Poetry in translation

Is it possible to appreciate poetry in translation, without knowing/speaking the language of the poet? I am not sure. I recently discovered Pablo Neruda, a wonderful, sensuous poet who wrote in his native Spanish. From the anthology there was one poem I liked in particular, which goes as follows:

Quote:

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Walking Around

It happens that I am tired of being a man.
It happens that I go into the tailor's shops and the movies
all shrivelled up, impenetrable, like a felt swan
navigating on a water of origin and ash.

The smell of barber shops makes me sob out loud.
I want nothing but the repose either of stones or of wool,
I want to see no more establishments, no more gardens,
nor merchandise, nor glasses, nor elevators.

It happens that I am tired of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It happens that I am tired of being a man.

Just the same it would be delicious
to scare a notary with a cut lily
or knock a nun stone dead with one blow of an ear.
It would be beautiful
to go through the streets with a green knife
shouting until I died of cold...

---

(excerpt)

This poem is from a collection he wrote called Residence on Earth and it happens that I was lucky enough (not tired of being a man!) to find Residence on Earth in my local library. I brought it home and with excitement turned to the page on which Walking Around appears. I found this:

Quote:

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Walking Around

I happen to be tired of being a man.
I happen to enter tailorshops and moviehouses
withered, impenetrable, like a felt swan
navigating in a water of sources and ashes.

The smell of barbershops makes me wail.
I want only the respite of stones or of wool,
I want only not to see establishments or gardens,
or merchandise, or eyeglasses or elevators.

I happen to be tired of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
I happen to be tired of being a man.

Nevertheless it would be delightful
to startle a notary with a cut lily
or slay a nun with a blow to the ear.
It would be lovely
to go through the streets with a sexy knife
and shouting until I froze to death...

---

Broadly the same poem, but not the same poem. And I felt, well, a bit cheated really. The first version I find more lyrical, more sensitive, and some of the imagery is quite wonderful, but it does not appear so in the second version. So I wonder, what did Neruda intend? And is my love of his poetry a true love, or just the product of a sensitive translation?

So Lit-net tell me. Can you truly appreciate poetry in translation?

I have problems with it as well, which is why I approached the poetry book-club with caution. What I discovered, when writing about Montale, was that it is still possible to appreciate the ideas of a translated poem. But you're definitely cut off from the style and the rhythm, you can't comment on the choice of words, and that's really a pity.

What's nice is reading foreign poetry with someone to help you understand the original...

I agree, poetry translated loses something. Sometimes it loses a lot. Poetry requires the straining of a language to achieve effects, and the straining element doesn't follow from one language to another. Certainly one can see that when it comes to the sounds of a language.

But still reading Montale in translation is better than not reading. I'm really enjoying our Poetry bookclub choice. I encourage others to join. :)

This question seems to come up every couple of months or so. My opinion has never changed. I will be the first to admit that the original text is to be preferred on nearly all accounts. The reality is that this is not always a possibility. Unless we have not only the time to become fluent in a broad array of other languages (and to such an extent that the various colloquialisms and archaisms will be grasped) then we must either limit ourselves to reading literature of our native language (which I find an unacceptable alternative) or we must turn to translations. As Dante Gabriel Rossetti, a marvelous translator, stated in the introduction to his landmark translation, The Early Italian Poets:

"The lifeblood of... translation is this- that a good poem shall not be turned into a bad one. The only true motive for putting poetry into a fresh language must be to endow a fresh nation, as far as possible, with one more possession of beauty. Poetry not being an exact science, literality of rendering is altogether secondary to this chief end. I say literality- not fidelity, which is by no means the same thing."

Unquestionably something is lost in translation. If the translation is good, however, something is gained as well. Perhaps the best analogy that I can think of with regard to translation is that of transcription in music. A work of music is composed for a specific instrument. That instrument has a vocabulary... certain abilities and limitations. When that piece of music is transcribed for another instrument... or group of instruments there is something lost. At times even certain notes are changed in order to suite the vocabulary of the new instrument(s). If the translation is done well, hopefully the music survives largely intact. Hopefully if a translation is done well, the music of the poetry will also survive.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zd_oIFy1mxM

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L9reoUinXgA

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ECPK-jMncuc

Interestingly enough... the first version of Bach's Toccata and Fugue may be the most familiar, but there are a good number of musicologists who now suggest that the second version... for violin... was actually the "original".

Though I do not doubt that somethings are lost in translation, I feel that something can still be enjoyed and apperciated in translation. I have read translated works before, and I do not feel as if my enjoyment or apperication of it was harmed or ill-effected by the fact that it was translated.

Translations are necessities, and horrid at the same time. Of course, we can't read everything in the original, so we are forced to bear the butchery.

Though, apparently some things are said to be better in translation, such as Dostoevsky, though he isn't a poet, and I would argue the Bible, which is far better in the KJV than in Hebrew.

Well, I think it depends very much on the translators. There are good translations and bad ones. In the Neruda example I would agree with FifthElement that the first one sounds much more lyrical and it is much closer to the original. "Sucede" simply does not mean "I happen to", but "It happens", from time to time.
But of course, every translation changes the original. A translator has to make choices all the time: Do I keep the form, the rhyme and meter for example, or do I want to be true to each word and risk losing the sound qualities of the original. Which word brings out best the connotations the poet had in mind? Do speakers of the one language associate the same things with a word as those of the other language? A translation must be re-creation, as true to the original as possible, but it is always something new and one of many possible interpretations of what the poet intended.
For the reader of translated poetry the question of how close it is to the original cannot be answered, but often there are several versions and by comparing them one may come closer to understanding and in the best case find something that is of a similar beauty.

I have always had the same feeling with translations but as has been mentioned it is better to read in translation than not to read it at all. I think to if you are enjoying a poem or a work of any sort it is a good idea to read more than one translation if at all possible.

As stlukesguild mentioned, this is a regular topic here at Lit Net. He makes an interesting analogy with transcriptions in music; I once made an analogy to trying to reproduce an oil painting with watercolors. I guess the issues are probably pretty obvious to anyone who knows more than one language.

It might be interesting here to contribute another example of a poem that is very difficult to translate: Sappho 16.

1. Here's the version I posted to another thread:

Some folks say a squadron of horsemen -- others,
Th'infantry -- still others, a fleet of warships --
Is the greatest beauty in all the Earth; I
say, it's your true love.

Altogether easy it is to make this
Clear to all, for she who in beauty others
Far surpassed -- of Helen I speak -- her husband,
perfectly noble,

Left behind and went under sail to Troy, and
Neither gave her child nor her own dear parents
Any thought at all; but away she led her
...

...
...
... reminds me now of Anactoria,
she who is absent.

I would rather look on her ravishing stride
And the shining radiance of her face than
Chariots of Lydian make and marching
foot soldiers full-armed.


2. Here's a different translation, by Jim Powell:

Some say thronging cavalry, some say foot soldiers,
others call a fleet the most beautiful of
sights the dark earth offers, but I say it's what-
ever you love best.

And it's easy to make this understood by
everyone, for she who surpassed all human
kind in beauty, Helen, abandoning her
husband--that best of

men--went sailing off to the shores of Troy and
never spent a thought on her child or loving
parents: when the goddess seduced her wits and
left her to wander,

she forgot them all, she could not remember
anything but longing, and lightly straying
aside, lost her way. But that reminds me
now: Anactória,

she's not here, and I'd rather see her lovely
step, her sparkling glance and her face than gaze on
all the troops in Lydia in their chariots and
glittering armor.


3. Here's another translation, by Willis Barnstone:

Some say cavalry and others claim
infantry or a fleet of long oars
is the supreme sight on the black earth.
I say it is
the one you love. And easily proved.
Didn't Helen, who far surpassed all
mortals in beauty, desert the best
of men, her king,
and sail off to Troy and forget
her daughter and her dear parents? Merely
Aphrodite's gaze made her readily bend
and led her far
from her path. These tales remind me now
of Anaktoria who isn't here,
yet I
for one
would rather see her warm supple step
and the sparkle in her face than watch all
the chariots in Lydia and foot soldiers armored
in glittering bronze.


4. Finally, here's a translation by Denys Page:

Some say a host of horsemen, others of infantry, and others
of ships, is the most beautiful thing on the dark earth:
but I say, it is what you love.

Full easy it is to make this understood of one and all: for
she that far surpassed all mortals in beauty, Helen, her
most noble husband

Deserted, and went sailing to Troy, with never a thought for
her daughter and dear parents. The [Cyprian goddess] led
her from the path ...

... [Which] now has put me in mind of Anactoria far away;

Her lovely way of walking, and the bright radiance of her
changing face, would I rather see than your Lydian
chariots and infantry full-armed.




The first two translations try to preserve Sappho's meter. The third translation (Barnstone) does not follow Sappho's form, but is still in verse. The last translation (Page) is basically in prose. Not surprisingly, Page's translation is the most accurate in terms of literal meaning (with a few peculiarities to reinforce the points he was making in his commentary, from which I took the translation). As English verse, I'd say Barnstone's is probably the nicest (I wonder if other people here agree?), but it also takes the most liberties with the literal meaning.

Anyways, I just thought I'd add another comparison that others might find interesting (yes, and I'm also trying to get people interested in Sappho :) ).

you certainly cannot render something into another language without losing something of the meaning or the beauty of the sound of the original, but do not try to find what was the intention of the poet; poetry has to do with feelings that arise by reading something. and we don't all feel the same thing, do we? each one of us will come up with a different apprehension of a poem, depending on our idiosyncracy and many more things. do not focus on neruda's intentions. focus on what you feel. you do not necessarily have to understand his feelings and share them, feel sorry for him etc., but understand your own feelings when you read his poems. the point is to feel pleased, relieved, understood. what you need, is to feel that the poet has written the poem in accordance to your feelings, like he has written it especially for you.as something that reflects your inner world. focus on what you have in front of you, not on what its original version looks like.we should enjoy poetry and not feel anxious about understanding each and every word. your love is for what you feel when reading his poetry.of what it can make you imagine. nothing more, nothing less.

I don't know if the pleasure of reading poetry is the same for everyone. I very rarely read poetry lightly, just for the sounds of the words. On the contrary, the poems I most enjoy reading aloud again and again are those that I've studied in depth.

And when I read a poem, I want to understand everything - how every single word is connected to the others, what they mean, why they could have been chosen (and I use "could have" because I am aware that there can be myriad interpretations). I can't do that with a translated poem; except if I take the time to go and look up the translation of every single word that catches my attention (and even then, dictionaries won't help you grasp everything). I like exhaustive studies and can spend months studying a single poem (or passage from a novel for that matter). And at the end I want a coherent interpretation, one that will link up all my ideas/intuitions/emotions/interpretations.

My feelings don't really interest me - or then I want to understand just how they were aroused.

I write poetry in English and translate poetry from and into French and German.

Beyond doubt, the basic reason for translation is to render the original work in a language that can be understood by others although there are subsidiary reasons, also: love of words, for example; intellectual exercise; or attaining a deeper understanding for oneself. Translation is not an exact science, however, although a firm rule is to observe line count and verse breaks.

Rarely can one translate every nuance, rhyme or syllable. To some greater or lesser extent a compromise must be achieved that faithfully renders the work to the reader. The compromise is often a choice whether to retain the rhyme scheme, almost always involving a distortion of the original meaning (the test would be to translate the result back into the original language), or to reproduce the text faithfully in the target language (or any combination). Whatever compromise there may be, complete faithfulness to the message is a pre-requisite even if weakened when one assumes the necessity to reproduce the rhyme.

Foreign readers must be confident that they are, as nearly as possible, reading the poets text. I, therefore, favour faithfulness to the text in order to maintain loyalty to the poets expression; but I am aware that the omission of rhyme thereby entailed often detracts from the persuasiveness or appeal of the original text. Nonetheless, I think a faithful rendering of the text is better appreciated by the reader.

I dislike translations that distort the text in order to conform to a translator's ego; and I hesitate to misrepresent the poets skill by choice of an inapposite word that could disturb the meaning or, even worse, claim for the translator a skill superior to that exercised by the poet in the original poem. It is often not possible to achieve a faithful word for word translation, however, owing to lack of an equivalent word or grammatical correctness.

There is also the difficulty of coping with feet (syllable/ metre count). Eg. consider the German text, "Die schöne Frau" (4 syllables). This is literally "The beautiful woman" (6 syllables). Depending upon context, this could be "such a beauty" (4 syllables) but I dislike the distortion.

"Im wunderschönen Monat Mai" (8 syllables) is literally "In the wonderfully beautiful month of May" (12 syllables). "In the beautiful month of May" (8 syllables) is probably acceptable.

This difficulty is particularly apparent when translating texts for singing. Not my task, fortunately, but numerous songs and whole operas have been translated.

I do not embellish an obscure text in order more easily to convey meaning to the foreign reader. Some poems are so densely written that even native speakers have difficulty at first reading (Eg Shelley's Ode to the West Wind) but under no circumstances would I simplify it for translation. Shakespeare's sonnets are often difficult for foreign readers (and sometimes native language readers) to understand but I would not resort to a modernism to interpret him.

Poetry in translation: Stlukesguild has made the worthwhile points; and avoiding "foreign" poetry is not an option. If all translators had the ability of Stephen Mitchell (translator of Rilke and others) then the finished product can be equal to the original and occaisonally even better when the vocabulary of English allows such stunning achievements. The vast majority of translations must loose something; once in a while a complete literal translation can be the vehicle of choice.

I agree with stlukesguild comparison with music. I too believe that things are lost while others gained, but only when a translation is made with enough dedication and concern for transmitting the true message intended by the original work.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by maraki16

... do not try to find what was the intention of the poet; poetry has to do with feelings that arise by reading something. and we don't all feel the same thing, do we? each one of us will come up with a different apprehension of a poem, depending on our idiosyncracy and many more things. do not focus on neruda's intentions. focus on what you feel. you do not necessarily have to understand his feelings and share them, feel sorry for him etc., but understand your own feelings when you read his poems.

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But the poet, surely, is trying to communicate *his* experience. So his intention, and experience, is of central importance. If he is successful, we will feel the same thing, within an acceptable range of experience.

Take the first stanza of Neruda's poem. I think he elucidates wonderfully well the experience we get when walking into the trashy establishments of modern cities. Don't you? Was he probably trying to communicate this experience? Don't you think this was his intention? Why wouldn't you think this was his intention? It seems perverse just to imagine this poem appeared from nowhere and gives us an experience that might not be felt by anyone else. It's seems far truer to imagine it generates a shared experience, a communication.

Also if the translator is thinking in this way, and he has talent, he may (surely) be able to convey the experience. So you can certainly appreciate poems in good translations. Who knows, if the translator is a greater poet than the original, and has had a more powerful version of the same experience, then the translation might be better than the original. But if he's that good he'll probably make it somewhat original - think Shakespeare who often "translated" the work of other writers. (Using the sense of "translation" very broadly...)