Reading and Language 25 Jan 2006 11:42 pm
The observed miracle
I had a lot of fun with this. Gromit posted a beautiful Italian poem with his translation of the last five lines. (And, Gromit, I hope you do not mind my reposting this. Please let me know if you do.)
POETI DIMENTICATI
La meraviglia vive nel silenzio
come i fiori respirano la luce.
Questa è forse la vostra sorte
amici poeti, già accolti
nelle ombre profumate del Lete:
ma ancora parlate, a convito,
dal popolo infinito dei sogni.
Cantaste la terra buona,
la ferrea età che ci incalza,
l’amore, il polline, le gemme,
la morte, carezza d’oblio.
Siete rientrati nel vortice
lievissimo della bellezza,
per sempre verrete a incontrarci
nel tremito delle libellule,
nel magico crepitio del fuoco,
dal nero di spente rose
al sangue di roventi spine.-Alberto Frattini (1991)
…
forever you will come to meet us
in the trembling of the dragonflies,
in the magical crackling of the fire,
from the black of lifeless roses
to the blood of burning thorns.
That’s so gorgeous that I was impatient to read the first lines. So impatient that I decided to just make up a translation off the top of my head, without that little intermediate step of, oh, learning Italian. My draft mistranslation:
The observed miracle lives in silence
and breathes light into flowers.
A question’s impulse becomes the voice
of a friend of poets, always beloved,
your shadows perfumed by Lethe,
while a knit skein calls together
the people of the infinite god of sleep.
You sing of the good earth,
the iron of our own armatures,
love, onions, precious stones,
the dead, beloved obligations.
Again in your beauty you come
to the flimsiest of crossroads
and always you will come to meet us
in the trembling of dragonflies.
I am particularly proud of translating “ancora parlate” as “knit skein”. Proud in a sick way. Mistranslating things is fun. How would you translate these lines, Gentle Reader?
on 26 Jan 2006 at 7:14 am 1.Torquemada said …
Wonder lives in silence
Like flowers breathe in the light.
Perhaps this is your fate,
Dear poets, received already
In Lethe’s perfumed shadows:
But still speaking, to convince
The infinite peoples of dreams.
You sang of the good earth,
The iron age that chases after us,
The love, the pollen, the gems,
The dead caress of oblivion.
You return in the lightest
Vortices of your beauty,
So that you will always come to meet us
In the trembling of dragonflies,
In the magical crackle of the fire,
From the black of spent roses
To the blood of burning thorns.
on 26 Jan 2006 at 8:34 am 2.gromit said …
hey, that’s really close to what i got. do you speak italian (or spanish)?
(and sculpin, no, i don’t mind at all.)
on 26 Jan 2006 at 10:57 am 3.Cam Sculpin said …
Hey, getting it right is cheating!
on 26 Jan 2006 at 11:08 am 4.oddangel said …
Wonderful! The first two lines are my favorite.
on 26 Jan 2006 at 2:15 pm 5.Rechercher said …
Personally, I thought the best line was the one about the “love, onions, (and) precious stones.”
I’m sure Shrek would agree with me anyway.
on 26 Jan 2006 at 5:34 pm 6.Cam Sculpin said …
It was nearly “love, chickens, precious stones.”
on 26 Jan 2006 at 9:10 pm 7.SW548 said …
Poetic Dementia
The Margarita lives in silence
I come to resuscitate it
While sorting cheese by force
…and accumulating poetry
Nellie thinks it smells like a latte:
her pallate in convulsions
the infinite poo of gods song
she plays canasta on the terrace
as a ferret eats the calculator
My love gives me allergies
careening like a dead oboe
I sit and stare into the vortex
Hells Bells!
the ferret is under contract!
as we tremble to hell’s lullabye
the magic crepe is fucked
the ferret, Nero, bites my spent rose
and blood shoots from my spine
on 26 Jan 2006 at 9:13 pm 8.Cam Sculpin said …
That is the poem I wish I had written. You rock.
on 02 Feb 2006 at 3:34 am 9.Julie said …
Meraviglia lives with Nell’s silence
which is like an idling, overhot Ferrari.
It’s an effort to breathe and stay loose.
Her poet-friend Gia accuses
Nell of lately smelling manly, perfumed
but not unlike a jailbird
struggling with a very large security guard.
The two sing terrible duets, like Bono
to himself on stage at a State Fair,
all about armor, chickens, chums,
while Death pulls at his navel.
Seven horses trot around in circles,
one has beautiful Della on its back.
Contras in berets
are shouting out libelous things.
Meanwhile a magician dressed in crepe fucks
Nero with a bent rose
which does nothing at all for his aching back.