ZKV 117 (timbre)

 ZKV 117 (timbre)

 

At a concert given in a local church last year, Michala Petri, an international icon among recorder players, included in her programme her own transcription of a Bach cello suite for treble recorder. And she preceded her performance by explaining what was so different about playing the cello suites on her instrument. Her remarks reminded me strongly of what happens when I translate poetry from one language into another and am asked about my priorities. After the usual discussions about form and content, denotation and connotation, rhyme, accent, prosody (the way the poem breathes), a question sometimes asked is: Why does the translation, no matter how good, always feel different? And the answer seems to have a lot to do with the sound picture of a poem in two different languages. An example:

 

 

Clearly, the cello and the recorder produce very different sounds. But Michala Petri asked us to pursue the subject more closely. The pitch of the treble recorder is much higher than that of the cello. The range of the cello is larger than that of the recorder. This means that it may be necessary to transpose the original key to another one, and to change the pitch of certain phrases if the notes lie outside what the recorder can produce. But that is only part of the difference. The cello is a string instrument – the sounds produced are produced by causing strings to vibrate with a bow. The recorder produces sounds by air being blown through a mouthpiece. The upper register of the recorder is produced by pinching the hole at the back of the recorder and increasing the intensity of the blowing. The cellist can modify sounds produced in volume by increased pressure on the strings, and modify the nature of any sound by moving the bow closer to the bridge. Fingers too can slide during the playing of a single note to produce a glissando. A cello can play more strings than one at the same time, whereas a recorder can only produce one note at a time. All these differences lead to a different timbre  the unique quality or colour of the sound, even when the same note is being played with the same loudness. And this explains why the music, despite all the notes being identical, feels so different when played on to musical instruments that differ in the way sound is produced. It is also why a Danish poem will ‘sound odd’ when translated into English, no matter how good the translation is. And the more the two languages differ, the greater the shift in timbre is going to be; just think of the cello suites played on a tenor saxophone, a bassoon – or a xylophone. 

 

Translated poems from French

 French

Translated poems from German

German 

Translated poems from Norwegian

Norwegian

Translated poems from Dutch

Dutch

Translated poems from Swedish

Swedish

Translated poems from Danish

Danish

INDEXES

 

I have done a complete overhaul of indexes. The index for all entries is still in the same position as before, but I have used different colours to indicate which language is being translated from into English. Danish (red), French (violet), German (green), Swedish (light blue), Norwegian (dark blue), Dutch (orange) other languages (mauve).

Elmer Diktonius (1896-1961): 'Hunger i London'

 

HUNGER I LONDON

 

I

 

Var skall jag sova i natt?

Bobbyn jagar från bänken —

han menar ej illa säger han

men han har sin lön.

Jag menar ej heller illa

men jag har ingen lön

och vet ej

var jag skall sova i natt

 

*

 

II

 

Tidigt på morgonen

gick jag ut.

Tidigt på morgonen

lekte rännstensungar vid Hammersmith

i en murken pråm.

Längs Thames stränder

gick jag

tuggande pilblad

till Kew Gardens — trött var jag

när jag kom tillbaka

tuggande pilblad.

Herregud vad det är långt

från den hungriges morgon

till den hungrandes kväll.

 

*

 

III

 

Skinn lyser

genom sidenstrumpors maskor

i solskenet.

Jag vill bita i flickfötter

där vadmuskeln börjar

sin svällning.

Jag är hungrig efter kött

och kvinnokött.

 

*

 

IV

 

Hon är ung och vacker

talar många språk

har svällande delar

som nog fordrar sin man —

jag träffar henne emellanåt

i Hyde Park

när jag har litet pengar

och kan vara herre —

vi talar om livet

och jag försöker få henne att förstå

de hungrandes filosofi —

men hon är ung och vacker

och hennes farbror har målat en kejsare

och hon vet att hon engång skall sälja sig

för högt pris —

hon tycker jag är underlig

men förlåter mig

ty jag är konstnär.

 

*

 

V

 

Det vore gott för alla

att gå på gatan hungrande.

Att tänka: vore jag kvinna

att jag kunde sälja min kropp,

att föra sitt sista till pantlånaren

anande: det går ej det går ej.

Rännstenen har en filosofi

klarare än Kants och Jesuskristus’,

en kärlek — till brödet,

ett kategoriskt imperativ — magen.

 

 

HUNGER IN LONDON

 

I

 

Where am I to sleep tonight?

The bobby chases me from the bench –

No offence, he says

he’s his wages to consider.

I mean no offence either

but have no wages

and do not know

where I am to sleep tonight

 

*

 

II

 

Early in the morning

I went out for a walk.

Early in the morning

the gutter kids were playing near Hammersmith

in a rotting old barge.

Along the banks of the Thames

I walked

chewing on arrowhead

to Kew Gardens – was real tired

when I got back

chewing on arrowhead.

Good God what a time it takes

from the hungry man’s morning

to the hungry man’s evening.

 

*

 

III

 

Skin gleams

through the mesh of silk stockings

in the sunshine.

I want to bite into female feet

where the calf muscle starts

its bulging.

I am hungry for flesh

and woman’s flesh.

 

*

 

IV

 

She is young and pretty

speaks many languages

has swelling curves

that call for a real man –

I meet her from time to time

in Hyde Park

when I’ve a little money

and can be master –

we talk about life

and I try to make her understand

the hungry man’s philosophy –

but she is young and pretty

and her uncle has painted an emperor

and she know that one day she will

sell herself for a high price –

she thinks I am odd

but forgives me

since I’m an artist.

 

*

 

V

 

It would be a good idea for

everyone to walk the streets hungry.

To think: if I was a woman

I could sell my body,

to take the last one has to the pawnshop

vaguely aware: it’s no go, no go.

The gutter has a philosophy

that’s clearer than Kant’s and Christ’s

a love – of bread

a categorical imperative – the breadbasket.

 

Rabbe Enckell (1903-74): 'Havet ältar sina minnen'

 

Havet ältar sina minnen

 

Havet ältar sina minnen,

tills de blir glattslipade:

och ändå betyder de så litet.

Ty havet självt är ett enda

stort minne

ett enda stort nu.

Därför: avkräv frasen

det fullkomliga lövets sammetsmjuka glans,

eller tvinga den att forma sig till en klippas knäskål!

Hur lyckligt ingenting minnas,

ingenting! Och dock vara ett vittnesbörd

om något gånget – ett vittnesbörd i ansiktets

djärva linje, i handens frigjordhet,

i munnens slutenhet – ett vittnesbörd i rösten.

Och vad du säger är likgiltigt

som de krossade äggskalen i ett övergivet näste.

 

 

The sea kneads its memories

 

The sea kneads its memories

until they are smoothly polished:

and yet they mean so little.

For the sea itself is a single

great memory

a single great now.

Therefore: demand from the phrase

the velvet-soft lustre of the perfect leaf,

or force it to form itself into a rock’s patella!

How fortunate to remember nothing,

nothing! And yet to be a testimony

of something bygone – a testimony in the bold line

of the face, the emancipation of the hand,

the reserve of the mouth – a testimony in the voice.

And what you say is of no consequence

like the crushed egg-shells of an abandoned nest.