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radiantfracture

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radiantfracture: Beadwork bunny head (Default)
Of the three poems J.E. Montgomery translates in his article "Horse, Hawk and Cheetah: 3 Arabic Hunting Poems of Abū Nuwās," I think I like "Cheetah" the best, although I arrived there looking for hawks.


Cheetah

I move through black cloud night—
Dark, at war with Dawn,
Quivers with a fine blade’s sheen—
With a vigorous, widejaw cheetah
Thickneck, spine-welded-scapulae
Leanbelly in taut-twist well-rope body
Cheek-folds plump in a scowl,
Sheeny; black teardrops on masseters
Bactrian lungs in saffron ribcage
Heavy paws, bull neck, sudden dart
A lion but for the spotty coat
Alert for shapes that shift.

A long search sights two herds
On ground flat as a man’s brow
He’s off, a slow stalk,
A trap about to explode
Puff adder slither
Through ground high and low
Face to face with his prey now—
Havoc! He scatters them across the desert
Full stretch, full pelt
Greedy fury.

Why hunt with any creature but a cheetah?

* * * * * *

Montgomery notes that "Hunting with cheetahs was an elite pastime."

This translation, while necessarily free, seems to me to have the most energy of the three hunting poems.

Note that the original poem, which is given in the Arabic in the article, would have had short regular lines and a strong monorhyme (every line ending on the same sound, such as run/fun/sun). This is a much more modernist, playful, word-coining version, which I like -- but I would like to compare it to both a literal and a rhymed translation, to triangulate some imagined ideal.

{rf}

A tradition

Sep. 1st, 2022 07:47 am
radiantfracture: Beadwork bunny head (Default)
Autumn Day

Lord: it is time. The huge summer has gone by.
Now overlap the sundials with your shadows,
and on the meadows let the wind go free.

Command the fruits to swell on tree and vine;
grant them a few more warm transparent days.
urge them on to fulfillment then, and press
the final sweetness into the heavy wine.

Whoever has no house now, will never have one.
Whoever is alone will stay alone,
will sit, read, write long letters through the evening,
and wander on the boulevards, up and down,
restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing.

* * * * * *

On the first of September, I traditionally post Rilke's "Herbsttag" in my beloved Stephen Mitchell's translation, above.

This is not, of course, the only translation. Here's William Gass:


Lord, it is time. The summer was too long.
Lay your shadow on the sundials now,
and through the meadow let the winds throng.

Ask the last fruits to ripen on the vine;
give them further two more summer days
to bring about perfection and to raise
the final sweetness in the heavy wine.

Whoever has no house now will establish none,
whoever lives alone now will live on long alone,
will waken, read, and write long letters,
wander up and down the barren paths
the parks expose when the leaves are blown.

* * * * * *

So was the summer just huge, or was it too long? I don't have the German to say what nuance Rilke intended for "sehr gross."

(It's a quirk of my memory that I often remember Mitchell having written "enormous" rather than "huge," despite its being much more difficult to make "enormous" scan.)

Gass' translation is from a book called Reading Rilke: Reflections on the Problem of Translation, which leads me to wonder if he is being provocative. (I have not read the book.)

There are some places where Gass seems to be closer in precise sense to the original, but to my ear Mitchell's is better English poetry.

Why is that?

Well, my eye is drawn to the third line:

and on the meadows let the wind go free vs. and through the meadow let the winds throng

In both cases, the prepositional phrase is interrupting the action -- we're in the middle of a parallel structure in which the Lord is enjoined to do two things: let shadows fall on the sundials, and send the breeze into the fields.

To my ear, Mitchell's "on the meadows," with it slightly unusual syntax (we'd tend to say "in" or "through", as Gass does) feels free-flowing; Gass' longer "through" feels clunky and calls attention to the preposition rather than the meadow.

I also notice that the two translators reverse the plurals, meadow vs. wind. To me, that makes Mitchell's line sound like the wind is being figured as a lone animal turned loose in the fields. Gass' image is of a teeming number of somethings gathering. Maybe I tend to prefer Mitchell's image here since this poem is so much about solitude.

Gass' more specific verb "throng" should be more vivid -- and perhaps it is, and it does rhyme, but for me it's the wrong kind of vivid. "Go" is pretty generic, but "go free" spreads the meaning out over two words and slows it down, which I think adds to the sense of loosening in the poem. "Throng" lands this big noisy verb right at the end of the line and stops the movement.

I also think stress is playing a part here. I am no prosodist, so bear with me.

I hear "winds throng" as a final spondee (double stress) -- "WINDS THRONG." Again, that concludes a line about movement with a sense of heaviness, like tying a lead weight to the end of the line.

I tend to hear Mitchell's "wind go free" as a near-dactyl, where the heavy stress falls on "wind" and "go free" is perhaps a soft iamb, only lightly stressed. This lifts the weight from the final verb and lets the reader's voice do what it's talking about, loosen at the end of the thought / line.

In any case, when I say each line aloud to myself over and over in my solitary shed, the stress in Mitchell's version falls on "meadows" and "wind," whereas in Gass it falls on "through" and "winds throng."

(putters with Google Translate)

Am I right in thinking that Rilke's original "lass die Winde los" would be 'let the winds loose"? (Google translate has "let go of the wind" which, despite my serious poetic intentions, makes me giggle slightly.)

Happy September.

{rf}






radiantfracture: Alan Bates as Butley. Text reads "One of the more triste perversions" (alan bates)
I'm never reading anything of length at the right time to post about it, but I have mentioned that a friend loaned me her Don Paterson translation of The Sonnets to Orpheus, a slender turkey-red Faber, and while I am on the record as being suspicious of the freedom of Paterson's "version", his Sonnet 5 is -- well, here it is:


Raise no stone to his memory. Just let
the rose put forth each year, for his name's sake.
Orpheus. In time, perhaps he'll take
the shape of this, and then of that -- and yet

we need no other name. Orpheus, we say
wherever that song is manifest.
He comes and goes. Therefore are we not blessed
if he outlasts the flowers a few days?

But though his constant leaving is a torment,
leave he must, if we're to understand.
So even as his voice alters the moment,

he's already gone where no one can pursue;
even the lyre cannot ensnare his hands.
And yet in this defiance, he stays true ...


Here's my beloved Stephen Mitchell in contrast, being just a little bit stodgy:


Erect no gravestone to his memory; just
let the rose blossom each year for his sake.
For it is Orpheus. Wherever he has passed
through this or that. We do not need to look

for other names. When there is poetry,
it is Orpheus singing. He lightly comes and goes.
Isn't it enough if sometimes he can stay
with us a few days longer than a rose?

Though he himself is afraid to disappear,
he has to vanish: don't you understand?
The moment his word steps out beyond our life here,

he moves where you will never find his trace.
The lyre's strings do not constrict his hands.
And it is in overstepping that he obeys.

* * * * * *

I do not know where Paterson gets his ellipsis: it isn't in the German in my copy, and it reads twee to me. (I almost left it out.) He also gives it a wholly unnecessary title, "Leaving."

Both are beautiful; but trying them out loud gives the advantage to Paterson, I think, as more fluid and not less grave.

For me, Mitchell's elegant version is much more about Orpheus as the spirit of art, or inspiration; the Paterson seems more deeply infused with grief. Orpheus in the myth is the seeker (and the sacrifice), but here Orpheus is the one being mourned or sought.

Rilke is one of the forces at the back of my novel, his strange poetic cosmologies, and I think of this as the epitaph for one of my somewhat-dead characters.

Does anyone else keep hearing e e cummings in this? What with all the roses and the hands?

{rf}



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