadh Domhanda le do bhéal. a headline about the War across your mouth.
Deineadh comhrainn duit de bhosca oráistí An orange box would serve as coffin
is mar requiem d’éist do mháthair and, as requiem, your mother listened
le casúireacht amuigh sa phasáiste to hammering out in the hallway,
is an bhanaltra á rá léi and the nurse saying to her
go raghfá gan stró go Liombó. that you’d make Limbo without any trouble.
Amach as Ospidéal na Trócaire Out of the Mercy Hospital
d’iompair an garraíodóir faoina ascaill thú the gardener carried you under his arm
i dtafann gadhar de shocraid with barking of dogs for a funeral oration
go gort neantógach to a nettle-covered field
ar an dtugtar fós an Coiníneach. that they still call the little churchyard.
Is ann a cuireadh thú You were buried there
gan phaidir, gan chloch, gan chrois without cross or prayer
i bpoll éadoimhin i dteannta your grave a shallow hole;
míle marbhghin gan ainm one of a thousand without names
gan de chuairteoirí chugat ach na madraí ocracha. with only the hungry dogs for visitors.
Inniu, daichead bliain níos faide anall, Today, forty years on
léas i Réalt an Deiscirt I read in The Southern Star –
nach gcreideann diagairí a thuilleadh theologians have stopped believing
gur ann do Liombó. in Limbo.
continued…
15Open category
…continued
Ach geallaimse duit, a dheartháirín But I’m telling you, little brother
nach bhfaca éinne dath do shúl whose eyes never opened
nach gcreidfead choice iontu arís: that I’ve stopped believing in them.
tá Liombó ann chomh cinnte is atá Loch Bó Finne For Limbo is as real as Lough Bofinne:
agus is ann ó shin a mhaireann do mhathair, Limbo is the place your mother never left,
a smaointe amhail neantóga á dó, where her thoughts lash her like nettles
gach nuachtán ina leabhar urnaí, and The Southern Star in her lap is an unread breviary;
ag éisteacht le leanaí neamhnite where she strains to hear the names of nameless children
i dtafann tráthnóna na madraí. in the barking of dogs, each and every afternoon.
Derry O’Sullivan Translated from the Irish
by Kaarina Hollo
Kaarina Hollo’s commentary
I translated ‘Marbhghin 1943’ because I Loch Bó Finne is the Irish name of a sacrifice that particular emotional charge
wanted to enter as fully as possible into small lake a short distance from Bantry. and recoup it elsewhere.
the universe that it creates and share it with It is transparent to someone with some How to translate coiníneach? This is a
others. knowledge of Irish as meaning ‘The lake deformation of cillíneach¸ a variant of cillín,
O’Sullivan (b. Rochestown, Co. Cork, of the White Cow’. One of the many ‘little church/churchyard’. Unbaptised
1944) lives in Paris. He writes poetry in associations with white bovines this raises infants were buried in cillíní located at
Irish and Latin, and translates from Irish is Bealach na Bó Finne, the Milky Way (lit. liminal sites – crossroads, cliff-edges,
into English and French. His first language ‘The Way of the White Cow’). These milky abandoned churches. The form coiníneach
was English, the language in which the associations in a poem about lost maternity complicates matters further, as it seems to
Bantry of 1943 was experienced by the are compelling. They could be brought contain coinín (‘rabbit’), well suiting a waste
mother of the poem. The world in which into English with a literal translation – area left to the poem’s feral dogs. I could
he grew up, however, was permeated with ‘White Cow Lake’; this I dismissed as too have left it untranslated, or alternatively
Irish, in particular through place names and exoticising. Michael Davitt gives us ‘Milky interpreted (eg ‘limbo-land’). However, I
their associations. This linguistic layering Way Lake’, which seems whimsical and at decided on ‘little churchyard’ as evocative
challenges the translator. Two examples: odds with the overall tone. I decided to enough (and short enough to fit the line).
16Open category
Il girasole The Sunflower
Portami il girasole ch’io lo’trapianti Bring me the sunflower here and let me set it
nel mio terreno bruciato dal salino, in the parched briny soil of my own place
e mostri tutto il giorno agli azzurri specchianti to turn all day to the heavens that reflect it
del cielo l’ansietà del suo volto giallino. the broad gaze of its yellow yearning face.
Tendono alla chiarità le cose oscure, Things of the dark aspire to all that’s bright,
si esauriscono i corpi in un fluire their forms dissolving into a cascade
di tinte: queste in musiche. Svanire of tints merging in music. Simply to fade
é dunque la ventura delle venture. from view is the great adventure, lost in light.
Portami tu la pianta che conduce Bring me the plant that points us to the height
dove sorgono bionde trasparenze where there’s a clearness tinged with the sun’s rays
e vapora la vita quale essenza; and life itself is thinning to a haze.
portami il girasole impazzito di luce. Bring me that flower delirious with light.
Eugenio Montale Translated from the Italian
by Patricia Hann
Patricia Hann’s commentary
For an English poet the attempt to implication among le cose oscure? Is there bionde and transparenze pose problems of
transplant Montale’s ‘Sunflower’ can a reflection here on Clytia’s darkhearted interpretation. The equivalents in modern
seem la ventura delle venture. The rhyme betrayal of her rival or simply on the English have inconvenient connotations,
scheme, or something very like it, needs emergence of the sunflower (and plant life but yellow, gold etc seem strong words
to be represented in translation or there in general) out of the dark? Or does the to describe transparenze and it is hard to
will be a loss of cogency, while the choice term embrace both ideas within its wider know just what Montale had in mind with
of vocabulary is a delicate matter. The applications? And does tendono imply an that word, or how to interpret essenza.
Italian language is happier than English urge or simply something that happens? I decided to take my cue from vapora
with abstractions, and there are ambiguities Fluidity is a keynote of the poem, and and recast the two lines, feeling that the
in the original which are not easily resolved the transformation of colours into musiche, passionate note at the end reinforced the
without imposing a straitjacket on the presented almost as a logical progression, sense of the poet’s identification with the
meaning or impairing the mystical element. may need to be handled differently in a yearning sunflower, his mystical aspiration
In what sense is the sunflower classed by language where music has no plural. Both towards a sort of nirvana.
17Open category
l’Epitaphe Villon: Ballade des pendus The Gibbet
Freres humains qui après nous vivez, Everyman. Everyman. Live your life’s full span.
N’ayez les cuers contre nous endurcis Don’t turn your heart to stone as you pass by.
Car se pitié de nous povres avez If you have pity on your fellow man
Dieu en aura plus tost de vous mercis. Forgiveness might come faster when you die.
Vous nous voiez cy attachez cinq, six. You watch us swing, a batch of half a dozen
Quant de la chair que trop avons nourrie, Hunks of good meat, once sleek and overfed.
Elle est pieça devorée et pourrie, Then ravaged, gamey, rotten, dried and wizened
Et nous, les os, devenons cendre et pouldre. We weathered skeletons are dust, wind-spread.
De nostre mal personne ne s’en rie Nothing to laugh at in our rise and fall.
Mais priez Dieu que tous nous vueille absouldre. Pray God’s pure mercy rain upon us all.
Se freres vous clamons, pas n’en devez We are your likeness. Meaning no offence
Avoir desdaing, quoy que fusmes occis Here, but for the grace of God… you know the rest.
Par justice. Toutesfois, vous sçavez Rough justice left us hanging in suspense.
Que tous hommes n’ont pas bon sens rassis. All humans make mistakes. From worst to best
Excusez nous, puis que sommes transsis, We’re frail, and we should care for one another.
Envers le fils de la Vierge Marie Friends, forgive us. Bid a kind farewell.
Que sa grace ne soit pour nous tarie Kneel down and pray to Christ’s sweet gentle mother:
Nous preservant de l’infernale fouldre. Release us from the reeking jaws of hell
Nous sommes mors; ame ne nous harie And save us from the everlasting fall.
Mais priez Dieu que tous nous vueille absouldre. Merciful Mother, smile upon us all.
La pluye nous a debuez et lavez Harsh rain and hail have drenched us, scrubbed our skin
Et le soleil dessechiez et noircis. The sun came out and dried us, tanned our hides.
Pies, corbeaulx, nous ont les yeux cavez Fat birds have stitched us up, ripped our beards thin
Et arrachié la barbe et les sourcis. Magpies pocked flesh and ravens hoiked out eyes.
Jamais nul temps nous ne sommes assis; We’re jeered at, sneered at, hangdog, low-down, beat-up
Puis ça, puis la, comme le vent varie If we could speak, you’d hear our doleful groans
A son plaisir sans cesser nous charie, We never have a chance to put our feet up
Plus becquetez d’oiseaulx que dez a couldre. This way and that, the four winds shake our bones.
Ne soiez donc de nostre confrairie Don’t join our band. We’re Satan’s free-for-all.
Mais priez Dieu que tous nous vueille absouldre. Christ in compassion, save us one and all.
Prince Jhesus qui sur tous a maistrie Jesus, staunch champion of the common man
Garde qu’Enfer n’ait de nous seigneurie. Don’t let the devil get the upper hand
A lui n’ayons que faire ne que souldre. To claim poor sinners in his counting hall.
Hommes, icy n’a point de mocquerie; Brothers, don’t mock us dead, if laugh you can.
Mais priez Dieu que tous nous vueille absouldre. Spirit of mercy, shine upon us all.
François Villon Translated from the French
by Jane Tozer
Jane Tozer’s commentary
Death row, le Châtelet, Paris 1462 crossroads, places of destiny where you Everyman was a last-minute flash from an
must choose your way. The devil waits, as old allegory.
Villon was caught on the fringe of a drunken in The Soldier’s Tale and Robert Johnson’s In French, pecked with more pockmarks
stramash, outside the office of a papal famous Blues. than a thimble is vivid. I left that line out.
notary, Ferrebouc. The story goes that a ‘Iconic’ is a debased word. ‘Ballade des It makes the crows appear once too often.
scrivener was knifed; no more than a flesh- pendus’ is a true icon, breathtaking in Thimbles and saddler’s palms are museum
wound, but still a capital offence. Ferrebouc more ways than one. It evokes woodcuts pieces now.
had influence from Paris to Rome. He of plague, war, witch trials, danse ‘Why this is hell, nor am I out of it.’ If
pulled rank. Villon was a marked man; an macabre, tarantella. This poem is a bleak there’s an inferno, it’s here, now. Mankind
intractable rogue, no friend to the church. documentary; cautionary, with dashes of made it. Drug cartels, fanatics, neo-nazis.
Despite a lack of evidence, he was tried and gallows humour. What courage. Honour to Norway’s solidarity, principles,
convicted. ‘Frères humains’: wow! Human brothers: dignity, justice.
His stark death sentence: ‘Pendu et yawn. My fellow humans: Dubya’s drawl. Villon was clearly stitched up like a
étranglé’. Dangled, strangled. A slow, When translating, I read the poem last thing kipper. In 1463, his sentence was commuted
cruel, humiliating spectacle. Bodies rotted each night, until it inhabits my unconscious. to ten years’ exile from Paris. No one knows
on the gibbet; often at landmarks like It’s the ‘lightbulb in the head’ method. what happened afterwards. He was 32.
18Open category
Jackeen ag Caoineadh na mBlascaod A Jackeen Keens for the Blasket
Beidh an fharraige mhór faoi luí gréine mar ghloine, Sunset, and the wide sea will be laid out like glass,
Gan bád faoi sheol ná comhartha beo ó dhuine no sailing boats or signs of life, just a last
Ach an t-iolar órga deireanach thuas ar imeall eagle that glints on the world’s edge, separate,
An domhain, thar an mBlascaod uaigneach luite... circling over the lonely, spent Blasket...
An ghrian ina luí is scáth na hoíche á scaipeadh The sun sunk down, and nightshadows scattered
Ar ardú ré is í ag taitneamh i bhfuacht trí scamaill, over the high moon, herself scaling
A méara loma sínte ar thalamh the ground with bare, outstretched fingers, cold
Ar thithe scriosta briste, truamhar folamh... on the broken houses, the life’s scaffold...
Faoi thost ach cleití na n-éan ag cuimilt thar tonna All silent but the birds’ bellies sliding
Buíoch as a bheith fillte, ceann i mbrollach faoi shonas, over the waves, glad to be home, head tucked
Séideadh na gaoithe ag luascadh go bog leathdhorais snug in breast, the wind’s breath rocking the door,
Is an teallach fuar fliuch, gan tine, gan teas, gan chosaint. and the damp hearth, fireless, heatless, unwatched.
Brendan Behan Translated from the Irish
by Seán Hewitt
Reproduced by kind permission
of The Gallery Press
Seán Hewitt’s commentary
Brendan Behan learnt Irish in prison. thanks to a generous grant, and my visit (such as the ‘sc-’ words in the second
He was a Dubliner, a ‘jackeen’, chiefly to the Blaskets was truly haunting – I will stanza) in order to replicate the aural
remembered for his English works; but this never forget the slow backbone of land softness of the Irish.
poem shows a gentle longing for an Ireland rising out of the sea-mist, the cormorants William Blake wrote that ‘Nature
wildly unlike the poet’s own, one removed skimming the water and, most incredibly, without Man is barren’, and Behan gives a
from him not simply geographically, but the sheer, devastating silence. similar sense in this poem, with the feminine
also culturally and linguistically. It was It is this silence that the poem conveys moon poring gently over the ‘signs of life’
written, poignantly, just five years before so well. It doesn’t have the sense of being which are, ironically, lifeless, ‘unwatched’.
its prediction was fulfilled: in 1953, the last stuffed full of language, and so I have The importance of the personification
Blasket islanders were evacuated, and an tried to translate the words and syntax here convinced me to preserve the moon’s
ancient culture was abandoned, strangled simply, giving an ease to the English, which gender: she longs like a mother for the
by the ever-encroaching pressures of the was challenging considering the significant island’s children, and Behan follows her gaze
modern world. differences between the languages’ cinematically to a close-up of the hearth, the
Last summer, I had the privilege of structures. I have preserved the rhyme and telling centrepiece of an oral culture now
continuing my study of Irish in West Kerry, tried to keep some of the word-sounds consigned to history, and to silence.
19Open category
Nuit du Walpurgis classique Classical Walpurgisnacht
C’est plutôt le sabbat du second Faust que l’autre. Think Sabbath. Faust. No, not Part One, the other!
Un rhythmique sabbat, rhythmique, extrêmement A rhythmic, very rhythmic ground, becoming
Rhythmique. — Imaginez un jardin de Lenôtre, A garden in the manner of Lenôtre:
Correct, ridicule et charmant. Proper, over the top, and charming.
Des ronds-points ; au milieu, des jets d’eau ; des allées Walks ruler straight. Hubs. Fountains in the middle.
Toutes droites ; sylvains de marbre ; dieux marins Venus supine at various intersections.
De bronze ; çà et là, des Vénus étalées ; Ocean gods in bronze; woodlanders in marble.
Des quinconces, des boulingrins ; Camomile lawns. Quincunctial junctions.
Des châtaigniers ; des plants de fleurs formant la dune ; Dwarf roses, here, sculpted by informed pruning.
Ici, des rosiers nains qu’un goût docte effila ; Further away, yews coaxed into a cone.
Plus loin, des ifs taillés en triangles. La lune Horse chestnuts. Flowerbeds as landscape. Shining
D’un soir d’été sur tout cela. On all of this, an August moon.
Minuit sonne, et réveille au fond du parc aulique Twelve chimes – From the dynastic park an answer:
Un air mélancolique, un sourd, lent et doux air A soulful slow sweet melody, the kind
De chasse : tel, doux, lent, sourd et mélancolique, Of sweet slow haunting hunting song Tannhäuser
L’air de chasse de Tannhäuser. Heard as he crept from underground.
Des chants voilés de cors lointains où la tendresse A muted choir of horns, lontani, cushion
Des sens étreint l’effroi de l’âme en des accords The vertigo of heart and mind, that turn
Harmonieusement dissonants dans l’ivresse ; To the sweet sorrow of inebriation.
Et voici qu’à l’appel des cors Then, on the blowing of the horn
S’entrelacent soudain des formes toutes blanches, Pale sudden shapes that couple and uncouple
Diaphanes, et que le clair de lune fait In the green shade of leafage, interweaving
Opalines parmi l’ombre verte des branches, A lucent whiteness that the moon tints opal
— Un Watteau rêvé par Raffet ! — – A Watteauesque Raffet engraving –
S’entrelacent parmi l’ombre verte des arbres And now, weaving in the green shade of leafage,
D’un geste alangui, plein d’un désespoir profond ; Listlessly round the statuary, round
Puis, autour des massifs, des bronzes et des marbres, The plantings, with that unrecovered grief age
Très lentement dansent en rond. Deepens, perform their antique round.
— Ces spectres agités, sont-ce donc la pensée Unsettled spirits, rhythmical as surfers,
Du poète ivre, ou son regret, ou son remords, Are they the drunken poet’s thoughts? Indeed
Ces spectres agités en tourbe cadencée, Are they regrets, or the remorse he suffers?
Ou bien tout simplement des morts ? Or are they just, instead, the dead?
John RG Turner’s commentary
As the Duchess of Plaza-Toro has it: ‘It’s translating and coming to an understanding seems to be about being drunk – a subject
extraordinary what unprepossessing people are part of the same process. he has picked up from Baudelaire, but which
one can love.’ Ditto, poems. I fell in love Getting deep into the ‘Walpurgisnacht’ considering its importance in his life, is very
with this little-known Verlaine while in the unearths some problems. In Verlaine’s little represented in his art! Knowing what
out of body state induced by a train journey. defence, and to use a quotation that he would Tannhäuser had been up to in the Venusberg,
The embarrassing bit (and ‘it feels almost later employ as an epigraph ‘[Il] était si the poet must have had one pig of a hangover.
like confessing to a murder’) is that while jeune’, I maintain that the poem has some The poem tends to have too many foci,
I can get a poem like this from a straight enchanting moments, and scholastically it and his celebrated vagueness comes out
read (plus a little dictionary research), I is significant in revealing embryonic themes more as inconsistency. As always with
seldom do things the right way round: and techniques that would later become Verlaine the landscape is visually full of
understanding the poem and then preparing trademarks: almost a dry-run for the Fêtes self-contradiction (what style of garden is
a carefully judged translation. Normally, I Galantes (ancien régime park with figures), this?); and referencing literature, music,
don’t actually understand a poem until I’ve and on into much later poems; but instead of graphic art and landscape design in one
translated it or, a bit less embarrassing, the the lightly suppressed eroticism, this poem poem is, as he says of Lenôtre’s designs, just
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