EZRA: An Online Journal of Translation
Spring 2007 Vol. I No. 1
We are very fortunate to have Moratín’s play, The Young Ladies’ Consent, on the 200th anniversary of its publication in
It’s always good to have George Michael Palmer’s work. He edits Strong Verse (www.strongverse.org).
Ezra invites you to strike once again the intimate notes of the early modern Italian Giovanni Pascoli and hopes you will be disquieted by spiritual and linguistic experiment in Craig Perez’s Chamorro (Pacific islands/Guam).
If translation is hurling yourself into the breach, well then, onward, into the breach! i traduttori, Craig Santos Perez Chris Kidder Carrie Petri Emily Van Buskirk Greta D’Amico
Charlie
—translated by Philip Krummrich
Now what, Charlie?
The party’s over,
the lights are out,
the people gone,
the night grown cold,
so now what, Charlie?
Now what, pal?
You, nameless you,
who make fun of others,
who make up your verses,
who love and complain?
Now what, Charlie?
You’ve got you no woman,
you’ve got you no loving,
you’ve got nothing to say,
you can’t drink any more,
you can’t smoke any more,
any more, you can’t spit.
The night’s grown cold,
the day didn’t come,
the bus didn’t come,
the laugh didn’t come,
nor any utopia,
and everything ended,
everything flitted,
everything mocked,
so now what, Charlie?
Now what, Charlie?
Your honey-sweet word,
your feverish moment,
your feast and your fast,
your book-lined study,
your service of gold,
your set of fine crystal,
your incoherence,
your hate—so now what?
With the key in your hand,
you'd unlock the door,
but there is no door;
you'd die in the sea,
but the sea's gone dry;
you want to go to Minas,
but there's no Minas now.
Well Charlie, now what?
If you were to holler,
if you were to whimper,
if you were to finger
a Viennese waltz,
if you were to slumber,
if you were to weary,
if you were to die...
But you're not going to die,
you're a tough one, Charlie!
Alone in the darkness,
a bug in the bushes,
without a theogony,
without a naked wall
to back against,
without a black stallion
to flee at a gallop,
you're stepping out, Charlie!
Charlie, where to?
Carlos Drummond de Andrade (Brazil, 1902-1987)
Loving
—translated by Philip Krummrich
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 gone glassy, love?
I ask you, what can an amorous being do,
lonesome, amid the general rotation,
but rotate with the rest, and love?
Love what the waves wash up on the beach,
and what they bury, and all that, in the sea breeze?
is salt, or need of love, or simple anguish?
Love the desert palms most solemnly,
love all surrender, or expectant adoration,
and love the forbidding, or expectant adoration,
and love the forbidding, love the harsh,
a vase without a flower, a metal floor,
a torpid breast, street seen in a dream, a bird of prey.
This is our fate: love beyond reckoning,
shared out among things treacherous or worthless,
a limitless gift to complete ingratitude;
and in the empty shell of love the timid search,
the patient search, for more and yet more love.
Loving our own lack of love, and in our aridness
loving latent water, silent kisses, boundless thirst.
Carlos Drummond de Andrade
Mozart in Heaven
—translated by Philip Krummrich
On the fifth day of December, 1791,
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart entered into heaven, like a circus performer,
cutting extraordinary capers
on a gaudily-trapped white stallion.
The dumbfounded angels asked: “What was it? What could it have been?”
Never-heard melodies soared in the extra lines above the staff.
Ineffable contemplation stopped for one moment.
The Virgin kissed him on the forehead
and from then on
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was the youngest of the angels.
Manuel Bandeira (Brazil, 1886-1968)
Preface to Y Salmo Sija
—translated byCraig
While reading Y Salmo Sija, I heard another voice. It was not my grandmother’s voice, nor was it the psalmic voice I remember from childhood. It was a voice translating the Chamorro into English, rendering the violent pulse and colonial of currents of the language itself forced into psalm. This voice emerges in these translations, fragmented psalms held together by silence, omissions, and ellipses.
As a result, my translations are neither objective nor transparent. Often, a phrase will translated into its ‘colonial reality’ (“Dichoso y taotao”, literally “Blessed the people”, becomes “we are cursed”). Other times, a phrase will be omitted to show disbelief (“ya todo y finatinasña mumemegae”, which roughly means, “and all he does shall prosper”, becomes “[…]”). Finally, a phrase will often be translated to question its very meaning (“Sa si Jeova jatungo y chalan manunas: lao y chalan manaelaye ufanmalingo” means roughly “God knows the righteous path; the path of sinners shall perish”, but is translated to “will the Landlord of our path ever perish?”). Although this free / open / subjective / experimental translation methodology does not cleanly translate meaning from one language into another, my hope is that these translations clearly translate the voice I hear in the Chamorro psalms, a voice that has been burned and lost and forgotten.
Salmo 10
why so distant, O Lord? why hide in the territorial sun?
the evil persecute us […] with their imagined devices
[…] the heart desires, yes, the Lord’s love
the evil use God in all their thoughts; there is no God
[…] always, not far from sight, the military […]
he said in his heart, I will not be moved […]
his mouth full of curses, deceit, and fraud; his tongue
in the dark places of the village; in the secret places, he murders the innocent; his eyes
as a lion snares us in his net
[…]
he said in his heart, God has forgotten us, he hides his face, he refuses to see
rise, O Lord, O God, lift your hand, don’t forget us
[…] in his heart, we witness
do you see? […] your empty hands; we are fatherless
break their hands […]
the kings have banished us from our land
our desire, our hearts will cause you to hear
the fatherless, the oppressed, landless
Salmo 11
trust the Lord? what do I say to my soul? a bird to your mountain?
for the army bends their bows at the ready […] my heart
its foundations destroyed […]
and they built the basilica to cover the sky, his eyes no longer see my people
[…]
rain covers the army, fire and stone and storm-winds […]
[…]
Salmo 12
help, Lord […] our faith has failed us
[…] we speak with burning lips and a dual-heart
the landlord cuts off our lips and tongues […]
they say with our tongues we will prevail; our lips are not owned; who is Lord over us?
for the oppressed, for the need to arise, the Lord says nothing […]
the Lord’s words are pure, like money forged in the ear of this furnace […]
O Lord, keep us, preserve us forever
on every corner, the army is exalted
Salmo 13
how long, O Lord, will you forget me? how long will you hide your face?
how long will my soul suffer? how long will the army be exalted over us?
hear me, O landlord, my God: light my eyes so I won’t sleep
the army says: we have prevailed […]
without mercy, my heart without salvation
will sing […]
Poem 15
—translated by Carrie Petri
I enjoy your silence for it’s as if you are absent,
and you hear me from afar, and my voice fails the expanse.
It seems that your eyes have flown from your face
and it seems that a kiss has sealed your mouth.
Just as everything is filled by my soul
you emerge from these things, filled likewise.
Dream butterfly, you resemble my soul,
and you resemble the word melancholy.
I enjoy your silence and you are as if distant.
You are as if lamenting, cooing butterfly.
You hear me from afar and my voice doesn’t reach you:
Leave me to be mute in your silence.
And leave me to speak to you with your silence
clear as a lamplight, simple as a ring.
You are like night, quiet and constellated.
Your silence is of a star, as remote and austere.
I enjoy your silence for it’s as if you are absent.
Distant and dolorous as if you were dead.
But a word, then, and a smile suffice.
And I am happy, happy of what is uncertain.
Pablo Neruda
The Song of Despair
—translated by Carrie Petri
The memory of you emerges from the night about me.
The river ties its obstinate lament to the sea.
Abandoned like wharves at dawn.
It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!
Cold flowers rain on my heart.
What a rubble pit, a harsh cave of shipwrecks!
Wars and flights accumulated within you.
From you, the wings of songbirds took flight.
You swallowed everything, like distance.
Like the sea, like time. You collected shipwrecks.
It was the happy hour of the assault and the kiss.
The hour of stupor that burned like a lighthouse.
The pilot’s anxiety, the blind diver’s dread,
love’s tumultuous delirium, you collected shipwrecks!
In mist’s infancy, my soul winged and wounded.
Lost explorer, you collected shipwrecks!
You clung to pain, you seized desire,
sadness conquered you, you collected shipwrecks!
I made the shadowed wall recede,
I walked beyond desire and the act.
Oh flesh, my flesh, woman I loved and lost,
in this humid hour, I invoke you and sing.
As if a jar, you harbored infinite tenderness,
and as if a jar, infinite oblivion shattered you.
It was the black, black island solitude,
and there, loving woman, your arms received me.
It was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.
It was pain and ruins, and you were the miracle.
Oh woman, I wonder how you held me
on the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms.
My love of you was most terrible and short,
most untidy and blind, most tense and eager.
Cemetery of kisses, fire burns on in your tombs,
birds still peck at your fruited boughs, blazing.
Oh the wounded mouth, the kissed limbs,
oh the hungry teeth, the woven bodies.
Oh the mad coupling of hope and endeavor
to which we tied ourselves, in which we despaired.
Tenderness, slight like water and flour.
Words scarcely begun on lips.
That was my destiny, in which my yearning took flight,
and in which my yearning fell, you collected shipwrecks!
Oh rubble pit, in you everything fell,
what pain did you not exude, what waves did not drown you.
From blow to blow you still called and sang
on foot like a sailor on the prow of his ship.
Still you flowered in song, you broke in currents.
Oh rubble pit, open and bitter well.
Pale, blind diver, unfortunate hondero,
lost explorer, you collected shipwrecks!
It is the hour of departure, the long, cold hour
that night fastens to each clock.
The sea’s rustling belt cinches the shore.
Cold stars alight, black birds emigrate.
Abandoned like wharves at dawn.
Only the tremulous shadow turns in my hands.
Oh, farther than anything. Oh, farther than anything.
It is the hour of departure. Oh, abandoned one!
PABLO NERUDA
She calls you
—translated by Greta D’Amico
That night your old ones (hear? The beloved
mother calls: at the smoke of the brown
pot, with restless longing,
The children brawl: hold back, severe,
hence an anxious hand, thence
a shrill mouth, empress to the small populace;
So that in peace, amidst the grand clatter,
you shake and gather the whimpering little family)
that night your old ones, a necessary pain,
will smother against the sheets.
Giovanni Pascoli
The Intelligence Of the Artist
— translated by G.M. Palmer
The intelligence of the artist
is the same intelligence
in the peach pit,
in the heart of grain, in the carrot seed.
It is the vein that leads
to diamonds, the cancer
to the pearl.
It is God creating beauty,
A prophet seeing truth,
An adventurer of the spirit
in unbound spaces.
The generous artist takes
starvation and avarice,
heals them, and leads us
with words.
Mary de Rachewiltz
In the Cave
— translated by G.M. Palmer
We are in the cave;
he and I and all the sheep
that have not
gone down in rows
to the crosses at
I am him,
he is me
and in our wound
I ponder.
Mary de Rachewiltz
Sirens’ Song
— translated by G.M. Palmer
Wonder thrives here! Wise and wiley, prized Odysseus,
Great glory of the Achaians, Avast! Set your ship,
Here, by our place, where you can hear our wonderful words.
For up to now, not one blackened ship has driven by
Who has not at least heard our melodious voices
And did not steer cheering to our shore to know much more.
For let us tell you, we knew all that was great in
We knew of the toil for the goddesses’ desires;
We knew this, and we know all that is borne, that passes
Upon the jagged face of this all nourishing Earth.
Odyssey XII.184-191
1/20/2
THE YOUNG LADIEs' CONSENT
Act I, Scene 8 ~~translated by Chris Kidder
RITA backs into the room, fiddling with the doorknob.
RITA
It’s best to lock up. Don’t want anyone to steal our clothes.
(Struggles to get the key to turn)
Well, this key is in a fine state!
CALAMOCHA
(Drawing himself up against her)
Would you like me to put a hand to it, my darling?
RITA
Oh!
(Intrigued)
Why, thank you, dear.
CALAMOCHA
(Covering her mouth while turning her to face him)
Keep quiet.
(Notices that it is Rita)
Rita!
RITA
Calamocha!
CALAMOCHA
What a discovery!
RITA
And your master?
CALAMOCHA
He is with me. We have both just arrived.
RITA
Seriously?
CALAMOCHA
No, I’m just giving you a hard time. He’d just received the letter of Doña Paquita…I don’t know where he went, who he talked to, or how he arranged it, but… we left Zaragosa that very afternoon. We rode like two flashes through the night. We arrived in
RITA
So, he’s here?
CALAMOCHA
And more in love than ever, jealous and threatening lives… He’s going to put the hurt on anyone who disputes his claim to his Paquita.
RITA
What are you saying?
CALAMOCHA
Nothing more, nothing less than what I’ve just told you.
RITA
What pleasure you give me! Now I’m sure he loves her.
CALAMOCHA
Love? Ha! Compared to my master, Romeo was a sissy, Don Juan was a good-for-nothing, and Cyrano was a mere child in matters of the heart.
RITA
Oh! When my lady knows this!
CALAMOCHA
But, on to other things… How is it I find you here? Is there anyone with you? When did you get here? What—
RITA
Let me tell you! Doña Paquita’s mother had taken to writing letters and more letters, saying she had arranged for a wedding in
CALAMOCHA
Yes. Say no more… But… So, the suitor is in the inn?
RITA
(Points to Don Diego’s room)
That’s his room.
(Indicates Doña Irene’s and Doña Francisca’s rooms, respectively)
And that’s her mother’s and this is ours.
CALAMOCHA
Ours? Yours and mine?
RITA
Of course not. Here we sleep tonight, the señorita and me. Because last night, all in that one room, there wasn’t space for three of us standing up, let alone to sleep… or breathe.
CALAMOCHA
(Picking up his stuff as if to go)
Well. ‘Bye.
RITA
And where are you going?
CALAMOCHA
I know what I’m doing… But, the suitor… Did he bring with him any servants? Or friends? Or relatives? You know… anyone who might save him from the first sword thrust that threatens him?
RITA
One servant came with him.
CALAMOCHA
Little help that’ll be! Look, as an act of charity, tell him to be prepared, for he is in serious danger.
(turns to go)
Goodbye.
RITA
Will you return soon?
CALAMOCHA
I suppose… these things require speed and, although I can hardly move, it is necessary that my lieutenant leave his visit and return here to claim his property and prepare for that man’s funeral… You say that’s our room, huh?
RITA
(Flirting)
That’s right…
(Seriously)
Doña Paquita’s and mine.
CALAMOCHA
You minx!
RITA
You ass! Adiós.
CALAMOCHA
Adiós… wicked woman!
CALAMOCHA carries all of his things off to Don Carlos’s room, room number 3.
L. Fernandez Moratín
THE PLAYWRITE
—translated by Emily Van Buskirk
It seemed to him he had been writing for centuries
Gradually it became impossible to think up the next plot
Everything had already happened
In any case
what can we do with love
and jealousy
sweet revenge tender murder
the uniqueness with which feelings break a leg
and what are we going to do
in the increasingly savage blood-letting of wars in an inexorably
unfeeling state of love in the indifference
which modernity let out of the cage
and with the old-world
victory of the magnanimous over wrath what to do with the instructively happy
ending on the proscenium
Yes he was an antiquarian
he had lost heart
in space-time without plot
indeed under the heavy tread of invariable scenes
every plot snapped like a brittle bridge
he (a Master) could no longer manage to abridge for the stage
evil’s innumerable reprises in life
How, though, was he supposed to renounce his yearning for applause
for the auditorium’s roar
Not only for glory
Above all he longed to let himself be burned by beauty too
He must have suspected
that this too had already happened
but somewhat differently and in another history
when in the final play
in the final tableau
he set fire to the stage that signifies the world
And his world burned.
Jana Štroblová (Czech Republic, 1936--)
The Composer