Posts Tagged: Translation

Da neigt sich die Stunde und rührt mich an

Da neigt sich die Stunde und rührt mich an

Da neigt sich die Stunde und rührt mich an
mit klarem, metallenem Schlag:
mir zittern die Sinne. Ich fühle: ich kann -
und ich fasse den plastischen Tag.

Nichts war noch vollendet, eh ich es erschaut,
ein jedes Werden stand still.
Meine Blicke sind reif, und wie eine Braut
kommt jedem das Ding, das er will.

Nichts ist mir zu klein, und ich lieb es trotzdem
und mal es auf Goldgrund und groß
und halte es hoch, und ich weiß nicht wem
löst es die Seele los...

Rainer Maria Rilke, 20.9.1899,
Berlin-Schmargendorf

The hour is striking

The hour is striking so close above me,
so clear and sharp,
that all my senses ring with it.
I feel it now: there’s a power in me
to grasp and give shape to my world.

I know that nothing has ever been real
without my beholding it.
All my becoming has needed me.
My looking ripens things
and they come toward me, to meet and be met
...

–Rilke’s Book of Hours
(translated by Johanna Macy & Anita Barrows)

Another translation this time by Fulicasenia

Then bends down the hour and strikes me...

Then bends down the hour and strikes me
With a clear, metallic blow:
My senses tremble: I feel: I can--
And I grasp the ductile day.

Nothing was yet completed, before I glimpsed it;
Every becoming stood still.
My gaze is ripe, and like a bride
There comes to each one that which he will.

Nothing is too small for me and I love it nonetheless
And paint it on a golden ground and large,
And hold it high, and I don't know for whom
It will set the spirit free...

Sny – Dreams WISŁAWA SZYMBORSKA

Rita; washington DC25aSNY

SNY

Wbrew wiedzy i naukom geologów,
kpiąc sobie z ich magnesów, wykresów i map –
sen w ułamku sekundy
piętrzy przed nami góry tak bardzo kamienne,
jakby stały na jawie.

A skoro góry, to i doliny, równiny
z pełna infrastrukturą.
Bez inzynierów, majstrów, robotników,
bez koparek, spycharek, dostawy budulca –
gwałtowne autostrady, nagłe mosty,
natychmiastowe miasta zaludnione gęsto.

Bez reżyserów z tubą i operatorów –
tłumy dobrze wiedzące, kiedy nas przerazic
i w jakiej chwili zniknąć.

Bez biegłych w swoim fachu architektów,
bez cieśli, bez murarzy, betoniarzy –
na scieżce raptem domek jak zabawka,
a w nim ogromne sale z echem naszych kroków
i ściany wykonane z twardego powietrza.

Nie tylko rozmach ale i dokładność –
poszczególny zegarek, calkowita mucha,
na stole obrus haftowany w kwiaty,
nadgryzione jabłuszko ze śladami zębów.

A my – czego nie mogą cyrkowi sztukmistrze,
magowie, cudotwórcy i hipnotyzerzy –
nieupierzeni potrafimy fruwać,
w czarnych tunelach świecimy sobie oczami,
rozmawiamy ze swadą w nieznanym języku
i to nie z byle kim, bo z umarłymi.

A na dodatek, wbrew własnej wolności,
wyborom serca i upodobaniom,
zatracamy się
w miłosnym pożądaniu do –
zanim zadzwoni budzik.

Co na to wszystko autorzy senników,
badacze onirycznych symboli i wróżb,
lekarze z kozetkami do psychoanaliz –
jeśli coś im się zgadza,
to tylko przypadkiem
i z tej tylko przyczyny,
że w naszych śnieniach,
w ich cieniach i lśnieniach,
w ich zatrzęsieniach, niedoprzewidzeniach,
w ich odniechceniach i rozprzestrzenieniach
czasem nawet uchwytny sens
trafić się może.

(Krakow, 2009.)

Wisława Szymborska

DREAMS

Despite the geologists’ knowledge and craft,
mocking magnets, graphs, and maps—
in a split second the dream
piles before us mountains as stony
as real life.

And since mountains, then valleys, plains
with perfect infrastructures.
Without engineers, contractors, workers,
bulldozers, diggers, or supplies—
raging highways, instant bridges,
thickly populated pop-up cities.

Without directors, megaphones, and cameramen—
crowds knowing exactly when to frighten us
and when to vanish.

Without architects deft in their craft,
without carpenters, bricklayers, concrete pourers—
on the path a sudden house just like a toy,
and in it vast halls that echo with our steps
and walls constructed out of solid air.

Not just the scale, it’s also the precision—
a specific watch, an entire fly,
on the table a cloth with cross-stitched flowers,
a bitten apple with teeth marks.

And we—unlike circus acrobats,
conjurers, wizards, and hypnotists—
can fly unfledged,
we light dark tunnels with our eyes,
we wax eloquent in unknown tongues,
talking not with just anyone, but with the dead.

And as a bonus, despite our own freedom,
the choices of our heart, our tastes,
we’re swept away
by amorous yearnings for—
and the alarm clock rings.

So what can they tell us, the writers of dream books,
the scholars of oneiric signs and omens,
the doctors with couches for analyses—
if anything fits,
it’s accidental,
and for one reason only,
that in our dreamings,
in their shadowings and gleamings,
in their multiplings, inconceivablings,
in their haphazardings and widescatterings
at times even a clear-cut meaning
may slip through.

translation Clare Kavanah and Stanislaw Baranczak

Wisława Szymborska

hard lifesgsm

Trudne życie z pamięcią

Jestem złą publicznością dla swojej pamięci.
Chce, żebym bezustannie słuchała jej głosu,
a ja się wiercę, chrząkam,
słucham i nie słucham,
wychodzę, wracam i znowu wychodzę.

Chce mi bez reszty zająć uwagę i czas.
Kiedy śpię, przychodzi jej to łatwo.
W dzień bywa różnie, i ma o to żal.

Podsuwa mi gorliwie dawne listy, zdjęcia,
porusza wydarzenia ważne i nieważne,
przywraca wzrok na prześlepione widoki,
zaludnia je moimi umarłymi.

W jej opowieściach jestem zawsze młodsza.
To miłe, tylko po co bez przerwy ten wątek.
Każde lustro ma dla mnie inne wiadomości.

Gniewa się, kiedy wzruszam ramionami.
Mściwie wtedy wywleka wszystkie moje błędy,
ciężkie, a potem lekko zapomniane.
Patrzy mi w oczy, czeka, co ja na to.
W końcu pociesza, że mogło być gorzej.

Chce, żebym żyła już tylko dla niej i z nią.
Najlepiej w ciemnym, zamkniętym pokoju,
a u mnie ciągle w planach słońce teraźniejsze,
obłoki aktualne, drogi na bieżąco.

Czasami mam jej towarzystwa dosyć.
Proponuję rozstanie. Od dzisiaj na zawsze.
Wówczas uśmiecha się z politowaniem,
bo wie, że byłby to wyrok i na mnie.

Wisława Szymborska

Hard Life with Memory

I’m a poor audience for my memory.
She wants me to attend her voice non-stop,
but I fidget, fuss,
listen and don’t,
step out, come back then leave again.

She wants to take up all my time and attention.
She’s got no problem when I sleep.
The day’s a different matter, which upsets her.

She thrust old letters, snapshots at me eagerly
stirs up events both important and un-,
turns my eyes to overlooked views,
peoples them with my dead.

In her stories I’m always younger.
Which is nice, but why always the same story.
Every mirror holds different news for me.

She gets angry when I shrug my shoulders.
And takes revenge by hauling out old errors,
weighty, but easily forgotten.
Looks into my eyes, checks my reaction.
Then comforts me, it could be worse.

She wants me to live only for her and with her.
ideally in a dark, locked room,
but my plans still feature today’s sun,
clouds in progress, current roads.

At times I get fed up with her.
I suggest a separation. From now to eternity.
Then she smiles at me with pity,
since she knows it would be the end of me too.

translation Clare Kavanah

Women’s day

À la magicienne

At the Woman-Magician’s

IMG_1691 ppSMSG

This is a poem inspired by a corset lace I found in my great-aunt’s attic never used with the price still on it. The brand name is “At the magician’s” (magician in the feminine).

À la magicienne
Un corset
Un lacet
De quelle magie parlons-nous ?
De quelle magicienne ?

De celle qui opprime
Déprime
Contraint
Astreint
Ou de celle qui embellit
Affermit
Définit
Enrichit.

C'est peut-être un choix
A chaque fois
Savoir combien
Quel équilibre
On s'astreint
On retient ou on est libre.

At the Woman-Magician’s
A corset
Its lace
Which magic are we talking about?
Which She-magician?

The one who oppresses
Depresses
Constrains
Restrains
Or the one who gives beauty
Tightens
Strengthens
Defines

It may be a choice
Each time
To find the balance
Between
How much one controls
Or one lets breathe

This poem is part of the book To be a Woman which you can have a look at Here.

Advent

12  IMG_2207 croppedSIG SM

ATTENTE

WAITING

Marie, c'est le Christ que tu portes dans l'ombre de la chair
Il est encore dans les entrailles pour un peu de temps
Tu vas le donner à la lumière du monde, lui la lumière éternelle.

Marie, quel fruit lumineux portons-nous dans l'ombre de la chair ?
Aide-nous à le porter encore une peu de temps sans le voir

Donne-nous aussi la joie d'une naissance
La naissance d'un fruit éternel, enfant de la chair et de l'Esprit
Porté, mûri, attendu, donné
Noël

Mary, it is Christ that you carry in the shadow of the flesh
He is still in the womb for a while
You're going to give to the light of the world his eternal light.

Mary, what luminous fruit do we bear in the shadow of the flesh?
Help us carry it a while longer without seeing it

Give us also the joy of a birth
The birth of an eternal fruit, child of the flesh and the Spirit
Carried, ripened, expected, given
Noël

“Hope” is the thing with feathers – Emily Dickinson

IMG_2662sgsmExposition au Château d'Annecy - 2014  

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

"L'espoir" est cette chose à plumes –
Qui se perche dans l'âme –
Et chante la mélodie sans mots –
Sans jamais cesser –

Elle est à son plus doux - dans la tempête –
Et bien violent doit être le vent –
Qui pourrait intimider le petit Oiseau
Qui en a gardé tant au chaud –

Je l'ai entendu dans les pays les plus froids -
Et sur la Mer la plus étrange –
Pourtant - jamais – à la dernière extrémité,
Il ne m’a demandé une miette.

In The Poems of Emily Dickinson edited by R. W. Franklin (Harvard University Press, 1999)
Traduction Margot Krebs Neale

Envol et Enracinement

We need imagination and dreams to live a life of beauty and change and a sense of reality to avoid being lost in illusions. The right balance is for each of us to strike as we go along. I have chosen these photographs because I see each as an expression of that balance, how to belong to the air and to the earth.

Le père conçut le dédale
Avec son fils, il apprit à voler
Pour s'échapper
Mais Icare vola trop haut
et seul Dédale survécut

Prendre assez de hauteur
Pour échapper aux profondeurs
Qui seraient notre prison
Sans bruler la construction
Sans laquelle nous sommes piétons

S'enfoncer
S'envoler
S'enfoncer
S'envoler
Comme on inspire et on expire
Comme on respire
Je crois que j'ai dit ce que j'avais à dire

M Krebs Neale


The father thought the maze
With his son, he learnt to fly
To escape
But Icarus flew too high
And only Daedalus survived

Let us take enough height
To escape the depth
Which would be our prison
Without burning the construction
Without which we are pedestrians

Sink
Fly
Sink
Fly
As you breath in and you breath out

I hope I've said what I had to say

M. Krebs Neale

more Clarity in my Heart please.

IMG_6447sgsm

God help us to find our confession.

God help us to find our confession;
The truth within us which is hidden from our mind;
The beauty or the ugliness we see elsewhere
But never in ourselves;
The stowaway which has been smuggled
Into the dark side of the heart,
Which puts the heart off balance and causes it pain,
Which wearies and confuses us,
Which tips us in false directions and inclines us to destruction,
The load which is not carried squarely
Because it is carried in ignorance.
God help us to find our confession.
Help us across the boundary of our understanding.
Lead us into the darkness that we may find what lies concealed;
That we may confess it towards the light;
That we may carry our truth in the centre of our heart;
That we may carry our cross wisely
And bring harmony into our life and our world.

Amen.

Michael Leunig

Dieu aide-nous à trouver notre chemin de vérité

Dieu aide-nous à trouver notre chemin de vérité;
L’essence de nous-même qui échappe à notre esprit;
La beauté ou la laideur que nous voyons ailleurs
Mais jamais en nous.
Le passager clandestin qui a été caché
Dans le côté obscur de notre cœur,
Qui le déséquilibre et le fait souffrir,
Qui nous confond et qui nous lasse,
Qui nous fait prendre de mauvaises directions et nous incline à la destruction,
Le poids qui n’est pas bien ajusté
Parce qu'il est porté dans l'ignorance.
Dieu aide-nous à trouver notre chemin de vérité.
Aide-nous au-delà des limites de notre compréhension.
Conduis-nous à travers les ténèbres afin que nous puissions trouver ce qui s’y dissimule ;
Afin que nous puissions le porter vers la lumière;
Afin que notre vérité demeure dans notre cœur;
Afin que nous puissions porter notre croix avec sagesse
Et apporter l'harmonie dans notre vie et dans notre monde.

Amen

Version française Margot Krebs Neale

My friend is a stranger

P1100395sig

 

En främling är min vän, en som jag inte känner
En främling längt längt borta.
För hans skull är mitt hjärta fullt av nöd.
För han inte finns hos mig.
För att han kanska inte alls finns ?

Vem är du som uppfyller mitt hjärta med din fraanvaro ?
Som uppfyller hela världen med din fraanvaro ?

Pär Lagerkvist, Aftonland

Mon ami est un étranger,
quelqu'un que je ne connais pas.
Un étranger très très loin.
De sa faute mon cœur est en détresse.
Parce qu'il n'est pas près de moi
Parce que peut être il n'existe pas ?

Qui es-tu, qui remplit mon cœur de ton absence ?
Qui remplit la terre entière de ton absence ?

Pär Lagerkvist, Pays du Soir

My friend is a stranger, someone I do not know.
A stranger far, far away
For his sake my heart is full of disquiet
Because he is not with me
Because, perhaps, after all he does not exist?

Who are you who so fill my heart with your absence?
Who fill the entire world with your absence?

Pär Lagerkvist, Evening Land