Poetry Translation

Riddle 15

english translation

Riddle 15

original Anglo-Saxon poem

Riddle 15 — Anglo-Saxon Original

Hals is min hwit    ond heafod fealo,
sidan swa some.     Swift ic eom on feζe,
beadowΦpen bere.     Me on bΦce standaξ
her swylce swe on hleorum.     Hlifiaξ tu
earan ofer eagum.     Ordum ic steppe
in grene grΦs.     Me biξ gyrn witod,
gif mec onhΦle     an onfindeξ
wΦlgrim wiga,     ζΦr ic wic buge,
abold mid bearnum,     ond ic bide ζΦr
mid geoguξcnosle.    Hwonne gΦst cume
to durum minum,     him biζ deaξ witod;
forζon ic sceal of eξle     eaforan mine
forhtmod fergan,     fleame nergan.
Gif he me Φfterweard     ealles weorζeξ—
hine breost beraξ—     ic his bidan ne dear.
reζes on geruman—      (nele ζΦt rΦd teale)—
ac ic sceal fromlice     feζemundum
ζurh steapne beorg      strΦte wyrcan.
Eaζe ic mΦg freora     feorh genergan,
gif ic mΦgburge mot      mine gelΦdan

Translations from the Persian

Translations from the Persian 1

           for Turner and Suzanne

 

If that full moon were true and good,
how would that be?
And if he feared God as he should,
how would that be?

I’d like to stay with him a while -
If he decided that I could,
how would that be?

I long to kiss his lovely lips,
And if he said he thought I should,
how would that be?

Two Are Four

Two Are Four

          Original English Poem
          by Turner Cassity

Night without attribute,
To which you bring all elements in turn:
Air intermittent in your throat;
Earth errant in your heart.
Bright water where your wet lips part
For fire I bring you, even as you burn.

 


 

Translation Bake-Off: Submission Deadline almost here

This is a reminder to those who wish to participate in the Translation Bake-off as announced at the Distinguished Guest Forum that the deadline is almost here. Submit BEFORE THIS THURSDAY or lose your chance to participate!

Cheers,
...Alex

Translation Bake-Off: Clarification on the Call for Submissions

Some of you want to know if previously published translations are accepted for the translation bake-off as announced at, the Eratosphere Distinguished Guest Forum. The simple answer is, yes!

As with our recently concluded and highly successful sonnet bake-off, your translation may be unpublished or published (however, do not send translations published in anthologies or trade press books). You may also acknowledge the journal of initial publication.

Call for Translations submission for the Able Muse / Eratosphere TRANSLATION BAKE-OFF

The Able Muse / Eratosphere Annual Translation Bake-off is here. Our very own Eratosphere classicist, Dr. Chris Childers, has just kicked off the event with a call for submissions. Chris will be screening the material for the our Distinguished Guest for translataion and Final Judge, Rachel Hadas (see bio below). I'm appending Chris' announcement next for those interested in submitting and/or participating. -- Alex.

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The Sultan’s Crown

Harmony of Evening

original French poem


Harmonie du Soir

Voici venir les temps où vibrant sur sa tige
Chaque fleur s'évapore ainsi qu'un encensoir;
Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l'air du soir;
Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!

Chaque fleur s'évapore ainsi qu'un encensoir;
Le violon frémit comme un cœur qu'on afflige;
Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!
Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir.

Le violon frémit comme un cœur qu'on afflige,
Un cœur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir!
Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir;
Le soleil s'est noyé dans son sang qui se fige.

Un cœur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir,
Du passé lumineux recueille tout vestige!
Le soleil s'est noyé dans son sang qui se fige...
Ton souvenir en moi luit comme un ostensoir!

The Fallen Oak

original Italian poem


La Quercia Caduta

Dov’era l’ombra, or sé la quercia spande
morta, né più coi turbini tenzona.
La gente dice: Or vedo: era pur grande!

Pendono qua e là dalla corona
i nidietti della primavera.
Dice la gente: Or vedo: era pur buona!

Ognuno loda, ognuno taglia. A sera
ognuno col suo grave fascio va.
Nell’aria, un pianto… d’una capinera

che cerca il nido che non troverà.

(1900)

November

original Italian poem


Novembre

Gemmea l’aria, il sole cosí chiaro
che tu ricerchi gli albicocchi in fiore,
e del prunalbo l’odorino amaro
senti nel cuore.

Ma secco è il pruno, e le stecchite piante
di nere trame segnano il sereno,
e vuoto il cielo, e cavo al piè sonante
sembra il terreno.

Silenzio, intorno: solo, alle ventate,
odi lontano, da giardini ed orti,
di foglie un cader fragile. È l’estate,
fredda, dei morti.

(1891)

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