Time to contribute something meaningful
About a month ago I have translated the first sonnet in Love of Therese du Meun by Leah Goldberg:
This living hell, this harrowing damnation
That only the naive would call romance -
You'll never know my grave humiliation,
The pain that tears my being with its lance.
My locks turn silver as the years advance,
I have grown wise with careful contemplation.
How can my heart embrace this degradation
Begotten by one quick, unanswered glance?
Oh, spare my autumn day that once was clear,
A cloudless noon clad in a golden hue.
Oh, spare my age, the years that made me wise.
My nightly peace flies like a frightened deer.
This sad disgrace: I need but close my eyes
For my rebelling flesh to cry out: you!
(This follows my other two translations to English)
Love of Therese du Meun, Sonnet 5 (by Leah Goldberg)
Perhaps you're not so beautiful, perhaps
Another eye, more sober than a lover's,
May doubt your features' charms as it discovers
Some hidden discord or some secret lapse.
Some parsimonious pedant might deplore
Your childlike innocence that never perished,
Nature's exuberance by age still cherished.
Yet I adore your beauty all the more.
Shall I compare you to a dewy pine
That none but fingers of a loving spirit
May know its lofty sprigs are soft and fine?
Shall I compare you to the bluish shine
That tints the flame when gentle currents stir it?
You're lovelier than any rhyme of mine.
* * * (from Stars Without by Natan Alterman)
Upon the markets and the quays
Great paleness came then shining down,
A tidal-wave of sea-green skies
Leaned heavily against the town.
The flowing sidewalks slowly rose,
All mumbled, whispered, caught in ties
Inside a web of murmurs, those
Of chance encounters, looks and eyes.
My dear, do not put out the past,
Its single candle is so spare,
And if it was not love, perhaps
It was an autumn evening fair.
Into your town it ventures yet
With clouds and heavy breaths of ire
In every streetlight there to set
Its yellow chicks of merry fire.
This latest translation did not receive much praise from my editing board (ijon, ygurvitz, and others). Rightfully so, I admit... However, being a sore looser, I have composed a self parody, which I lovingly dedicate to my critics:
Upon Misrendering a Sonnet
To A.B. & Y.G.
O! lieber Leser, lerne griechisch und wirf meine ubersetzung ins Feuer.
[Oh! Dear reader, learn Greek and throw my translation into the flames.]
Friedrich Leopold Graf zu Stolberg (a footnote to his translation of Homer)
This thankless craft, this wretched occupation
Befitting a romantic fool, perchance -
How richly I deserve your condemnation
For my perverted piece de resistance.
A sonnet's gait is an appealing dance
Of words conceived with careful contemplation.
The loving labour of the best translation
May turn it into an appalling prance.
Appalling prance, indeed! I would retire
Before adopting such demented views!
Reclining blissfully by Stolberg's fire,
My grossly overworked, exhausted muse
Is fast asleep, reluctant to inspire.
Tread softly, criticasters, let her snooze.
This living hell, this harrowing damnation
That only the naive would call romance -
You'll never know my grave humiliation,
The pain that tears my being with its lance.
My locks turn silver as the years advance,
I have grown wise with careful contemplation.
How can my heart embrace this degradation
Begotten by one quick, unanswered glance?
Oh, spare my autumn day that once was clear,
A cloudless noon clad in a golden hue.
Oh, spare my age, the years that made me wise.
My nightly peace flies like a frightened deer.
This sad disgrace: I need but close my eyes
For my rebelling flesh to cry out: you!
(This follows my other two translations to English)
Love of Therese du Meun, Sonnet 5 (by Leah Goldberg)
Perhaps you're not so beautiful, perhaps
Another eye, more sober than a lover's,
May doubt your features' charms as it discovers
Some hidden discord or some secret lapse.
Some parsimonious pedant might deplore
Your childlike innocence that never perished,
Nature's exuberance by age still cherished.
Yet I adore your beauty all the more.
Shall I compare you to a dewy pine
That none but fingers of a loving spirit
May know its lofty sprigs are soft and fine?
Shall I compare you to the bluish shine
That tints the flame when gentle currents stir it?
You're lovelier than any rhyme of mine.
* * * (from Stars Without by Natan Alterman)
Upon the markets and the quays
Great paleness came then shining down,
A tidal-wave of sea-green skies
Leaned heavily against the town.
The flowing sidewalks slowly rose,
All mumbled, whispered, caught in ties
Inside a web of murmurs, those
Of chance encounters, looks and eyes.
My dear, do not put out the past,
Its single candle is so spare,
And if it was not love, perhaps
It was an autumn evening fair.
Into your town it ventures yet
With clouds and heavy breaths of ire
In every streetlight there to set
Its yellow chicks of merry fire.
This latest translation did not receive much praise from my editing board (ijon, ygurvitz, and others). Rightfully so, I admit... However, being a sore looser, I have composed a self parody, which I lovingly dedicate to my critics:
Upon Misrendering a Sonnet
To A.B. & Y.G.
O! lieber Leser, lerne griechisch und wirf meine ubersetzung ins Feuer.
[Oh! Dear reader, learn Greek and throw my translation into the flames.]
Friedrich Leopold Graf zu Stolberg (a footnote to his translation of Homer)
This thankless craft, this wretched occupation
Befitting a romantic fool, perchance -
How richly I deserve your condemnation
For my perverted piece de resistance.
A sonnet's gait is an appealing dance
Of words conceived with careful contemplation.
The loving labour of the best translation
May turn it into an appalling prance.
Appalling prance, indeed! I would retire
Before adopting such demented views!
Reclining blissfully by Stolberg's fire,
My grossly overworked, exhausted muse
Is fast asleep, reluctant to inspire.
Tread softly, criticasters, let her snooze.