Translation from English

Sunday, October 30, 2016

Poems from Esperanto, Latin and Russian


 

Poems Found in Translation: “Nikolajs ĶurzÄ“ns: Autumn Elegy (From Esperanto)” plus 2 more

Link to Poems Found in Translation

Posted: 29 Oct 2016 04:24 PM PDT
Autumn Elegy
Nikolajs Ķurzēns
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

It rained all yesterday, today it's raining
So too tomorrow drops will slip and strew
Wearily as the weary minutes do
Of this my life — aimless and dull and draining.

Yes each day robs and washes me of something!
Yes each night carries something off from me!
No, of the past I've but a memory!
No, for the future I am left with nothing!

No more the lightning blades that slice the sky,
No more the heavens shuddering with thunder,
Just phthisic wind that weeps through every corner
And rain and rain and rain — as days drudge by.

And each day robs and washes me of something
And each night carries something off from me
And of the past I have but memory,
And for the future I am left with nothing.

The Original:

AÅ­tuna Elegio

HieraÅ­ pluvis, kaj hodiaÅ­ pluvas
kaj morgaÅ­ same, lace glitos gutoj;
kaj same, lace iros la minutoj
de mia viv', sencela kaj enua.

Ja ĉiu tag' forlavas rabe ion!
ja ĉiu nokto portas ion for!
ja de l' pasinto restas nur memor'!
ja por l' estonto havas mi nenion!

Ne fendas plu ĉielon fulma glavo,
ne tremas tondre plu la firmamento.
Ĉe la anguloj ploras ftiza vento,
kaj pluvas, pluvas, pluvas – tag' post tago.

Kaj ĉiu tag' forlavas rabe ion,
kaj ĉiu nokto portas ion for;
kaj de l' pasinto restas nur memor'
kaj por l'estonto – havas mi nenion...

Posted: 29 Oct 2016 03:38 PM PDT
About Himself
By John Owen
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Some say that I am no true poet, and they tell
The truth. Because the truth is what I tell.

The Original:

Dē Sēipsō

Sunt quīdam, quī mē dīcunt nōn esse poētam,
Et vērum dīcunt. Cūr? Quia vēra loquor.

Posted: 29 Oct 2016 08:53 AM PDT
I am not happy with this version. But here goes.

The Horn of Roland
By Marina Tsvetaeva
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

So as a sorry jester telling of the wicked weight
Of his hump, do I tell the tale of this my orphaned state.
Behind a prince, his kin. Behind a seraph, seraphim.
Behind each one there are thousand others just like him,
To reassure him, when he staggers, with a living wall
Of thousands to fall back on, to be backup should he fall!

The soldier's proud of his brigade; the demon, of hell's rungs.  
Behind the thief come thugs. Behind the jester? Just that hump. 
So, tired of holding on to consciousness of being quite
Alone, and singled out for no fate other than to fight 
Under the boo and hiss of philistines, and fools' catcalls,
As one for all — one among all — alone against them all
I stand to blow the horn, and — petrified from flight — I send
One blaring call through empty distance hoping for a friend 

And this fire in the breast is warrant that I'm not alone
But that some Charlemagne shall hear your call and answer, Horn!

-March 1921



The Original:

Роландов Рог
Марина Цветаева

Как бедный шут о злом своем уродстве,
Я повествую о своем сиротстве:
За князем — род, за серафимом — сонм,
За каждым — тысячи таких, как он,—
Чтоб, пошатнувшись,— на живую стену
Упал — и знал, что тысячи на смену!

Солдат — полком, бес — легионом горд,
За вором — сброд, а за шутом — все горб.
Так, наконец, усталая держаться
Сознаньем: перст и назначеньем: драться,—
Под свист глупца и мещанина смех,—
Одна за всех — из всех — противу всех,
Стою и шлю, закаменев от взлету,
Сей громкий зов в небесные пустоты.

И сей пожар в груди — тому залог,
Что некий Карл тебя услышит, Рог!