Forgotten (Vol. 7 No. 2) by Trinity Journal of Literary Translation

JOURNAL OF LITERARY TRANSLATION

VOLUME 7, ISSUE 2

EDITORIAL Here is something to think about. We consider Homer to be the beginning of Western literature, but it is clear that Homer was in fact at the end of a long literary tradition, now totally obscured to us. We have no idea when the Iliad or the Odyssey were written, no clue who it really was that wrote them, and no information from whatever society they lived in except what we can learn from a few pots and weapons. That was the fate of one of the greatest poets ever: what hope is there for the rest of us? We know of course that no one lives forever, but we ourselves are not the only ones who die. Our entire civilisations eventually go with us: languages, customs, struggles, triumphs, dreams. Nothing escapes the dense fog of the centuries. But still, sometimes, even if only for a little while, things shine through. You can buy Homerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s poems at almost any bookshop in the country. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tempting to call this a miracle, but if it is, then it is a miracle of human effort: of the thousands of scribes, commentators and translators who carried the torch through the millenia. It is in this way that translation is a little like the dim foglights at the front of a car. Or maybe it is the cultural equivalent of medicine: a way of staving of the Grim Reaper for a little longer by allowing cultures to permeate into each other. Even if we are always carrying over less into the new language than was there in the old, we are carrying over something. 2

These were the thoughts that led us to this issue’s theme: “Forgotten”. Translation has a role to play, as a tool for excavating forgotten voices, an advocate for the old in a time obsessed with innovation and the new, a way of thinking outside the hard borders of our own minds. We hope that this issue will be a kind of reflection on that role, that thin line translation walks between the possible and the certain. JoLT doesn’t happen by itself either; it only exists because of the people who make it so. Thanks are owed to Dr. Peter Arnds, the journal’s academic advisor, to Trinity Publications who have supported us for a number of years now, and to the following people who edited the languages we didn’t know: Navika Mehta, Orlando Devoy, and Casper Kurpan. Their generosity with their talents and their time kept us afloat. Thank you also to the Editorial team of 2019-20: Millie, Clare, and Michael. This issue is a poignant one for me too, since it is my last, and after this I will also, in a way, become one of the forgotten. But it is nice to know that through them, and whoever takes over next year, the journal has more life in it yet. Finally, thank you of course to our contributors, past and present, published and unpublished, for whom the journal exists and with whom it succeeds or fails. Le dea mhéin, Rory O’Sullivan 3

CONTENTS Fragment 2

Ancient Greek

Agamemnon 205-247

Ancient Greek

Elegiae, I.19

Latin

Aeneid 6.467 - 476

Latin

From The Ruin

Old English

Kochać I Tracić

Polish

Natale

Italian

Poema Del Olvido

Spanish

Le Léthé

French

औरते

Hindi

Epilogue From Murder in Memoriam

Irish

Dacă Tu Ai Dispărea

Romanian

Oubli

Albanian

(New) 2

French

Memória Perdida

Portuguese

Summer

French

CONTRIBUTORS In order of appearance This section contains short biographical notes by our contributors, and descriptions of the works contained in this journal — written by the contributors themselves and setting their selection in context. Rory O’Sullivan: Mimnermus, Fragment 2, c. 600BC. Rory is a 4th year Greek student and the editor of the journal. “If any poet is entitled to be considered forgotten, it is Mimnermus. Active in the 7th century bc, he was widely known in antiquity as the consummate lyric poet and, to some, the greatest poet of the millennium. Now only tiny fragments of his work survive, among them this trope-setting reflection on youth, mortality and old age. The translation style is robbed from Synge, whose “Irish Madrigals” - translations of sonnets by Petrarch into Hiberno-English prose - deserve to be remembered in their own right.” Orlando Devoy: Aeschylus, Agamemnon, 458BC. Orlando is a 3rd year Classics student at Trinity. “In this deeply disconcerting passage, the dramatist characterises the dehumanised sacrifice of Iphigenia, daughter of King Agamemnon, twin leader of the Greek host. Father dissociates from daughter and, in mad frenzy and no longer remembering what his daughter means to him, plays her as a pawn in order to appease Artemis and the winds for the “greater good” of the Greek army, to be able to sail on to Troy. The unimaginably forgettable tie between parent and child is severed, and Iphigenia is forgotten and unrecognized while still alive, as her own father and his generals that she was familiar with in former years encircle her in the last moments of her life.” 5

Margherita Galli: Propertius, Elegiae, c. 50BC. Margherita is a 2nd year English student at Trinity. “In this elegy by Propertius, a lover’s over-the-top vision of his loved one’s faithfulness in mourning conceals his fear of oblivion. The possibility of being forgotten operates as an uncomfortable and almost unmentionable presence beneath the surface of the text.” Millie van Grutten: Virgil, Aeneid, c. 29BC. Millie is a 3rd year Classics student at Trinity and deputy editor of the journal. “Book 6 of The Aeneid is renowned for it’s poignancy and nostalgia. Virgil conjures up Aeneas’ past, forcing him to re-meet old friends, comrades, lovers and family in the Underworld. This passage explores Aeneas’ attempts to make amends with his forgotten lover Dido, and in turn she, hurt and utterly destroyed by him, tries to forget him, neither gracing him with a word nor even a gesture.” Liam Whelan: Anonymous, The Ruin, c.800. Liam is a 3rd year English student at Trinity. “The Ruin is an elegy in Old English, thought to have been composed during the 8th or 9th century. The poem, an Anglo-Saxon’s awed but uncomprehending meditation on a monument of the fallen Roman Empire, is an example of dustsceáwung—literally ‘contemplation of dust’ but signifying more generally a meditation on the transience of sublunary life. Ironically the manuscript in which the poem survived is itself ruined, meaning that passages of the poem are lost.” Alicja Zadel: Leopold Staff, To Love and To Lose, 1914 Alicja is a postgraduate student on the MPhil in literary translation, working with Polish, Spanish and Portuguese. “Leopold Staff (1878-1957) was a Polish lyrical poet born in Lwów (now Ukraine) during the military partitions of 6

Poland. He was associated with the Polish modernist movement known as Young Poland, although some of his greatest work was written later. His poetry was often philosophical, particularly inspired by the philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche. Staff became famous during his life time, considered to be one of the finest poets of the 20th century and was nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1950. The poem ‘Kochać i tracić’ is probably one of his most recognisable poems and comes from the 1914 collection ‘Łabędź i lira’ [Swan and the lyre].” Martina Giambanco, Giuseppe Ungaretti, Natale, 1916 Martina is a 2nd year English and Classical Civilisation student at Trinity. “The poet (more evidently in this poem than in others) embodies the tiredness and the sense of degradation characterizing his entire generation, that of the turbulent years in-between the two world wars. The poem is called “Natale” and shows that, even at a time of joy and celebrations like Christmas, he wishes to be forgotten rather than being active again in society. This is a perfect example of the anguish and sense of uncertainty typical of the so-called “age of anxiety.” Claudia Bond: José Ángel Busea, Poema del Olvido, c.1940. Claudia Bond is a 2nd year Eurpoean Studies student at Trinity. “José Ángel Busea was a Cuban romantic poet, who passed away in 1982. He was often referred to as the “enamoured poet”. He has been considered one of the most popular Cuban poets of his time, partially due to the clarity and sensitivity of his work.” Clare Healy, Nicolas Bouvier, Le Léthé, 1963. Clare Healy is a 3rd year English and French student and the assistant editor of the journal. 7

“This extract is from Nicolas Bouvier’s L’usage du monde, a 1963 non-fiction work which recounts the author’s voyage from Yugoslavia to Afghanistan. This particular passage takes place in Tabriz, Iran.” Somrita Urni Ganguly, Ramashankar Yadav “Vidrohi”, Women, c.1980 Somrita is a poet and literary translator currently affiliated with Brown University as Fullbright Doctoral Research Fellow. “Ramashankar Yadav was a political leader of the students’ wing of a radical Left party and was rusticated from his University in 1983 for participating in student politics and a mass demonstration. Vidrohi never wrote down his poems, he composed them in his feverish head and narrated them from memory. He never shied away from acknowledging that he was proud of the implicit rebellion in works of art. They are works of protest, defence and revenge.” Hannah Rice, Didier Daeninckx, Meurtres pour Mémoire,1984. transl. Liz Heron, Murder in Memoriam, 1991 Hannah is studying for an M.Phil in Literary Translation at Trinity. “The epilogue from Didier Daeninckx’s Meurtres pour Mémoire has been translated by Liz Heron English translation, Murder in Memoriam. The epilogue describes the uncovering of old German posters in France, there from the Occupation during WWII. In the words of the book’s prologue ‘by forgetting the past, we condemn ourselves to relive it’. The novel as a whole deals with the theme of memory, and more specifically, hidden memories.” Ana Petre: Adrian Păunescu, If You Were To Disappear, 1983 Ana is a 2nd year Science student. 8

“This is a poem about not resigning with being forgotten, about love as an act of creation, reminiscent of the Genesis story. Adrian Păunescu was a well-known Romanian poet, although he was born in the present Republic of Moldova. His work is still controversial due to his involvement in politics and his very vocal support of the Communist regime, for which he was harshly criticised by the rest of the country’s intellectuals. I like to think of his non-political poetry as being separate of his political involvement, and love it for what it is.” Elodie Glerum: Vincent Yersin, Oubli, c. 2000. Elodie is a translator and belongs to the literary collective AJAR. “ Vincent Yersin is a poet and works at the literary archives of the Swiss National Library. Vincent Yersin’s fragment is taken from his collection of poems Lettre de motivation (literally “cover letter”). It wittily refers to unpleasant events the I-voice would rather have forgotten. Its elliptic composition, as well as a referential ambiguity (did the car dealer shoot the dog or the hunter?) leave room for interpretation regarding their exact nature.” Image: Clem Glerum Ella Hannon: Jean Sioui, (new) 2, c. 2004. Ella is a 3rd year European Studies student. “Sioui is a member of the Wendat (Huron) First Nation. He is the co-founder of the of the Cercle d’Écriture of Wendake. He published his first collection, Le Pas de l’Indien in 1997. His works have recently been published in the literary review Ici-élà of the Poetry House of Saint-Quentin in Yvelines and in the literary review Ellipse in Frédériction in New Brunswick. The poem is about the juxtaposition of Native and Western cultures and the dwindling importance and forgetting of Native customs and language.” 9

Shelly Bhoil: Virna Teixeira, Memory Lost, 2004. Shelly is an Indian writer living in Brazil. “Virna Teixeira is a contemporary Brazilian poet living and working in São Paulo. Virna is a neurologist besides being a writer and publisher. Her poem Memory Lost plays and reflects upon the cityscape and its routine in an exploration of the strangeness of what should be familiar.” Aifric Doherty: Monica Sabolo, Summer, 2017. Aifric Doherty is a 3rd year European Studies student who is currently on erasmus in Paris. “This is the opening to Monica Sabolo’s much praised novel, ‘Summer’ - winner of the prestigious Goncourt prize. Critics have described it as a French ‘The Virgin Suicides’, as it details the psychological repercussions of grief while the narrator tries to piece together the mysterious loss of his sister, Summer.”

Cover design and layout by Michael Foley

FORGOTTEN ILLUSTRATION BY ANA PETRE

ANCIENT GREEK

FRAGMENT 2 MIMNERMUS

ἡμεῖς δ᾽ οἷά τε φύλλα φύει πολυανθέος ὥρῃ ἔαρος, ὅτ᾽ αἶψ᾽ αὐγῇς αὔξεται ἠελίου, τοῖς ἴκελοι πήχυιον ἐπὶ χρόνον ἄνθεσιν ἥβης τερπόμεθα πρὸς θεῶν εἰδότες οὔτε κακὸν οὔτ᾽ ἀγαθόν: κῆρες δὲ παρεστήκασι μέλαιναι, ἡ μὲν ἔχουσα τέλος γήραος ἀργαλέου, ἡ δ᾽ ἑτέρη θανάτοιο: μίνυνθα δὲ γίγνεται ἥβης καρπός, ὅσον τ᾽ ἐπὶ γῆν κίδναται ἠέλιος: αὐτὰρ ἐπὴν δὴ τοῦτο τέλος παραμείψεται ὥρης, αὐτίκα δὴ τεθνάναι βέλτιον ἢ βίοτος: πολλὰ γὰρ ἐν θυμῷ κακὰ γίγνεται: ἄλλοτε οἶκος τρυχοῦται, πενίης δ᾽ ἔργ᾽ ὀδυνηρὰ πέλει: ἄλλος δ᾽ αὖ παίδων ἐπιδεύεται, ὧν τε μάλιστα ἱμείρων κατὰ γῆς ἔρχεται εἰς Ἀΐδην: ἄλλον νοῦσος ἔχει θυμοφθόρος: οὐδέ τίς ἐστιν ἀνθρώπων ᾧ Ζεὺς μὴ κακὰ πολλὰ διδῷ.

FRAGMENT 2 TRANSL. RORY O’SULLIVAN

And we are like leaves that grow in the Spring’s bloom, when the sunlight is on them. Since it is only for an arm’s length of time we enjoy the flowers of youth with no good or evil fortunes from the Gods. Two black shadows are on either side of us: one holding terrible old age in her palm, the other death. It is for a short time that the crop of youth holds, as short a time as it takes for the rising sun to scatter its light over the earth. But when season ends and passes into season we had better die than live with suffering in our hearts. Since people wear out their homes and become poor; or are left childless, feeling the lack of them even going down under the earth and into Hades. Or suffer a soul-destroying sickness. There is no one alive whom Zeus does not give the full measure of woe.

ANCIENT GREEK

AGAMEMNON 205-247 AESCHYLUS ἄναξ δ᾽ ὁ πρέσβυς τότ᾽ εἶπε φωνῶν: ‘βαρεῖα μὲν κὴρ τὸ μὴ πιθέσθαι, βαρεῖα δ᾽, εἰ τέκνον δαΐξω, δόμων ἄγαλμα, μιαίνων παρθενοσφάγοισιν ῥείθροις πατρῴους χέρας πέλας βωμοῦ: τί τῶνδ᾽ ἄνευ κακῶν, πῶς λιπόναυς γένωμαι ξυμμαχίας ἁμαρτών; παυσανέμου γὰρ θυσίας παρθενίου θ᾽ αἵματος ὀργᾷ περιόργως ἐπιθυμεῖν θέμις. εὖ γὰρ εἴη.’ ἐπεὶ δ᾽ ἀνάγκας ἔδυ λέπαδνον φρενὸς πνέων δυσσεβῆ τροπαίαν ἄναγνον ἀνίερον, τόθεν τὸ παντότολμον φρονεῖν μετέγνω. βροτοὺς θρασύνει γὰρ αἰσχρόμητις τάλαινα παρακοπὰ πρωτοπήμων. ἔτλα δ᾽ οὖν θυτὴρ γενέσθαι θυγατρός, γυναικοποίνων πολέμων ἀρωγὰν καὶ προτέλεια ναῶν.

IPHIGENIA FORGOTTEN TRANSL. ORLANDO DEVOY And the elder king spoke and said, “A heavy fate it would be to not be compliant, And one that is merciless, if I must bring myself To smite my child, the glory of my home, Staining a father’s hands with streams of Virginal sacrifice: which path to recourse is without troubles, How could I possibly become a deserter to my fleet And fail in my duties towards the allies? For that they, in their passion, should violently long for a sacrifice To abate the winds, be it one that sheds maiden blood, is within their right. Now then, may all be well.” But when he had put on the halter of Necessity, Veering in his mind along an ungodly, alternating current, Unholy and unhallowed, from then on, He changed his purpose to intend the all-daring deed. For wretched frenzy, forming base designs, emboldens mortal men. And so, he steeled his heart to become his daughter’s executioner, So that he might assist in a war avenging a woman,

λιτὰς δὲ καὶ κληδόνας πατρῴους παρ᾽ οὐδὲν αἰῶ τε παρθένειον ἔθεντο φιλόμαχοι βραβῆς. φράσεν δ᾽ ἀόζοις πατὴρ μετ᾽ εὐχὰν δίκαν χιμαίρας ὕπερθε βωμοῦ πέπλοισι περιπετῆ παντὶ θυμῷ προνωπῆ λαβεῖν ἀέρδην, στόματός τε καλλιπρῴρου φυλακᾷ κατασχεῖν φθόγγον ἀραῖον οἴκοις, βίᾳ χαλινῶν τ᾽ ἀναύδῳ μένει. κρόκου βαφὰς δ᾽ ἐς πέδον χέουσα ἔβαλλ᾽ ἕκαστον θυτήρων ἀπ᾽ ὄμματος βέλει φιλοίκτῳ, πρέπουσά θ᾽ ὡς ἐν γραφαῖς, προσεννέπειν θέλουσ᾽, ἐπεὶ πολλάκις πατρὸς κατ᾽ ἀνδρῶνας εὐτραπέζους ἔμελψεν, ἁγνᾷ δ᾽ ἀταύρωτος αὐδᾷ πατρὸς φίλου τριτόσπονδον εὔποτμον παιῶνα φίλως ἐτίμα—

And as a preliminary offering on behalf of the ships. For her pleas, her cries of “Father”, And for her virgin life, The war-possessed arbiters cared not at all. And the ‘father’, after a prayer, spurred his attendants on, With all their heart, To lay hold of her as she fell fainting forwards, Drowning in her robes, Lifting her on high above the altar, As if she were a young goat, And with a leather stop placed upon her fair mouth To hold back her cursing cry upon the house, By force and by the stifling might of the bridle, Letting fall her saffron garment toward the ground, She struck each of her sacrificers a pitiful glance from her eyes, Standing out as if in a painting, desiring to address each and Every one of them, wishing she could speak, Since many a time before these men she had sung at her father’s Hospitable banquets, a pure maiden with pure voice, she would Lovingly honour her dear father’s paean for good Fortune at the third libation.

LATIN

ELEGIAE, I.19 PROPERTIUS

Non ego nunc tristis vereor, mea Cynthia, Manes, nec moror extremo debita fata rogo; sed ne forte tuo careat mihi funus amore, hic timor est ipsis durior exsequiis. Non adeo leviter nostris puer haesit ocellis, ut meus oblito pulvis amore vacet. [...] Quam vereor, ne te contempto, Cynthia, busto abstrahat a nostro pulvere iniquus Amor, cogat et invitam lacrimas siccare cadentis! Flectitur assiduis certa puella minis. Quare, dum licet, inter nos laetemur amantes: non satis est ullo tempore longus amor.

THE ELEGIES, I.19 TRANSL. MARGHERITA GALLI

Now, my Cynthia, it’s not a desolate afterlife that I’m afraid of, and neither am I trying to delay the words that are due to a final pyre; but that I might miss your love at my last rites: this dread is more bitter than the burial itself. That child didn’t cling thus carelessly to our eyes, that the dust of me should remain void of a forgotten love. [...] How I fear that unjust Love will drag you away from my dust, my tomb despised, and force you, against your wishes, to dry your falling tears! Even a trusted girl is prevailed upon by frequent threats. For this reason, let’s enjoy ourselves, who are in love, while we can: Love never lasts long enough, no matter how much time it’s given.

LATIN

AENEID 6.467 - 476 VIRGIL

Talibus Aeneas ardentem et torva tuentem lenibat dictis animum, lacrimasque ciebat. Illa solo fixos oculos aversa tenebat, nec magis incepto voltum sermone movetur, quam si dura silex aut stet Marpesia cautes. tandem corripuit sese,atque inimica refugit in nemus umbriferum,coniunx ubi pristinus illi respondet curis aequatque Sychaeus amorem. Nec minus Aeneas,casu concussus iniquo, prosequitur lacrimis longe,et miseratur euntem

AENEID 6.467 - 476 TRANSL. MILLIE VAN GRUTTEN

With such words, Aeneas tried to soothe her burning heart And her grim glare and encourage her tears. But she turned away, holding her eyes fixed to the ground. No more did her expression change at the beginning of his appeal Than if hard flint had stood there or Parian rock. At last she tore herself away and with hatred she fled Into the shady wood, where her former husband Sychaeus Tended her cares and matched her love with his. No less shaken by the injustice of fate, Aeneas Gazed after her, from afar, with tears and pitied her as she left.

OLD ENGLISH

FROM THE RUIN AUTHOR UNKNOWN

Wrætlic is þes wealstan, wyrde gebræcon; burgstede burston, brosnað enta geweorc. Hrofas sind gehrorene, hreorge torras, hrungeat berofen, hrim on lime, scearde scurbeorge scorene, gedrorene, ældo undereotone. Eorðgrap hafað waldend wyrhtan forweorone, geleorene, heardgripe hrusan, oþ hund cnea werþeoda gewitan. Oft þæs wag gebad ræghar ond readfah rice æfter oþrum, ofstonden under stormum.

FROM THE RUIN TRANSL. LIAM WHELAN

This stonewall awes, though smashed by fate. The city gave. Giants’ work decays. Now rooftop tilings gape and slip —the towers high and ruinous— While ravaged gate-posts glaze with ice: Gapped ramparts, riven, fallen-in, That too-long years have undermined. The grasp of earth, the ground’s hard grip, Has kept those mighty workmen still, Beneath the generations that The seasons usher out and in. The wall—this wall, now lichen-grey, Incarnadined and old—has seen Régime succeed régime, survived Unmoved amid the storms.

POLISH

KOCHAĆ I TRACIĆ LEOPOLD STAFF

Kochać i tracić, pragnąc i żałować, Padać boleśnie i znów się podnosić, Krzyczeć tęsknocie “precz!” i błagać “prowadź!” Oto jest życie: nic, a jakże dosyć... Zbiegać za jednym klejnotem pustynie, Iść w toń za perłą o cudu urodzie, Ażeby po nas zostały jedynie Siady na piasku i kręgi na wodzie.

TO LOVE AND TO LOSE TRANSL. ALICJA ZAJDEL

To love and to lose, to want and to regret, to fall in pain and then to rise again, to push yearning away, yet beg it to lead this is life: nothing, and quite enough... To race across the desert in search of a gem, to plunge into the depths for a wonderful pearl, knowing you will leave nothing behind, but ripples on the water and marks on the sand.

ITALIAN

NATALE GIUSEPPE UNGARETTI Non ho voglia di tuffarmi in un gomitolo di strade Ho tanta stanchezza sulle spalle Lasciatemi cosĂŹ come una cosa posata in un angolo e dimenticata Qui non si sente altro che il caldo buono Sto con le quattro capriole di fumo del focolare Napoli, il 26 dicembre 1916 26

CHRISTMAS TRANSL. MARTINA GIAMBANCO I do not want to dive into a tangle of streets I have a lot of weight on my shoulders Leave me this way like a thing put in a corner and forgotten Here one cannot hear anything but the pleasant warmth I stay with the four flips of smoke of the hearth Naples, 26th of December 1916 27

SPANISH

POEMA DEL OLVIDO JOSÉ ÁNGEL BUSEA

Viendo pasar las nubes fue pasando la vida, y tú, como una nube, pasaste por mi hastío. Y se unieron entonces tu corazón y el mío, como se van uniendo los bordes de una herida. Los últimos ensueños y las primeras canas entristecen de sombra todas las cosas bellas; y hoy tu vida y mi vida son como estrellas, pues pueden verse juntas, estando tan lejanas... Yo bien sé que el olvido, como un agua maldita, nos da una sed más honda que la sed que nos quita, pero estoy tan seguro de poder olvidar... Y miraré las nubes sin pensar que te quiero, con el hábito sordo de un viejo marinero que aún siente, en tierra firme, la ondulación del mar.

FORGETTING TRANSL. CLAUDIA BOND

I was spending my life watching the clouds pass by, And you, like a cloud, passed by my weariness. And so were joined your heart and mine Like the stitched edges of a wound. The last dreams and the first greys Cast shadows over all of the beautiful things; And now our lives are like two stars, They may be seen together, but they are so distantâ&#x20AC;Ś I know well that forgetting, like a poisoned water, Gives us a deeper thirst than we can quench But I am so sure of being able to forgetâ&#x20AC;Ś And I will look at the stars without thinking that I love you, With the habit of an old sailor Who still feels, on firm ground, the ripple of the sea.

FRENCH

LE LÉTHÉ NICOLAS BOUVIER

Tabriz qui avait tant d’autres affaires négligeait un peu les Beaux-Arts, et le vieux Bagramian, l’unique peintre de la ville, était ravi de s’être découvert un collègue. Ganté, guêtré et chapeauté comme un séducteur du cinéma muet, il venait de temps à autre inspecter le travail de Thierry en poussant quelques cris encourageants. Après avoir végété trente ans à Léningrad où il enseignait le «dessin floral», Bagramian avait émigré ici, trouvé une poignée d’élèves, et épousé sur le tard une Arménienne bien dotée qui lui offrait ses foulards de soie blanche et ses gants de chevreau. Depuis cette tractation, il ne peignait quasiment plus; son fort, c’était plutôt la béatitude douillette. Il passait l’hiver attablé dans sa salle à manger à siroter de la liqueur d’abricot, grignoter du nougat, ou croquer des pistaches en faisant mille fables à sa femme très éprise qui l’écoutait avec un dodelinement émerveillé. Quand nous lui rendions visite, il nous tenait dans un russe volubile de longs discours sur l’Union soviétique auxquels nous ne comprenions rien, pendant qu’elle lui remplissait son verre, lui époussetait tendrement l’épaule, ou battait des mains, folle de son artiste et les yeux brillants comme des broches. Parfois, elle l’arrêtait pour traduire : «Il dit… n’y pas aller, jamais… grand pays sombre, vous disparaissez, vous oubliez tout… le Léthé… ». «Léthé» répétait Bagramian avec emphase, en laissant tomber, pour illustrer son dire, de petits morceaux de pelure d’orange dans son thé bouillant. 30

LETHE TRANSL. CLARE HEALY

In Tabriz, which had so much else going on, fine art was somewhat overlooked, and old Bagramian, the sole painter in the city, was delighted to have discovered a workmate. Dressed in gloves, spats and a cap, like a womanizer in a silent movie, he came every now and then to inspect Thierry’s work, giving him a few shouts of encouragement. After stagnating for thirty years in Leningrad where he had taught “floral drawing”, Bagramian had emigrated here, found a handful of students, and belatedly married a talented Armenian woman who gifted him his white silk scarves and leather gloves. Since this arrangement had taken place, he almost never painted anymore; his strength was, instead, comfortable beatitude. He spent winter at the dining-room table, sipping apricot liqueur, nibbling on nougat, or munching pistachios while telling stories to his enamoured wife, who shook her head in wonder as she listened. When we visited him, he delivered us long speeches in his volubile Russian about the Soviet Union, of which we could understand nothing, while she filled his glass, tenderly dusted his shoulder, or clapped her hands, besotted with her artist, her eyes shining like brooches. Sometimes she would stop him to translate: “He says … don’t go there, ever … a dreadful country, you would disappear, you would forget everything … Lethe …”. “Lethe,” Bagramian repeated emphatically, illustrating what he was saying by dropping little pieces of orange peel into 31

C’était si vrai qu’il y avait – disait-on – complètement oublié une première épouse dont il n’était pas encore divorcé, et dont seule la seconde feignait d’ignorer l’existence. Le quartier qui était, bien sûr, au courant, pensait que malgré ses airs folâtres, Bagramian s’était conduit comme un renard bien avisé qui veut vieillir au chaud. Se débrouiller ainsi, c’est respectable. Personne en tout cas qui cherchât à l’embarrasser là-dessus; les gens savaient gré au vieux farceur de son enjouement, et dans l’Arménistan, la vie est trop sévère pour qu’on calomnie ainsi sans profit. Ses tableaux, dont nous passions chaque fois la revue, étaient moins heureux que lui : des jardins fignolés et ternes bien que le soleil y figurât toujours; des patriciennes en robe de velours qui souriaient durement, les mains sur un mouchoir; des généraux à cheval dans la neige, avec des décorations et des joues comme cirées. Thierry faisait la moue, et Bagramian que rien ne pouvait démonter l’engageait chaque fois, pour justifier son académisme, dans un débat fébrile sur la peinture. Par gestes, évidemment. Il criait le nom d’un peintre en étendant la main à une certaine hauteur pour montrer le cas qu’il en faisait. Thierry répliquait. Ils étaient rarement d’accord : quand Thierry ramenait Millet au niveau du plancher, l’autre, qui l’avait placé à hauteur d’épaule et le copiait depuis trente ans, se renversait dans sa chaise en se cachant la figure. Ils s’entendaient sur les Primitifs italiens, aux environs d’un mètre, puis s’élevaient prudemment avec quelques valeurs sûres – Ingres, Vinci, Poussin – en se surveillant du regard et gardant son meilleur candidat en réserve car, dans ces espèces d’enchères, chacun voulait le dernier mot. Quand Thierry, le bras levé, avait mis son favori hors de portée du petit

his boiling tea. This was true to such a degree that he had—it was said— completely forgotten his first wife, from whom he hadn’t yet divorced, and of whose very existence the second pretended to be unaware. The neighbours, who of course knew about it, thought that despite his outward friskiness, Bagramian had behaved like a well-advised fox who wants to grow old somewhere warm. To sort yourself out that way is respectable. In any case, nobody was trying to embarrass him about it; people were grateful to the old joker for his cheerfulness, and in Armanestan, life is too harsh for needless character assassination. His paintings, which we always came to look at, were less happy that he was: gardens that were overworked and colourless despite the sun always being there; nobles in velvet robes smiling wickedly, their hands on their handkerchiefs; generals on horseback in the snow, with medals and waxen cheeks. Thierry would pout, and Bagramian, whom nothing could fluster, would engage him in an impassioned debate about painting, to prove himself an academic. Through gestures, obviously. He would shout the name of a painter, stretching his hand to a certain height to make his case. Thierry would do the same. They rarely agreed: when Thierry put Millet at the level of the floorboards, the other, who had placed him at shoulder-height and had been copying him for thirty years, tipped over in his chair, hiding his face. They were in agreement about the Italian Primitives, within a metre, then went up carefully with some safe bets—Ingres, da Vinci, Poussin—surveying each other and holding back

homme, Bagramian grimpait sur son escabeau et finissait par emporter l’affaire, sans trop d’élégance, avec un peintre russe totalement inconnu. «Chichkine… grande peinture – disait la femme – forêts de bouleaux sous la neige.» Nous, nous voulions bien; entre temps, la table s’était couverte de flacons, de fromage blanc, de concombres, et c’est manger surtout qui nous intéressait. Pour nourrir l’amitié. Bagramian l’entendait bien ainsi.

their best nominations because, in these kinds of bids, each of them wanted the last word. When Thierry, arm raised, had put his favourite out of reach of the small man, Bagramian climbed up onto his stepladder and finished the stand-off, rather inelegantly, with a completely unknown Russian painter. “Shishkin … great painting,” said the wife, “birch forest under the snow.” We didn’t mind; in the meantime, the table been covered with flasks, white cheese, cucumbers, and what interested us was eating. To feed the friendship. That was how Bagramian wanted it.

HINDI

औरतें RAMASHANKAR YADAV ‘VIDROHI’ कुछ औरतों ने अपनी इच्छा से कुएं में कूदकर जान दी थी, ऐसा पुलिस के रिकार्डों में दर्ज है। और कुछ औरतें चिता में जलकर मरी थीं, ऐसा धर्म की किताबों में लिखा है। मैं कवि हूं, कर्ता हूं, क्या जल्दी है, मैं एक दिन पुलिस और पुरोहित, दोनों को एक ही साथ औरतों की अदालत में तलब करूंगा, और बीच की सारी अदालतों को मंसूख कर दूंगा। मैं उन दावों को भी मंसूख कर दूंगा, जिन्हें श्रीमानों ने औरतों और बच्चों के खिलाफ पेश किया है। मैं उन डिग्रियों को निरस्त कर दूंगा, जिन्हें लेकर फौजें और तुलबा चलते हैं। मैं उन वसीयतों को खारिज कर दूंगा, जिन्हें दुर्बल ने भुजबल के नाम किया हुआ है। मैं उन औरतों को जो कुएं में कूदकर या चिता में जलकर मरी हैं, फिर से जिंदा करूंगा, और उनके बयानों को दुबारा कलमबंद करूंगा, कि कहीं कुछ छूट तो नहीं गया! 36

WOMEN TRANSL. SOMRITA URNI GANGULY Some women jumped into wells willingly And killed themselves, Or so the police records say. Some others burnt themselves on the Funeral pyres of their dead husbands, Or so the holy scriptures say. I am a poet, I do what I do. What is the rush? One day, I will Present both Police and Priest At womenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s courts And overthrow all other tribunals. I will also crush all claims That gentlemen have made against their Wives and children. I will repeal the decrees That dictate Soldiers and students. I will dismiss the legacies That have been gifted To the powerful by the weak. I will bring back to life The women who had jumped into wells or had Burnt themselves to death And rewrite their testimonies So that nothing gets omitted, No detail suppressed or forgotten. 37

कि कहीं कुछ बाकी तो नहीं रह गया! कि कहीं कोई भूल तो नहीं हुई! क्योंकि मैं उस औरत के बारे में जानता हूँ जो अपने एक बित्ते के आंगन में अपनी सात बित्ते की देह को ता-जिंदगी समोए रही और कभी भूलकर बाहर की तरफ झांका भी नहीं। और जब वह बाहर निकली तो औरत नहीं, उसकी लाश निकली। जो खुले में पसर गयी है, या मेदिनी की तरह। एक औरत की लाश धरती माता की तरह होती है दोस्तों! जे खुले में फैल जाती है, थानों से लेकर अदालतों तक। मैं देख रहा हूं कि जुल्म के सारे सबूतों को मिटाया जा रहा है। चंदन चर्चित मस्तक को उठाए हुए पुरोहित, और तमगों से लैस सीनों को फुलाए हुए सैनिक, महाराज की जय बोल रहे हैं। वे महाराज की जय बोल रहे हैं। वे महाराज जो मर चुके हैं, और महारानियां सती होने की तैयारियां कर रही हैं। और जब महारानियां नहीं रहेंगी, तो नौकरानियां क्या करेंगी? इसलिए वे भी तैयारियां कर रही हैं। मुझे महारानियों से ज्यादा चिंता नौकरानियों की होती है, जिनके पति जिंदा हैं और बेचारे रो रहे हैं। कितना खराब लगता है एक औरत को अपने रोते हुए पति को छोड़कर मरना, जबकि मर्दों को 38

Because I know about that woman who had Confined her life within the limits of her walled Courtyard And had never dared to look at the World without. When she eventually left that Little holding, It wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t she who left, It was her lifeless body, Stretched out like the soil. A womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s corpse, friends, is like the earth That extends from courtrooms To police stations. I witness evidence of crimes being erased. The priest with his supercilious sandalwood-stained forehead, The soldier with his ceremonious badges and pompous chest, Are hailing their king, The king who is dead, And whose queens are now preparing to burn Themselves by his bed, Satis for his sake. And when the queens are burning at the pyre What will become of their housemaids? So, the maids too are preparing Their own funeral fire. I am more anxious about These serving-maids than about the queens, The maids whose husbands are alive and aching. How agonizing must it be for a woman to die, leaving Her husband behind, mourning. Whereas, for men it is 39

रोती हुई औरतों को मारना भी खराब नहीं लगता। औरतें रोती जाती हैं, मरद मारते जाते हैं। औरतें और जोर से रोती हैं, मरद और जोर से मारते हैं। औरतें खूब जोर से रोती हैं, मरद इतने जोर से मारते हैं कि वे मर जाती हैं। इतिहास में वह पहली औरत कौन थी, जिसे सबसे पहले जलाया गया, मैं नहीं जानता, लेकिन जो भी रही होगी, मेरी मां रही होगी। लेकिन मेरी चिंता यह है कि भविष्य में वह आखिरी औरत कौन होगी, जिसे सबसे अंत में जलाया जाएगा, मैं नहीं जानता, लेकिन जो भी होगी मेरी बेटी होगी, और मैं ये नहीं होने दूंगा। और मैं ये नहीं होने दूंगा।

Easy to torture a crying woman. The women keep on crying, The men keep on beating. The women cry louder, The men hit harder. The women cry more pitiably, The men strike more desperately, So rough, that the women eventually die. Who was the first woman in history to be burnt at the stake? I do not know, But she must have been my mother. I worry: Who will be that last woman to be burnt at the stake? I do not know, But she will be one of my daughters. And that I shall not allow, That I will not allow.

IRISH

EPILOGUE FROM MURDER IN MEMORIAM DIDIER DAENINCKX TRANSL. LIZ HERON

Lardenne went back to Toulouse without me. I’d treated myself to a day off. Claudine and I had gone out to get my suitcase from the hotel. Bonne-Nouvelle station was nearby. It was being renovated. A dozen workmen on scaffolding were busy tearing off the layers of posters covering the advertising hoardings. Further down, at the end of the platform, two other workmen were scraping the white ceramic tiles with metal spatulas. As it was torn away, the paper exposed ten, twenty-year-old ads. A punk couple with brightly coloured Mohican haircuts were kissing under a poster that pictured the town of Savignac and boasted the benefits of Calvé oil: rich, light, and a hundred per cent vegetable … A young executive, with an attaché case in his hand and a Walkman on his head, was strolling past a poster that spelled out a mineral water jingle: Badadi babadoi … Claudine stopped in front of another bit of the wall. She pointed to a tile still partly covered in shreds of yellowing paper that an Algerian workman was having trouble getting rid of. Only some of the text was legible but its meaning was not lost:

IARFHOCAL TRANSL. HANNAH RICE

Chuaigh Lardenne siar go Toulouse i m’uireasa. Shocraigh mé ar lá saoire a thabhairt dom féin. Chuaigh mé féin agus Claudine chuig an óstán chun mo mhála a bhailiú. Bhí Stáisiúin Bonne-Nouvelle in aice láimhe. Bhíothas á athchóiriú. Bhí dháréag oibrithe ar an scafall ag réabadh agus ag stróiceadh an bhrait fógraí a chlúdaigh an fógrán. Níos faide siar, ag bun an ardáin, bhí beirt eile ag scríobadh na dtíleanna ceirmeacha bána le spadail mhiotalacha. Agus iad á stróiceadh, nochtadh fógraí a bhí ann le deich, nó scór bliain. Bhí lánúin phuncach, stíl Mhahaíceach ar a gcuid gruaige, ag pógadh faoi phostaer a léirigh baile Savignac, agus a mhaígh buntáistí ola Calvé: saibhir, éadrom, agus déanta céad faoin chéad as glasraí… Bhí gairmí óg, síneáinín láimhe ina ghlac agus Walkman ar a cheann, ag siúl thar an fhógra ar a raibh ceoilín d’uisce mianra scríofa air: Beadadaí beabadó … Stop Claudine os comhair cuid eile den bhalla. Thug sí suntas do thíl a bhí leathchlúdaithe fós i ríbíní de pháipéar buíchríonna. Bhí oibrí Ailgéarach ag streacailt le hé a bhaint den bhalla. Ní raibh ach cuid den téacs inléite ach fós níor cailleadh an brí:

… prohibited in France … liable to be sentenc … court mart … Ger … Anyone carryi … Jews … maximum sentence of de … irresponsible eleme … support for the enemies of Germany. … ilance … guilty and the population of the occupied territories. Signed: the Militaerbefehlshaber Stüplnagel.

… coiscithe sa Fhrainc … dlitear breith a thabhair … armchúir … Gearm … Aon duine ag iom … Giúdaigh … uasbhreith an bh … faicsean mífhreagr … ag tacú le naimhde na Gearmáine. … art … ciontach agus daonra na gcríoch gafa. Arna síniú ag: an Militaerbefehlshaber Stüplnagel.

ROMANIAN

DACĂ TU AI DISPĂREA ADRIAN PĂUNESCU

Dacă tu ai dispărea Într-o noapte oarecare, Dulcea mea, amara mea, Aş pleca nebun pe mare. Cu un sac întreg de lut Şi-o spinare de nuiele, Să te fac de la-nceput Cu puterea mâinii mele. Lucru lung şi monoton Să te înviez, femeie, Eu, bolnav Pygmalion Hai şi umblă, Galatee! Dacă tu ai dispărea, Fi-ţi-ar moartea numai viaţă, Dulcea mea, amara mea, Aş pleca în ţări de gheaţă. Să te fac din ţurţuri reci Să te-mbrac în promoroacă Şi apoi să poţi să pleci Orişiunde o să-ţi placă.

IF YOU WERE TO DISAPPEAR TRANSL. ANA PETRE

If you were to disappear on a night like any other oh my bittersweet, my dear, I would flee away at sea. And I’d take a bag of clay and a load of twigs and branches and I’d make you up again with the power of my hands. Such a long and dreary task just to resurrect you, woman I, Pygmalion, I’ll ask: rise and walk, my Galatea. If you were to disappear may all death be life to you. Oh my bittersweet, my dear I would flee to lands of ice make you up from icicles, clothe you up in snow and frost, so that you can leave again, wherever you wish to go.

De-ai cădea într-adevăr În momentul marii frângeri, Aş veni la tine-n cer Să te recompun din îngeri. Şi pe urmă aş pleca Umilit şi iluzoriu Unde este casa mea, O mansardă-n purgatoriu. Dacă tu ai dispărea Şi din râsu-mi şi din plânsu-mi, Te-aş găsi în sinea mea, Te-aş zidi din mine însumi!

If you were to falter down when the skies would split apart I would join you in the sky and make you out of angels and of art. Then I would just leave myself, chastened and confused with dreams, where my home is now to be: an attic down in Purgatory. If you were to disappear from my laughter, from my tears, I would find you in myself, I would give you life from me.

FRENCH

OUBLI VINCENT YERSIN

Je viens de descendre de mon vélo rouge il freine quand je pédale en arrière dans un pays ou les portes de grange peuvent vous casser les doigts ou briser la patte d’un chien à cause du vent je viens à moi je viens de comprendre je viens juste avant toi je saignais du nez j’avais peur j’étais toujours fatigué mon chien a mordu un chasseur le garagiste lui a tiré dessus

je viens me multiplier

j’aimerais bien oublier mon sang est trop épais j’écrase une cigarette je rêve à tout bétonner j’ai bu du verni mangé de la tourbe ingéré des œufs pourris je viens de courir sous la pluie je me rapproche doucement de la mer, de l’eau salée on ne compense pas, jamais je n’oublie rien

je viens de la marche en montée

OUBLI TRANLS. ELODIE GLERUM

I’ve just got off my red bike it brakes when i move back in a country where barn doors can break your fingers or smash a dog’s leg through the wind i’ve come to my senses i’ve come to realise i come right before you i had nosebleeds i was afraid i was always tired i’ve come to multiply myself my dog’s bitten a hunter the car dealer shot him i really wish i could forget my blood is too thick i’m grinding out a cigarette butt i fancy concreting everything i’ve drunk varnish eaten peat ingested rotten eggs i’ve just raced in the rain i’m slowly getting closer to the sea, to the saltwater one cannot compensate, never i leave nothing out i come from the walk, uphill

FRENCH

(NEW) 2 JEAN SIOUI Engourdis dans une culture étrange des guerriers parient leur coiffe dans l’abatis d’une arrière-cour. Au grand conseil pour ressusciter la sève d’un grand remède des mains dénouent les mémoires attachées entre deux couvercles plus laids qu’une vieille écorce. La véritable histoire tenue secrète comme un sentier qui erre entre deux routes à toute vitesse pour traverser nos territoires dans un mal à l’oeil. Voyage dans l’irréel d’une langue perdue d’une destinée toute faite d’avance qui longe des villes suintantes de sens à faire.

(NEW) 2 TRANSL. ELLA HANNON Paralysed in a foreign culture warriors wager their headdresses behind the ramparts of a backyard. At the Grand Council, to revive the essence of a panacea, hands untangle the memories secured between two covers, more unsightly than an old husk. The real story kept secret like a path that wanders at top speed between two roads to traverse our lands in the ache of an eye. Voyage into the fiction of a lost language, of a pre-determined destiny which runs alongside towns seeping with sense to be made.

PORTUGUESE

MEMÓRIA PERDIDA VIRNA TEIXEIRA

Trigésimo andar: contempla a cidade, à noite. Deleção de arquivos, memórias. Algumas ficaram retorcidas no pensamento como o prédio, de janelas góticas. Cativeiro. Cinema Voltaire. No parapeito, uma orquídea. Isolada contra o crepúsculo, violeta. O contorno borrado dos prédios. Um dia de sol. Casais passeiam no parque. Caminha entre gansos. Crianças brincam no tanquinho de areia. Hipocampo, estranheza de imagens. Esquinas, bifurcações. Como se nunca tivesse, tantas vezes, caminhado ali.

MEMORY LOST TRANSL. ELLA HANNON

Thirtieth floor: imagine the city, at night. Deletion of files, memories. Some remain lingering in thoughts like the building, with Gothic windows. Captivity. Cinema Voltaire. An Orchid on a parapet. Isolated, against the twilight, violet. The blurred outline of the buildings. One sunny day. Couples stroll in the park. Walk among geese. Children play in a small sand pit. A sea horse, the strangeness of images. Corners, bifurcations. As if I had never, so many times, walked around there before.

FRENCH

SUMMER MONICA SABOLO Dans mes rêves, il y a toujours le lac. L’été où c’est arrivé, cet été dont rien n’a marqué ma mémoire, ou juste quelques images, comme des photographies nettes et brillantes, pendant ce mois de juillet où nos vies ont changé pour toujours, il faisait si chaud que les poissons remontaient des profondeurs du lac Léman. On se mettait sur la rive, et l’on voyait ces masses sombres à la surface, comme des monstres suffocants, et l’on pouvait imaginer l’intérieur de leur bouche, la chair rose, écœurante. Selon le docteur Traub, que je vois depuis trois mois et deux semaines, au rythme de deux séances hebdomadaires - trois mois que je regarde son front humide, ses cheveux qui démarrent bien trop haut, il sera chauve dans quoi, trois? quatre ans? - ces poissons qui reviennent dans mes rêves sont peut-être une représentation de moi-même. Mes sensations de suffocation. D’étouffement. Vingt-quatre ans, et treize jours, que c’est arrivé. Vingt-quatre ans et treize jours que je ne me souviens de rien, juste quelques flashs, une explosion de blanc et de lumière, et puis, plus rien. Poissons, noirs, visqueux. Fougères, phosphorescentes, aplaties. Les cheveux des copines de ma sœur, balayant des épaules nues, au rythme de leurs mouvements de tête, cherchant Summer, criant son nom. 56

SUMMER TRANSL. AIFRIC DOHERTY In my dreams, there’s always the lake. The summer that it happened, that summer from which nothing has stuck in my memory, or just a few images, like sharp, shiny photographs, during that month of July when our lives changed forever, it was so hot that the fish rose from the depths of Léman lake. We stood at the river’s edge, looking at their dark masses on the surface, like suffocating monsters, and we could envisage the inside of their mouth, the sickening, pink flesh. According to doctor Traub, who I’ve been seeing for three months and two weeks, for twice-weekly sessions – three months I’ve been looking at his moist forehead, his receding hairline, he’ll be bald in what, three? Four years? – these fish that come back in my dreams are perhaps a representation of myself. My feelings of suffocation. Of choking. Twenty four years, thirteen days, that’s when it happened. Twenty four years and thirteen days that I don’t remember anything, just some flashes, a white explosion of light, and then, nothing. Fish, black, slimy. Ferns, phosphorescent, flattened. My sister’s friends’ hair, sweeping naked shoulders, in time with their moving heads, looking for Summer, crying her name.

Dans mes rêves, la surface luit comme un miroir coupant, ou une dalle de verre. L’eau semble glacée et chaude à la fois. J’ai envie de plonger, d’aller voir ; mais les poissons sont noirs, les plantes se déploient comme des tentacules. Des filaments souples, luisants, qui se balancent dans le courant. Quelquefois, Summer est là, immobile, juste sous la surface. Ses yeux sont grands ouverts. Elle essaie de dire quelque chose, ou alors de respirer. Ses cheveux bougent dans le courant, ils semblent vivants. Je tends la main, mes doigts effleurent la surface. Mais ce n’est pas elle, ce sont les algues qui ont dessiné un corps. Ou quelquefois, c’est un animal, sombre, rapide, qui rampe sous l’eau, entre les pierres. Pourtant, je sais qu’elle vit là-bas.

In my dreams, the surface glows like a cut of mirror, or a slab of glass. The water seems freezing and hot at the same time. I feel like diving in, to go and to see ; but the fish are black, the plants unfurling like tentacles. The supple, gleaming filaments, swaying in the current. Sometimes, Summer is there, motionless, just under the surface. Her eyes are wide open. She tries to say something, or else to breathe. Her hair moving in the stream, it seems alive. I reach out, my fingers brush the surface. But it’s not her, it’s seaweed that has drawn a body. Or sometimes, it’s a dark, swift animal, that slithers underwater, amid the rocks. However, I know that she lives there.