Monday, April 22, 2024

Get Drunk! by Charles Baudelaire

My translation of Baudelaire's famous poem, "Get Drunk!". I would hand this out on the last day of class to my students, and read it to them the original french too, which they seemed to really like.

 

Get Drunk!


One should always be drunk. That's all that matters;

that's our one imperative need. So as not to feel Time's

horrible burden, one which breaks your shoulders and bows

you down, you must get drunk without stopping.


But with what?

With wine, poetry, or virtue

as you choose.

But get drunk.


And if, at some time, on the steps of a palace,

in the green grass of a ditch,

in the bleak solitude of your room,

you are waking and the drunkenness has already abated,

ask the wind, the waves, the stars, the clock,

all that which flees,

all that which groans,

all that which rolls,

all that which sings,

all that which speaks,

ask them what time it is

and the wind, the wave, the stars, the birds, and the clock,

they will all reply:


"It is time to get drunk!


So that you may not be the martyred slaves of Time,

get drunk, get drunk,

and never pause to rest!

With wine, poetry, or virtue,

as you choose!”


by Charles Baudelaire (tr. John Yohe)

 

 

Enivrez-vous!

 

Il faut être toujours ivre, tout est là ; c'est l'unique question. 
Pour ne pas sentir l'horrible fardeau 
du temps qui brise vos épaules et vous penche vers la terre, 
il faut vous enivrer sans trêve.
 
Mais de quoi? De vin, de poésie, ou de vertu à votre guise, mais enivrez-vous!
 
Et si quelquefois, sur les marches d’un palais, 
sur l’herbe verte d’un fossé, 
dans la solitude morne de votre chambre, 
vous vous réveillez, 
l’ivresse déjà diminuée ou disparue, 
demandez au vent, à la vague, à l’étoile, à l’oiseau, à l’horloge, 
à tout ce qui fuit, 
à tout ce qui gémit, 
à tout ce qui roule, à tout ce qui chante, 
à tout ce qui parle, 
demandez quelle heure il est ; 
et le vent, la vague, l’étoile, l’oiseau, l’horloge, vous répondront : 
 
« Il est l’heure de s’enivrer ! 
 
Pour n’être pas les esclaves martyrisés du Temps, 
enivrez-vous ; 
enivrez-vous sans cesse ! 
De vin, de poésie ou de vertu, à votre guise. »

 —Charles Baudelaire




Monday, April 15, 2024

The solitudes of Babel by Mario Benedetti

My unauthorized translation of a poem by Mario Benedetti, for the interest of doing it, and because his official translator is doing a poor job of it.


The solitudes of Babel


Solitude is our most private property

of rite of juggling fires

we move in it and invent walls

with mirrors of those who we always flee


solitude is time / fast or stopped /

waterwheel reflections / spirals of smoke /

with loves in vitro / dislikes in pectore /

and I double check methodical the good lust


solitude is night with open eyes

future sketch that hid memory

worries of hero buried in his panic

and a sense of guilt / retired from oblivion


it is the tepid conscience of how they should be

to have been the crosses of life and death

and also the rescue of small sparks

born from the encounter of death and life


solitude is known only in the world of the alone

and it asks itself sometimes about other solitudes

not as crossroads between spirit and soul

but rather with entomological interest


a short time ago still / really not too long ago

solitudes / alone / each on in their space

spoke a single frayed tongue

that in key moments served them as bridge


as well as a hand a signal a kiss

the contiguous solitude grew closer to the alone person

and a solitary web of the alone connected

geographies and hopes


in love and the tango the alone embraced

and since it was the language of the world for all

they could share sadness and pleasure

and they could even convince themselves that they were not alone


but something has changed / is changing

every sole person debuted their new cave

new game of keys and locks

and temporary the dialect of one alone


now when the lone men and women dance

they no longer connect / they keep distance

in love they embrace but they think

of another embrace / that of their solitudes


the solitudes of babel ignore

what solitudes graze their side

they will never know by whom their project is

of the ghost tower that they build


thus / scattered but together

near but far / alone side by side

each one in their bubble / unsupported

they grow old miserly like islets


and even though the tower keeps skyward

in search of that poor god of always

they collapse/break down without knowing

solitudes below / dream below


—Mario Benedetti (trans. John Yohe)


Las soledades de Babel


La soleded es nuestra propiedad más privada

viejo rito de fuegos malabares

en ella nos movemos e inventamos paredes

con espejos de los que siempre huimos


la soledad es tiempo / veloz o detenido /

relfexiones de noria / espirales de humo /

con amores in vitro / desamores in pectore /

y repaso metódico de la buena lujuria


la soledad es noche con los ojos abiertos

esbozo de futuro que escondió la memoria

desazones de héroe encerrado en su pánico

y un setnido de culpa / jubilado de olvido


es la tibia conciencia de cómo deberían

haber sido los cruces de la vida y la muerte

y también el rescate de los breves chispazos

nacidos del encuentro de la muerte y la vida


la soledad se sabe sola en mundo de solos

y se pregunta a veces por otras soledades

no como vía crucis entre ánimo y ánima

más bien con interés entomológico


todavía hace un tiempo / en rigor no hace tanto

las soledades / solas / cada una en su hueco

hablaban una sola deshilachada lengua

que en los momentos claves les servía de puente


o también una mano una señal un beso

acercaban al solo la soledad contingua

y una red solidaria de solos conectaba

las geografías y las esperanzas


en el amor y el tango los solos se abrazabban

y como era de todos el idimos del mundo

podían compartir la tristeza y el goce

y hasta se convencían de que no estaban solos


pero algo ha cambiado / está combiando

cada solo estrenó su nueva cueva

nuevo juego de llaves y candados

y de paso el dialecto de uno solo



ahora cuando bailan los solos y las solas

ya no se enlazan / guardan su distancia

en el amor se abrazan pero piensan

en otro abrazo / el de sus soledades


las soledades de babel ignoran

qué soledades rozan su costado

nunca sabrán de quién es el proyecto

de la torre de espanto que contruyen


así / diseminados pero juntos

cercanos pero ajenos / solos codo con codo

cada uno en su burbuja / insolidarios

envejecen mezquinos como islotes


y aunque siga la torre cielo arriba

en busca de ese pobre dios de siempre

ellos se desmoronan sin saberlos

soledades abajo / sueño abajo


—Mario Benedetti


Thursday, April 4, 2024

Minor Poet/Poeta Menor by Mario Benedetti

Going rogue on translating Mario Benedetti poems because, 1) it's interesting to do, and 2) I don't agree with how his official translator is doing it. And 3) I feel he deserves to be known outside of South America, where he's as popular as a poet can be. This is one of my favorites, so far:

 

Minor Poet


The goal is obscurity.

I have arrived before.

—J. L. Borges “A Minor Poet”


One time they told him

in code of calm hate

that he is / that he always has been

a minor poet


and suddenly he has noted

that he felt at ease

in that hierarchy


in the years of return

it is very gratifying

to be a minor poet


when he reads and rereads

their major poets

and dialogues with them

no longer as equal to equal

but between unequals


without mistrust he assumes

the cordial and also

stellar distance

which seperates him from them


the good thing the best thing

is that in that distance

envy doesn’t circulate


the major poets are truly major

among other reasons

because they are compared

with the minor poets


their genius is the advantage

over the defenseless people

who write badly

by vocation and sometimes

by mistake


after all what

would become of the major

poets without the minor

poets

without their inspiration?


the minor poets

at times write from love

from trembling

and they call bread bread

or viceversa wine wine


they write verses alone

on terraces

in airports /


they construct their silences

in the middle of the roar

and fill the caution

with words


certain readers say

that they are almost like them

(they’re minor readers

of course)


some admire

the minor poets

and nourish themselves with dates

of their complete works


in the years of return

it is very gratifying

to be a minor poet


—Mario Benedetti (trans. John Yohe)

 

 

Poeta menor


La meta es el olvido.

Yo he llegado antes.

—J. L. Borges «Un poeta menor»


Alguna vez le han dicho

en clave de odio manso

que es / que siempre ha sido

un poeta menor


y de pronto had notado

que se sentía a gusto

en ese escalafón


en los años de vuelta

es muy gratificante

set un poeta menor


cuando lee y relee

a sus poetas mayores

y dialoga con ellos

ya no de igaul a igual

sino entre desiguales


asume sin recelo

la distancia cordial

y también sideral

que los separa de ellos


lo bueno lo mejor

es que en esa distancia

no circula la envidia


los poetas mayores

son mayores de veras

entre otras razones

porque se los compara

con los poetas menores


su genio es la ventaja

sobre los desvelados

ue hacen mala letra

por vocación y a veces

por equivocación


después de todo ¿qué

sería de los poetas

mayores sin los poetas

menores

sin su aliento?


los poetas menores

escriben a menudo

por amor / por temblor

y llaman al pan pan

o viceversa al vino vino


hacen verson a solas

en las terrazas

en los aeropuertos /


contruyen sus silencios

en medio del fragor

y llenan de palabras

la cautela


ciertos lectores dicen

qaue son casi como ellos

(son lectores menores

por supuesto)


unos y otros admiran

a los poetas mayores

y se nutren con citas

de sus obras completas


en los años de vuelta

es muy gratificante

ser un poeta menor


Wednesday, April 3, 2024

Music/Música by Mario Benedetti

I don't have official permission to translate poems by Uruguayan writer Mario Benedetti, but I'm putting some up here because, 1) He's not well known outside of South America but should be, and 2) his official translator is doing a horrible job (adding words, changing sentences structure). Here's the first:

 

Music


If one could insert oneself into the music

and rest there while the world

continues being a combustible racket

maybe I could stop death

without weighty reasons / simply

because it is maddening and never defeated


if one could install oneself in the music

be violin or guitar or clavichord

and choose sweet hallucinations

or timid temporary questions

the soul would sound like a dream

or the miracle of a bird suspended


but no one has been able to introduce themselves

like a spy between two modulations /

in that odd strip of ringings

the music will always be for others

others who prowl through the night

until threading the needle of insomnia


—Mario Benedetti (trans. John Yohe)


Música


Si uno pudiera insertarse en la música

y descansar allí mientras el mundo

sigue siendo un estruendo combustible

tal vez podría detener la muerte

sin razones de peso / simplemente

porque es latosa y no se rinde nunca


si uno pudiera instalarse en la música

ser violín o guitarra o clavicordio

y elegir dulces alucinaciones

o tímida pregunta temporales

el almo sonaría como un sueño

o el milagro de un pájaro en suspenso


pero nadie had podido introducirse

como espía entre dos modulaciones /

en esa franja impar de los tañido

la música será siempre de otros

otros ue por la noche merodean

hasta enhebrar la aguja del insomnio


—Mario Benedetti