Poetry in translation/reading in other languages

Murphy

Murphy

cat malogen
The Spoils of Annwn

I will praise the Lord, the Sovereign, the King of the land,
who has extended his rule over the extent of the world.
Well equipped was the prison of Gwair in Caer Siddi (fort mound)
according to the story of Pwyll and Pryderi.
None before him went to it,
to the heavy blue chain and faithful servant whom it restrained,
and before the spoils of Annwn (unworld) sadly he sang.
And until Judgement Day our bardic song will last.
Three shiploads of Prydwen we went to it;
except for seven, none returned from Caer Siddi.

I am honored in praise, song is heard
In Caer Pedryfan - four-sided,
my eulogy, from the cauldron it was spoken.
By the breath of nine maidens it was kindled.
The cauldron of the Head of Annwn, what is its custom,
dark about its edge with pearl?
It does not boil a coward’s food; it had not been so destined.
The sword of Lluch Lleawg was raised to it,
and in the hand of Lleminawg it was left.
And before the door of the gate of hell, lanterns burned.
And when we went with Arthur, renowned conflict
except for seven, none returned from Caer Feddwid (fort of carousel/intoxication/rotating).

I am honored in praise, song will be heard.
In Caer Pedryfan (4-sided fort), island of the strong door,
noon and jet-black are mixed.
Bright wine their drink before their warband.
Three shiploads of Prydwen we went to the sea;
except for seven, non returned from Caer Rigor (fort of rigidity).

I, lord of learning, do not deserve lowly men.
Beyond Caer Wydr (fortress of glass) they had not seen Arthur’s valour.
Three score hundred men stood on the wall;
it was difficult to speak with their watchman.
Three shiploads of Prydwen we went with Arthur;
except for seven, none returned from Caer Goludd (fort of impediment).

I do not deserve lowly men, slack their defense.
They do not know what day…,
what hour of the midday God was born,
who is first cause.
They do not know the Speckled Ox, thick his headring,
seven score links in his collar.
And when we went with Arthur, disastrous visit,
except for seven, none returned from Caer Fanddwy (fort of peaks)

I do not deserve lowly men, slack their attack.
They do not know what day, what hour
of the midday the lord was born,
what animal they keep, silver its head.
When we went with Arthur, disastrous strife,
except for seven, none returned from Caer Ochren (angular fort).

Monks crowd together like a choir of whelps
from the battle of lords who will be known.
Is the wind of one path? Is the sea of one water?
Is fire, irresistible tumult, of one spark?

Monks crowd together like a pack of wolves
from the battle of lords who will be known.
They do not know when darkness and dawn separate
or the wind, what is its path, is its onrush,
what does it destroy, what land does it strike?
How many lost saints and how many others?

I will praise the Lord, the Great Prince.
May I not be sad, Christ will endow me.
 
Murphy

Murphy

cat malogen
various people/variants over the years so an excavation site in itself, three variants condensed on late late munch break

imagine trying to nail the performance in a gig where at least half the room are killers, others have been mutilated previously + loads of booze = tough crowd

intriguing piece, a raid on death? retrieving souls? Siddi is like a Neolithic burial chamber so a boat journey into death or the Boyne valley perhaps in Ireland, 3 prisoners of Britain + Gwydion/Gwair, Mabon/Maponos = child of the underworld (think Santeria has a similar deity, Coil’s I Am the Green Child comes to mind too)

you could spend aeons on its mortuary tones that still envelope today, and many have, the glass fort/tower in the sea features in Irish myth as an example too, more stark than bollocks praise poetry to noblemen
 
Murphy

Murphy

cat malogen
version

version

Well-known member
Verso are publishing a new Flowers of Evil translation next month.

getimage_9c9dd2a0-0de3-433d-8a67-2ff2cc2ba651.jpg
 
version

version

Well-known member
That Jaccottet bloke mentioned in the article seems interesting too:

Everything breaks, everything wrinkles, everything is defeated,
we are born to see a falling and a bleeding,
to call us foetal is to flatter us,
but I who crumble shall make the daylight reign.
—From  April   by Philippe Jaccottet, tr. by Michael Hamburger
 
woops

woops

is not like other people
Prynne's Kitchen Poems has been translated into French by a bloke called Bernard Dubourg who published some of his own poetry in the 70s. I've tracked some down and rendered it into an English approximation some of which I will now post in case any of you lot have any thoughts. Unlikely I know.

BLUE SONG

Blue reserve I with single file skin
Blue pirate II improvisatory glue
Steals my blue III fingerless seen once again

North owes the seal-bearing mule
you the note the same wing is there
South skip-smile glass between teeth

Rimbaud read it as clear wheel for the night roof
Haven't I read it mixing juice
For a quarter of a bell laughs at the assault of sound

Follow them to the game of art
Amber stupidity and split head
Then swears at them, too rude
And the ennui

Me mad and woman and blue flower I
The stiff squeezes me blue II
Pendulum-land blue III
Age 100
Smooth tip
 
Benny Bunter

Benny Bunter

Well-known member
woops said:
Prynne's Kitchen Poems has been translated into French by a bloke called Bernard Dubourg who published some of his own poetry in the 70s. I've tracked some down and rendered it into an English approximation some of which I will now post in case any of you lot have any thoughts. Unlikely I know.

BLUE SONG

Blue reserve I with single file skin
Blue pirate II improvisatory glue
Steals my blue III fingerless seen once again

North owes the seal-bearing mule
you the note the same wing is there
South skip-smile glass between teeth

Rimbaud read it as clear wheel for the night roof
Haven't I read it mixing juice
For a quarter of a bell laughs at the assault of sound

Follow them to the game of art
Amber stupidity and split head
Then swears at them, too rude
And the ennui

Me mad and woman and blue flower I
The stiff squeezes me blue II
Pendulum-land blue III
Age 100
Smooth tip
Click to expand...
I misread your post at first and thought this was you retranslating a French translation of a Prynne poem back into English again, which could be an interesting exercise I suppose.

As for the poem itself, I haven't got any interesting thoughts about it but I do like it.
 
woops

woops

is not like other people
Benny Bunter said:
t I do like it.
Click to expand...
in that case have another

That I have and the kiss is dancing
My sonata-form complexion
I have a cellar-void behind me

This spear encrusts and falls already
This moon or through spots slow motion
It purrs hello or nothing
It strims the with-space

But who tastes more than you do
But you alone and the summer grass
But as attempt or for the taking
But your hand near my v

Like very strong not one but two
Like which in-echo struggled
Like ice cream more moved than me you

Took me off like a belt

I have legs in the sky and I go
That doesn't restrain the senses
But unties my elbows
As am earth on ground suffer

Envoi:
My prince in beautiful and exhausted,
Your following days gnaw at me ;
Liquid comes back to me the dried up one,
In beautiful and exhausted, prince.
 
version

version

Well-known member
versh said:
20849
Click to expand...

I liked these two longer ones as well, although the translation seems iffy in places - "hanky-panky"?

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We hear Professor Salem Aleikum, the reporter still slavering over him: "the professor is lying on the porch of his house with his lute cradled in his arm singing the old ballads"— probably on an ottoman, with a carafe of ice water at his side, rejecting old hypotheses, putting out new ones— the…
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