The Stephen Spender Prize for poetry in translation 2019 - in association with
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The Stephen Spender Prize
for poetry in translation 2019
in association withThe Stephen Spender Prize 2019 for poetry in translation
in association with The Guardian
Winners and commended
14-and-under 14-and-under commended
Jasper Gabriel Birkin
‘Trees’
by Toon Hermans
(Dutch)
Hannah Kripa Jordan
‘Incomplete Victories’
by S. Varalakshmi
(Tamil)
Iona Mandal
First Second Third ‘Amolkanti’
Ide Crawford Jonathan Webb Ebrar Aygin by Nirendranath Chakraborty
‘Cad Goddeu’ ‘The Cats’ ‘I am Listening to Istanbul’ (Bengali)
by Unknown by Charles Baudelaire by Orhan Veli
(Middle Welsh) (French) (Turkish)
18-and-under 18-and-under commended
Scarlett Stubbings
‘The Intruder’s Work’
by Anjela Duval
(Breton)
Joseph Harrison
‘The Reversal of the Tiber’
by Virgil
(Latin)
First Second Third
Shrinidhi Prakash Lulu Walsh Anusha Gautam
Extract from ‘Notebook ‘The Blue Horse’ ‘Blind Man on a Spinning
of a Return to My by Sagawa Chika Chair’
Native Land’ (Japanese) by Bhupi Scherchan
by Aimé Césaire (Nepali)
(French)
Open Open commended
Alasdair Gordon
‘Myris, Alexandria’
by C. P. Cavafy
(Greek)
Norbert Hirschhorn
‘The King’
by Fouad M. Fouad
(Arabic)
Kevin Maynard
First Second Third ‘Five Poems from the Borderlands’
James Garza Ollie Evans Francis Jones by Nai Xian
‘Going Home’ ‘nature – no thanks’ ‘Sea’ (Classical Chinese)
by Itō Shizuo by Elfriede Gerstl by Ivan V. Lalić
(Japanese) (German) (Serbian)Polish Spotlight winners and commended
10-and-under Winner Commended
Roksana Tkaczyńska Jakub Śliwa
‘In School’ ‘Poland’
by Maria Konopnicka by Antoni Słonimski
Harrison Nye
‘Fox’
by Jan Brzechwa
14-and-under Winner
Michaela Konkolewska-Grybė
‘Glasses’
by Julian Tuwim
18-and-under Winner Commended
Zuzanna Osińska Alexander Norris
‘I am too close for him to ‘For this exactly’
dream of me’ by Cyprian Kamil Norwid
by Wisława Szymborska
Introduction to the Stephen Spender Prize 2019
T here have been no shortage of highlights over this past
year at the Trust, with the launch of our ‘Creative
Translation in the Classroom’ programme and a record-break-
creativity of translation and its power to build bridges, start
conversations and celebrate difference.
It has been a great pleasure to work with judges Margaret
ing number of entries to the prize. But the most memorable Jull Costa and Olivia McCannon again, and to welcome Mary
moment for me came on a sunny afternoon in July, when I Jean Chan to the judges’ panel. Sitting in on the judges’ meeting
was invited to award the prizes at an internal ‘Stephen Spender gives a wonderful insight into the sincere care and attention
Prize’ competition at a large state school in Slough. Having that they give to each entry, and all the micro-decisions that
only heard about the prize for the first time in May, the Head lead to the poems printed here rising to the top of the multi-
of Modern Languages had pulled out all the stops to encour- lingual pile. I commend these superb winning translations to
age entries from pupils and teachers right across the school, you now, with thanks to all who have supported the Trust this
resulting in translations out of twenty-five languages. Talking year: the Rothschild Foundation, Old Possum’s Practical Trust,
to the winning pupils that day confirmed what the Stephen Redcase Ltd, the Sackler Trust, the Polonsky Foundation, the
Spender Prize can be: an inclusive, aspiration-raising, shared European Commission Representation, the British Council
experience that engages and celebrates linguistic skills for all and the Polish Cultural Institute. Thanks also to all the entrants
levels and backgrounds. to this year’s competitions, and to the teachers who take the
This was reflected in the translations that flooded in for the time to encourage and support their pupils’ entries.
national prize, with entries this time from sixty-five languages.
It’s heartening to see this evidence of a country engaging with Charlotte Ryland
other languages and cultures, and further proof of the intense Director of the Stephen Spender Trust
1Judges’ commentary
I was truly impressed by translation of an extract from Aimé translated by James Garza, which rose
the quality of submis- Césaire’s ‘Notebook of a Return to My through the ranks to become our Open
sions from across our Native Land’. In addition to the trans- category winner with its subtle eco-
three categories, which lated poem, we particularly admired poetics, sensual imagery, and ability to
amounted to nearly the commentary for providing a close inspire hope in dark times. In contrast
2000 pages of transla- reading of Césaire’s thematic preoccu- to the winning poem is the bleak vision
tions and original verse. We agreed that pations and poetics. In second place, we inherent within ‘nature – no thanks’ by
the Middle Welsh poem ‘Cad Goddeu’ chose Sagawa Chika’s ‘The Blue Horse’, Elfriede Gerstl, which we chose as our
translated by Ide Crawford was a a poem translated from the Japanese by second prize winner in light of its ability
worthy winner of the 14-and-under Lulu Walsh, which poignantly conveys to capture a relatable sense of nihilistic
category, with its vivid use of imagery the speaker’s struggle with depression despair as the speaker experiences
and effective deployment of anaphora and suicidal thoughts, punctuated by the degradation of our natural world,
throughout. Jonathan Webb’s ‘The Cats’ moments of comic relief: ‘If I could only expertly translated from the German
cleverly captures the humour and wit in forget / the love and regret / and the by Ollie Evans. In third place, we chose
the French poem by Charles Baudelaire, patent shoes! / I got through – without Francis Jones’s translation of ‘Sea’ by the
and is this year’s second prize winner. jumping / from the second floor.’ In Serbian poet Ivan V. Lalić, with its epic
In third place, we chose Orhan Veli’s third place is Bhupi Sherchan’s ‘Blind vision of the natural world and its keen
‘I am Listening to Istanbul’, translated Man on a Spinning Chair’, translated attentiveness to rhyme and musicality.
from the Turkish by Ebrar Aygin, which from the Nepali by Anusha Gautam. Our three commended poems were
offers a wonderful balance between The translator’s attentiveness to the truly outstanding: Norbert Hirschhorn’s
observation (‘The Grand Bazaar is calm original poem’s fragmented form comes translation of ‘The King’ (Arabic) by
and cool’) and inner revelation (‘I know across in the translated poem’s precise Fouad M. Fouad, Kevin Maynard’s
/ A silver moon rises between the pine use of enjambment: ‘Rumours flinch, / translation of ‘Five Poems from the
trees / I can sense it all in your heart’s frightened by the headlights / as dark- Borderlands’ (Classical Chinese) by Nai
beating’). Our commendations go to ness descends’. Our commended poems Xian, and Alasdair Gordon’s transla-
Hannah Kripa Jordan for ‘Incomplete were Scarlett Stubbings’ translation of tion of ‘Myris, Alexandria’ (Greek) by
Victories’ (Tamil), Iona Mandal for ‘The Intruder’s Work’ (Breton) and Constantine Cavafy.
‘Amolkanti’ (Bengali) and Jasper Joseph Harrison’s translation of ‘The In sum, it was deeply heartening to
Gabriel Birkin for ‘Trees’ (Dutch). All Reversal of the Tiber’ (Latin), which see both classical and contemporary
three translations captured a sense of stood out to the judges for their precise poetry continuing to be of interest to
our common humanity, and evoked a diction. experienced and budding translators
deep emotional engagement from the The Open category proved the most alike, across an ever-broadening variety
judges. varied and difficult for the judges to of languages from around the globe.
In the 18-and-under category, we agree upon. We were very enamoured
selected Shrinidhi Prakash’s evocative of ‘Going Home’ by Itō Shizuo, Mary Jean Chan
Once again, being a exercise in rhythm and sound, and the Return to My Native Land’, with its
judge on the Stephen translation vividly conveys the wit and many astonishing lines: ‘limping from
Spender Po e t r y sensuality of the original. I found Ebrar littleness to littleness’, ‘this modest
Translation Prize has Aygin’s version of Turkish poet Orhan nothing of hard splinters’. Brilliant.
been a richly rewarding Veli’s ‘I am listening to Istanbul’ utterly Lulu Walsh’s ‘The Blue Horse’ revels in
experience, an introduc- hypnotic and incantatory, a haunting the casual surrealism of Japanese poet
tion to all kinds of poets, poems and evocation of place. I also particularly Sagawa Chika – ‘If I could only forget
languages. The principal joy, though, is liked Yusuf Hassan’s version of Octavio / the love and regret / and the patent
the sheer enthusiasm for the translation Paz’s poem ‘Acabar con todo’ for the shoes!’ In ‘Blind Man on a Spinning
process. In the 14-and-under category, sensitive way he captured the beauty in Chair’ by Nepalese poet Bhupi
I was immediately impressed by Ide what, as he says in the commentary, can Sherchan, Anusha Gautam – translating
Crawford’s bold translation from the seem like ‘nonsense’. from her mother tongue – confidently
Middle Welsh of ‘Cad Goddeu’, so In the 18-and-under category, I reproduces the extraordinarily evoca-
full of rhythm and sound and allit- really enjoyed the sweep of Shrinidhi tive images of the original: ‘Numerous
eration. Jonathan Webb’s translation Prakash’s winning translation of Aimé noises come and go / dressed in different
of Baudelaire’s ‘Les Chats’ is another Césaire’s ‘Extract from Notebook of a outfits’, ‘All day / Like dried bamboo, /
2Judges’ commentary
dozing / in my own hollowness’. I also energetic ‘nature – no thanks’, which, as of many other possible darknesses.
enjoyed ‘The Intruder’s Work’ lovingly Ollie explains in his commentary, very Other translations that impressed me,
translated from the Breton by Scarlett sensitively unpicks the poem’s subtext. in addition to our commended entries,
Stubbings. Then there is Francis Jones’ rhythmic were Eva Bourke’s playful transla-
As usual, the Open Category had the translation of the Serbian poet Ivan tion of Jan Wagner’s ‘Small hymn to
largest number of entries. The winning Lalić’s poem ‘Sea’, so full of sussurating crows’, Christophe Fricker’s version of
poem, ‘Going Home’ translated by s-words. Another poem that haunted ‘Embrace’ by Matthias Politycki, and
James Garza (whose work was highly me was Norbert Hirschhorn’s version the ‘whirlwind of imagery’ in Patrizia
commended last year), was one that of Syrian poet Fouad M. Fouad’s Cavalli’s ‘Datura’, another entry by our
really stayed with me. It has such a ‘The King’, translated in close col- first-prize-winner James Garza. My
convincing voice and – the ultimate test laboration with the poet. I also very thanks to all those who entered.
– is equally convincing when read out much admired ‘In the dark’ by N.S.
loud. As James says in his commentary: Sigogo, translated by Stephen Walsh Margaret Jull Costa
‘Here, in simple but carefully chosen from Ndebele, a language spoken
language, is a real place.’ We were all by the Northern Ndebele people, or
also very taken with Ollie Evans’ Matabele, of Zimbabwe – in which
version of Elfriede Gerstl’s acerbically the darkness the poet describes speaks
This year, I was Victories’), and Jasper Gabriel Birkin hear it, the rustle in / the colour, and I
delighted to encoun- for his memorable ‘Trees’ (Dutch). hear it, / the way home’. With his finely
ter poems from an In the 18-and-under category, tuned sensitivity to word choice and
ever-widening range Shrinidhi Prakash’s translation of aural patterning, Ollie Evans captures
of languages, includ- Césaire shows impressive maturity, the dark energy of radical Vienna Group
ing Nepali, Dholuo, with its close attention to the role of poet Elfriede Gerstl, while Francis
Basque, Breton, Korean, and Klingon, nuance in weaving a cohesive texture. Jones brings close the voice of Lalić’s
as well as entries connecting with Lulu Walsh, translating avant-garde sea, ‘the wild waves’ calling, through
bilingual heritage. Different eras were poet Sagawa Chika (Japanese), creates his surefooted use of enjambment, and
well represented, with work from ‘a complex, alienating effect to match skilled metrical balancing of lightness
ancient languages surfacing alongside the strangeness of the poem’s impact’, and weight.
contemporary contexts – and plenty in taking risks to come in closer; while We also loved and admired ‘The
between. Anusha Gautam’s confident translation King’, a listening co-translation by
I was on the lookout for writing that of Bhupi Sherchan (Nepali) thought- Norbert Hirschorn and the Syrian poet
held itself open to its source, which fully broaches the issue of what to do Fouad M. Fouad; a sequence of living-
sought not to impose, or project, or with language embedded in a particular breathing ‘eyewitness snapshots of life
correct, but to listen, and learn, and ‘collective consciousness’. in China’s north-western borderlands
feel with. All of the winners and com- There were also accomplished offer- under the Mongol Yuan dynasty’ by
mended entries displayed these qualities ings from Scarlett Stubbings (Duval), Kevin Maynard (also commended in
and there were many more besides. It picking up on French/Breton power 2017), and Alasdair Gordon’s beautiful
was a real pleasure to discuss such dynamics, and from Joseph Harrison flowing and quickening stream-of-
considered work with my fellow judges, (Virgil), who created a lovely metrical consciousness Cavafy. I also enjoyed
and to see such a high standard overall. tension inspired by Old English and translations by Martyn Crucefix, of
In the 14-and-under category, we Welsh. I also enjoyed the hymnic accu- the Corsican poet Angèle Paoli, and
were won over by the lively metamor- mulations of Sorrel Banfield’s Manciet by James Womack, of the Basque poet
phic sequencing of Ide Crawford’s (French/Gascon), and the clear imagery Rikardo Arregi.
‘Cad Goddeu’ (Old Welsh), charmed of Lydia Mekonnen’s Edda (Old Norse). Overall, I was heartened by the rise in
by Jonathan Webb’s elegantly feline The open category was packed translations and commentaries commit-
Baudelaire (French), and drawn in by with impressive talent! Spender Prize ted to creating authentic living connec-
the vivid, felt presence of Ebrar Aygin’s returnee James Garza’s ‘Going Home’ tions between texts, and engaging with
Veli (Turkish). Other standouts were (Itō Shizuo) pulses with presence, the the complex ethical entanglements that
Iona Mandal’s touching ‘Amolkanti’ intense synaesthesia of a walker at shape the energetic tissue of translation.
(Bengali), Hannah Kripa Jordan for her night, becoming part of the world in
insightful work from Tamil (‘Incomplete and beyond the beam of a torch: ‘and I Olivia McCannon
3First prize, 14-and-under category
Cad Goddeu Cad Goddeu
Bum yn lliaws rith In many forms have I appeared
Kyn bum kisgyfrith. Changing through the wheeling years
Bum cledyf culurith. Once the swift-flung shaft of the spear
Credaf pan writh. Once the sky’s tears dropping clear
Bum deigyr yn awyr. Once the climbing spark of the star
Bum serwaw syr. Once the shield tight-held in war
Bum geir yn llythyr. Once a great bridge stretching far
Bum llyfyr ym prifder. Over the fierce free-flowing flood
Bum llugyrn lleufer Once the sword that drew the blood
Blwydyn a hanher. Once the harp-string by fingers stirred
Bum pont ar triger. Once the path, once the binding cord
Ar trugein aber. Once among the letters the word
Bum hynt bym eryr.
Bum corwc ymyr. In the book of birth and beginning
Bum darwed yn llat. Once food at the feast, the bowl brimming
Bum das ygkawat. Once the wild hawk high in the tree
Bum cledyf yn aghat. Once the winged ship on the wasted sea
Bum yscwyt ygkat. Once the white water, the froth-foam free
Bum tant yn telyn Once the moving flames that tune-like play
Lletrithawdc naw blwydyn. Once in the whirling wood the winding way
Yn dwfyr yn ewyn. Now the torch in the dark before the day
Bum yspwg yn tan. With full unfaltering fearless rays.
Bum gwyd yngwarthan.
Translated from the Middle Welsh
Unknown by Ide Crawford
Ide Crawford’s commentary
This is the opening of the Middle Welsh into direct identification. scheme, and attempted to preserve parts
poem ‘Cad Goddeu’. It follows a traditional Although I write poetry all the time, of the alliteration, which involved minor
pattern also found in ancient Irish texts, I have never translated anything before changes and rearranging of the lines. It is
where the poet claims incarnation in a – so researching how to set about it was a almost impossible, however, to duplicate
diverse string of physical forms. I am fascinating process in itself. Translating a text exactly the intricate Welsh sound patterns
fascinated by the way this trope confidently written in the fourteenth century, and likely in English.
elides the subject/object relation which is formed through a much older oral tradition, As I am not fluent even in modern Welsh,
so complicated in poetry in the modern brings the translator up against issues at once I have relied largely on dictionaries. Even
period, with poems like John’s Clair’s of linguistic and dense cultural difference. this is complicated by the many mutations
“Clock o’ Clay” occasionally stepping back I have kept close to the original rhyme which change the first letter of words.
4Second prize, 14-and-under category
Les chats The Cats
Les amoureux fervents et les savants austères Passionate lovers and dry scholars
Aiment également, dans leur mûre saison, Love equally, in their ripened season,
Les chats puissants et doux, orgueil de la maison, Cats, powerful and soft, pride of the house,
Qui comme eux sont frileux et comme eux sédentaires. Who, like them, are aloof and, like them, still,
Amis de la science et de la volupté, Fellows of learning and of pleasure,
Ils cherchent le silence et l’horreur des ténèbres; They seek the silence and the horror of darkness:
L’Erèbe les eût pris pour ses coursiers funèbres, Erebus would take them for his funeral harbingers,
S’ils pouvaient au servage incliner leur fierté. If they could tilt their pride to servitude.
Ils prennent en songeant les nobles attitudes In contemplation they take the noble attitude
Des grands sphinx allongés au fond des solitudes, Of the great sphinxes reclining, in the depths of solitude,
Qui semblent s’endormir dans un rêve sans fin; Who seem to slumber in an endless dream,
Leurs reins féconds sont pleins d’étincelles magiques, Their fruitful forms are full of wondrous sparks,
Et des parcelles d’or, ainsi qu’un sable fin, And grains of gold and fine sand,
Etoilent vaguement leurs prunelles mystiques. Their mysterious pupils glimmer distantly.
Charles Baudelaire Translated from the French
by Jonathan Webb
Jonathan Webb’s commentary
I chose this poem because I have always throughout the poem. This perfectly repre- of ‘frileux’ but as this perfectly describes a
thought the French language is feline in its sents the duality of cats, as one moment they cat, I used it.
elegance, sophistication and nuance and so are docile companions and the next they are It is Baudelaire’s clear understanding of
was keen to select a poem about cats. This small savage beasts which is reflected in the attitudes and behaviour of cats which
poem, ‘Les Chats’ by Baudelaire, not only Baudelaire’s contrasting imagery. inspired my choice of vocabulary. I used
portrays the grandeur of cats through its The rhyme scheme was challenging and more formal language to mirror Baudelaire
lofty language but it also reflects the abso- when I attempted it I found I lost some of and demonstrate the aloofness of cats, schol-
lute belief in their superiority held by cats, the meaning of Baudelaire’s dense, evocative ars and lovers. I then tried to use colder lan-
scholars and lovers alike: they all assume that vocabulary. Consequently, I focussed on the guage to convey cats’ enjoyment of darkness
their experience is unique and unrivalled. sense and tone of the language to convey and warmer language towards the end of my
I enjoyed choosing words which reflect respect and affection for cats because the translation. I hoped to convey Baudelaire’s
the sensory nature of Baudelaire’s vocabu- poem packs a tremendous variety of the sense of affection for cats, which I share, and
lary. I particularly liked the way Baudelaire complex facets of cats into a short number our sense of wonder at their magnificence
uses imagery to juxtapose light and dark of lines. ‘Aloof’ is not the exact translation which has been constant through the ages.
5Third prize, 14-and-under category
İstanbul’u Dinliyorum I am Listening to Istanbul
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı I am listening to Istanbul, my eyes are closed
Önce hafiften bir rüzgar esiyor; At first there is a gentle breeze
Yavaş yavaş sallanıyor The soft sway
Yapraklar, ağaçlarda; And the leaves on the trees
Uzaklarda, çok uzaklarda, Out there, far away,
Sucuların hiç durmayan çıngırakları The bells of water-carriers’ endless ring
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı I am listening to Istanbul, my eyes are closed
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı; I am listening to Istanbul, my eyes are closed;
Kuşlar geçiyor, derken; Then suddenly birds fly by,
Yükseklerden, sürü sürü, çığlık çığlık. High up, flocks of them, with a hue and cry
Ağlar çekiliyor dalyanlarda; While the nets are drawn into the fisheries
Bir kadının suya değiyor ayakları; And a woman’s feet dabble in the water
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı I am listening to Istanbul, my eyes are closed
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı; I am listening to Istanbul, my eyes are closed
Serin serin Kapalıçarşı The Grand Bazaar is calm and cool,
Cıvıl cıvıl Mahmutpaşa The chitter chatter at Mahmud Pasha
Güvercin dolu avlular Mosque yards are full of pigeons
Çekiç sesleri geliyor doklardan The hammers bang and clang at the docks
Güzelim bahar rüzgarında ter kokuları; Spring winds and the smell of sweat;
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı I am listening to Istanbul, my eyes are closed
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı; I am listening to Istanbul, my eyes are closed;
Başımda eski alemlerin sarhoşluğu The drunkenness of the old worlds
Loş kayıkhaneleriyle bir yalı; A sea coast with dim boathouses
Dinmiş lodosların uğultusu içinde In the hum of the dead southern winds
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı I am listening to Istanbul, my eyes are closed
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı; I am listening to Istanbul, my eyes are closed
Bir yosma geçiyor kaldırımdan; A pretty girl walks by on the path
Küfürler, şarkılar, türküler, laf atmalar Words, whistles, and songs, rude-remarks;
Birşey düşüyor elinden yere; Something falls out of her hand
Bir gül olmalı; It must be a rose;
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı I am listening to Istanbul, my eyes are closed
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı; I am listening to Istanbul, my eyes are closed;
Bir kuş çırpınıyor eteklerinde; A bird flutters around your skirt
Alnın sıcak mı, değil mi, biliyorum; Is your forehead hot? Cold? I know
Dudakların ıslak mı, değil mi, biliyorum; Are your lips wet? Or not? I know
Beyaz bir ay doğuyor fıstıkların arkasından A silver moon rises between the pine trees
Kalbinin vuruşundan anlıyorum; I can sense it all in your heart’s beating
İstanbul’u dinliyorum I am listening to Istanbul
Orhan Veli Translated from the Turkish
by Ebrar Aygin
© Orhan Veli Kanık, Yapı Kredi Kültür Sanat
Yayıncılık Ticaret ve Sanayi A.Ş., 2003
Ebrar Aygin’s commentary
I chose this poem because my home setting because of the powerful vocabulary specific words meant...
language is Turkish and this poem has a that the poet has used. Due to the fact that this poem is very
really nice meaning to the Turks. It is one When I was younger I learnt Turkish and famous in Turkey and is written by a very
of the most effective Turkish poems that English at the same time and my Turkish is important poet, every Turk that reads this
describes Istanbul. The poet, Orhan Veli, fluent but when I read poems I struggle on poem will be reminded of Istanbul and
is in Istanbul and listening to the nature and word meanings sometimes, so my parents its history because in Turkish literature
the people surrounding him and puts all of helped me a lot whilst translating this everyone will have heard this poem at least
it together in this poem. I really like this poem. Also, the most difficult thing was once in their lifetime and it means a lot
poem because every time I read it or hear getting the word order right and letting it depending on your point of view to it.
somebody else read it I feel like I am in the make sense at the same time and what some
6First prize, 18-and-under category
Cahier d’un retour au pays natal (extract)
Partir... j’arriverais lisse et jeune dans ce pays
mien et je dirais à ce pays dont le limon entre dans la composition de ma chair : «J’ai longtemps erré et je
^reviens vers la hideur désertées de vos plaies ».
Je viendrais à ce pays mien et je lui dirais : « Embrassez-moi sans crainte... Et si je ne sais que parler,
c’est pour vous que je parlerais ».
Et je lui dirai encore :
« Ma bouche sera la bouche des malheurs qui n’ont point de bouche, ma voix, la liberté de celles qui
s’affaissent au cachot du désespoir. »
Et venant je me dirais à moi même :
« Et surtout mon corps aussi bien que mon âme, gardez-vous de vous croiser les bras en l’attitude stérile du
spectateur, car la vie n’est pas un spectacle, car une mer de douleurs n’est pas un proscenium, car un
homme qui crie n’est pas un ours qui danse... »
Et voici que je suis venu !
De nouveau cette vie clopinante devant moi, non pas cette vie, cette mort, cette mort sans sens ni piété,
cette mort où la grandeur piteusement échoue, l’éclatante petitesse de cette mort, cette mort qui clopine de
petitesses en petitesses ; ces pelletées de petites avidités sur le conquistador; ces pelletées de petits
larbins sur le grand sauvage, ces pelletées de petites âmes sur le Caraïbe aux trois âmes,
et toutes ces morts futiles
absurdités sous l’éclaboussement de ma conscience ouverte
tragiques futilités éclairée de cette seule noctiluque et moi seul, brusque scène de ce petit matin
où fait le beau l’apocalypse des monstres puis, chavirée, se tait
chaude élection de cendres, de ruines et d’affaissements
– Encore une objection ! une seule, mais de grâce une seule : je n’ai pas le droit de calculer la vie à mon
empan fuligineux ; de me réduire à ce petit rien ellipsoïdal qui tremble à quatre doigts au-dessus de la
ligne, moi homme, d’ainsi bouleverser la création, que je me comprenne entre latitude et longitude !
Au bout du petit matin,
la mâle soif et l’entêté désir,
me voici divisé des oasis fraîches de la fraternité
ce rien pudique frise d’échardes dures
cet horizon trop sûr tressaille comme un geôlier.
Ton dernier triomphe, corbeau tenace de la Trahison.
Ce qui est à moi, ces quelques milliers de mortiférés qui tournent en rond dans la calebasse d’une île et
ce qui est à moi aussi, l’archipel arqué comme le désir inquiet de se nier, on dirait une anxiété maternelle
pour protéger la ténuité plus délicate qui sépare l’une de l’autre Amérique ; et ses flancs qui sécrètent
pour l’Europe la bonne liqueur d’un Gulf Stream, et l’un des deux versants d’incandescence entre quoi
l’Equateur funambule vers l’Afrique. Et mon île non-clôture, sa claire audace debout à l’arrière de cette
polynésie, devant elle, la Guadeloupe fendue en deux de sa raie dorsale et de même misère que nous,
Haïti où la négritude se mit debout pour la première fois et dit qu’elle croyait à son humanité et la comique
petite queue de la Floride où d’un nègre s’achève la strangulation, et l’Afrique gigantesquement chenillant
jusqu’au pied hispanique de l’Europe, sa nudité où la Mort fauche à larges andains.
Et je me dis Bordeaux et Nantes et Liverpool et New York et San Francisco
pas un bout de ce monde qui ne porte mon empreinte digitale
et mon calcanéum sur le dos des gratte-ciel et ma crasse
dans le scintillement des gemmes !
Qui peut se vanter d’avoir mieux que moi ?
Aimé Césaire
Aimé Césaire, Cahier d’un retour au pays natal © Présence Africaine, 1956
7First prize, 18-and-under category
Notebook of a Return to My Native Land (extract)
Leaving… I’d arrive plain and young in this country of mine
and I’d say to this country whose silt embeds
itself in my flesh: ‘I’ve wandered a long while and I’m returning
to the deserted ugliness of your wounds.’
I’d come to this country of mine and I’d say to it: ‘Kiss me without fear… And if
I only know how to speak, it’s for you that I speak.’
And again I’d say to it:
‘My mouth will be the mouth of mouthless suffering,
my voice, the liberties of those shut up
in despair.’
And on the way, I’d say to myself:
‘And my body, especially, as well as my soul – careful not to cross
your arms in the sterile attitude of a spectator, for life is not
a show, a sea of sorrows is not a proscenium, a shrieking
man is not a dancing bear…’
And look, I’m here!
Again this hobbling life before me – not this life, this death, this death
without sense or pity, this death in which greatness is a sorry failure – the dazzling
littleness of this death, this death limping
from littleness
to littleness – these shovelfuls of rapacity over the conquistador; these shovelfuls
of flunkies over the great savage; these shovelfuls of little souls over the triple-souled
Carib.
And all these futile deaths, absurdities under
the splutter of my open conscience, tragic futilities lit by this lone sea-sparkle and me
alone, an abrupt early-morning scene where the apocalypse of monsters
parades, then, keeled over, is
quiet. Warm election of ashes, of ruins and collapses.
‘One more thing! One, for the love of God just one: I don’t have the right to
calculate life by my sooty handspan; to reduce myself to this ellipsoidal
little nothing trembling four fingers above the line, I, a man, to thus capsize
creation, including myself between latitude and longitude!’
At the close of the early morning, male thirst and obstinate desire.
Look at me, cut off from cool oases of fraternity.
This modest nothing of hard splinters
This too-certain horizon quivers like a jailor. Your last triumph, tenacious
crow of Treason.
What is mine, these few thousand death-stricken who go round in circles in the calabash
of an island and what is mine too, the archipelago arched like the uneasy desire to deny
oneself, like a maternal anxiety to protect the more delicate subtlety which separates
one America
from the other. And its flanks which secrete the good
liqueur of a Gulf Stream for Europe, and one of two slopes of incandescence
between which the Equator walks the tightrope towards
Africa. And my non-fence isle, its clear daring, standing at the back
of this Polynesia, in front of it, Guadeloupe cracked
into two by its dorsal line and as impoverished as us, Haiti where blackness is standing
up for the first time and saying that it believes in its humanity and the funny little tail
of Florida where they’re rounding off the strangling of a black
man, and Africa caterpillaring titanically towards the Hispanic foot of Europe, its
nudity where Death reaps in large windrows.
And I say to myself Bordeaux and Nantes and Liverpool and New York and San Francisco
Not a nook of this world without my fingerprint
And my heelbone on the skyscrapers’ shoulders and my muck
in the sparkle of gems! Who can brag of having more than I?
Translated from the French
by Shrinidhi Prakash
8First prize, 18-and-under category
Shrinidhi Prakash’s commentary
Cahier d’un retours au pays natal is a great three lines, and one America is visually emphasising the double meaning with
literary experiment – a raw, lyrical mosaic separated from another. It is also a form of the line break. Of course, I was also alert
drawing on a staggering range of tone to further commentary; Florida rounds off the to double meanings Césaire probably did
convey the disorientating nature of colo- ‘strangling of a black/man’; his humanity is intend; for example, I translate ‘flanc’ as
nialism. I chose this rather long extract to an afterthought to his race. I have also left ‘flank’ rather than the geographical ‘slope,’
best show off its protean nature, which, out, out of personal preference and for the as he humanises the landscape with the
however, is held together by an underlying isolated coherence of the extract respectively, verb ‘secretes.’ The most challenging word
anger. Its complexity is difficult to translate, the first line of the first stanza and the last was probably ‘mortiféré’, which fuses the
but deeply rewarding because its freedom line of the last. As for the language itself, I adjectives for ‘murderous’ with ‘plague-
implicitly allows the translator their own. have created a pun where there is none in stricken’; I translated it as ‘death-stricken.’
I have played freely with the structure of the French; where Césaire literally says: It is a darkly striking creation, reminding us
the stanzas for a variety of poetic effects. ‘my voice, the liberty of those sunk in the that death is not an absolute but a wasting
Sometimes structure enhances meaning; dungeon of despair,’ I translated ‘my voice, malady. Like the rest of the poem, it flaunts
death limps from littleness to littleness over the liberty of those shut up/ in despair,’ Césaire’s philosophical genius.
Second prize, 18-and-under category
青い馬 The Blue Horse
馬は山をかけ下りて発狂した。その日から彼女は青い食物をたべる。 A horse galloped down
夏は女達の目や袖を the mountain, and went mad. Since
青く染めると街の広場で楽しく廻転する。 then, she eats blue food.
テラスの客達はあんなにシガレットを吸うのでブリキのような空は貴
婦人の頭髪の輪を落 Summer dyes women’s
書きしている。悲しい記憶は手巾のように捨てようと思ふ。恋と悔恨 eyes and sleeves blue and, joyful,
とエナメルの靴を忘 whirls in the town square.
れることが出来たら！
私は二階から飛び降りずに済んだのだ。 Guests on the terrace
海が天にあがる。 smoke so many cigarettes
that the tin-like sky
Sagawa Chika
scrawls loops onto the
ladies’ hair. Let’s throw away
the sad memories
like a handkerchief.
If I could only forget
the love and regret
and the patent shoes!
I got through without jumping
from the second floor.
Sea rises to sky.
Translated from the Japanese
by Lulu Walsh
9Second prize, 18-and-under category
Lulu Walsh’s commentary
This poem, taken from a collection of poems This poem is in modern Japanese – it was Having experimented with various forms I
by Japanese avant-garde poet Sagawa Chika, written in the early twentieth century – and decided to structure the poem into a series of
does not have a clear meaning on a surface having some knowledge of Japanese made haikus. This was paradoxical. I was seeking a
level; the striking but bizarre imagery invites translating the poem at a literal level not complex, alienating effect to match the strange-
the reader into the world of the poet. excessively difficult. I did not take huge lib- ness of the poem’s impact. Somehow this form
We are aware of worries, regrets and her erties; the core content was strange enough. framed the strange imagery of the poem better.
broken heart; however, the ending of the The structure of the original poem is Using such a traditional form for such an
poem is optimistic. There is a suggestion that loose to the point of being nonexistent – it untraditional poem was dangerous of course,
she has escaped from suicide, and the last is decidedly and deliberately unstructured, but it had an extra benefit – this traditional
line, with the mention of ‘rising’ to the sky, even using enjambment in mid-word, such lens could playfully reflect the stereotypical
reflects how she has risen above the worries as ‘忘｜れる’, or ‘for | get’) – but in transla- way in which the average Western reader
she has faced. tion this did not seem sufficiently strange. perceives Japanese poetry.
Third prize, 18-and-under category
Ghumne Mech Mathi Andho Manchhe Blind Man on a Spinning Chair
Dinabhari All day
sukēkō bām̐sajhaim̐ Like dried bamboo,
āphnō khōkrōpanamāthi dozing
um̐ghēra, in my own hollowness,
pachutā’ēra, regretting;
dinabhari
rōgī malēvājhaim̐ All day
āphnō chātī āphnai cuccōlē ṭhum̐gēra, Hurt,
ghā’uharu kōṭṭyā’ēra, like a sick pigeon,
dinabhari pecking at its own wound;
sallāghārījhaim̐ ēkalāsamā
avyakta vēdanālē sum̐kka sum̐kka rō’ēra, All day,
dinabhari Sobbing with unexpressed suffering
pātē cyā’ujhaim̐ like the wind
dharatī ra ākāśakō viśālatādēkhi ṭāḍhā through an empty pine forest;
ē’uṭā sānō ṭhā’um̐mā āphnō khuṭṭā gāḍēra,
ē’uṭā sānō chātālē āphūlā’i ḍhākēra, All day
sām̐jhamā jaba nēpāla khumci’ēra kāṭhamānḍau Like a folio mushroom
kāṭhamānḍau ḍalli’ēra nayā saḍaka stuck in the vastness of the distance
ra between heaven and earth,
nayām̐ saḍaka asaṅkhya mānisakā pā’umuni kulci’ēra, ṭukri’ēra, stuck in a small corner,
akhabāra ciyā ra pāna kō pasala bancha, digging my feet into the ground,
hunched under a small umbrella;
In the evening,
When Nepal cowers into Kathmandu,
And Kathmandu scrunches into New Road,
And New Road, trodden under innumerable footsteps,
fragmented,
shrinks into newspaper, tea and betel stands;
10Third prize, 18-and-under category
kisima kisimakā pōśākamā Numerous noises come and go
ōhōra dōhōra garchan? Tharitharikā hallāharu, dressed in different outfits,
phula pārēkō kukhurājhaim̐ karā’udai Newspapers walk about
him̐ḍchana akhabāraharu clucking like laying hens,
ra Rumours flinch,
ṭhā’um̐ ṭhā’um̐mā andhakāra pēṭimā uklincha frightened by the headlights
mōṭaraharukō prakāśadēkhi tarsēra, as darkness descends;
ani asaṅkhya maurīkō bhunabhuna ra ḍadā’idēkhi
ātti’ēra Panicked by the angry humming and stinging of bees,
ma uṭhchu I arise,
n’yāyakō dinamā prētātmāharu uṭhējhaim̐ Exactly like spirits on the Day of judgement,
ra Unable to drink the oblivion of Lethe,
napā’ēra bismr̥tikō ‘lēthē’ nadī, I dive into another glass of wine,
raksīkō gilāsamā hāmaphālchu and forget my lives and deaths;
ra
birsanchu āphnō pūrvakathālā’ī From a tea kettle,
pūrvajunī ra mr̥tyulā’ī rises the sun,
yasarī nai sadhaim̐ And always,
ciyākō kiṭalibāṭa ē’uṭā sūrya udā’um̐cha from an empty glass of wine,
sadhai raksīkō rittō gilāsamā ē’uṭā sūrya astā’um̐cha it sets;
ghumirahēkai cha ma basēkō pr̥thvī —pūrvavat
phagata ma aparicita chu The world on which I live continues to spin, as always,
variparikā parivartanaharudēkhi, only I am an outsider
dr̥ śyaharudēkhi, to the changes around me,
ramā’ilōdēkhi, to the scenes,
pradarśanīkō ghumnē mēcamāthi to the joy -
karalē basēkō andhō jastai. like a blind man at an exhibition,
forced to sit upon a spinning chair.
Bhupi Scherchan
Reproduced by kind permission of Translated from the Nepali
the Bhupi Sherchan estate by Anusha Gautam
Anusha Gautam’s commentary
I chose this poem because it provides an to. I also think Sherchan’s voice typifies the me a lot of freedom to take liberty with the
esoteric snapshot of a period of cultural voice of Nepali poetic satire, and I enjoyed structure, especially as tenses in the original
upheaval within Nepal, contrasting nature this process for that very reason, as I could language are differently expressed, being very
and modernity and their effect on human- connect to my culture. fluid and ambiguous. I have attempted to pre-
ity. It presents a disconnect from the world The expression of nuances through the serve the fragmentation of the original form,
around the speaker, which is part of the word choice was particularly difficult for me, which I think is very important in presenting
reason I picked this poem. There’s a sense as many words trigger a ‘collective conscious- the mental state of the narrator, and thus, the
of bitter poignancy as the speaker feels ness’ shared by the Nepalese population, and depth of the poem. However, translating this
unable to adjust to the sweeping changes much of the emotion is deeply engrained fragmentation, while also making sure the
taking over society, consumed by their own within these words – preserving this was a poem made sense, was quite difficult – due
suffering, wanting to forget and being unable challenge. Sherchan’s use of free verse gave to the use of colloquialisms.
11First prize, Open category
歸 路 Going Home
わが歩みにつれてゆれながら It sways up ahead
its rhythm my rhythm
懷中電燈の黄色いちひさな光の輪が in the dark, this small
yellow circle splashing
荒れた街道の石ころのうへをにぶくてらす dully on the pebbly road.
Oh my solemn friend:
よるの家路のしんみりした伴侶よと私は思ふ Take me home. My eyes
よる are sore and happy to be
夜ぢゆう風が目覺めて動いてゐる野を your prisoner in this field
of restless winds. There’s
かうしてお前にみちびかれるとき something eager in the dark.
I speak to it. ‘This light in my
いつかあはれなわが視力は hand is our poem, it answers
to no-one else.’ In the glow
やさしくお前の輪の内に囚はれて the furrows in the road seem
carved of a deeper dark, yet
もどかしい周圍の闇につぶやくのだ the grass is greener than green,
and I hear it, the rustle in
――この手の中のともしびは the colour, and I hear it,
the way home
あゝ僕らの「詩」にそつくりだ
Translated from the Japanese
自問にたいして自答して……それつきりの…… by James Garza
光の輪のなかにうかぶ轍は
晝まより一層かげ深くきざまれてあり
妖精めくあざやかな緑いろして
草むらの色はわが通行をささやきあつた
Itō Shizuo
James Garza’s commentary
This poem is from the fourth and final him. The poet is no longer the one that sings, This was by far the most difficult thing
collection of the Japanese Romanticist Itō but rather the one ‘sung to,’ in Itō’s words. to translate. I wanted my words to be plain
Shizuo (1906-1953). A devotee of Rilke According to Donald Keene, Itō’s final but full. How does one attain ‘fullness’
and Hölderlin, Itō sought to break down collection, Echoes (Hankyō, 1947), was in language? In the Japanese, the lines
the barrier between subject and object, ‘written in a much simpler style than his are long‑ish and prosy, and I tried at first
and to give voice to truths inherent in the earlier poetry, so simple indeed that the to match the length of these lines in my
physical world. The scholar Takeda Hideo poems have been faulted for their prosiness.’ translation. But the feeling that something
sees something ‘pantheistic’ about the poet’s However, this is exactly what drew me to special was happening did not come until I
relationship to the non-human in his first the poem I chose to translate. Here, in broke the lines up a bit. It struck me that
collection, Laments to My Beloved (Waga simple but carefully chosen language, is when using plain words, perhaps it is best
Hito-ni Atauru Aika, 1935). In his second a real place. Desolate though it may be, not to be able to see too far down the road.
collection, Summer Flowers (Natsu Hana, each detail is so present it contributes to a I hope my line breaks preserve this sense of
1940), the poet’s world had become one tremendous sense of repleteness. The words anticipation.
where objects seem to call out directly to are plain but full.
12Second prize, Open category
natur – nein danke nature – no thanks
von zeit zu zeit seh ich sie gern from time to time i like to watch
die vergifteten bäume the poisoned trees
die befallenen wiesen the infested fields
diese verlauste landschaft this louse-filled landscape
aus dem zugfenster meines abteils from the window of my compartment
wo ich mich gerüstet fühle where i feel fortified
mit tinkturen und with my tinctures
tabletten und and tablets and
anderer munition other ammunition
gegen die bissigen bakterien against the biting bacteria
die killervire the killer viruses
das riesige feindliche heer the giant enemy hoard
an mir und in mir on me and in me
soll ich vielleicht hinaustreten should i step outside perhaps
ins verseuchte grün in the toxic green
wo neue feinde warten where new fiends lie in wait
nein danke sage ich zu meinen freunden no thanks i say to all my friends
den berg- und talsteigern the valley hopping rock climbers
ich habe hier drinnen i’ve got more than enough
schon genug natur nature here inside
Elfriede Gerstl Translated from the German
by Ollie Evans
Reproduced by kind permission of
the Elfriede Gerstl estate
Ollie Evans’s commentary
Elfriede Gerstl (1932–2009) played an and verbs. Metrically, I paid close attention alienating; a tension that I think underlines
important part in the post-war Viennese to syllables and stress in order to create an the poem as a whole.
literary scene. This poem combines her equivalent rhythmic echo of the original. ‘Gerüstet’ means both ‘ready’ and
distinctive style and humour with themes Several word choices diverge from the ‘armed’, like a soldier ready to attack, while
of landscape and alienation. German to highlight the interweaving ‘fortified’ could allude to a castle or a more
I emulate the poem’s visual style. of historical violence with the everyday. quotidian sense of fortification against a
Kleinschreibung (lower-case writing) was In line 16, I used the Germanic, ‘fiends’, cold. I decided that the combination of the
typical of the radical poetry of the Vienna instead of the French, ‘enemies’, in order two senses – the military with the everyday –
Group (with which Gerstl was associated) to highlight the unsettling proximity was more effective than the more literal
with its roots in Bauhaus modernism. The between ‘fiend’ and ‘friend’ (‘Feinde/ ‘armed’ as it gets at something that subtly
closest anglicising equivalent is lower-case Freunde’). For someone who survived underlines the entire poem (as well as much
first person pronouns, recalling e e cummings. the Holocaust in Vienna by hiding in post-war Austrian literature): the silent
While abolishing hierarchies between words, cupboards, this ambivalence can be a historical violence that pervades everything
it also highlights the speaker’s sense of matter of life and death. The etymological from everyday language to the supposedly
alienation; as the subject isn’t capitalised, allusion also reveals a connection between ‘natural’ landscapes of the Austrian and
they no longer take precedence over nouns the two languages that is both familiar and Teutonic Heimat.
13Third prize, Open category
Mope Sea
Јеремија, 31,3 Jeremiah, XXXI, 3
To исцурело је уље из машине An oil-leak from the primum mobile,
Првога покретача; још се хлади, For aeons now the sea’s been losing heat
Еон по еон, још изнутра ради But keeps on running to the inner beat
По такту прапочетка; из модрине Of its first cause; the blue beneath the spray
Куља врв ларви видљивога света Teems with the larvae of the world that we
И све што садржано је у слутњи Perceive, and the suspicion now unfurling
Његовог озверења, колоплета That it might shape-shift to a beast, to whirling
Молекула и ватре: море тутњи. Molecules and fire: the roar of the sea.
Ту целост што на збир несводива је Although that sum can’t be reduced to mere
Ти разлажеш на призоре у духу, Amounts, it’s parsed to scenes inside your mind,
Неувежбаном да свари, да схвати Which balks at thoughts of endlessness with bounds:
Ограничени бескрај; море траје The sea lasts on as shards, as glints, in sound’s
У одломцима, у блеску, тишини Faint after-images which stay behind
Паслике звучне слеђене у слуху When storms have passed, and freeze inside the ear
После олује; и не можеш знати As quietness; you cannot hope to know
Ни право, тајно име тој модрини, The secret, real name of that blue, and so
Па кажеш: море, а мислиш на свашта, You say: the sea, at which your thoughts veer round
На летњи дан, на бродовље, на луке – At random – ships, a quay, a summer day –
Поступком уходаним, којим машта Since, by routine, imagination plays
Претвара слутњу у слике и звуке, The sixth sense back as images and sound.
Вечност би хтео да се саобрази You’d like eternity to fit your need
Потреби да је изричеш, и тако To put it into words, and so you feed
Храниш и пламен где сагори свако The flame in which all mortals burn away,
Смртан, увек у истој парафрази Forever as the selfsame paraphrase
Заборављеног изворника. Море, Of some forgotten master copy. Sea,
Море на сунцу и у ноћној мори Sea seen in sun, and booming through some stranded
Неког Колумба насуканог, или Columbus’s recurring nightmare, or
Вода што кротко покори се сили Meek waters which comply with the decree
Кад затворе се уставе небеса, That heaven’s sluice-gates should stop off the flood.
Море послушник моћи што га створи, Sea, lackey to the power which commanded
Море од крви и море од меса That it be, sea of muscle and of blood,
Празвери која храни метафоре – Blood from the ur-beast that’s its metaphor –
[…] […]
14Third prize, Open category
Шта урониш у море, лакше бива Whatever you might plunge into the sea
3a истиснуту количину бола, Is lighter by the weight of pain displaced,
По Архимеду; присилно крштење As Archimedes showed; the bronchial tree
Утопљенику гране плућа скрши, Of one who’s drowning shatters in the forced
А благослов је тог преображења Baptism – this transfiguration’s blessed,
Природа воле што насиље врши, Though, by the nature of the will which caused
Јер све је живо само парабола Its pain, for all things living are at best
Несавршенства, што милост је жива. A curve of imperfection: life is graced.
Не куни море. Не куни ни празнину Don’t blame the sea. And do not even blame
Што сакрива се у неизреченом. The emptiness which hides in the unsaid.
Све се на једну чисту сведе црту It all falls back to one pure line, look, ruled
Обзора, када слегне се бонаца By the horizon when the seas turn tame
И море расте ко нокти мртваца, And, like the fingernails of those who’re dead,
У непокрету; све се на тишину Grow on in stillness; everything is spooled
Насушну сведе, у одјеку њеном Back to a quiet whose normality
На шаптање у Гетсиманском врту. Echoes a whisper in Gethsemane.
И можда је зарибала машина Perhaps the primum mobile has rusted
Првога покретача, после чина Fast, after the creation of the aim
Стварања сврхе која правда Творца; Which proved its Maker right; the world’s not going
И свет се не исцрпљује у слутњи To give up on the effort of foreknowing
Испомераног свог преображења – Its shifts of shape. To keep faith, all the same,
Но верност слутњи верност је поморца With this foreknowing is the loyalty
Који до краја има поверења Of sailors who, right till the end, have trusted
У море. The sea.
Слушај море: море тутњи. That roaring, listen: it’s the sea.
Ivan V. Lalić Translated from the Serbian
by Francis Jones
Reproduced by kind permission of
the Ivan V. Lalić estate
Francis Jones’s commentary
Ivan V. Lalić (1931–1996), one of twentieth- translations, I felt, had to reflect that turn, or his wider poetics. Thus ‘modrine’ (‘dark-
century Yugoslavia’s and Serbia’s leading though translating into free verse would blueness’) became ‘the blue beneath the
poets, was also a Mediterranean poet: the sea is have been easier. However, I converted spray’ to rhyme with ‘the primum mobile’
a constant theme throughout his oeuvre. ‘Sea’, the original’s eleven-syllable line, often (pronounced ‘mobilé’): sea-spray often occurs
which I translated for an English-language used for ‘serious’ South-Slav poetry, into in Lalić’s poems. Sound-based challenges
compilation of Lalić’s poetry (expected 2020), iambic pentameter, as a close target-culture sometimes interacted with word-level
continues that theme. Its philosophical search equivalent, and because it can carry a similar challenges. The original’s lines 1–2, say, has
for meaning characterises his later verse, but number of English ideas as the Serbian oil leaking from the ‘primum mobile’s engine’
also reflects a personal tragedy: in 1989, original. Following the original’s largely (‘mašine Prvog pokretača’) – a startlingly
Lalić’s eldest son drowned when his yacht irregular rhyme scheme made finding concrete image, especially as ‘pokretača’ also
capsized in a storm on the Adriatic. rhymes slightly less hard (though never means ‘starter-motor’s’. I regretfully had to
Virtually all of Lalić’s mature work easy), as rhyme-partners could be sought drop ‘engine’ in English, because the only
uses free verse, but in the 1990 collection anywhere in the verse. available rhyme-words forced the lines to end
which concludes with this poem, he turns When the constraints of fixed form where they did. But if translations are to live
to fixed forms, paying homage to his inevitably forced surface meanings to change, as poems in another language, they must find
early-twentieth-century poet forebears. My I sought to reflect Lalić’s underlying image, their own poetic pulse.
15Polish Spotlight
I ’m delighted to introduce the second year of our ‘Polish
Spotlight’, which combines our education programmes –
creative translation workshops for young people – with a
is a hugely stimulating experience in its own right, and is also
designed to inspire pupils to enter the Spotlight prize. That
prize is open to all young people across the UK, and we are
special prize for translation from Polish. This new focus has very pleased that award-winning translator Antonia Lloyd-
enabled the Trust to reach out to diverse groups of young Jones has once again judged the entries. You can read her
people across the UK, introducing more pupils, teachers reflections and the winning entries below.
and community groups to the inspiring activity of creative We are grateful to the Polish Cultural Institute in London,
translation. the Rothschild Foundation, the British Council and Christ’s
The Polish Spotlight originated in workshops run by Hospital School for their support of the workshops and
the Stephen Spender Trust in Hull in 2017, during its year prize, and we look forward to developing additional language
as UK City of Culture. Since then we have developed the ‘spotlights’ in the years to come.
Spotlight into a series of workshops in primary, secondary Charlotte Ryland
and community-led supplementary schools. Each workshop Director of the Stephen Spender Trust
Judge’s commentary
Once again, the Polish plenty of entries for the competition, shows sensitivity to the poet’s inten-
Spotlight prize for most impressively in the 10-and-under tions, aiming to keep the rhymes where
translators aged 18 and category. possible, and capturing the sense of
under, 14 and under, The workshops for children aged 10 homesickness – a remarkable achieve-
and 10 and under has and under from a number of primary ment at an early age.
provided an opportunity schools focused on short animal poems The winner, Roksana Tkaczyńska,
for British children to explore Polish by Jan Brzechwa – classics in Poland chose ‘In School’, a poem by nineteenth-
poetry, whether they have Polish family that every child grows up with. Their century author Maria Konopnicka,
roots or not. charm relies on humour, rhythm and perhaps best remembered for her
For children growing up in an rhyme, so the success of the translation children’s stories. This is a comic poem
adopted country, it can be hard to keep depends on retaining all three of those relying on rhymes, humour and pace, and
in touch with the culture their parents qualities. I loved Harrison Nye’s entry, Roksana has risen to the challenge excel-
knew at their age. Naturally, as they get ‘Fox’, because he managed to achieve lently. ‘There were words in Polish that
older, they’re more absorbed by the just that, showing a youthful awareness you can’t translate or they don’t seem
local culture that they share with their of what makes a comic poem effective. to work in English,’ she has realised,
friends, and the songs and poetry their There were several other brave com- and has then found imaginative ways to
grandparents have told them about are petitors who took on Brzechwa’s longer convey the poet’s aims using different
left behind. But they’re often curious verses, and one who chose a charming words, but keeping similar techniques.
about their ‘secret’ language, and the contemporary love poem. But the two In the 14-and-under category the
doors it can open for them. Initiatives translations that stood out for me were workshops run at Highcrest Academy in
like the Polish Spotlight give them valu- of works by classic authors now less High Wycombe produced a fine crop of
able inspiration to find out what’s on the familiar to schoolchildren in Poland. A translations of poems by contemporary
other side of those doors. commendation goes to Jakub Śliwa for poets, including Wanda Chotomska and
As last year, the workshops organised his translation of ‘Poland’ by Antoni Michał Rusinek, as challenging as the
to encourage children who speak Polish Słonimski, a nostalgic poem mourn- classics. One competitor made a brave
at home to get to know it and translate ing his country’s fate in the Second attempt at tackling the opening verses of
from it, and to explain its mysteries World War. Jakub wasn’t put off by Poland’s nineteenth-century epic, Pan
to their classmates, have brought in unfamiliar words, and the translation Tadeusz, by Adam Mickiewicz. Once
16You can also read
