Traduttore traditore by Germain Droogenbroodt

(Poetry and Translation)

by Germain DROOGENBROODT

(Belgium-Spain)

Traduttore traditore...although this old Italian saying might sound beautiful into your ears, it means a translator is a traitor. But before we criticize the poor translator, let’s first see what translating, especially translation of poetry means. According to Wikipedia, translation is the communication of the meaning of a source-language text by means of an equivalent target-language. As far as poetry is concerned, the Old Lady Britannica describes translation as the act or process of rendering what is expressed in one language by means of another language. As to poetry, I indeed would rather use the verb rendering instead of translation. The original Latin traducere, means to pass from one to another place. According to the Diccionario de la Lengua Española, it is to express in one language what has been written or expressed before in another BUT the Spanish word traducir means also to change, to interpret. As far as texts in prose are concerned which generally clearly explain the action or the idea, there is less risk in misinterpretation. The translator can “explain” what the original text means, including using synonyms. But although many a time the poetry translator – especially in hermetic verses – is obliged to interpret, the risk of misinterpretation in poetry is much more frequent than in prose. In fact, many poets are masters of their language and sometimes play with it, forge the words into verses, use neologisms, out of use or foreign words, forcing the translator to reinvent words – because sometimes he will not find the only, the correct poetic word in his dictionaries, he will have to become a poet himself, not only a renderer but also a creator or inventor of words.

The German language is usually very precise and rather than a few lines, the Brockhaus Lexikon gives more information on the art of translation. The encyclopaedia pretends that, when the language and the contents form a unity (which is generally the case in poetry), a translation of poetry can be but an utmost effort to approach as close as possible the original. In most languages one does not use a different word for translation of a text or translation of poetry, however in German they do make a difference. Translating is übersetzen, or übertragen, while translating poetry is nachdichten. The first verbs could be translated by setting or carrying from one place to another. The verb nachdichtencontains the word dichten, meaningwriting poetry and nach could be translated by according to. In fact, translating poetry is recreating the original verses in the other language.

Poetry and its translations a worldwide cultural bridge between humans

The famous Spanish poet Antonio Machado wrote: Wanderer, there is no road; one makes the road while walking. And what are poets and translators, if not wanderers between different cultures. In fact they do not even need to travel, because both of them have been and continue to be attentive readers, spiritual travellers with nothing in their luggage, but their intellectual and sensitive experience and words.

According to the Swiss poet Philippe Jaccottet, poems are small lanterns in which still burns the reflection of light. And indeed, poetry is the lantern with which the poet searches for more light, for illumination and if he doesn’t find it in his own culture, he will cross borders and look for it in other cultures where he will meet other wanderers, other poets, looking for something more than the already known. It are those spiritual encounters which turn into an amalgam of new ideas, into new poems. Because the poem is not created from nothing, it is a creation of words with ideas, colliding as stars and it are the sparks of that collision, their lighting, which turns into verses, into poems.

As pretends the argentine poet Hugo Mújica in one of his verses, what the blind with his cane searches for is not the road, but the light. That is precisely what the poet searches for with his poem: a new reality, illumination, light, crossing borders, discovering other cultures, other philosophies.

But poetry is not only for the poet or for his translator a way to discover something new, it is also a bridge between cultures for the reader. Once written the poem liberates itself from its creator and starts flying as a migratory bird, crossing borders, countries, continents and cultures. It enters houses, rooms, including the most intimate. It talks about misfortunes, about calamities, about death, but also about hope, about love and courage about humans and humanity. The poem is a mirror, a reflection of the visible, sometimes even of the invisible, the mystical. Unfortunately, especially in the Western consumer society, becoming more egoistic and less human, where fundamental values are decaying day by day, poetry too has lost its importance because it has no economic value. Till this day, it has been able to escape the dictatorship of the consumption, because it has no mercantile value. However, it therefore has disappeared from the media, in newspapers and in weekly magazines. Only when there is no more remedy, in moments of despair, or when death knocks at the door, one remembers the solace of a prayer, or a poem. The poem is like a firefly, which also is becoming extinct, so tiny and fragile, but lighting, even in the darkest night. In these modern times of disinformation by the media, owned and manipulated by multinationals or political ideologies, neither the literary critics are objective, as their books are printed by publishers whose publications they cannot criticise. And the TV? Its programmes are enslaved by the ratings, by the bad taste of the masses, broadcasting “reality shows” which are not realities, but fake stories. Not even the news programmes offers the reality, but selected images, day by day more bloody, more shocking. They do not want to inform, but to keep the spectator as a client, a consumer, as in Roman times: Panem et circenses.

Although poetry cannot change the world, it used to be obstacle and can warn, criticize, resist when humanity is threatened: Do not sleep while the vindicators of the world are busy, warned the German poet Günter Eich, be suspicious against their power which they pretend to acquire for you! Take care that your hearts are not empty, when they count with their emptiness! Do what is useless; sing the songs they do not expect from one’s mouth! Be sand, not oil, in the driving gear of the world.

Especially in Latin-America a large number of poets wrote critical, revolting poetry. Although not of mass destruction, the word is a weapon. Dictators know it. As soon as they have grasped power they grasp the writers, imprison, or intimidate them. Till today, poets have been writing about humans, about there misfortunes and their glories. Poetry is a mirror in which human life is reflected in all its facets: it’s ugliness but also it’s beauty, its greatness. As in Homer’s Odyssey poetry speaks about death but also about human courage, about love, about hope, about the gods, the universe. Poetry writes about what we, humans, about greatness and about mischief. So did Maulana Rumi, the Persian poet born in Afghanistan, so reported Paul Celan with his dramatic Fugue of Death about the murdering of Jews by the Nazis, so questioned the Bosnian poet Izet Sarajlic if – after the atrocities committed in ex Yugoslavia, his former friends were still his friends, so reported Juan Gelman in Argentina about the disappeared, so wrote the Palestinian Mahmud Darwish about the hopes and the misery of his people …

As far as human memory reaches, the poet has been and continues to be a chronicler,
a wanderer between cultures. The word is his vehicle, the poem his tool to bridge cultures.

Traduttore traditore? Problems of Translation

Poets, whose language is as marginal as Dutch, the language of the Flemish population of Belgium, have nearly no chance to get international recognition.

Who of you knows Guido Gezelle, the best poet we ever had in Flanders, the part of Belgium where I was born? But even poets belonging to far larger language communities encounter similar problems. It is, as if in India, after Rabindranath Tagore, not more poetry has been written, that South-America gave birth but to Neruda and Borges, that in Spain poetry has been killed with Lorca. It is for that reason and for the sake of a better understanding between the poets, the people of other cultures and other races that I set up in 1984 POINT Editions, POetry INTernational, translating and publishing international poetry. Our first publication, meant as an international name card, contained poetry from all continents. I lent the title of the book from a poem written by the Korean poet Yu Chi-hwan, called "Waves, what shall I do?” a perfect title for starting such a risky and – according to Robert Frost – impossible enterprise, because that American poet-translator pretends, that poetry is what get’s lost in translation. Unfortunately, it often happens. The English translation of the short Korean poem I had borrowed the title from for our first publication was as follows, I quote:

LONGING

What shall I do, waves?
Waves, what shall I do?
Love is unmoved like the shore.
What shall I do, waves?
What shall I do?

Using this version, I translated the poem into Dutch, respecting its music, its soft swell of the waves. Years later visiting Korea again, I found another translation of that poem which doesn't at all contain the music, the soft movement of the waves, coming back again and again, which I found in the first translation. I recite that translation which proves that, unfortunately, many a time Robert Frost is right.

WAVES

Waves, what am I to do?
Waves, what am I to do?
My love is as implacable as the shore.
Waves, what am I to do?
Tell me, what am I to do?

As you noticed, the meaning is the same, but the second translator spoiled the poem completely. The result of a translated poem should not sound like a translation, but again, like a poem. Respecting of course - and that too is where a number of translators fail - the spirit and IF possible, part of the sound of the original work should be conserved as much as the poem allows.

Another must, I think, is that the translator should know very well the cultural and sometimes, even the political background of the country he translates poetry from. The best and easiest way of course is to talk to the poet himself, which can avoid misinterpretations. This, however, contains the risk that the original poet gets influenced by the translating poet. Such quite embarrassing situations occurred to me several times. Once, not being able to translate from the original myself and in order to bring my preliminary translations as close as possible to the original, I had a pleasant meeting with a number of poets in a teahouse in Taipei. I had already made some drastic corrections to my first translation, when we finally came to the last poem. The English translation appeared to me as pretty poor work, so I put questions again and again, to get the original meaning, to reproduce in my language again a good poem. But it did not work, the translation just did not sound well. Finally, one of the elder poets, a bit irritated exclaimed: "But what do you want? The original is as bad!". So, the poet changed his poem according to the translation and all were happy, the poet, because he had a better poem and the translator, because he had a beautiful and moreover, an honest and correct translation.

Of course, unless the translator co-operates with another translator-native speaker, he should not only master his own language very well, but also the one he translates from. A dictionary can be as useful as misleading.

In Spanish e.g. the verb esperar means as well to wait as to hope. In similar cases, the translator should be very attentive and find out from the context whether the poet means to wait or to hope. One perfectly can translate "Espero que me esperes" with "I hope that you wait for me", but it would sound really desperate if you would translate it by "I wait that you hope for me." I recently read a poem from Juan Molla and it’s translation. The translator had translated the verse "De pronto, tienes prisa. Ya los trenes no esperan." by "Suddenly you are pressed for time.
The trains don’t hope" In this case, it is obvious that this translation should have been "the trains don't wait" rather than "The trains don't hope". If one wants to find out how hilarious translations can be, just try to translate a poem using Google or any other internet translating programme.

The German poet Reiner Kunze described in one of his usually short and precise poems, entitled “Nachdichten”, (translating poetry) how careful the translator should be. I quote: “To weigh with the gold scales/but not to refrain the heart//to follow the poet, even there where the verse veils itself in darkness//to risk for him your head”.

Translating poetry is one of the most ungrateful jobs: the translator gets either no or just a very modest remuneration and every word he writes, can be used to criticise him, because he never can reproduce completely the original. All the time, he finds himself between hammer and anvil, between the no-poem, the literal translation on one hand and the new poem on the other hand. If the result is bad, he will be criticised. If the result is good, it generally will be unnoticed. A good translator is a like a handicapped painter: he hasn't the same paint, but he is expected to reproduce the original.

In fact, not even the original poet is able to "reproduce" exactly his own poem in another language, because each language has its own colour, its own music, including the original alliterations.

The official language of Flemish is Dutch, which is, according to the Germans, eine Kehlkrankheit, a throat disease. However, not only do Flemish – alike other nations – generally speak there own dialect, even the “official “ language is pronounced much softer than the Dutch.

Being a poet I would like to conclude this oratio pro domo with two short poems of mine of which I would like to read first the English translation, so that you can understand the contents, folowed by the original version in Flemish just to prove that – fortunately - poetry not always gets lost in translation, but that the sound of the original language cannot not be translated. I wrote that poem long ago at Lake Como in Italy. Alongside the lake are a number of small villages, all of them with a church. On Sunday morning, the tower bells call for the worshippers. The sound of the bells reminded me the sound of the tower bell of .my hometown.

Reminiscences

Out of countless tower-mouths
the bell’s chorus pours as magic
its bronze over the golden mountains

twisting, it ascends the mountain sides
fans out, fire-work like
becomes velvet-sound and errs
as early autumn snow
above the mirror of the lake

melts together
with a handful of yellowed pictures:

the village
the grey shale tower
the bells of olden days.

Reminiscenties aan mijn dorp

Uit tal van torenmonden

stort als tover

het klokkenkoor haar brons

over de gouden bergen uit

slingert langs de flanken omhoog

en waaiert als vuurwerk open

wordt klankfluweel en dwaalt

als vroege najaarssneeuw

boven de spiegel van het meer

versmelt

met wat vergeelde beelden:

het dorp

de grijze schalietoren

het brons der klokken van weleer

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Traduttore traditore by Germain Droogenbroodt