Justin Erik Halldór Smith

e. e. cummings in French and Sakha

I've been trying to translate English-language poetry into Sakha, mostly out of curiosity, but also because this exercise reveals new limits and expressive possibilities of both the original and the target languages. Because I speak French with my Sakha tutor, I am also in the habit of translating whatever I come up with in Sakha into French as well. I have recently tried to render three poems by e. e. cummings in Sakha, but have only succeeded with one of them. The other two I have been able to render in French, while the huge differences in the grammar and vocabulary of Sakha and English respectively leave me practically unable even to start their Sakha translations. 

The one successful translation is the famous “I carry your heart with me...” of 1952:

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
                                                i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

I came up with a serviceable French translation first (numerous French translations already exist in print):

je garde ton coeur avec moi(je le garde
dans mon coeur)je l'ai toujours(où que
j'aille tu vas,ma chère;et tout ce que je fais
tout seul tu fais,ma chérie)
                                                je n'ai peur
d'aucun sort(car c'est toi mon sort,ma douce)je ne veux
aucun monde(car tu es belle mon monde,ma fidèle)
et c'est toi que la lune a toujours voulue dire
et ce que le soleil chantera toujours c'est toi

voici le plus profond secret que personne ne sait
(voici la racine de la racine et le bourgeon du bourgeon
et le ciel du ciel de l'arbre qui s'appelle vie;qui croît
plus haut que l'âme ne puisse espérer et l'esprit ne puisse se cacher)
et c'est ça la merveille qui maintient les étoiles séparées

je garde ton coeur(je le garde dans mon coeur)

And finally, in Sakha: 

мин эн сүрэххин кэтэбин(мин маны
сүрэхпэр кэтэбин)хаһан да кинитэ суох сылдьыбаппын(ханна эмэ
барабын, тапталааҕым, эн миигинниин;уонна тугу барыта мин
соҕотох оҥоробун, эн оҥорогун, күндүм)
                                                            дьылҕаны
кутаммаппын(эн дьылҕам буолагын, минньигэһим)аан дойдуну
баҕарбаппын(эн кэрэ аан дойдум буолагын, эрэллээҕим)
уонна тугу эрэ ый мэлдьи көрдөрдө, диэн эн буолагын
уонна тугу эрэ күн мэлдьи ыллыа, диэн эн буолагын.

бу саамай дириҥ ким да билбэт кистэлэҥэ
(бу силис силиһэ уонна үнүгэс үнүгэһэ
уонна олох аатынан мас халлаанын халлаана;кини
эрэнэр дууһатааҕар уонна кистэнэр өйдөөҕөр уһун үүнэр)
уонна бу дьикти сулустары түмэр.

мин эн сүрэххин кэтэбин(мин маны сүрэхпэр кэтэбин)

I'm sure there are still problems with this, but it's a start.

Next I tried the lovely 1961 poem, “2 little whos”:

2 little whos
(he and she)
under are this
wonderful tree

smiling stand
(all realms of where
and when beyond)
now and here

(far from a grown
-up i&you-
ful world of known)
who and who

(2 little ams
and over them this
aflame with dreams
incredible is)

It comes out very nicely in French:

2 petits qui
(elle et lui)
sous sont cet
arbre inouï

souriant sont
(tous les pays
d’où et de quand au-delà)
maintenant et ici

(loin d’un ad-
ulte monde de su
avec moi&toi)
qui et qui

(2 petits suis
et sur eux cela
embrasé par de rêves
incroyable est)

I have no idea how even to begin to render it in Sakha. This reveals an interesting limitation: how do you convey the aesthetic qualities of brokenness, fragmentariness, and childlikeness in a language that you still have only mastered in a broken, fragmentary, and childlike way?

The final cummings poem is “all nearness pauses...” of 1952:

all nearness pauses, while a star can grow

all distance breathes a final dream of bells;
perfectly outlined against afterglow
are all amazing the and peaceful hills

(not where not here but neither’s blue most both)

and history immeasurably is
wealthier by a single sweet day’s death:
as not imagined secrecies comprise

goldenly huge whole the up floating moon.

Time’s a strange fellow;
                                    more he gives than takes
(and he takes all) nor any marvel finds

And in French:

Toute proximité s’arrête, lorsqu’une étoile peut croître

Toute distance respire un dernier rêve de cloches;
parfaitement esquissé sur les dernières lueurs
sont toutes merveilleuses les et pacifiques collines

(pas ici pas où mais ni leur bleu surtout les deux)

et l’histoire immesurablement est
plus riche de la mort d’un seul doux jour:
comme le comprennent les secrets non imaginés

énorme d’or la toute lune ascendante.

Le Temps est un drôle de type;
il plus donne que de prendre
(et il prend tout) sans y trouver une merveille

I am somewhat less satisfied with this translation than with “2 little whos”, mostly because I am sometimes unsure whether cummings is intentionally “breaking language” and descending downward into meaninglessness for a reason, or whether I simply haven't understood the fractured but still extractable meaning. This is particularly the case in the parenthetical line. Once again, with the Sakha translation, I barely know where to start. But for now I'm happy with one out of three. 

Interview in the Corriere della Sera

Marco del Corona interviewed me for the Corriere della Sera last month, in timing with the release of the new Italian edition of my most recent book, Il filosofo. Una storia in sei figure. You can read a pdf of the interview here. 

Three Translations from Old High German

Wes er mit mir pflaege 
niemer niemen
bevinde daz, wan er und ich, 
und ein kleinez vogellîn: 
tandaredei, 
daz mac wol getriuwe sîn.

What he did to me 
May no one ever 
Know but he and I 
And a little bird: 
Tandaredei 
(Who can keep a secret).

*

Mich dunket niht sô guotes noch sô lobesam 
sô diu liehte rôse und diu minne mîns man. 
diu kleinen vogellîn 
diu singent in dem walde: dêst menegem herzen liep. 
mir enkome mîn holder geselle, ine hân der sumerwunne niet.

I think nothing so good or praiseworthy
As the bright rose, and my dear one's love.
The little bird
That sings in the forest sets many a heart a-flutter
But if my sweetheart cometh not, no summer sun can melt my butter.

*

Dû bist mîn, 
ich bin dîn, 
des solt dû gewis sin. 
dû bist beslozzen 
in mînem herzen, 
verlorn ist daz sluzzelîn: 
dû muost ouch immér darinne sîn.

You are mine,
I am thine,
Of this much please be certain.
You're under arrest.
Your cell? My breast. 
The key? Don't know.
Really, now. You mustn't go.

Paul Valéry, 'Helen' (from the Album des vers anciens, 1920)

 

Azure! That’s me… I come from the caves of the dead

To hear the waves break by degrees of sound

And I see again the galleys of dawn rebound

From shadow in the golden oars’ thread.

 

My solitary hands call out to the lords,

Who pleased my pure fingers with their beards of salt;

I cried. They their dark victories took to exalt

And the fleeing gulfs of their vessels’ boards.

 

I hear the deep conchs and the martial horns

Imparting their rhythm to the flight of the oars;

The clear song of the rowers triggers a roar,

 

And the Gods reach, at the heroic prow exalted

In their ancient smile, and which the foam abhors,

Me, now, in their great kind arms envaulted.

 

*

 

Azur! c’est moi... Je viens des grottes de la mort

Entendre l’onde se rompre aux degrés sonores,

Et je revois les galères dans les aurores

Ressusciter de l’ombre au fil des rames d’or.

 

Mes solitaires mains appellent les monarques

Dont la barbe de sel amusait mes doigts purs;

Je pleurais. Ils chantaient leurs triomphes obscurs

Et les golfes enfuis aux poupes de leurs barques.

 

J’entends les conques profondes et les clairons

Militaires rythmer le vol des avirons;

Le chant clair des rameurs enchaîne le tumulte,

 

Et les Dieux, à la proue héroïque exaltés

Dans leur sourire antique et que l´écume insulte,

Tendent vers moi leurs bras indulgents et sculptés.

Joseph Brodsky, from 'A Part of Speech' (1977)

From the point of view of air, the edge of earth
is everywhere. Which, mowing away the clouds,
coincides - no matter how they cover
their tracks - with the sensation of a heel.
And the eye that looks around
mows, as your sickle, the fields;
the sum of small places added in change,
is less knowable than zero.
And a smile will show forth like the shadow of a rook
upon a pock-marked hedge, holding down
the splendid thick of the rosebush, but crying
through honeysuckle with closed beak.

*

С точки зрения воздуха, край земли
всюду. Что, скашивая облака,
совпадает - чем бы не замели
следы - с ощущением каблука.
Да и глаз, который глядит окрест,
скашивает, что твой серп, поля;
сумма мелких слагаемых при перемене мест
неузнаваемее нуля.
И улыбка скользнет, точно тень грача
по щербатой изгороди, пышный куст
шиповника сдерживая, но крича
жимолостью, не разжимая уст.

Novalis, 'Longing for Death'

From the Hymns to the Night (1799-1800)

Down below, in the shafts of earth,

Far removed from the reach of light,

The rage and wild push of pain

Are the sign of a happy flight.

Laid out in our narrow punt,

We'll soon arrive at heaven's front.

Praised be to us the eternal night,

Praised be our eternal sleep.

The day indeed has made us warm
And our cares have made us weak.

Driven no more by a longing to roam,

We want to go back to our father's home.

What are we to do in this world

By loving more, by staying true?

All that is old is set aside,

What then of all that is new?

O! deeply sad and alone you'll stay,

With your pious hot love for a bygone day.

In a bygone day when the senses' light

Still burned in mounting flames,

The people still did recognize

Their father's hand and face.

And with heightened sense, and without being told,

Many still fit the primordial mold.

In a bygone day, when ancient stalks

Still shone forth replete with flowers,
And children longed for pain and death

Driven on by heaven's power.

And when life and longing also spoke,

So many hearts for love were broke.

In a bygone day, when in blush of youth,

God announced his own arrival.

And to early death in courageous love

He renounced his sweet survival.

And drove away not pain nor fear,

So that to us he would stay dear.

With anxious longing we see it

In night's darkness drenched.

In this temporality

Hot thirst cannot be quenched.

To our homeland we must go
For this holy time to know.

What delays our return still?

Those we love are long at rest.

The course of our life is buried there,

And now we know only pain and stress.

We seek no more, we have no care,

Our heart is full - the world is bare.

Infinite and mysterious,

Sweet showers through us course -

A distant echo of our grief, it seems,
Rings out from an unknown source.

Our loved ones also pine in death,
And sent to us their longing's breath.

 

Downwards, to the cherished bride,

To Jesus, the beloved,

Assured of dusk's dark menacing

Are those who grieve and love.
A dream has caused our bands to snap
And sunk us in our father's lap.

Paul Celan, Death Fugue (1948)

 

Black milk of dawn we drink it at evening

we drink it at midday and morning we drink it at night

we drink and we drink

we're digging a grave in the airs where you won't lie too tight

A man lives in the house he plays with the serpents he writes

he writes when Deutschland is darkened by your golden hair Margarete

he writes it and goes 'fore the house and the stars shine he calls for his hounds

he calls for his Jews a grave in the earth he leaves them to dig

he commands us now play for to dance

 

Black milk of dawn we drink it at night

we drink it at morning and midday we drink it at evening

we drink and we drink

A man lives in the house he plays with the serpents he writes

he writes when Deutschland is darkened by your golden hair Margarete

Your ashen hair Sulamith we're digging a grave in the airs where you won't lie too tight

 

He calls push deeper into the soil you and the others sing and you play

he grips at his belt for the iron his eyes are blue

push the spades deeper you and the others play on for to dance

 

Black milk of dawn we drink you at night

we drink you at midday and morning we drink you at evening

we drink and we drink

a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete

your ashen hair Sulamith he plays with the serpents

he calls play death sweeter death is a master from Deutschland

he calls stroke the violins more darkly for you'll rise like smoke in the air

for you'll have your grave in the clouds where you won't lie too tight

 

Black milk of dawn we drink you at night

we drink you at midday death is a master from Deutschland

we drink you at evening and morning we drink and we drink

death is a master from Deutschland his eye is blue

he hits you with bullet of lead he hits you true

a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete

he sets his hounds on us he gives us a grave in the air

he plays with the serpents and dreameth death is a master from Deutschland

 

your golden hair Margarete

your ashen hair Sulamith 

 

Rainer Maria Rilke, Duino Elegies

The First Elegy

Who then, if I cried out, would hear me from the order
of angels? and supposing one of them took
a sudden interest in me: I should wither from his
more powerful being. For the beautiful is nothing

but terror's beginning, which we yet bear unbowed,
and we marvel at it, as it calmly disdains

to disturb us. Every angel is terrible.
And so I restrain myself and swallow down the siren call
of dark convulsion. O whom then are

we able to need? Neither angels, nor men, 

and the clever beasts note this well, 

that we are not so solidly at home
in the world as construed. There remains to us,

perhaps, a tree on the hillside that we see again
daily; there remain to us yesterday's streets, and

the loyalty, which is forgiven, to a habit
t
hat suited us well, and thus stayed, and did not go.
O and the night, the night, when the wind, full of world,
wears down our faces--, for whom would she not remain, desired,

gently disappointing, she who lies painfully in store for

the solitary heart? Is she softer on those who love?
Oh, they only hide with one another in their fate.
Do you still not know it? Throw from your arms
into space the emptiness that we breath; perhaps
the birds feel the expanded air with an inward flight.

Yes, the springtimes well needed you. Many a star
expected you to sprint. A wave
raised itself up in the past, or,
so that you should drop by the open window,
a violin gave itself up. All this was the task.
But did you manage it? Were you not always
scattered in expectation, as a beloved heralded
it all to you? (Where will you hide her,
so that these great strange thoughts of yours
should come in and out, and stay more often the night?)
If you must sing of lovers, still is their
famed feeling by far not immortal enough.
You almost envy these abandoned ones, whom you
found so much more loving than those who were appeased.
Always begin anew the acclaim that is never to be attained;
think: the hero maintains himself, even the downfall
was for him only a pretext for being: his final birth.
But exhausted nature takes the lovers back
into her, as if the strength to carry this off
could not come twice. Have you thought enough
then of Gaspara Stampa, that any girl passed up
by her beloved, on the aggravated example
of these lovers, feels: that I might be like her?
Should these oldest pains not at last become
more fruitful to us? Is it not time that we lovingly
free ourselves from the beloved, and tremblingly withstand,
as the arrow withstands the string, in order in launching
to be more than itself? For remaining is nowhere.

Voices, voices. Hear, my heart, as else only
saints have heard: that they raised the great
call from the ground; but they knelt
again, impossible, and paid it no mind.
Thus did they listen. Not that you would bear
the voice of God, not by far. But listen to the blowing,
the uninterrupted news that is made up of silence.
It is rustling now, from those young dead ones, to you.
Wherever you entered, did their fate not calmly
address you in the churches of Rome and Naples?
Or an inscription was loftily borne to you,
as of late that tablet in Santa Maria Formosa.
What do they want of me? Gently shall I
shrug off the semblance of injustice that the pure
motion of their spirits sometimes hinders a little.

It is indeed peculiar to inhabit the earth no longer,
not to exercise skills barely learned, nor to give
to roses, and to other things that promise themselves,
the significance of a human future;
not to be what one was in infinitely
anxious hands, and to leave behind
even one's own name like a broken toy.
Peculiar, to no longer wish wishes. Peculiar,
to see everything fluttering that hung
so loosely in space. And being dead is laborious
and full of catching up, so that one gradually senses
a bit of eternity. -- But all of the living make
this mistake, that they distinguish too sharply.
The angels (it is said) would often not know, whether
they were moving among the living or the dead.
The eternal current always pulls all the ages
along with it through both domains,
and drowns them out in both.

In the end they need us no longer, the early departed,
one is gently weaned of the earthly, as one meekly
grows away from the mother's breast. But we who need
such large secrets, for whom blissful progress
so often springs from mourning--: could we be without them?
The story is in vain, that once in the lament for
Lino's daring first music, barren torpor crept in;
that first in the stunned space, into which an almost divine youth
suddenly entered forever, did the emptiness shift into that
vibration, that now thrills us and comforts and helps.

Heinrich Heine, from the Buch der Lieder (1827)

Die Heimkehr

LXXII

Und bist du erst mein ehlich Weib,
Dann bist du zu beneiden,
Dann lebst du in lauter Zeitvertreib,
In lauter Pläsier und Freuden.

Und wenn du schiltst und wenn du tobst,
Ich werd es geduldig leiden;
Doch wenn du meine Verse nicht lobst,
Laß ich mich von dir scheiden.

*

If you shall be my faithful wife
Then fortune on you shines.
You'll live a gay and carefree life
Of leisurely pastimes.

And if you scold and if you rave
I'll abide it all with pleasure.
But if my poems you will not praise
Then let us split forever.