My spirit craves to sit a long time on a hill
For some reason, I ended up getting stuck in a timewarp of reading my old, old entries on LJ last night, and I found this piece of translation which I had done and posted some of, aeons ago, and it's very lovely so I'm going to post it again. This is a small part of a Middle Welsh poem called Claf Abercuawg, which is about a lonely leper. This translation is not very good, but it is very literal.
2:
Llem awel, llwm benedyr byw;
Severe weather, barren hedged land of the cattle
pan orwisc coet teglyw
when the wood clothes itself in the fair colour of
haf, teryd glaf wyf hediw.
summer, I am very sick today.
11:
Gordyar adar; gwlyb neint;
Noisy birds; wet stream;
llewychyt lloer; oer deweint;
moon shines; cold midnight;
crei vym bryt rac gofit heint.
raw my mind from the grief of my illness.
17:
Kynntevin, kein pob amat;
Mayday, every varied growth beautiful;
pan vryssyant [g]etwyr y gat,
when the soldiers hurry to battle
mi nyt af - anaf ny'm gat.
I go not - my disability does not permit me.
18:
Kynntevin, kein ar vystre;
Mayday, the region beautiful
pan vrys ketwyr y gatle,
when the soldiers hurry to the batlefield,
mi nyt af - anaf a'm de.
I go not - my disability burns me.
You can find a full translation here, which is apparently adapted from Rowland's translation, and Rowland is very very good, so. YOU MAY NOTICE that that translation is quite different from mine and in places actually completely different. This is because old Welsh poetry can be translated in five hundred thousand ways, even before you get to the issue of badly copied and dubious manuscripts. The text that I translated in this case seems to have been different than the text which Rowland was starting with.
Also posted on Dreamwidth at http://kenovay.dreamwidth.org/2102.html. Comment wherever you like.
2:
Llem awel, llwm benedyr byw;
Severe weather, barren hedged land of the cattle
pan orwisc coet teglyw
when the wood clothes itself in the fair colour of
haf, teryd glaf wyf hediw.
summer, I am very sick today.
11:
Gordyar adar; gwlyb neint;
Noisy birds; wet stream;
llewychyt lloer; oer deweint;
moon shines; cold midnight;
crei vym bryt rac gofit heint.
raw my mind from the grief of my illness.
17:
Kynntevin, kein pob amat;
Mayday, every varied growth beautiful;
pan vryssyant [g]etwyr y gat,
when the soldiers hurry to battle
mi nyt af - anaf ny'm gat.
I go not - my disability does not permit me.
18:
Kynntevin, kein ar vystre;
Mayday, the region beautiful
pan vrys ketwyr y gatle,
when the soldiers hurry to the batlefield,
mi nyt af - anaf a'm de.
I go not - my disability burns me.
You can find a full translation here, which is apparently adapted from Rowland's translation, and Rowland is very very good, so. YOU MAY NOTICE that that translation is quite different from mine and in places actually completely different. This is because old Welsh poetry can be translated in five hundred thousand ways, even before you get to the issue of badly copied and dubious manuscripts. The text that I translated in this case seems to have been different than the text which Rowland was starting with.
Also posted on Dreamwidth at http://kenovay.dreamwidth.org/2102.html. Comment wherever you like.