translate a poem

is titled “Seclusion” by Shamlu (the link contains some translated pieces in different languages; for more information about him and his works, see this or this).

Look at the world,
in its indolent deep sleep,
foreign to itself;

And look at us,
wide awake,
conscious in our own grief.

Us, indignant and annoyed,
looking after our bitter pain;
despondently guarding our suffering
to keep it contained in the frame we have drawn around it.

And look at the world,
the world,
placid in its innocent sleep,
how foreign to itself.

The moon travels
along its cold orbit…
Us, left behind, lingering,
and the dawn never comes.

i have a poem in literature.
i have to translate a “meaning poem”.
This is the poem i need translated.

I felt a funeral in my brain,
And mourners, to and fro,
Kept treading, treading, till it seemed
That sense was breaking through.

And when they all were seated,
A service like a drum
Kept beating, beating, till I thought
My mind was going numb.

And then I heard them lift a box,
And creak across my soul
With those same boots of lead, again.
Then space began to toll

As all the heavens were a bell,
And Being but an ear,
And I and silence some strange race,
Wrecked, solitary, here.

—its by emily dickinson

need to make this a more consistent hobby of mine… another poem from Sohrab (He’s famous for the simplicity of his language, his love of nature, and his strong artistic side… occasionally criticized, on the other hand, for not being politically active enough _{which is true but irrelevant, IMO}).

“It’s time…
to close the book,
to walk along the line of time,
to watch the flower, to listen to the doubt.

It’s time to run through all the existence,
to follow the roots of mortality,
to reach the point where God and trees meet.

It’s time to settle and grow…
somewhere… part in selflessness, part in discovery.”

from Gheysar Aminpour (when we were in college, a couple of my friends took the literature course he offered, I didn’t, and now I wish I had done it too…)

“My pains
are not clothes
to be taken off,
are not poems and songs
to be put into words,
are not cries
to be screamed out.

My pains, unspeakable,
my suffering to be hidden within.

My pains, not like other people’s pains,
they are other people’s pains…

People whose wrinkles of their clothes,
people whose colors of their collars,
people whose names,
whose worn out identifications,
are in pain.

My pain is my whole existence,
my simple poetic moments…
...”

_{I’m not sure if “pain” carries the same concept as it does in the original form. It’s an emotional suffering but has something more in it, “awareness,” perhaps.}

done this in a while, but yesterday one of the great Persian contemporary poets, Gheysar Aminpour, suddenly passed away. I couldn’t find much of his work online, so here is a small piece until I find more:

“God created the village,
and man, the city,
but poets
created Utopia,
unimaginable even in dreams.”

What will we look for, what will we translate?

¿Quién me compra una naranja
para mi consolación?
Una naranja madura
en forma de corazón.
La sal del mar en los labios
¡ay de mí!
La sal del mar en las venas
y en los labios recogí.

Nadie me diera los suyos
para besar.
La blanda espiga de un beso
yo no la puedo segar.

Nadie pidiera mi sangre
para beber.
Yo mismo no sé si corre
o si de ja de correr.

Como se pierden las barcas
¡ay de mí!
como se pierden las nubes
y las barcas, me perdí.

Y pues nadie me lo pide,
ya no tengo corazón.
¿Quién me compra una naranja
para mi consolación?

¿Who’ll buy me an orange
to help me feel better?
A ripe orange
full like a letter.
Sea salt burns my lips
¡O Christ!
Sea salt in my veins
& on my lips, salt stained.

No one offered hers
to be kissed.
The soft wheat-flower of my kiss
lies withered in my cellar.

No one’s asked of me my blood
to imbibe.
Though I should know, I don’t
whether my blood runs thick
or rots clotted.

See how the ships disappear
off the radar
¡ay de mí!
See how these clouds vanish
& so too the ships,
just like me.

& so nobody seems to want me,
so slows this vacant heart.
¿Who then will buy me an orange
who will sweeten my tea?

is titled “Stranger,” by Fereydoon Moshiri:

“Hold my hand! The garden of your eyes
so full of flowers, takes me away

Eternal I am, when your kiss, like a swallow
opens the doors of heaven to me

My heart, though, the unresolved
feels stranger, even in heaven.”

Any suggestions/comments/thoughts?

I just wish I had picked different ones. Dolina and Charly Garcia are not for everybody. :) Maybe I’ll re-visit this goal and see if I can do something by Pablo Neruda…

Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente,
Y me oyes desde lejos y mi voz no te toca…

So tempting! :)

Who knows, Alice, this country
wasn’t made just because.
You’re going to leave, you’re going to quit,
but then you stay,
where else would you go?
And it’s that here, you know,
the tong-twister twists your tong,
the murderer murders you,
and it’s too much for you.
The game that made you happy is over.

Don’t ever tell others of what you saw in the gardens, the dream is over.
There are no more walruses or turtles.
A river of heads smashed by the same foot
play cricket under the moon.
We are in the land of nobody, but it’s mine.
The innocents are guilty, says the judge,
the king of spades.

Don’t ever tell others of what is behind that mirror,
you’ll have no power,
no lawyers, no witnesses.
Turn on the lanterns, that the sorcerers
are thinking of coming back
and bringing fog to our path.
We are in the land of everybody, and it’s mine.
Over the past, and over the future,
ruins over ruins,
dear Alice.

Who knows, Alice, this country
wasn’t made just because.
You’re going to leave, you’re going to quit,
but then you stay,
where else would you go?
And it’s that here, you know,
the tong-twister twists your tong,
the murderer murders you,
and it’s too much for me.
The game that made me happy is over.