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Entries Tagged as 'translation'

Poetry in Translation (LXXVIII): Philip Larkin (1922-1985) – “Heads in the Women’s Ward” (Azil)

October 2nd, 2010 · 2 Comments · PEOPLE, Poetry, Translations

Philip Larkin
Heads in the Women’s Ward (1972)

On pillow after pillow lies
The wild white hair and staring eyes;

Jaws stand open; necks are stretched
With every tendon sharply sketched;

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Poetry in Translation (LXXVII): W.B. Yeats (1865-1939) – “Cloths of Heaven” (Manta Celesta:

October 1st, 2010 · 1 Comment · PEOPLE, Poetry, Translations

W.B. Yeats (1865–1939)

Poet Irlandez, Premiul Nobel pentru Literatura

MANTA CELESTA

Manta celesta de as fi avut

Cu flori de aur si margarint,

Pe-a noptii straie, de-azur cernut,

In umbre cu sclipire de argint,

Sub pasii tai de mult le-as fi tinut.

Dar fiind sarac, doar vise de pripas

Mai pot s-astern pe drum, in calea-ti lunga:

Ai grije, cand pasesti, sa nu se franga,

Caci este totul ce mi-a mai ramas!

(Versiune in limba Romana – Constaantin ROMAN, Londra, Copyright 2010, All rights reserved)

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Poetry in Translation (LXXIV): Marin Sorescu (b. 1950) – “Exile”

March 26th, 2010 · 1 Comment · PEOPLE, Poetry, Translations

EXIL (Marin Sorescu)
Au inflorit cartofii in Marmatia / si voi tocmai acum plecati spre sud /cand ceru-i aiurit si descusut / cand se confunda bocetul cu natia ? /

EXILE

As the potato flowers are in bloom
You take the road which ever us do part?
Now that the sky is gray and overcast
And tears confound the country and the doom?

The grief will be for you the new abode
Perhaps a warmer grave and newer ethos
We shall unearth those emerald potatoes
Those precious stones dug out from where we hoed.

What kind of God preserved in secret heavens
May still be glad to gather our bones
With you, with us we cry on our tombs
With you with us a story ends in ruins.
(Translated from Romanian by Constantin ROMAN)

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Poetry in Translation (LXXII): – Horia VINTILA, “Dedication”

December 17th, 2009 · 1 Comment · Diaspora, PEOPLE, Poetry, Reviews, Translations

DEDICATION (Vintila Horia)
Through streets of Babylon I look confused
For Thee my Lord to come in your pursuit
My voice is hoarse and broken like a lute
Which lost its soul for being over used.

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“Blouse Roumaine – the Unsung Voices of Romanian Women”: what the Readers say:

September 3rd, 2009 · 2 Comments · Books, Diaspora, PEOPLE, Poetry, Reviews, Translations

Constantin Roman invites us for a walk, during which he enjoins past and present alike, in a brisk coming and going of the narrative. It is a narrative that cannot suddenly end, but rather one which compels us to start all over again and revisit. It is a truly wonderful gift, a very happy surprise indeed of an inherently original book, which haunts us like the persistent music of those Romanian women’s voices.” (French Government Adviser, Paris)

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Poetry in Translation (LXIV): W.B. YEATS – In Memoria D-relor Eva Gore-Booth si Con Markiewicz

August 30th, 2009 · Comments Off on Poetry in Translation (LXIV): W.B. YEATS – In Memoria D-relor Eva Gore-Booth si Con Markiewicz · Poetry, Translations

In Memory of Eva Gore-Booth and Con Markiewicz

The light of evening, Lissadell,
Great windows open to the south,
Two girls in silk kimonos,both
Beautiful, one a gazelle.
But a raving Autumn shears
Blossom from the Summer’s wreath;
The older is condemned to death,
Pardoned, drags out lonely years
Conspiring among the ignorant.
I know not what the younger dreams-
Some vague Utopia-and she seems,
When withered old and skeleton-gaunt,
An image of such politics.
Many a time I think to seek
One or the other out and speak
Of that old Georgian mansion, mix
Pictures of the mind, recall
That table and the talk of youth,
Two girls in silk kimonos, both
Beautiful, one a gazelle.

Dear shadows, now you know it all,
All the folly of a fight
With a common wrong or right.
The innocent and the beautiful
Have no enemy but time;
Arise and bid me strike a match
And strike another till time catch;
Should the conflagration climb,
Run till all the sages know.
We the great gazebo built,
They convicted us of guilt;
Bid me strike a match and blow.

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Poetry in Translation (LXIII): Ada TYRRELL – MY SON – Fiul meu

August 24th, 2009 · Comments Off on Poetry in Translation (LXIII): Ada TYRRELL – MY SON – Fiul meu · Poetry, Translations

Ada Tyrrell (1854-1955), Anglo-Irish writer and socialite is best known for her poem “My Son” written during WWI. In the context of the current British engagement in Irak and Afghanistan it has a particularly poignant relevance. fregments of this poem are rendered into Romanian.

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Poetry in Translation (XLVIII-LIII): Josef Ozga MICHALSKI (1919-2002, Polonia): Sase poezii

August 22nd, 2006 · Comments Off on Poetry in Translation (XLVIII-LIII): Josef Ozga MICHALSKI (1919-2002, Polonia): Sase poezii · PEOPLE, Poetry, Translations

Josef Ozga MICHALSKI, Poland (1919-2002) poems Romanian translation
(In roamaneste de Constantin ROMAN,
Bucuresti 1965)

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Poetry in Translation (LIII-LVII):Cinci Poeti Canadieni: Jean-Guy PILON, H. de SAINT-DENIS GARNEAU, M. WADDINGTON, Gregory M. COOK si E.W. MANDEL

August 22nd, 2006 · Comments Off on Poetry in Translation (LIII-LVII):Cinci Poeti Canadieni: Jean-Guy PILON, H. de SAINT-DENIS GARNEAU, M. WADDINGTON, Gregory M. COOK si E.W. MANDEL · PEOPLE, Poetry, Translations

Jean-Guy PILON (Quebec, Canada
STRAINUL ACESTA (L’ETRANGER D’ICI

Era dintr-o tara de corsari bigoti
Unde inconstienta era luata drept dogma,
Imbecilul drept stapan
Iar nebunul drept ntelept

Era o tara de lupte inutile
Si de ruini magnifice
O tara mancata de viermi

Cand a vrut sa-si strige mania
Nu i s-a ingaduit sa o faca

De abea l-au lasat sa moara.

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Poetry in Translation (XLI): Guy CHAMBELLAND (1927-1996), Poet Burgund: “Cand bataia inimii se stinge”/ “Quand le coeur tout d’un coup me manque”/”When the heart suddenly fails”

July 30th, 2006 · Comments Off on Poetry in Translation (XLI): Guy CHAMBELLAND (1927-1996), Poet Burgund: “Cand bataia inimii se stinge”/ “Quand le coeur tout d’un coup me manque”/”When the heart suddenly fails” · PEOPLE, Poetry, Translations

Quand le coeur tout d’un coup me manque, qui dois-je
me faire, eau ou pierre, pour m’habiter inhabitable?
Ne suis-je qu’une vieille, ne suis-je qu’un pitre?
Poème, statue sur l’eau, – mais moi?

Cand bataia inimii se stinge, ce voi
ajunge, stanca, sau val, ca sa traiesc in ne-traire?
N-as fi oare decat o baba? Sau poate o paiata?
Vers ridicat pe valuri, – dar eu-insumi?

(in Romaneste de Constantin ROMAN,
Londra SW1, Iulie 2006)

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