Vertical Fishing Rods

I've been known to complain about the lucidity and denotative nature of French. However, this morning I've run into a word that's competitive with any connotative English word in its range of possible meanings.

It doesn't help that I was already having some trouble translating the verses prior to the line: "lancer, relancer." The preceding verses had something to do with a copper drum, which doesn't seem to be a particularly Tibetan musical instrument--I'm thinking Metail is describing some mechanical device the identity of which is not clear to me. Then the most popular (or common) translation for lancer is "thrown," which doesn't make much sense with a drum. So I google both "lancer" and "tambour" (drum), to receive back a bunch of pages that have to do with fishing. The tambour is the reel part of the fishing rod (I guess--I'm not up on fishing paraphenelia lingo), while lancer is to cast the line. So I try "cast," but that doesn't seem to make sense in the context of the line, either.

I decide to let it go and forge onto the next couple of lines: "bruit de mécanique/moulins verticaux." This translates roughly into "mechanical noise/vertical mills." OK, mechanical noise is 5 syllables, great. But "vertical mills" is only 4, plus I'm not sure what exactly vertical mills are. I look in the dictionary, to see that a few lines down, temptingly, is "moulinet," which means, fishing rod. But if Metail meant fishing rod, she would have used "moulinet," right? Is this a coincidence of the dictionary?

This reminds me of my idea, expressed in some essay I wrote on how to read ecological poetry, that dictionaries should be arranged so that words with companionable meanings follow one another, rather than alphabetical. This is along the same lines I used to arrange books, thinking how the books (or the authors) might like or appreciate one another. I appreciate dis-organization. I wish there were more of it.

Jean Frémon

A nice review in the new issue of Eileen Tabios's Galatea Resurrects of Jean Frémon's Gloire des formes précédé de Le double corps des images (P.O.L., 2005) by Barry Schwabsky (note to self: Barry Schwabsky reads French; another note: I'm not sure the title is correct; it appears as simply Gloire des formes at P.O.L.). What I also liked: that a review of a non-translated book appears so nonchalantly amid reviews of English-language books, even though the accents (on say, Frémon) come and go.

Perhaps I imagine too much, but this review also seems to enclose themes of translations within translations: Fremon's double-identity as art director (perhaps that would be a triple-identity?) and writer (or another triple as poet and novelist), translating between the two worlds (I was going to say mediums, but the art and literary worlds are truly that). From this selection of Frémon's writings on art, Schwabsky draws only one quote (both in the original French, but also translated into English), but what a quote! It could also be applied to translation:

“On appelle témoin le morceau de bois que les coureurs de relais se passent de main en main. L’histoire de la peinture est peut-être une course relais dans laquelle le témoin est un secret.”

"Témoin is the name of that piece of wood that the runners in a relay race pass from hand to hand. The history of painting is perhaps a relay race in which the témoin is a secret.”

Substitute "translation" for "painting" and see what happens.

Happy thanksgiving!

Marcella

Up Again

I've decided to restart my blog on translation, originally established as part of the "Translate This!" workshop at the Poetry Project at St. Mark's last fall. Alas, my decision was not influenced by popular demand (ha, ha!), but by that I think it's an interesting (at least to me) topic. I'd love it if my fellow translation travellers, particularly the people in the workshop, chimed in once in a while if they've continued any forays into other languages.

My latest translation news is publishing the first page of "The Earth's Horizons" in The Nation. I've been working on translating this text for at least five years. Les horizons du sol is by Michèle Métail, one of the few (if not the only) female members of Oulipo and was published by the cipM, a fantastic poetry center in France that is actually in danger of losing its space due to bureaucratic machinations. The text is a "history" (a term used extremely loosely) of the geological formation of Marseille, which is where the cipM is based, and written 48 characters to a line, 24 lines to a page, with accompanying illustrations.

To translate this text, I've had to discover equivalent geological terms in English, particularly in that many of the terms she uses are specific to the geology of Marseille. I've often thought I should probably have a geologist review my translation to make sure I've gotten all the terms right! My most reliable source has been an old French-English dictionary for chemists--it actually has contained definitions for many of the scientific terms that Métail uses. I then doublecheck the definitions in an English-only dictionary of geological terms. I've found the Larousse to be extremely stilted, and have found the Harrap's online much more useful.

The other challenge has been to preserve the form, and thereby the length of the original. English is a much more concise and compressed language than French, so I've often had to pad out my translation in order to achieve the 48/24 form. Also, Métail did not use any punctuation--the text is basically one long sentence with continuous geological "action," one thing (such as a mountain eroding into a valley) leading to another so I've had to try to fold in many, many "thats" linking sequences together without making the repetition too obvious.

The first page, the one published in The Nation, is the first completed page (with many more to go). I was only able to complete that page, plus page 2 and half of page 3, thanks to a mini-residency at the Lower Manhattan Cultural Council's Swing Space program, which had no Internet access, so I was literally forced to translate. My dad, Michel Durand, and Olivier Brossard have been my primary native speaker help on the project, letting me know when I've made grievous errors...

call for translations

Ren Powell in Norway asked me to post this on the blog:

The International Cities of Refuge Network has launched its new quarterly webzine at Icorn.
ICORN's work focuses on the importance of freedom of expression and our website has two functions
1) to encourage the establishment of new cities of refuge
2) to promote free speech through education and literary dialogue across cultures

Our first webzine issue features the work of award-winning novelist Chenjerai Hove, and the renowned philosopher Etienné Balibar.

We are inviting writers to submit essays on the subjects of
1) nationalism, identity, "the exile experience", patriotism and/or citizenship
2) cross-cultural literatures, translation, critical analysis of fiction and poetry with an eye on history or current events

We are also accepting submissions for our Babel Voices section: poetry, short stories or short creative non-fiction related to the focus of our zine. We are especially interested in work we can publish in two languages.

Please note that we have an international focus.

We are a not-for-profit organization and regret that we do not have funds to pay our contributors at this time. We hope that you will consider the electronic rights to your work as a donation for an important cause.

Please see our masthead for our submission guidelines. www.icorn.org/sections.php?var=12
If you would like more information about ICORN, our history, our Advisory Board etc. Please don't hesitate to contact Ren Powell, Co-editor: ren@icorn.org
Ren PowellICORN Editor and Information CoordinatorSølvberget KF, PB 310, 4002 Stavanger, Norwaytel. (47) 51 50 79 17 / mob. (47) 45 27 57 62ren@icorn.org / www.icorn.org

Noitalsnart is here!

Announcing the publication of:

Noitalsnart, a handsome and handmade production featuring translations of Jorges Luis Borges, Anna Akhmatova, George Seferis, Paul Celan, and Con Ed street markings, along with poems, notes, poet-to-poet translations, reading responses, "english as a second third fourth or...more language" works, ammonia, and phonetic diagrams by Phyllis Wat, Nina Karacosta, Lydia Cortes, Andres Clerici, Tony Hoffman, Stephanie Gray, Susana Maio, and Marcella Durand. (Special appearance by John Wayne.)

To get your copy, come to the Poetry Project at St. Mark's Church (2nd Ave. and 10th St.) on February 2nd at 9:30 pm, where participants in the Translate This! workshop will read.

30 copies

Hi everyone,

Don't forget to bring 30 copies of your poem or poems tomorrow night for Noitalsnart. And if anyone has a heavy-duty stapler, please bring it in too, as apparently the poproj office is lacking in one.

Andres asked for some names of journals that publish translations and bilingual poetries, so I thought I'd post my response here. While this is certainly not an encyclopedic list (and let's see if I can get blogger $#@! links to work), it may be a helpful starting point.

Circumference is a newish journal devoted to work in translation that I like. They print both the original language and the translation. Two Lines is another journal I've seen around. If you're interesting in publishing a book, Archipelago is a new book publisher devoted to works in translation. XCP used to publish works from languages other than English, but I'm not sure if they're still around. Mandorla is devoted to Spanish-language poetries, but I'm not sure if it's restricted to the Americas or not.

OK, Lydia sent another Borges translation, which I'm posting in both languages, intertwined, as she sent it to me:

El puñal

The Dagger


En un cajón hay un puñal.

In a drawer there is a dagger.

Fue forjado en Toledo, a fines del siglo pasado; Luis Melián Lafinur se lo dio a mi

It was forged in Toledo, toward the end of the last century; Luis Melián Lafinur told

padre, que lo trajo del Uruguay; Evaristo Carriego lo tuvo alguna vez en la mano.

my father, who brought if from Uruguay; Evaristo Carriego once held it in his hand.

Quienes lo ven tienen que jugar un rato con él; se advierte que hace mucho que lo

Those who see it must play for a while with it; be warned that for a long time it was

buscaban; la mano se apresura a apretar la empuñadura que la espera;

sought; the hand hurries to grasp the handle that awaits it;

la hoja obediente y poderosa juega con precisión en la vaina.

the obedient and powerful leaf plays in its pod with precision.



Otra cosa quiere el puñal.

The dagger wants something else.

Es más que una estructura hecha de metales; los hombres lo pensaron y lo formaron

It is more than a structure made of metals; men thought it up and fashioned it

para un fin muy preciso; es, de algún modo eterno, el puñal que anoche mató un

for a very precise end; it is, in a certain way eternal, the dagger that last night killed

hombre en Tacuarembó y los puñales que mataron a César. Quiere matar, quiere

a man in Tacuarembo and the daggers that killed Caesar. It wants to kill, wants

derramar brusca sangre.

to spill sudden blood.



En un cajón del escritorio, entre borradores y cartas, interminablemente sueña el

In a desk drawer, amongst erasers and letters, the dagger interminably dreams

puñal con su sencillo sueño de tigre, y la mano se anima cuando lo rige porque el

its simple tiger dream, and the hand cheers up when it grips it because the

metal se anima, el metal que presiente en cada contacto al homicida para quien lo

metal cheers up, the metal that presides in each contact with the murderer for whom

crearon los hombres.

men created it.



A veces me da lástima. Tanta dureza, tanta fe, tan apacible o inocente soberbia, y

Sometimes I feel pity. Such harshness, so much faith, such gentle or innocent arrogance, and

los años pasan, inútiles.

the years pass, useless.


--Lydia Cortes

Fastest Borges Ever

So this translation of Jorge Luis Borges's "Shinto" clocked in at six minutes, from 8:56 pm to 9:03 pm on January 4, 2007.

Shinto

When unhappiness hits us,
in a second we are saved
by the infamous adventures
of attention or memory:
the flavor of fruit,
the flavor of water,
that face that the dream returns to us,
the first jasmine of November,
the infinite yearning of the compass,
a book we believed lost,
the pulse of the hexameter,
the tiny key that opens a house,
the odor of a library or sandlewood,
the ancient name of a street,
the color of a map,
unexpected etymology,
the tip of a fingernail on a filing board,
the date we were looking for,
count the twelve dark bells,
abrupt physical pain.

Eight million are the divinities of Shinto
that travel to earth, secretly.
These modest entities touch us
and then leave us.

--Translated by Andres Clerici, Phyllis Wat, Nina Karacosta, Tony Hoffman, Stephanie Gray, and Marcella Durand.

Remember the Heads that Filled You

Remember the Heads that Filled You
(Akhmatova Joins Seferis)

I wake up with a marble head that loves three things
but I'm tired and don't know where to put this head
so I sing a song and drown out the peacocks
stick my elbows on his maps of America
fall into dream, like him. Fall out of dream, like me.
Marble head falls into the dream. Love/hate relations.
Tears well from the babies' eyes. Eyes open? Or closed?
His mouth loads up on rasberry jam. Speech gels.
Air equals hysteria. Cheeks jump out of skin.
My hands separate from their wrists, flap, flap.
This takes care of my good-byes. Leaves him.

--Phyllis Wat

American Cheek

He mapped three things inside the skin:
Severed evensong, old peacock eyes
bathed in raspberries, marble lives
joined by tears. She dreamed
the falling tea, a hysterical mouth,
the strength of women’s hands
and I, half-opened, approached me.

--Tony Hoffman