Catalan Poem-"Voyage of Love or Death"- Translated by A Z Foreman Poems Found in Translation

Poems Found In Translation: “Ausiàs March: "Voyage of Love or Death" Poem XLVI (From Catalan)”

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Ausiàs March: "Voyage of Love or Death" Poem XLVI (From Catalan) Posted: 25 Jul 2015 06:51 PM PDT Though Ausiàs March took the notable and unprecedented step of writing his poems in Valencian Catalan, his own vernacular (rather than the Provençal and heavily Provençalized Catalan which were customary for versifying), and although it contains many proverbial and outright colloquial turns of phrase, it is nonetheless quite difficult, his syntax tortured violently, and his lines sometimes so elliptical that the reader is often puzzled as to what is meant at all. (It is telling that modern Catalan-speakers frequently have recourse to modernized paraphrases of his work which fill in a good many gaps.)  This may owe something to the difficulty March faced in adjusting Catalan to the demands of verse, and often one suspects that March is roiling against the confines of the verse-line as much as those of poetic convention. But it is also true that harshness and messiness were March's metier. March is not at all trying to be beautiful, orderly or pleasing to the ear, as the Provençal tradition demanded. Quite the contrary, his language is often deliberately harsh and cacophonous, as he himself notes several times in his own poems. Indeed, in his drive to turn the uncomely and the harsh to exalted art, rather then the beautiful and smooth, he reminds me of poets centuries later such as Baudelaire.  I've availed myself of various tactics to account for this in translation, such as a dusting off-rhymes amid the full rhymes, a rough versification, and divergence from the common norms of style, syntax and register which readers of English poetry today are accustomed to.  I have consulted a number of commentaries for this and some other forthcoming translations from March. Since I found myself differing in a number of respects from the interpretations of scholars who admittedly know more than I do, I considered including an exegetical explication of what is, especially for the Middle Ages, a relentlessly difficult body of work. I may yet do so. But the task seems too laborious for now. A few notes is all I have appended. Poem XLVI: Voyage of Love or Death By Ausiàs March (1400 – 1459) Translated by A.Z. Foreman I shall return. In power of sails and winds  I'll set across the sea a dicy course. Ponente and Mistral fight my advance. Sirocco and Levanter foil their force    Backed by their allies Midi and Gregal Beseeching the North Mountain Wind to turn Its storms aside in their support, so all Five winds may blow the way of my return. The sea shall seethe like boiling casserole, Change colors, taking on unnatural form, And show a full blast of ill will to all That stray on it one second in that storm.  The fish will panic all throughout the sea And seek out secret shelter in the deep, Till from the sea that gave them life they flee  To death out on dry land with desperate leap. Passengers will turn pilgrim on my ship Cry out to God, pledge votive gifts in tears, And fear force every secret from their lips That never fell on a confessor's ears.  Though tossed in dangers, you'll not leave my mind.  For to the God that joined us do I swear That naught shall weaken this resolve of mine, That you'll be with me always, everywhere. I fear death - lest it break my heart from yours, For death can cancel love out with its still, Not that I think even death's sundering force Could overcome my strength of loving will.  Yet I suspect your willing love for me So weak you might forget me when I die, And though while we two live this could not be One thought makes all life's pleasure out a lie: That on the day I died, your love as well Would die, transmuting into hate that night. While I, reft from this world, would feel full Hell Never again to hold you in my sight.  Oh God! If only there were bounds to love So I at love's extreme might stand apart, And face the future, free of fear and trust, Knowing the cutoff limit of your heart.   I am the most extreme of all in love Save those who've breathed in love their life's last breath. The anguish of my heart I cannot prove Without the good faith agony of death.  For good or ill at love's command I wait Though Fortune still withholds my fate from me. She'll find the gates unbarred, and me awake, Humbly prepared answer her decree. Getting what I so wish may cost me dear Yet this alone consoles the soul in strife: If it turns out my fate is what I fear I only ask that God not spare my life.  For then people will see the outward facts Of love at work within, needing no faith. Capacity will be revealed in act, And my words' credit proved by deed of death.  Envoi: Love! I feel you, but don't know you at all And win the loser's share by your device.  Nobody knows you while within your thrall.  Your simile: addictive game of dice.  Notes: Stanza 1: It seems to me fairly clear the voyage alluded to is metaphorical and did not actually transpire, though many have sought to identify a real-world course based on the meteorological description here. The proper names are Mediterranean winds, each traditionally attributed to a different cardinal compass direction. The Mistral blows from the North-West, the Ponente from the West, the Levanter from the East, the Sirocco from the South-East, the Midi from the South, the Gregale from the North-East and the Tramontane (here rendered as "North Mountain Wind") from the North. The winds have various resonances in the tradition. Particularly the Mistral and Ponente would be associated with Provence and the tradition of Provançal lyricism which March was consciously writing against. The Sirocco and Levanter, blowing from the exact opposite direction as the Mistral and Ponente, are harsh winds well-known to mediterranean mariners. The Levanter in particular can reach speeds of up to 200 km/h along the Catalonian coast, occasionally doing severe property damage even in modern times. Stanza 3: It was a custom for those facing imminent danger to make confessions to one another, in the absence of a priest to hear them. This was particularly common for passengers who found themselves imperiled on the high seas. Envoi: The reference to games of dice suggests something morally suspect. Gambling in 15th century Valencia was preached against as a cardinal sin, and many games of chance were symbolically burned in public. The Original: "Veles e vents" Veles e vents han mos desigs complir faent camins dubtosos per la mar: mestre i ponent contra d’ells veig armar; xaloc, llevant, los deuen subvenir, ab llurs amichs lo grech e lo migjorn, fent humils prechs al vent tramuntanal que en son bufar los sia parcial e que tots cinch complesquen mon retorn. Bullirà·l mar com la cassola en forn, mudant color e l’estat natural, e mostrarà voler tota res mal que sobre si atur un punt al jorn. Grans e pocs peixs a recors correran e cercaran amagatalls secrets: fugint al mar, on són nudrits e fets, per gran remei en terra eixiran. Los pelegrins tots ensems votaran e prometran molts dons de cera fets, la gran paor traurà·l llum los secrets que al confés descuberts no seran, e en lo perill no·m caureu de l’esment, ans votaré al Déu qui·ns ha lligats de no minvar més fermes voluntats e que tots temps me sereu de present. Jo tem la mort per no ser-vos absent, perquè amor per mort és anul·lats, mas jo no creu que mon voler sobrats pusca esser per tal departiment. Jo só gelós de vostre escàs voler que, jo morint, no meta mi en oblit. Sol est pensar me tol del món delit, car, nós vivint, no creu se pusca fer: aprés ma mort, d’amar perdau poder e sia tost en ira convertit. E jo forçat d’aquest món ser eixit, tot lo meu mal serà vós no veer. Oh Déu! per què terme no hi ha en amor, car prop d’aquell jo·m trobara tot sol? Vostre voler sabera quant me vol, tement, fiant de tot l’avenidor! Jo son aquell pus extrem amador aprés d’aquell a qui Déu vida tol: puix jo son viu, mon cor no mostra dol tant com la mort, per sa extrema dolor. A bé o mal d’amor jo só dispost, mas per mon fat fortuna cas no em porta: tot esvetlat, ab desbarrada porta me trobarà, faent humil respost. Jo desig ço que em porà ser gran cost i aquest esper de molts mals m’aconhorta; a mi no plau ma vida ser estorta d’un cas molt fer, qual prec Déu sia tost. Lladoncs les gents no·ls calrà donar fe al que amor fora mi obrarà: lo seu poder en acte·s mostrarà e los meus dits ab los fets provaré. Tornada: Amor, de vós, jo·n sent més que no en sé, de què la part pitjor me’n romandrà, e de vós sap lo qui sens vós està. A joc de daus vos acompararé

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