All posts tagged: Translations

‘modern art’ and other poems by Anamaría Crowe Serrano

the stress clinic it’s ok no one need know only negligible impending threat i’m going to leave you let healing happen i’m turning left into the coffee shop it’s easy like this one step one more comforting to sit even on seats slashed by spooks i can wait learn patience is learnt on the edge other worlds where others wait for the breath something that “presents” a hiatus between one distress and the nest you’re reluctant to leave it’s ok the world is out there still the density you love suspended in space preparing the next problem for you to solve you’re good at that talented are you ok? me too it’s just the acid sprung on a tensile in my stomach at ulica Freta, 16 – before radium or polonium the wood seeps into your bones in a room that lives as if its grain & whorls were part of your nervous system – smooth marrow – polished in your tea one lump, two meticulous the molecules contract till they disappear optical illusions have …

Ingeborg Bachmann’s Poetry in translation by Mary O’Donnell

VERILY    For Anna Achmatova   He who has never been rendered speechless, I’m telling you, whoever merely feathers his own nest and with words –   is beyond help. Not by the shortcut nor by way of the long.   To make a single sentence tenable, to withstand the ding-dong of language.   Nobody writes this sentence, without signing up.   Verily is © Ingeborg Bachmann, this translation is © Mary O’Donnell   NIGHT FLIGHT   Our land is the sky, tilled by the sweat of engines, in the face of night, risking dreams—    dreamt from skullspots and pyres, beneath the roof of the world, whose tiles were carried off by the wind—and then rain, rain, rain in our house and in the mills the blind flights of bats. Who lived there? Whose hands were pure? Who lit the night, haunted the spectres?   Concealed in feathers of steel, instruments, timers and dials interrogate space, the cloud-bushes, touch the body of our hearts’ forgotten language: short long long … For an hour hailstones beat on the …

‘Geasa’ le Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill.

  Má chuirim aon lámh ar an dtearmann beannaithe, má thógaim droichead thar an abhainn, gach a mbíonn tógtha isló ages na ceardaithe bíonn sé leagtha ar maidin romham.   Tagann  aníos an abhainn istoíche bád is bean ina seasamh  inti. Tá coinneal ar lasadh ina súil is ina lámha. Tá dhá mhaide rámha  aici.   Tairrigíonn sí amach paca cartaí, ‘An imréofá brieth?’  a deireann sí. Imrímid is buann sí orm de shíor is cuireann sí de cheist, de bhreith is de mhórualach orm   Gan an tarna béile a ithe in aon tigh, ná an tarna oíche a chaitheamh faoi aon díon, gan dhá shraic chodlata a dhéanamh ar aon leaba go bhfaighead í.  Nuair a fhiafraím di cá mbíonn sí,   ‘Dá mba siar é soir, ‘ a deireann sí, ‘dá mba soir é sior.’ Imíonn sí léi agus splancacha tintrí léi is fágtar ansan mé ar an bport. Tá an dá choinneal fós ar lasadh le mo thaobh.   D’fhág sí na maidi rámha agam. Geasa le Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill,  as Pharaoh’s …

Rendevous , by Elisaveta Bagyrana.

I discovered your footprints in the sand and to get there sooner I ran legs sinking at the knees, and fell from exhaustion, and when I climbed the hill – in astonishment I was calling, as if I’d seen you for the first time on that unforgettable evening.   You filled the entire horizon, for then you seemed enormous, with hair in the clouds,  feet on the shore. And you saw me and reached for me – as if you sought to embrace the universe – everything …   Listen to my heartbeat, see the tears in my eyes and remember – no  one has ever embraced me like this, nor have I embraced anyone ever- like this.   And if at this moment my joy lowers the scales and God wants to shorten the thread of my days, I shall extend my arm to Him asking for supreme grace.    1927, Elisaveta Bagranya,  Trans  Belin Tonchev. from Elisvatea Bagyrana , Penelope Of the Twentieth Century. Publ. Forest Books 1993.

Máthair Chréafóige, by Helen Soraghan Dwyer.

Earth Mother for Firoana.   The plains of Romania Under thirty degrees of heat Stretch to the poplar trees At the edge of the earth.   A weathered peasant lady Offers me water, Her toothless smile Mothers me As I rest in the shade.   She is a daughter of this soil, Of sun and sweat and toil. I am from a city She will never visit.   As I return her smile And sip her water She is every woman’s mother, I am every woman’s daughter.   from Still, by Helen Soraghan Dwyer. Máthair Chréafóige   do Firoana   Machairí na Rómáine I mbrothall an lae Síneann go poibleoga bhána Ar imeall an domhain.   Bean chríonna tuaithe A thairgeann deoch dom, Miongháire mantach Dom mhúirniú Istigh faoin bhfothain.   Iníon chréafóige í, Iníon allais is gréine. Ón gcathair nach bhfeicfir choíche Is ea do thángas.   Aoibh ormsa leis Ag ól uisce, Iníon cách mise, Máthair cách í siúd.   as Faire, le Helen Soraghan Dwyer. Lapwing Publications, Belfast 2010.   Note about …