EZRA: An Online Journal of Translation Fall 2007 Vol. I No. 2 Ezra hopes you savor our new format. “I traduttori,” below, provides a sort of table of contents—giving precedence, as is Ezra’s wont, to the translators. Also new is the featured translator of the issue—this time, Fanny Howe. We call your attention to her recent work: translation (from the Polish) of Henia and Llona Karmel. Please suggest translators we should feature—especially if you have their contact information. Ezra hopes you are familiar with the American Literary Translators Association. The Alta newsletter suggests books which need translating, along with news of recently completed work, both short and book-length. All Hail Chris Kidder! His translation of Moratín’s play The Young Ladies’ Consent is in its first run at the Commedia Beauregard in St Paul. This play was excerpted in our last issue. And now let us, as Khatibi says, “switch languages.” Réda Bensmaïa points out how he “subjects the French language to a system that enables it to translate the untranslatable, to express the inexpressible. In a word, he wrests it from the metaphysical and precritical state in which it was supposed to be merely a secondary tool for the expression of a single and/or unified mind, culture or subject. Among other things, then, Khatibi wants to make language loucher (to go cross-eyed), to make it louche (a bit suspect).” (Experimental Nations, Princeton University Press, 2003.) i traduttori: Fanny Howe, Zahi Khamis and Kim Jensen Jeff Jones John Dutterer Christopher Mulrooney Aruna Sitesh Jacqueline Michaud Fanny Howe, and her teaching, NEA awards, and twenty books (including On the Ground, Graywolf, 2004), needs no introduction. Ezra is delighted to include her translation. Born in Buffalo, in 1940, Ms. Howe is at the forefront of modern poetry, and also writes stories, novels and essays. Kim Jensen teaches at the Community College of Baltimore County. Her writing appears widely, and she is a former winner of the Raymond Carver Prize (short fiction). Her spectacular website is at www.kimjensen.org Zahi Khamis is a Palestinian artist, born outside of There is a seat for me —translated by Zahi Khamis and Kim Jensen There is a seat for me in the deserted theater in the last act—only because the play was so poorly written. Chaos— like a desperate war diary, the story of the spectators’ own urges, actors shredding their scripts and hunting for the author among us, the witnesses in our seats. I say to the artist next to me: Don’t draw your weapon, wait…unless you’re the playwright! — No He asks me: Are you the playwright? — No. We sit fearfully. I tell him: Be a neutral hero and avoid an obvious fate. He responds: No hero dies honorably in the second half. I'll wait and see. Maybe I’ll edit one of the acts. Or I might revise what iron has done to my brothers. It's you then? I say. You and I, he responds, are two masked authors, two witnesses masked. What do I have to do with this? I’m just a spectator! He answers: There are no spectators at the door of an abyss and no one is neutral here. You have to choose your role at the end. I say: But I am missing the beginning. What is the beginning? Darwish’s collection: Do Not Apologize For What You Have Done (January 2004). Nothing makes me happy —translated by Fanny Howe, Zahi Khamis and Kim Jensen of traveling. Darwish’s collection: Do Not Apologize For What You Have Done (January 2004). You shall be forgotten as if you never lived —translated by Zahi Khamis and Kim Jensenn You shall be forgotten as if you never lived like a sparrow’s fall like a deserted church, you’ll be forgotten a fleeting love a flower at night, forgotten. ? I belong to the road. Someone walked before me, a figure whose visions created footprints to follow, who scattered seeds of language, dropped hints, and lit up the lyrical path. ? You shall be forgotten as if you’ve never been a person or a text…you will be forgotten. ? I walk in the company of a vision. Maybe I can add a twist to the eternal story, for words rule me and I rule them. I am their form and they are free transfigurations. But whatever I say has already been said, and a passing tomorrow awaits me. I am the king of echo, no throne but the margins. And the road is the way. Maybe the ancients forgot to describe something in which I may stir a memory or feeling. ? You shall be forgotten as if you’ve never been a trace or a face in the news…you’ll be forgotten. ? I belong to the road…someone’s footsteps will follow me to my visions. Someone will recite poems in praise of the gardens of exile at the doorstep of home, free from worshipping yesterday, free of my metaphors and language; and I will testify that I am alive and free when I am forgotten! Darwish’s collection: Do Not Apologize For What You Have Done (January 2004). The way the brook —translated by Paul Sohar (Ahogy a folyó) by Sándor Kányádi, The brook meanders under the ceaseless embrace of shadows cast by the brookside willows, my spirit tags along slithering with its one-note hiss, flashing silver-bellied fish into the sky whenever the sun breaks through the chinks. Sándor Kányádi STAG AT THE WATERING HOLE —translated by Paul Sohar When a stag goes to drink, summer and birch stand still; even the leaves of grass salute when a stag has a thirst to kill, even the creek comes to a halt and the water stops its flow, and the stag treads with a swagger, his antlers jeweled branches aglow. Sándor Kányádi (Hungary) NOT ONLY… —translated by Paul Sohar not only the sweat-inspired verses of a pushy versifier but typos and misprints also manage to arouse my ire as if the hangover feeling of the inability to act and the power of futility had formed a pernicious pact it’s nothing I say to myself nothing compared to the schemes for a garbage dump to be built on the landing field of my dreams Sándor Kányádi (Hungary) snows —translated by John Dutterer Countryside without roads and town without roofs. The world is silent and naive. Gigantic dove in the stars. Why doesn’t he fall from the blue, the eternal hawk? Federico Garcia Lorca (Spain, 1898-1936) world —translated by John Dutterer the earth and the sky. Divided by wind. Immense angle the righthand road divided by desire. The parallels meet in the kiss. Oh heart without echo! In you begins and ends the universe. (. . .) Federico Garcia Lorca (Spain, 1898-1936) One day she’ll wake up —translated by Arlene Zide and Gagan Gill One day she’ll wake up and God will have left her bedside. One day she’ll wake up and her eyes will be dry. The scab will have come off. The pain will have ebbed. One day when she’s recovered, she’ll look in the mirror, and be surprised. There’ll be a bandage, but no evidence of the wound. The injury that will hurt her, is still far off in the future. Gagan gill Letter —translated by Arlene Zide and Gagan Gill The letter knocks at the door and you can’t even undo the latch of your solitude. You’ve been locked in so long the latch has rusted out. You’ve been locked in so long you don’t even know whether you’re caged from the inside or from out. The letter knocks at the door and from inside, you say — please open the door outside. The letter probably doesn’t hear your voice. And even if it does, can’t figure out where the latch is. Every despairing letter warns you, says, ‘I won’t come again.’ Every non-answer dumps you back where you already are. No letter ever asks you, “how did you get caged in like this in the first place?” Every letter is sealed in an envelope of hope — and the envelope is torn. Gagan gill Mountain man —translated by Aruna Sitesh and Arlene Zide Mountain-like body Mountain-like chest Mountain-like complexion Sitting brooding on the mountain the face of the mountain man shows the geography of the mountains. Within him hushed sits the history of the mountain When there’s fire on the mountain then, from his flute springs the pain of the mountains. When a mountain somewhere is torn apart His mountain-like chest shudders He speaks to the mountain in mountain-language Shares his joys and sorrow Sitting on the mountain, sings mountain-songs Writes on the mountain in mountain- script — “m” is for mountain, Honing the blade of his axe on the mountain He’s sharpening up the dulled numbness of what‘s lodged inside him —translated by Aruna Sitesh and Arlene Zide A bundle of dried wood on her head, she Hanging on her back, a child wrapped in a sheet Mountain woman, planting paddy planting her mountain of grief for a blossoming crop of happiness Breaking apart the stones of the mountain, she’s breaking mountainous rituals and taboos. Weaving mats on the mountains passing her mountainously long day she makes brooms, weapons to fight filth she is piercing someone’s heart She runs after the cows and goats, her feet inscribe in the earth hundreds of her innocent maiden songs Save me, god, from insanity —translated by Jeff P. Jones Save me, God, from insanity. Better the beggar’s staff and bag, better hunger. Better toil. It’s not reason I prize; I’m glad to let that go: If my wits’ reins loosened, I would fly into the darkest forest, song raving, dream rambling, delirious without purpose or pattern. I’d lose myself in breaking waves, gaze possessed at an empty sky, burst with happiness; I’d be as free and strong as a gale upturning the glade. I could fell whole forests. But here’s the crux: insanity’s a curse to other people, as feared as a plague, and away they lock you, an idiot in shackles, a beast through bars gaping at its daily tormentors. In the dark there’s no bright nightingale voice striking, no muted forest stirring, only the cries of companion captives, the screeching and cursing of keepers, the ringing of chains. Alexander Pushkin Snowstorm —translated by Don Mager In the trading district where a person’s feet Can hardly step, a fortune-teller’s footsteps go Stepping through the raging storm, a street Where men, dead-like, sleep in the snow,— But wait, in the trading district where a per- son’s feet can hardly step, a fortune-teller’s Footsteps step to the window, wearing a fur In tatters and a crazy strap and halter. It is pitch dark, but you sense that this district Must be within the city, in Zamosty, Zamoskvoreshye or some other (at midnight A delirious guest recoils backwards from me). You, Blizzard, in the trading district where A person’s feet can hardly step, permit Certain thugs—but trembling like leaves they’re Harmless, voiceless and as white as a sheet. You hurl and batter the gates on every side, And then look back. On the bridges whirlwinds rant . . . — This is not that city, it is not midnight, And you are lost and she is only a servant! But servant, you lisped to me and with good reason In the trading district where a person with two feet, I was one of those who . . . in the street was overrun: — This is not that city, it is not midnight. 2 Like crowds at the baptismal doorway on a Twelfth Night Eve. Fomented by orders from the blizzard. Blocking the windows and sealing the frames up tight, Where a fresh-hewn childhood Christmas spruce had stood. Along the leafless boulevard rages its conspiracy, Cursing all mankind with its headline blasts of news. In that prefabricated place, the city! To the city! And the blizzard’s swirls are like a torch’s dingy fumes. Unfettered fresh fallen snow piles up on arms And shoulders with the weight of furry necessity. Snowflakes scurry about like sparks from lanterns. You recognize a bough! You spot a passer-by! Tears are pools of water circled in ice that appear In the snowstorm’s music: — Kolina, we recognized your address! — The ax with the shouting mouth: — we recognize, recognize The sign of comfort! — but the door—crosswise crossed with a cross. What an encampment stood there where creation’s scum Lifted their footsteps in the snowstorm—in its intensity. And great-grandchildren are sent to their ancestors’ home. It is Twelfth Night Eve. To the city, to the city! Boris Pasternak To Anna Akhmatova —translated by Don Mager I seem adroit at picking words As primordial as your words are. If wrong,—it’s all the same to me, I’ll go on making errors anyway. I hear patter on wet roofs, and eclogues That fade from boardwalks and cobblestones. A certain city, distinct from the first line, Thrives and sounds in every syllable. Encircled by spring, but can’t get out Of town. Clients press with orders. By lamplight, eyes with tears still sew As dawn, whose back can’t straighten, burns. Inhaling the placid Lagoda in the distance, She hurries to the water with her strength Exhausted, and finds no picnic party. Canals reek of stagnant shipping packing. The hot wind surfs along the surface Like a nutshell and flutters the eyelids Of stars and boughs and lamps and landmarks, While the seamstress stares of in the distance from a bridge. Eyes can see quite sharply in different ways, Images can in different ways be quite sharp. But an expanse of terrible strength Stretches each night of the white nights’ gaze. So I see the way you look, and the way you look. It does not hint at the pillar of salt That five years ago froze you in rhyme With the dismay of your looking back. But from the shoots of your first books On which the grain of prose grew ripe, The way you look, like an electric spark, Compels events to pulse. Boris Pasternak To Mayakovsky —translated by Don Mager You are engrossed in ledgers, In plans and tragic policies, You who once sang to the brink The Flying Dutchman with your verse. A storm swelled at your canvas tent And roared, intensifying, Until you, winge´d still, descended At last to walk beside me again. And now you sloganeer about oil? Lost in your confusion I imagine some therapist Might restore you your wrath. I ask, is not your true path, The one that passes beneath Arches of poorhouses, Also your rightful path? Boris Pasternak Untitled —translated by Don Mager To Love,—to leave,—with the thunder not ceasing, Trampled by boredom not even knowing the boot’s tread, Tripping over a hedgehog, and then, for good, repaying The cowberry’s evil with a gossamer’s web. To drink from the bough while the face Recoils from Prussian blue lashes: “What is this echo?!”—on to the end Moving the wrong way, imprinted with kisses. Like marching—one plods along loaded with turnips. At sunset to know that the stars start to shine To scare off the sun and the oat-laden carts, And to bring Margarete to convulsions. To renounce speech, subscribing To storms of tears in the eyes of Valkyrie, And in the full glow of the sky to grow dumb, Drowning in the ether like a mast in a forest. Gradually, amid thorns, people rake up the torn Events of the years, like lumps of spruce: On the highway; in a procession to a Tavern; In the light; they suffered cold; they ate fish. And collapsing time begins to sing: “Hoary, I walk, and strengthless, I fall. At last The city’s pressed down with goose-grass, Awash in the tears of soldiers’ wives. In moonless shadows of a long threshing barn Or in a fire with groceries and a water bottle, Most likely, he—gray-bearded, worn, Will die in his tracks like an animal.” As I was singing, I died as I sang. And dying, I reached back to grasp At her hand, like a boomerang, For—remembering much—forgiveness. Boris pasternak THE ELEPHANT SEAL —translated by Jacqueline Michaud That one over there, that’s the elephant seal, but he doesn’t know it. The elephant seal or the He sits on his belly because it feels good to sit that way: Everyone has the right to sit as he pleases. He is very glad that the keeper gives him fish, live fish. Every day, he eats kilos and kilos of live fish. It’s annoying for the fish because after that they are dead, but each has the right to eat as he pleases. Without affecting reluctance, he eats them very quickly, while man, when he eats a trout, throws it first into boiling water and, after having eaten it, keeps talking about it for days, for days and years: “Ah! What a trout, my dear, remember!” etc. The elephant seal, he simply eats. He is hale and hearty, but when he is angry, his trunk-like nose expands and that frightens everyone. His keeper does not hurt him…One never knows what might happen… If all the animals got angry, it would be a strange story. See what I mean, my little friends, the army of elephants by land and by sea bearing down on The elephant seal only knows how to eat fish, but it’s something he does very well. In the past, it seems, there were elephant seals who juggled with mirrored wardrobes, but we cannot know if that’s true…No one wants to lend his wardrobe anymore! The wardrobe might fall, the mirror might break, that would be costly; man likes animals a lot, but he cares more for his furniture… The elephant seal, if you don’t bother him, is as happy as a king, much happier in fact, because he can sit on his belly when he feels like it while the king, even on the throne, is always sitting on his behind. Jacques Prévert PICASSO’S PROMENADE —translated by Jacqueline Michaud On a porcelain plate quite round and real an apple poses Facing it a painter of what’s real tries vainly to paint the apple as it is but the apple is not disposed the apple it has its say and several tricks in its bag the apple see it turning on its solid plate on its devious self motionless and calm and like a Duc de Guise disguised as a lamppost because despite him one wants to draw his likeness the apple disguises itself as a beautiful fruit in disguise and it is then
Featured translators:
“Nothing makes me happy,”
says a passenger on the bus.
Not the radio, not the morning papers,
Nor the castles on the hills.
I just want to cry.
Wait, the driver says.
Wait till we get to the station.
Then cry as much as you like.
A woman says, I'm like him.
Nothing makes me happy.
I took my son to my grave-site.
He liked it, and lay down to sleep.
He didn't even say goodbye.
A professor says, I'm the same.
Nothing makes me happy.
I studied archaeology
without finding anything of myself
in the stones. What am I?
The soldier says, me too.
Nothing makes me happy.
I attack a ghost who attacks me.
Get ready! the driver snaps.
We’re arriving at our last stop.
They all shout: We want what
comes after that!
Keep driving!
But me? I say, let me off here.
I’m like them. Nothing makes me happy.
But I am tired
What can a creature do except
among the other creatures, love?
love and forget,
love and mislove, love, unlove, and love?
always, even with one's eyes
What can a creature do except
among the other creatures, love
Eternal angle
in consultation with Nirmala Putul and PK Tiwari
NIRMALA PUTUL
Mountain woman
in consultation with Nirmala Putul
comes down the hill
Mountain-woman
Will go straight to the bazaar
and selling all her wood,
will quench the fire of the entire family’s hunger. Piercing the knot of her hair with a flower
NIRMALA PUTUL