Acasă Blog

Process, language, resonance and literary ping-pong

0

Reflections on the literary translation of the collaborative poetry collection ‘In Defence of Cherries’

In the late spring of 2015 I was fortunate to be invited to visit Martisor, the cherry orchard and estate of romanian poet Tudor Arghezi. Following the visit, my collaborator Peter Sragher and I were so inspired by Arghezi’s life and work, the surroundings and the cherries of the orchard, that we started writing poems about it. This collaboration became the collection ‘In Defence of Cherries’. In march 2017, – invited by the Bucharest Department-Literary Translations at ”The Romanian Writers’ Union” – Peter and I worked on translating the poems in close collaboration with translators Irina Bojin and Andreea Daniela Petcu. We worked in pairs in seperate rooms of a Bucharest city library and in three highly intensive sessions the collection was translated into Romanian.

I had the great pleasure of teaming up with the seasoned translator Irina Bojin, and as it was her first literary translation of poetry and my first têteà-tête translation session with a translator that was rendering my material in Romanian, we were both in somewhat unknown territory. And fortunately, we quickly established an excellent communication, found resonance in each other, both in the languages and in the poetry.

For me, as a writer, I place tremendous trust in my translator, trusting her judgement and connoisseurship of the national readership, in this case the romanian readership.

Flow is of utmost importance. The translated language of the poem needs to flow effortlessly, the song of one lingua transformed into another. Meanings have to be true to the original poem, while rhymes and idiomatics need to be tailored and chosen to lift the task of creating one set of complex metaphorical interplay between eternity and now into another, similar set in another language.

Really, an ardous – almost impossible task – but, I believe, crowned with some success in this case. It is no wonder that translating poetry is said to be the hardest subdiscipline of literary translation, but Irina and I shared great family resemblance in our shared curiosity about linguistics, semantics, etymology and culture. About feeling and moods and motives, life experience and, well… light. After each three hour session we were absolutely spent, carefully working through every facet of meaning, factchecking and discussing as we went along, making neccesary choices, sacrifying ever so many darlings and cutting heels and toes. Picking which cherries we preferred over others, and which to leave hanging.

‘In Defence of Cherries’ will be published by Editura frACTalia later this year and thanks to the great chemistry and collaboration with the translators, I am confident that the collection will do justice to the legacy of our late poet colleague Tudor Arghezi and make sense to a contemporary Romanian readership.

My only wish is that I would be able to read the language and experience the poems in their new Romanian avatars. Alas. It is never to late to learn.

The intensity of the têteà-tête literary translation session is unparallelled and probably my most rewarding collaborative translation experience to date. I have previously worked with translators via mail and chat communication and over the phone, but the importance of sharing physical space in my opinion cannot be overestimated.

Claus Ankersen, Poezii în versiune bilingvă din proiectul Tudor Arghezi

0
Klaus Ankersen și Irina Bojin
Klaus Ankersen și Irina Bojin
Old school swan songCântec de lebădă pe stil vechi
Slowly I drop out
through my own story
and off
It is not the firstborn who is remembered
it is the last
I can feel how my organism is deconstructing itself
steaming off into cosmos
dissolves
one particle after another
and disappears. Huff and spirit
are vapor or
a dustflake in a sunray on a blinking eyelash
an afternoon lost in conversation, perhaps
on a porch like this in a Finnish pinewood
or a Romanian cherry orchard
where you ponder my absense
and swim alone in the forest lake
after the sauna. On the first day you see my silhouette
on the second, the shadow. On the third morning
you have coffee with a memory
of something you think you saw on the fourth. And even though I stay
here as you go, you will feel me sitting next to you
on the passanger seat
in your now. All out
all in.
Mă retrag încet
Din propria mea poveste
și mă împuținez
Nu de primul născut îți aduci aminte
ci de ultimul
Simt cum trupul meu se deconstruiește
se evaporă în cosmos
se topește
particulă după particulă
și dispare. Suflare și suflet
sunt abur sau
un fulg de praf într-o rază de soare sau o clipire de geană
o după-amiază pierdută în conversație, poate
pe o terasă ca asta într-o pădure de pini finlandeză
sau o livadă de cireși românească
unde cugeți la absența mea
și înoți singur în lacul din pădure
după saună. În prima zi îmi vezi silueta
în a doua, umbra. În a treia dimineață
îți bei cafeaua și îți amintești
de ceva ce crezi că ai văzut într-a patra. Și cu toate că eu rămân
aici și tu pleci, ai să mă simți stând alături de tine
pe scaunul pasagerului
în momentanul tău. Dus
și prezent.
In the gardenÎn grădină
Behind the lids
the sky is red
in the abyss of the ear
rivers roar
in the treetops
the surf of the sky breaks
in the mind thankful jubilation
the waltz of wings
a bud embracing
the kiss of the sun
wood pigeons cooing
in the crown of a birch
wings flapping frantically
down feathers
floating white and free
against the background of the blue

Behind the lids
pink sugarfeathers
of the cherrybird
as the season moves
over the sky
where the great poet looks up
take notice and dream on
while the song of the bees hum
it is not done it is not done it is not done
not done
before the queen drops
honey in the bowl
with my heart my hands bring.
În spatele pleoapelor
cerul e roșu
în abisul urechii
mugesc râuri
în vârfurile copacilor
se sparg talazurile cerului
în minte jubilație recunoscătoare
valsul aripilor
un mugur îmbrățișând
sărutul soarelui
porumbei de pădure gângurind
în coroana unui mesteacăn
aripi fluturate frenetic
puf
plutind alb și liber
pe fundalul albastrului

În spatele pleoapelor
pene de zahăr roz
ale păsării-cireașă
în timp ce anotimpul se mișcă
pe cer
unde marele poet ridică ochii
bagă de seamă și visează mai departe
în timp ce cântecul albinelor zumzăie
nu s-a sfârșit nu s-a sfârșit nu s-a sfârșit
nu s-a sfârșit
înainte ca regina să picure
miere în cupa
cu inima mea pe care o aduc în palme.