The Stephen Spender Prize 2014 - in association with - for poetry in translation
←
→
Page content transcription
If your browser does not render page correctly, please read the page content below
The Stephen Spender Prize 2014
in association with
for poetry in translationThe Stephen Spender Prize 2014 for poetry in translation
in association with
Winner of the Winners of the Commended
14-and-under category Open category
14-and-under commended
Kirsty Gaston
‘If You Forget Me’
by Pablo Neruda (Spanish)
Weronika Lewandowska
‘Museum’
by Wisława Szymborska (Polish)
Krishnan Mulholland
‘Continuous Work’
by Raymond Queneau (French)
Alexia Sloane First
‘I Have Read that Poets in China’
by Jean Dominique (French) Iain Galbraith
‘Quince Jelly’ 18-and-under commended
by Jan Wagner
(German) Joshua James
Winners of the ‘Against a Swarm of Bees’
(Anon) (Anglo-Saxon)
18-and-under category
Victoria McBride
‘Notebook of a Return to
My Native Land’
by Aimé Césaire (French)
Henner Petin
‘A Rose for My Mainstay’
by Hilde Domin (German)
Anna Tindall
‘Hymn to the Bankers’
by Erich Kästner (German)
First Second Second
Sam Norman Joshua James Gwyneth Lewis
‘Andromache’ ‘Against a Wen’ ‘The Wind’ Open commended
from Book 22 of (Anon) by Dafydd ap Gwilym
(Welsh) Ian Crockatt
the Iliad by Homer (Anglo-Saxon)
‘The Bowl of Roses’
(Ancient Greek)
by Rainer Maria Rilke (German)
Iain Galbraith
‘Histories’
by Jan Wagner (German)
Iain Galbraith
‘The Motionless Bursting of Apples’
by Peter Waterhouse (German)
Gillian Harris
‘Poem with Simultaneous Translation’
by Susana Thénon (Spanish)
Joint third Joint third Third
Olivia McCannon
Rosemary Brook-Hart Esther Sorooshian Robert Hull ‘February Bike Ride’
‘Age Hangs on You’ ‘The Frog’ Epigrams 3.44 by Guy Goffette (French)
by Pierre de Ronsard by Francis Ponge by Martial
(French) (French) (Latin) Hans-Christian Oeser
‘Where I Was Born’
by Michael Krüger (German)
3T he Stephen Spender Prize, launched in 2004, celebrates
its tenth birthday in 2014. Our junior winners from the
early years are now working or completing PhDs; we have
run creative writing clubs (in one case a poet-in-residence)
are encouraging students to explore their cultural heritage as
well as draw on languages they have studied formally. From
grown blasé about receiving translations from 50 languages 2015 teachers will be able to download from the website
or more; our entrants continue to run the gamut from lesson plans suggesting how they can incorporate poetry
novice poets and translators to the internationally famous; translation into their teaching.
and some 20 of our translators have received Hawthornden The 2014 judges – Susan Bassnett, Edith Hall, WN
Fellowships, enjoying a month-long writing retreat at Herbert and Stephen Romer – were seemingly unfazed by
Hawthornden Castle outside Edinburgh (an experience the arrival of a crate of entries to read over the summer
described by one as a privilege beyond price). holidays and they debated the final list with perception and
A birthday calls for a party. To celebrate this happy tenacious civility. My thanks to them, especially to the two
anniversary and to raise funds for the prize and the Stephen who are stepping down this year. Edith Hall has been a
Spender Trust there will be a wonderful evening of live music font of knowledge about all things classical (and much else
and readings by a trio of well known actors on Thursday 12 besides). Susan Bassnett has not only been a judge since the
March 2015 at the Royal Institution in London. Tickets will prize’s birth but was present at its conception; her translation
go on sale in January. We hope that as well as being a first- expertise and dazzling linguistic ability which allows her to
rate evening it will serve as a joyful reunion of past winners read in at least eight languages will be hard to replace. Final
and the Trust’s many supporters. and heartfelt thanks must go to the generous sponsors of the
All those who have entered will know that the commentary prize, the Old Possums Practical Trust and the Dr Mortimer
is a particular feature of the Spender Prize. The competition and Theresa Sackler Foundation, and to our new media
has always been about raising the profile of translators partner, the Guardian.
and shedding light on the process of translation, and the There is room in this booklet to print only the winning
commentary gives translators a voice, permitting them for entries. To read also the commended entries from this and
once to explain and justify their decisions. In the case of the previous years or to download past booklets please visit
younger entrants the commentary often also reveals how stephen-spender.org.
they came to choose that particular poem, and this year it is Robina Pelham Burn
good to have further evidence that teachers and those who Director of the Stephen Spender Trust
Judges’ comments
All good things eventu- heartening. I was impressed by one Irish, classical Chinese – which shows
ally have to come to 14-year-old who wrote an account that translators of all ages are keen
an end, and this is my of how he came to choose a poem to to take on the double challenge of
final year as a judge of translate: he read last year’s winning translating across languages and across
this wonderful prize. entries, decided to have a go himself, time.
Once again we have then went to a Routes into Languages Compared to previous years, there
some exceptional winners, though the seminar where he discovered Goethe. seemed to be more songs translated,
quality of so many of the entries made In his comment he admits to having hence more experimenting with sounds
it hard to decide on the final shortlist had problems with the language (he and rhythms. A number of transla-
and not everything we liked as indi- had had only two years of German), tors wrote about their struggles with
viduals made it through to the final but used dictionaries and tried to keep rhymes and rhythms as they tried to
cut. On my personal list were Conor the format of the poem, though ‘I map one poetic system onto another.
McKee’s extract from ‘The Battle of edited it to make more sense’. Most There were some interesting experi-
Maldon’, Alicia Mason’s version of importantly, he writes about how ments with language variation, such as
Rilke’s ‘Herbsttag’ and Adam Elgar’s much he enjoyed translating the poem. Galician into Cumbrian or Irish Gaelic
translations from Tasso and Ariosto. It This is something that many entrants into Cockney English, the latter being
is surely a sign of the extent to which mention in their comments and which a tribute to the translator’s grandfather.
poetry translation is flourishing when is vital to the continuing success of all Indeed, many translators of all ages
judges have so many fine poems from poetry in translation. wrote movingly about how they saw
which to choose. The range of languages and varieties their translation as a gift for someone,
When this prize was initiated, one of poetry seemed to me to be greater for a loved person alive or dead.
of the aims was to encourage young than ever this year, and it is interesting Translating poetry is not easy,
people to try their hand at translating to see how many translations there because it requires different kinds of
poetry, and the number of entrants were of ancient languages – Greek, skills. The translator has to be able
under the age of 18 is genuinely Latin, Anglo-Saxon, Old Norse, Old to understand the original poem, and
4Judges’ comments
then has to be able to create a poem Robert Hull. We have all encoun- I was astonished by
of quality in English. Sometimes as tered narcissistic poetasters like the the range of work
judges we encounter good poems that Ligurnus Martial lambasts in epigram translated in the 14-
are not necessarily good translations, 3.44, a versifier so importunate that and-under category
while we also encounter translations he shouts his poems even through his – a tribute both to the
that are so close to the original that victims’ bathroom doors. quality of their teach-
they fail to work as English poems. 2014 is a bumper year for transla- ers and the curiosity of these young
Getting the balance right is crucial, tions from ancient Greek and Latin. translators – and found much that was
and to achieve that it is often necessary In the Open category I was treated both unexpected and delightful.
for the translator to do some additional to two fine, cerebral versions of my Sometimes this was a single phrase:
research. It is certainly necessary favourite Latin philosophical poet, ‘The shes, like bees, / The hes, like
for would-be translators to read the Lucretius; Emma Gee’s was excellent. fleas’ (Maurice Carême, translated
work of poets in whatever language, There were intricate responses to by Oliver West). Sometimes it was
so as to have a greater sense of what Callimachus’ Hecale and ‘Hymn to a whole poem finding solutions for
a poem can do. The winning entries Delos’, Horace at his wittiest in the a complex original, as in Krishnan
in all categories produced fine poems Satires and most lyrical in his Odes, Mulholland’s version of Raymond
that are also fine translations, thereby a deft Anacreon, an eloquent Sappho, Queneau’s ‘Le Travail Continu’ – the
demonstrating an understanding of and a racy Propertius. One Catullus strangeness of ‘In the shadow of the
the possibilities of poetry. spoke like a character in EastEnders. word cart’ compelled me to read on.
Susan Bassnett Several extracts from Homeric and Among the 18s-and-under, it was
Virgilian epic were praiseworthy, as clear we were in the presence of a
It was a liberation this were attempts at all three Greek tra- few prodigies, and I was especially
year to retreat from gedians. Lucian Moriyama’s fragments engaged by Joshua James’s way with
the dismal violence of from Petronius came as a breath of Anglo-Saxon, which allowed the
the headlines into my fresh air. musical and magical elements of the
August ritual of reading Many teenagers shone this year, original charms to emerge through
out new translations of but the prizewinners were immedi- subtle repetition and rhythmic sure-
poetry from around the world. It was ately obvious. I was deeply touched ness: ‘Sputter and fade like a firecoal,
noticeable how many entrants were by Sam Norman’s lovingly crafted, wart, / And shrink as ooze shrinks on
translating poems which reflected the lyrical version of the sequence in the a wall…’
turmoil, especially in the Middle East Iliad when Andromache hears the What particularly impressed me
and Africa. news that her husband Hector is dead, about Sam Norman’s translation was
There were fewer dazzling entries and delighted that Homer has won a the selection of a passage from Homer
in the Open category this year, despite Spender prize, yet again. which worked perfectly as a contained
many tens of well-crafted efforts. I One of the secrets of success in episode, which was then subjected to
enjoyed Paul Stapleton’s nostalgic this competition lies in the choice a virtuoso recasting into quintains
‘Raven-Rags’ (an anonymous Irish of the original poem. Strong form rhyming ABAAB. This was done so
poem), an extract from one of the seems to offer more potential for seamlessly I was left with no doubt
oldest recorded poems, Gilgamesh, by transformation into a successful about the winner in this category.
Stewart Sanderson, and an intricate, English-language poem than discur- One other piece well worth
resonant response to Aimé Césaire’s sive, looser rhythmical structures. mentioning before I move on from
French-Caribbean dialect in Chris Entrants could be braver about the the under 18s is a strong example of
Beckett’s ‘The Verb “to Maroonaway”’. verse forms they translate into – there something I encountered again and
The judges took little time to agree is no reason why a prose poem can’t again in the adult category. ‘A Rose
on the winner, Iain Galbraith. His become a plausible sonnet. Concise, for My Mainstay’ (Hilde Domin,
translations from the Hamburg poet vivid dramatic vignettes with a unify- translated by Henner Petin) was a
Jan Wagner convey Wagner’s sensual- ing motif – Neruda and Cavafy – seem perfect example of the unknown (to
ity, mastery of form, and laser-eye for to morph effortlessly from one tongue me) original which compelled by the
detail, while converting the whole into to another, while excerpts from longer elegance of its English: ‘on the trapeze
idiomatic English poetry. From the poems need to be carefully selected of feelings, my bed / floats like a nest
medieval Welsh of Dafydd ap Gwilym, for their internal, organic cohesion. in the wind’.
we were blown away by the aural In his Poetics Aristotle called this the In the main category my curios-
delicacy and soft vowels of Gwyneth principles of the hen combined with ity frequently overwhelmed me with
Lewis’ ‘The Wind’. And the droll the holon – the single and the whole. authors either new to me, or only
exasperation of Martial, a Spaniard Spender Prize winners have always familiar as a name or a vague memory.
writing Latin verse in imperial Rome, intuitively grasped it. Eeva Kilpi’s ‘When I Come Home’,
was translated with zest and skill by Edith Hall translated by Donald Adamson, had
5Judges’ comments
a mysterious chill to it: ‘When I come those who did not quite gain sufficient mysterious fruit, but for the translator’s
home / I have to gather the dead support for a commendation, I would brilliant handling in English of the
around me / and tell them where I have single out Amber Rothera’s version Sapphic metre. Translation at its
been’. While ‘Analogia’ by Magnus of Rubén Darío’s ‘Eheu’, and Talya subtlest is an art of listening, and
William-Olsson, translated by Pamela Al-Husseini’s nicely brisk account of Galbraith provides a marvellous
Robertson-Pearce, had an assured, La Fontaine’s ‘The Cicada and the counterpoint in English to the luscious
unique tone – puzzling, metaphysical: Ant’. consonantal clusters of the German.
‘Isn’t the song always see-through? / The 18-and-under category was The same translator emerged in the
Words never.’ marked, naturally enough, by a leap in commended section with a version
Ultimately, though, it was the strong levels of sophistication. Immediately of Peter Waterhouse’s intriguing,
sense of an appropriate level of craft attractive to me was Rosemary innovative ‘The Motionless Bursting
being sought out and achieved, of a Brooke-Hart’s audacious and witty of Apples’. After some discussion, and
commanding syntactic subtlety being take on Ronsard’s sonnet ‘Vous estes re-reading, the equally subtle music of
brought to bear, which convinced me dejà vieille’, with its arresting start: Dafydd ap Gwilym’s medieval Welsh
of my final shortlist. Gwyneth Lewis’s ‘Age hangs on you like sawdust hangs cynghanedd in ‘The Wind’ came clear.
virtuosic, controlled yet euphoric on velcro – / light, but irremovable…’ A fiendishly difficult form, handled
translation of Dafydd ap Gwilym, and the inventiveness sustained with great sensitivity and lightness of
appropriately enough in a poem called throughout to the final ‘stripped of touch by Gwyneth Lewis. Everyone
‘The Wind’, blew me away. its mask, your face is snowdrop-pure’. enjoyed Robert Hull’s thoroughly
And amazingly, unbeknown to This was an example of ‘versioning’ entertaining, knockabout version of a
me, my favourite two discoveries, Jan (there were others) – ie when radical Martial epigram, which came in third.
Wagner and Peter Waterhouse, were liberties are taken with the form German came through strongly as
both translated by the same poet, Iain and content of the source text – that the language of choice this year, and
Galbraith. The measured sensuous worked because it remains above Ian Crockatt’s majestic Rilkes were
metrics of Wagner and the post-Rilkean, all tonally true to the original. The all worthy of commendation. Still
witty ecstasies of Waterhouse were commentary appended to this was on the musical theme, I especially
equally impressive, and I could have also illuminating, as it charts the move enjoyed Olivia McCannon’s sensitive
put forward any of these submissions as towards free translation, and the role responses to the varying rhythms
my winner: after all, who should have of happenstance, ‘when I was writing of Guy Goffette on his ‘February
to choose between quince jelly and the the snowdrops were just coming out’… Bike Ride’. Honourable mention also
motionless bursting of apples? Joint third with the Ronsard was goes to Michael Copp’s Voznesensky,
WN Herbert Esther Sorooshian’s daring unpacking David McCallam’s energetic André
of Francis Ponge’s dense prose poem Chénier, various versions of Else
To translate a poem ‘The Frog’; her decision to cast it in Lasker-Schüler, Chiara Salomoni’s
is to dance in chains, the form of a poem, while it might take on Silvio Ramat’s subtle take
as Paul Valéry put it, have vexed the poet, found universal on Leopardi, and Patrick Early’s
but this year’s winners favour with the judges. Anna Tindall’s noble Machado, ‘By the Banks of the
more than rose to the commended version of Erich Kästner’s Duero’. I was charmed, too, by Kevin
challenge. The winner brilliantly acerbic, and topical, ‘Hymn Maynard’s creative transposition of
of the 14-and-under category, Alexia to the Bankers’, very nearly won a Leopardi’s Canto xiii into the key of a
Sloane, achieved a beautifully fluid prize but for the last lines that did not conversation poem by Coleridge.
rendering of a poem by the little- quite carry the requisite punch of the Stephen Romer
known Belgian poet of the Belle original, essential to clinch a strongly
Epoque, Jean Dominique (real name, rhymed, emphatic poem like this.
Marie Closset). This version came with Joshua James’s Anglo-Saxon charm
a particularly attractive (and moving) poem ‘Against a Wen’ came through
commentary which admitted ruefully strongly in second place, while Sam
that reproducing the original rhyme Norman’s astonishingly mature
scheme was unworkable in English. and accomplished translation of the
An intricate rhyme scheme in the Andromache section of the Iliad was
source text is one of the first things an our undisputed winner.
experienced translator learns to jettison. Quality shines through and this was
In the same category I was pleased the case with Iain Galbraith’s versions
that I persuaded my fellow judges to of the contemporary German poet Jan
commend Weronika Lewandowska’s Wagner, any one of which could have
version of Szymborska’s ‘Museum’, won first prize in the Open category.
after a lively discussion concerning the We decided upon ‘Quince Jelly’, not
meaning of the final stanza! Among only for its radiant celebration of that
6Winner, 14-and-under category
J’ai lu que les poètes, en Chine I Have Read that Poets in China
J’ai lu que les poètes, en Chine, sont très doux. I have read that in China, poets are very gentle.
Et qu’il y en a un qui est mort de la lune; And that one of them died because of the moon;
Et les Chinois ne disent pas qu’il était fou And the Chinese don’t say he was mad
Car c’est, chez eux, une aventure assez commune. As, over there, it is a fairly common occurrence.
J’ai lu qu’ils s’enivraient de vin et de la lune, I have read that they become intoxicated with wine
Et leurs vers se balancent comme de longs bambous and the moon
Entre l’eau de leur cœur et les brouillards de plume And that their verses swing like long bamboos
Qui s’accrochent, dans leur pays, un peu partout. Between the water emerging from their hearts and the
Leur âme frêle et sombre, printanière et fidèle, mist of their quill
Fend le ciel et le fleuve comme un vol d’hirondelle, Which, in their country, clings to almost everything.
Et les larmes qui glissent sur la soie de leurs manches, Their frail, dark, faithful and spring-like soul,
Sont des feuilles de saule, fines, longues et tendres. Splits the sky and the river like a flock of swallows
Peut-être est-ce un Chinois qui m’a mis dans le cœur And the tears which trickle down the silk of their sleeves
Cette chanson de l’eau, de la lune et des fleurs, Resemble slim, long and tender leaves from a willow
Et ce doux paysage en noir et en couleur Maybe a Chinese person has filled my heart with
D’un jonc qui tremble au vent dans la main d’un pêcheur. This song about water, the moon and flowers,
Peut-être que mon cœur est un peu bien chinois And with this gentle landscape, in black and in colour
Et mourra de la lune un beau jour comme un autre... Of a rush held in a fisherman’s hand and trembling in the wind
Et qu’est-ce qu’on dira, et qu’est-ce qu’on dira Maybe my heart is quite typically Chinese
De l’aventure, dans un pays comme le nôtre? And will one of these days die because of the moon...
And what will people say, what will they say
Jean Dominique About this occurrence, in a country like ours?
Translated from the French
by Alexia Sloane
Alexia Sloane’s commentary
I chose this fairly unknown poem by the musicality. Through this poem, and while I and the echo between the first and the last
Belle Epoque Belgian poet who wrote under cannot see as I am totally blind, I felt totally verse of a gentle death caused by the moon.
the pseudonym Jean Dominique because I transported to China and could experience When translating, I was unfortunately
have a particular interest in Chinese culture fully the atmosphere of the landscape the unable to make the poem rhyme without
and language. I came across it when I was poet is depicting. I could imagine being moving too far from the original text which
searching for poems with a Chinese element there and hearing the sounds of the is why I may not have done it justice. This
and I instantly felt attracted by it. This poet water, the leaves, the birds and the rush was my very first attempt at translating
is not very well known outside Belgium. and bamboos trembling in the wind. The a poem from the original language into
Since coming across this poem, I have read beautiful images of nature, the evocation English. My goal is to translate the poem
more of her work and feel her poetry of a slow and gentle death together with into Chinese and experience the beauty
certainly deserves to be explored. the poet’s verbal sensitivity are recurring and musicality of the Chinese tones when
I particularly like the simplicity and themes in her poetry and are evident in this reading it out loud. I am quite sure Jean
beauty of her verses as well as their poem. I like the simplicity of the vocabulary Dominique herself would have liked that.
7First prize, 18-and-under category
The Iliad, Book 22, lines 437–467 Andromache
ὣς ἔφατο κλαίουσ᾽, ἄλοχος δ᾽ οὔ πώ τι πέπυστο She broke off, weeping – but still, Hektor’s wife
Ἕκτορος: οὐ γάρ οἵ τις ἐτήτυμος ἄγγελος ἐλθὼν had heard nothing, no messenger had come
ἤγγειλ᾽ ὅττί ῥά οἱ πόσις ἔκτοθι μίμνε πυλάων, to warn that her husband had gone to fight
ἀλλ᾽ ἥ γ᾽ ἱστὸν ὕφαινε μυχῷ δόμου ὑψηλοῖο far from the city gates… So for the while
she simply wove, sat in their lofty home.
δίπλακα πορφυρέην, ἐν δὲ θρόνα ποικίλ᾽ ἔπασσε.
κέκλετο δ᾽ ἀμφιπόλοισιν ἐϋπλοκάμοις κατὰ δῶμα And working on her two-fold, purple lace,
ἀμφὶ πυρὶ στῆσαι τρίποδα μέγαν, ὄφρα πέλοιτο weaving dappled flowers, she bade her maids go
Ἕκτορι θερμὰ λοετρὰ μάχης ἐκ νοστήσαντι and heat a massive cauldron straight away
νηπίη, οὐδ᾽ ἐνόησεν ὅ μιν μάλα τῆλε λοετρῶν so that when Hektor returned from the fray,
he’d find a steaming bath. She didn’t know
χερσὶν Ἀχιλλῆος δάμασε γλαυκῶπις Ἀθήνη.
κωκυτοῦ δ᾽ ἤκουσε καὶ οἰμωγῆς ἀπὸ πύργου: that Achilleus and the one with flashing eyes
τῆς δ᾽ ἐλελίχθη γυῖα, χαμαὶ δέ οἱ ἔκπεσε κερκίς: had laid him low, far-off from any bath.
ἣ δ᾽ αὖτις δμῳῇσιν ἐϋπλοκάμοισι μετηύδα: But when, from the wall, she heard shouts and cries
‘δεῦτε δύω μοι ἕπεσθον, ἴδωμ᾽ ὅτιν᾽ ἔργα τέτυκται. the legs beneath her rocked dangerously
αἰδοίης ἑκυρῆς ὀπὸς ἔκλυον, ἐν δ᾽ ἐμοὶ αὐτῇ and from her hand, her shuttle fell to earth.
στήθεσι πάλλεται ἦτορ ἀνὰ στόμα, νέρθε δὲ γοῦνα
Then she spoke among her maids with lovely hair:
πήγνυται: ἐγγὺς δή τι κακὸν Πριάμοιο τέκεσσιν. ‘I must see what has happened – you two, come!
αἲ γὰρ ἀπ᾽ οὔατος εἴη ἐμεῦ ἔπος: ἀλλὰ μάλ᾽ αἰνῶς That was his honoured mother’s voice I heard…
δείδω μὴ δή μοι θρασὺν Ἕκτορα δῖος Ἀχιλλεὺς Oh, in my breast I feel my very heart
μοῦνον ἀποτμήξας πόλιος πεδίον δὲ δίηται, leap to my mouth, and my legs are numb…
καὶ δή μιν καταπαύσῃ ἀγηνορίης ἀλεγεινῆς
‘Some evil for the house of Priam is near…
ἥ μιν ἔχεσκ᾽, ἐπεὶ οὔ ποτ᾽ ἐνὶ πληθυῖ μένεν ἀνδρῶν, I hope such news will never be revealed,
ἀλλὰ πολὺ προθέεσκε, τὸ ὃν μένος οὐδενὶ εἴκων.’ but godlike Achilleus – I’m racked with fear –
has cut off reckless Hektor far from here,
and is driving him onto the open field
‘where he will end the fatal bravery
that summed my husband up – he’d never wait,
safe in the throng of men, but rather he
would charge ahead, outstripping them greatly,
and yielding to no one in his might…’
8First prize, 18-and-under category
ὣς φαμένη μεγάροιο διέσσυτο μαινάδι ἴση And with these words she rushed out from the hall,
παλλομένη κραδίην: ἅμα δ᾽ ἀμφίπολοι κίον αὐτῇ heart pounding, nearly mad – her maids came too –
αὐτὰρ ἐπεὶ πύργόν τε καὶ ἀνδρῶν ἷξεν ὅμιλον but when she reached the teeming city wall
ἔστη παπτήνασ᾽ ἐπὶ τείχεϊ, τὸν δὲ νόησεν and stood there, looking out, among them all,
only then, she saw him and she knew.
ἑλκόμενον πρόσθεν πόλιος: ταχέες δέ μιν ἵπποι
ἕλκον ἀκηδέστως κοίλας ἐπὶ νῆας Ἀχαιῶν. There was Hektor, being dragged outside
τὴν δὲ κατ᾽ ὀφθαλμῶν ἐρεβεννὴ νὺξ ἐκάλυψεν, the city to the hollow, Grecian ships
ἤριπε δ᾽ ἐξοπίσω, ἀπὸ δὲ ψυχὴν ἐκάπυσσε. by quick horses – unburied, brutalised.
Then black night descended over her eyes,
enshrouding her, and the life passed from her lips…
Homer
Translated from the Ancient Greek
by Sam Norman
Sam Norman’s commentary
The Iliad is an exploration of one man’s result of an oral tradition, it was composed The Greek ἀκηδέστως has the dual
wrath. The majority of the action takes place to be sung. Thus, the principal challenge, meanings ‘remorselessly’ and ‘without
over three days, during which Achilleus as I saw it, was to convey something of the burial rites’ – what English word captures
refuses to fight, indirectly allows his best musicality of the Greek. Taking inspiration both these senses? Broadly, I thought it
friend to be killed, and subsequently exacts from Christopher Logue’s wonderful War more important to create something that
revenge in a prolonged fit of blind and self- Music, I decided to write my translation in could be called a poem than to stick slavishly
hating anger. One casualty is the Trojan loose iambic pentameter: a highly lyrical to the text. I have occasionally toned down
champion, Hektor. It was he who killed metre. I was drawn to ABAAB quintains the famous epithets (so wonderful in Greek,
Achilleus’s best friend, and Achilleus takes after reading George Herbert, who skilfully but so forced in English).
pleasure in defiling his corpse horribly. This uses this form to generate a poignant and The Iliad is also a poem about tenderness.
passage touches on the moment near the end melodic effect. Where perfect rhymes Hektor, unlike Achilleus hitherto, has
of the poem when Andromache becomes were too difficult, I have used half rhymes shown gentleness. It is the deep, deep love
aware of her husband’s fate. or similar sounding words; thus ‘hair’ is that Andromache feels for him that makes
Although people read the Iliad as a text, rhymed with ‘heard’ and ‘heart’. the passage so moving.
it is important to remember that, as the Doing justice to Homer is impossible.
9Second prize, 18-and-under category
Against a Wen Against a Wen
Wenne, wenne, wenchichenne, Wenne, wenne, wenchichenne,
hēr ne scealt þū timbrien, ne nēnne tūn habben, Little wart, begone!
ac þū scealt north eonene tō þān nīhgan berhge,
þēr þū hauest, ermig, ēnne brōþer. You mustn’t make your home here, wart;
Hē þē sceal legge lēaf et hēafde. You oughtn’t start to build your stead.
Under fōt wolues, under ueþer earnes, But north from here a short way, wart,
under earnes clēa, ā þū geweornie. You’ll come athwart a town.
Clinge þū alswā col ōn heorþe,
scring þū alswā scerne awāge. Wenne, wenne, wenchichenne,
and weorne alswā weter on anbre. Little boil, begone!
Swā litel þu gewurþe alswā līnsētcorn,
and miccli lēsse alswā ānes handwurmes hupebān, There, sore cyst, you’ll find your brother;
and alswā litel þū gewurþe þet þū nāwiht gewurþe. He’ll fetter you in ferns and reeds.
Wither under wolf’s foot, wretch,
Anon And under eagle’s feather;
Hang to eagle’s claw, rank whelk –
May you wither there forever.
Sputter and fade like a firecoal, wart,
And shrink as ooze shrinks on a wall,
And waste like water in a drum,
And shrivel seed-small,
Less than the
Flea’s flank;
Die down to
Naught!
Wenne, wenne, wenchichenne,
Little wart, begone!
Translated from the Anglo-Saxon
by Joshua James
Joshua James’s commentary
Primary among my reasons for translating charm. I have, though, made sure to course, but which I feel helps maintain
this particular poem was that, as with many include a good deal of alliteration, partly pace and mood, and makes the most out
of the less famous Anglo-Saxon texts, it in reference to the form of the original, but of the unusual rhyming. The -enne of this
very rarely sees daylight except in fusty also because it makes good poetic sense line continues to pulse through the original
academic texts. Granted it’s no controversy for a rhythmic, spell-like piece to make and, being such a strange and exciting thing
to say that a pagan charm has less literary something of these drumming repetitions to see in a poem whose poetic tradition is
merit than Beowulf, but the poem is still of sound. famed for its stomping alliteration and not
interesting and deserves attention. I haven’t I couldn’t bear to part with the opening its rhyme, it seemed important to make
made an effort to maintain the alliterative line of the original; it is such a fantastic an attempt to retain this chanting effect.
metre of the original (unusually, the set of syllables to get the mouth around Rather than use the -enne of wenne, I
original is not particularly strict, especially and captures the chanting folkloric quality used the translated equivalent, the ‘ort’
toward the end), as I felt a more driving, of the original so perfectly that it had to of ‘wart’, which reverberates through the
singsong use of metre would make a more stay. I decided to introduce it as part of translation, mimicking the original, before
comfortable bedfellow for this incantatory a refrain – not present in the original, of self-destructing in the ‘naught’ of line 22.
10Joint third prize, 18-and-under category
Vous estes dejà vieille Age Hangs on You
Vous estes dejà vieille, et je le suis aussi. Age hangs on you like sawdust hangs on velcro –
Joignon nostre vieillesse et l’accollon ensemble, light, but irremovable – and I am
Et faison d’un hyver qui de froidure tremble, old
Autant que nous pourrons, un printemps adouci. as you (older, maybe? memory baulks
at counting quicksand years). If we can join
Un homme n’est point vieil s’il ne le croit ainsi ; our sawdust-weight of age,
Vieillard n’est qui ne veut ; qui ne veut, il assemble let’s make a spring
Une nouvelle trame à sa vieille, et ressemble let’s make it grow
Un serpent rajeuni quand l’an retourne ici. hear the pale shoots as they push lightwards through the
ice-hard soil of winter, watch
Ostez moy de ce fard l’impudente encrousture : the first
On ne sçauroit tromper la loy de la nature snow-
Ny derider un front condamné du miroir, drops –
purer than those showy roses that lined
Ni durcir un tetin desjà pendant et flasque. the lanes where we once walked – cast eyes in all
Le Temps de vostre face arrachera le masque, the ditches, thickets, under hedges, seeking
Et deviendray un cygne en lieu d’un corbeau noir. the light-print of those first white buds
as they kiss open, slowly hatching,
Pierre de Ronsard lifting like wings to fly at summer’s threatening –
and I still don’t feel old. So am I, then?
Must age give in to agedness, or can
a man tie new cords, slough his wrinkled skin
and with the carousel of wheeling years be young again?
A time-scarred face, two breasts sagging and limp,
no scalpel-blade, no collagen can cure.
The gentle bend of swan-wings maps your back’s curve –
stripped of its mask, your face is snowdrop-pure.
Translated from the French
by Rosemary Brook-Hart
Rosemary Brook-Hart’s commentary
For various reasons, last year I ended up cygne…’ The ‘ay’ ending, and the fact that form, but this got me nowhere. I resorted
focusing my Extended Project Qualification both birds referred to are masculine, suggest to writing freely with the original poem
on Ronsard and how he wrote about ageing, that Ronsard is talking about himself, but in in the back of my mind. I found that my
which is how I came across this poem. the context of the previous line, ‘Le Temps translation settled into ten-syllable lines,
Unlike many of his other pieces, written to de vostre face…’ it would make more sense which seemed more natural in English than
please his sponsors, it seemed honest and for the subject to be his (female) addressee, Ronsard’s twelve syllables. I also found
unforced. It stuck in my head, and I knew and as ‘devienday’ and ‘deviendrez’ are myself building on the idea of spring. When
the only way to get it out was to translate it. homophonic it seemed possible that the ‘ay’ I was writing the snowdrops were just
The first problem was the meaning. ending was an error. I opted for the latter coming out; they contrasted with the roses
Because of his slightly relaxed attitude to interpretation, as it also makes the poem feel that are everywhere in Ronsard’s earlier
spelling and the paucity of information less egocentric. love poetry – renewal instead of carpe diem.
on the poem, I was left unsure as to the I then tried to translate the poem literally I also had in mind the verb éclore, which
subject of the final line, ‘Et deviendray un and sticking more or less to the original means both to hatch and to bloom.
11Joint third prize, 18-and-under category
La Grenouille The Frog
Lorsque la pluie en courtes aiguillettes rebondit aux prés saturés, As sharp needles of rain
une naine amphibie, une Ophélie manchote, grosse à peine comme Bounce from bloated meadows,
le poing, jaillit parfois sous les pas du poète et se jette au prochain A dwarf amphibian,
étang. A one-handed Ophelia,
Barely a fistful, unclenching,
Laissons fuir la nerveuse. Elle a de jolies jambes. Tout son corps est Flings herself from the foot of the poet
ganté de peau imperméable. A peine viande ses muscles longs sont
d’une élégance ni chair ni poisson. Mais pour quitter les doigts la Into the next pond.
vertu du fluide s’allie chez elle aux efforts du vivant. Goitreuse, elle Unpin her –
halète… Et ce cœur qui bat gros, ces paupières ridées, cette bouche She’s highly strung,
hagarde m’apitoyant à la lâcher. Her long limbs – such pretty legs –
In the rubber glove of her skin –
Francis Ponge No meat on them; lithe
With a grace I’ve seldom seen
Reproduced by kind permission of In fish or fowl. Like mercury,
Editions Gallimard
She slips through my fingers.
Engorged,
Alive,
Panting,
Her fat, beating heart.
Her shrivelled eyelids,
And drooping mouth
Move me to let her go.
Translated from the French
by Esther Sorooshian
Esther Sorooshian’s commentary
I think that Ponge is using the analogy of and show how the poet believes he can the English language, but would drown,
capturing a frog to express the difficulty grip the hand she’s unclenched for him; dragged ‘to muddy death’ by the weight
poets have when translating from nature. melt her, feel her flow – as if by alchemy – of stilted words as Ophelia was by her
Despite the irony that within the poem the into the new medium of words. I used the garments. I loosened and scattered the
narrator doesn’t succeed in capturing the clumsy image of a rubber glove to show structure to reflect the erratic movement
frog, Ponge himself perfectly captures its how translation isn’t as simple as this, from of a frog and placed ‘into the next pond’ in
supple and flickering vitality. I decided it nature or poetry, and how she cannot be a second stanza to reinforce her ‘[flinging]
would be an interesting poem to further ignored or disembodied as a handshake herself’ in a slightly gimmicky way. I
translate, to see if the frog could undergo that transacts the life within her; she, or tried to emphasise the poet’s desire to pin
another metamorphosis and yet be the poem, slides like mercury to retain her her down and admire her, patronisingly
preserved within another language without original form. observing how she is ‘highly strung’,
being rendered disfigured or untrue. The The Ophelia reference suggests that with ‘pretty legs’ which, coupled with the
unearthed frog is described as a ‘one- poor translation could prevent the poem domestic imagery of needles and rubber
handed Ophelia’, and I used the word from being ‘a creature native and indued gloves, introduces a sexist tone.
‘unclenching’ to follow this hand imagery unto that element’, the new element being
12First prize, Open category
Quittenpastete Quince Jelly
wenn sie der oktober ins astwerk hängte, when october hung them among the leaves, those
ausgebeulte lampions, war es zeit: wir bulging lanterns, then it was time: we picked ripe
pflückten quitten, wuchteten körbeweise quinces, lugged the baskets of yellow bounty
gelb in die küche into the kitchen,
unters wasser. apfel und birne reiften soused the fruits in water. the pears and apples
ihrem namen zu, einer schlichten süße – grew towards their names, to a simple sweetness –
anders als die quitte an ihrem baum im unlike quinces, clinging to branches in some
hintersten winkel shadowy border’s
meines alphabets, im latein des gartens, alphabet, obscure in our garden’s latin,
hart und fremd in ihrem arom. wir schnitten, tough and foreign in their aroma. we cut,
viertelten, entkernten das fleisch (vier große quartered, cored the flesh (we were four adult hands,
hände, zwei kleine), two somewhat smaller),
schemenhaft im dampf des entsafters, gaben veiled by clouds of steam from the blender, poured in
zucker, hitze, mühe zu etwas, das sich sugar, heat and effort to something that – raw –
roh dem mund versagte, wer konnte, wollte made our palates baulk. but then who could, who
quitten begreifen, would
hope to explain them:
ihr gelee, in bauchigen gläsern für die
dunklen tage in den regalen aufge- quinces, jellied, lined up in bellied jars on
reiht, in einem keller von tagen, wo sie shelves and set aside for the darkness, stored for
leuchteten, leuchten. harsher days, a cellar of days, in which they
shone, are still shining.
Jan Wagner
Translated from the German
Achtzehn Pasteten (c) 2007 Berlin Verlag by Iain Galbraith
in der Piper Verlag GmbH, Berlin
Iain Galbraith’s commentary
Born in 1971 in Hamburg, Jan Wagner is luminous palpability. Intensely curious, rendered in accentual metre, determined by
one of the most distinguished and widely constantly attentive to the unanticipated the stress on a syllable rather than its length,
read poets of his generation. Typically, possibilities afforded by the corset of as was the case in Ancient Greek, and the
his poems combine an unerring instinct traditional forms, his poems are nonetheless three Sapphic lines, followed by the shorter
for the surprising perspective on events primarily a celebration of what he has called Adonic, are built on a precise sequence of
or commonplace objects (plants, animals, ‘our steaming, glowing, odorous, noisy trochees and dactyls, with some flexibility
landscapes) with a mischievous delight in world’. permitted on the free fourth syllable, the
absurd detail and precarious balance. He The most obvious difficulty faced ‘syllaba anceps’, and on the final syllable.
is undoubtedly one of the most skilful by the translator of ‘Quittenpastete’ – a The task I set myself was to explore the rich
contemporary German poets, confronting radiantly alluring celebration of domestic potential of this ancient metre, following
his translator with a challenging array of family delight – is its strict adherence to its drive syllable for syllable, yet seeking to
sonnets, sestinas, villanelles and Sapphics. the Sapphic stanza form. This is used as match it with a flow that is natural enough
Wagner is a vigilant yet playful chronicler rarely in German as in English, and anyone in English to suggest that no word has been
of the quotidian, his meticulous handling of who has faced its complex challenges will inserted primarily for metrical effect.
image and sound forging a sensuous, almost know why. Modern English Sapphics are
13Second prize, Open category
Y Gwynt The Wind
Yr wybrwynt, helynt hylaw, Skywind, skilful disorder,
Agwrdd drwst a gerdda draw, Strong tumult walking by there,
Gwr eres wyd garw ei sain, Wondrous man, rowdy-sounding,
Drud byd heb droed heb adain. Hero, with nor foot nor wing.
Uthr yw more eres y’th roed Yeast in cloud loaves, who’s been thrown out
O bantri wybr heb untroed, Of sky’s pantry with not one foot
A buaned y rhedy How swiftly you run, and so well
Yr awr hon dros y fron fry. This moment above the high hill.
Dywaid ym, diwyd emyn, Tell me, north wind of the cwm,
Dy hynt, di ogleddwynt glyn. Your route, reliable hymn.
Hydoedd y byd a hedy, Over the whole world you fly,
Hin y fron, bydd heno fry, Tonight, hill weather, please stay high,
Och wr, a dos Uwch Aeron Man, go to Upper Aeron
Yn glaer deg, yn eglur dôn. Be cool, and stay right in tune.
Nac aro di, nac eiriach, Be quick, don’t let that maniac,
Nac ofna er Bwa Bach, Litigious Little Bow, hold you back
Cyhuddgwyn wenwyn weini. He’s toxic. Society
Caeth yw’r wlad a’i maeth i mi. And its goods are closed to me.
Nythod ddwyn, cyd nithud ddail Nest thief, though you winnow leaves
Ni’th dditia neb, ni’th etail No one condemns you, nor impedes
Na llu rhugl, na llaw rhaglaw, You, no posse, nor law’s hand,
Na llafn glas na llif na glaw, Neither blade, nor flood, nor rain.
Ni’th ladd mab mam, gam gymwyll, No son of man can kill you,
Ni’th lysg tân, ni’th lesga twyll. Fire won’t burn nor treason harm you.
Ni boddy, neu’th rybuddiwyd, You won’t drown, as you’re aware,
Nid ei ynglyn, diongl wyd, You’re never stuck—angle-less air.
Nid rhaid march buan danad, Horseless, you gallop about,
Neu bont ar aber, na bad. […] Need no bridge, nor any boat. […]
Ni’th wyl drem, noethwal dramawr, Sight can’t see you, wide-open den,
Neu’th glyw mil, nyth y glaw mawr. We hear you, nest of great rain.
Rhad Duw wyd ar hyd daear, Across the world, you are God’s grace,
Rhuad blin doriad blaen dâr, The roar when tearing oaks break;
Noter wybr natur ebrwydd, You play clouds’ notes in sky’s score,
Neitiwr gwiw dros nawtir gwydd, Dance, athletic, over moors,
Sych natur, creadur craff, Dry-humoured, clever creature;
Seirniawg wybr, siwrnai gobraff. […] On clouds’ stepping-stones you range far. […]
Drycin yn ymefin môr, Sea storms show your jeu d’esprit,
Drythyllfab ar draethellfor, Randy surfer where land meets sea.
Hyawdr awdl heod ydwyd, Bold poet, rhyming snowdrifts you are,
Hëwr, dyludwr dail wyd, Scatterer of leaves you are,
Hyrddwr, breiniol chwarddwr bryn, Clown of peaks, you go scot-free
Hwylbrenwyllt heli bronwyn. Driving masts mad in foaming sea.
14Second prize, Open category
Gwae fi pan roddais i serch Poor me when I first felt desire
Gobrudd ar Forfudd, f’eurferch. For Morfudd of the golden hair.
Rhiain a’m gwnaeth yn gaethwlad, A woman’s the cause of my disgrace.
Rhed fry rhod a thy ei thad. Run up to her father’s house
Cur y ddôr, par egori Knock hard and make him open
Cyn y dydd i’m cennad i, To my messenger pre-dawn,
A chais ffordd ati, o chaid, Find her, if there’s any way,
A chân lais fy uchenaid. Give voice to the song of my sigh.
Deuy o’r sygnau diwael, You come from unsullied stars,
Dywaid hyn i’m diwyd hael: She’s noble, loyal, tell her:
Er hyd yn y byd y bwyf, For as long as I’m alive
Corodyn cywir ydwyf. I will be her loyal slave.
Ys gwae fy wyneb hebddi, Without her, frankly, I’m a mess
Os gwir nad anghywir hi, If it’s true she’s not been faithless.
Dos fry, ti a wely wen, Climb, hold her in your spotlight,
Dos obry, dewis wybren. Then plunge down, heaven’s favourite.
Dos at Forfudd felenllwyd, Go to Morfudd Gray the blonde
Debre’n iach, da wybren wyd. Come back safe, holy vagabond.
Dafydd ap Gwilym Translated from the Welsh
by Gwyneth Lewis
Gwyneth Lewis’ commentary
Dafydd ap Gwilym, the great medieval poet, have either given a prose rendition of the words, through the world.
is an extreme challenge for translators. This sense – making it sound baggy – or diluted My choice of vocabulary steers between
is only partly due to the metrical complexity the content in order to preserve the rhyme. two extremes. The first would be using
of the cywydd, the measure he invented. My aim was to preserve the brilliance of words consistent with the historical period of
Consisting of seven-syllable couplets with ap Gwilym’s metaphorical thinking while the poem. The second would be using fully
alternate feminine and masculine rhymes, the retaining his metrical lightness of touch. The contemporary words to ‘update’ the world
cywydd is adapted from French courtly verse. pace of ap Gwilym’s metre is an important of the poem. I chose to steer a middle course,
In addition, it’s written in cynghanedd or part of his depiction of the mischievous so that this will not date my translation.
‘harmony’ within each line. This is a complex wind. Indeed, the movement of his thinking Welsh poetry is syllabic, English accentual.
codification of alliterative correspondence through his measure is how he embodies the Dafydd ap Gwilym’s extreme concision
and internal rhymes. I did not attempt to wind in the poem. Everything the poet says in Welsh is hard to convey within seven
reproduce this fractal ornamentation because about the wind is true of his own method of syllables and without a sense of strain. My
that would require inventing new imagery in composition. This poem, therefore, shows priority has been to capture the tone of the
English. Former translators of ap Gwilym Dafydd’s muse tumbling, at the pace of his poet’s wit and his joie de vivre.
15Third prize, Open category
Epigrams, Book 3, Number 44 Epigrams, Book 3, Number 44
Occurrit tibi nemo quod libenter Would you like to know why it is, Ligurnus,
quod, quacumque uenis, fuga est et ingens that no one greets you with enthusiasm?
circa te, Ligurine, solitudo, why it is that whenever you turn up somewhere,
quid sit, scire cupis? Nimis poeta es. hurried exits tend to take place,
Hoc ualde uitium periculosum est. and large breathing-spaces develop?
Non tigris catulis citata raptis, It’s because you’re too totally The Poet.
non dipsas medio perusta sole, For those round you, it represents
nec sic scorpios inprobus timetur. extreme hazard. Nothing, no creature
Nam tantos, rogo, quis ferat labores? makes one as nervous, or is as feared. No tiger,
Et stanti legis et legis sedenti, enraged at the theft of her cubs,
currenti legis et legis cacanti. is as alarming, no snake burning with thirst
In thermas fugio: sonas ad aurem. in blistering sun, no, not even
Piscinam peto: non licet natare. the malevolent scorpion: nothing
Ad cenam propero: tenes euntem. possesses your capacity to terrify.
Ad cenam uenio: fugas edentem. I ask you, who could possibly survive
Lassus dormio: suscitas iacentem. the tortures you inflict on me?
Vis, quantum facias mali, uidere? You read poems at me when I’m standing
Vir iustus, probus, innocens timeris. casually around, or when I’m relaxing
on a couch. You read at me when I’m in a dash
Martial for the public lavatory, then while I’m on the thing.
I escape to the steam-baths, there you are,
at my ear. I go for a swim, so do you –
and your Poem. I’m on my way to dinner,
you waylay me – a Poem.
I arrive, you’re there waiting
to wrestle me from my food –
a Poem.
I’m in bed, exhausted, you’ll come by
with – what else? – a Poem.
Don’t you notice the acute misery you cause?
Don’t you really, you innocent, harmless,
utterly terrifying man?
Translated from the Latin
by Robert Hull
Robert Hull’s commentary
Marcus Valerius Martialis was born in as a writer is the warmth and sense of fun, means of resurrecting the sound of Latin
Romanised Spain on the first of March the absence of ego and malice that inform verse. But repeated readings aloud brought
(hence the Martialis) around ad 40. He the crusty-seeming accounts of his fellow- me to some sense of the rhythms and textures
went to Rome in his early twenties, and citizens. of Martial’s language. I came into some sort
Rome is the setting, often the subject, of his I first encountered Martial in James of touch with his ‘voice’, and those of his
epigrammata, the short poems that became Michie’s brilliant Penguin versions, done protagonists here.
familiar all over the Roman world. into couplets in lines of different lengths. Martial’s line, eloquently terse in inflected
Epigrammata – yet most of Martial is But trying to deploy rhyme might have Latin – Et stanti legis at legis sedenti, /
anecdotal. Many poems – published in worked towards inappropriately Michie- Currenti legis et legis cacanti – can hardly
carefully organised books – are narrative fying my own versions. Moreover, rhyme stay tersely eloquent in translation: English
glances at individuals presented as fictitious: often needs syntactic manoeuvring space to prepositions and modal verbs add words,
social types whom we might recognise get the timing of adjacent lines right, and this relax the syntax. I’ve aimed for tone, and
now, so his poems feel ‘modern’, as well can make a translation very expansive. tried to catch here the speaker’s comic, only
as conveying a sense of physical and social I ‘listened’ to Martial. My long-lapsed partly simulated fury and exasperation.
Roman space. But his real attractiveness A level Latin was initially inadequate as a
16You can also read
