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TTT 10 years Tribute

Gió O tưởng niệm TTT [1926-2006]

http://gio-o.com/

Trần Hồng Tiệm FB
February 29 at 12:01am ·

dịch cho Văn Hoàng Đỗ

những bài thơ về matxcơva

bảy quả đồi như bảy quả chuông
trên bảy quả chuông - những tháp chuông
đếm tất cả - bốn mươi lần bốn chục
thất sơn khâu bảy quả đồi chuông

tôi sinh ra vào đúng ngày vàng
chuông ngân vang ngày lễ thánh gioan
nhà - bánh ngọt, còn xung quanh hàng giậu
những nhà thờ nho nhỏ những chóp vàng

tôi yêu sao yêu quá tiếng chuông đầu
như các sơ tuôn đến buổi lễ chầu
yêu tiếng rít trong lò và giấc nồng cháy bỏng
lẫn bà lang hàng xóm chốn sân vườn

hãy dẫn tôi cả matxcơva du thủ
bọn tiên si, trộm cắp, tâm thần
đức cha ơi, bít miệng con chặt nữa
bằng đất matxcơva vang vọng chuông ngân

M. Tsvetaeva

* tiên si là dịch từ khlyst, những người theo giáo phái chịu đòn roi để hiệp thông với chúa.

‪#‎thodichdonga‬ ‪#‎thongadonga‬

Семь холмов -- как семь колоколов!
На семи колоколах -- колокольни.
Всех счетом -- сорок сороков.
Колокольное семихолмие!

В колокольный я, во червонный день
Иоанна родилась Богослова.
Дом -- пряник, а вокруг плетень
И церковки златоголовые.

И любила же, любила же я первый звон,
Как монашки потекут к обедне,
Вой в печке, и жаркий сон,
И знахарку с двора соседнего.

Провожай же меня весь московский сброд,
Юродивый, воровской, хлыстовский!
Поп, крепче позаткни мне рот
Колокольной землей московскою!

from Poems for Moscow

Seven hills-like seven bells,
seven bells toll in the seven bell towers.
All forty times forty churches, all seven hills
of bells, every one of them counted, like pillows.

I was born in the ringing of bells
on the saint's day of John the Theologian.
Over the wattle fence, our gingerbread house-
dropped its crumbs for SaintJohn the Theologian.

I loved it first: the first ringing-
the nuns sweeping to mass in the warmth of sleep-
the crack of the fire catching in the stove-
seven bells, seven bell towers.

Come with me, people of Moscow,
you crazy, looting, flagellant mob!
And priest-place on my tongue
all of Moscow, the city of bells!

Có tí khác:

Qua phên giậu, nhà hàng xóm của chúng tôi,
Thả những mẩu vụn bánh ngọt của nó cho Ngày Thánh Gioan

Và tu sĩ – hãy đặt lên lưỡi của ta
Tất cả Moscow, thành phố của chuông ngân

from Poems for Moscow

From my hands-take this city not made by hands,
my strange, my beautiful brother.

Take it, church by church-all forty times forty churches,
and flying up the roofs, the small pigeons;

and Spassky Gates-and gates, and gates-
where the Orthodox take off their hats;

and the Chapel of Stars-refuge chapel-
where the floor is-polished by tears;

take the circle of the five cathedrals,
my coal, my soul; the domes wash us in their darkgold,

and on your shoulders, from the red clouds,
the Mother of God will drop her own thin coat,

and you will rise, happened of wonderpowers
-never ashamed you loved me.

MARCH 31 1916

So how does one attempt to translate the work that even poets of Russia find too demanding? Translators usually cite Tsvetaeva's famous temperament. "Next time I will be born not on a planet, but on a comet!" she wrote. With bravery, they announce their ambition to imitate her music in English-to stay "faithful" to the music.
    Merely acknowledging an attempt to imitate Tsvetaeva's sounds produces just that: an attempt at imitation that cannot rise to the level of the original. This may occur because of the translator's lack of skill or because the "receiving" language, English, is an entirely different medium at a very different point in its development, a point at which the particular sound effects mean entirely different things.
    We do not claim to do better. In fact, Jean Valentine and I do not claim to have translated her. To translate is to inhabit. The meaning of the word ekstasis is to stand outside of one's body. This we do not claim. (We wish we could, one day.) Jean Valentine and I claim we are two poets who fell in love with a third and spent two years reading her together. If translation-as most translators are eager to claim-is "a closest possible reading," then this is not translation; it is a notation, a midrash. These pages are fragments, notes in the margin. "Erase everything you have written," Mandelstam says, "but keep the notes in the margin."
    So, what is this enterprise? Our two temperaments differ vastly from Tsvetaeva's, but we are drawn by her magnetism and so we continue reading her together. Just that: reading lines, fragments, moments; two years of two poets reading a third is an homage.
    What would Tsvetaeva herself think of the many English translations of her work? She translated Rilke, famously. She translated Shakespeare, too, and Rostan, and Lorca-into Russian. She also translated Mayakovsky, Pushkin, and Lermontov into French. She translated herself into French as well, devoting a great deal of time and care to it. Was she faithful? Not at all. She also translated from languages she did not know: Georgian, Polish, Yiddish. Most of her translations are far from literal. "I tried to translate," she wrote, "but then decided-why should I get in my own way? Moreover, there is a lot the French would not understand which is clear to us. The result was I rewrote it."
    Scholars call her best work of translation-her take on Baudelaire's "Voyage"-a work translated "not from French into Russian" but from "Baudelaire into Tsvetaeva."

* zaurn refers to the pure play of language, "beyonsense"

Afterword

Một người ngoại toan tính dịch thơ Tsvetaeva sẽ đụng phải vấn đề mà ngay cả những thi sĩ Nga cũng cảm thấy thật căng, Và, có thể, người đó sẽ nhớ tới câu phán cực kỳ nổi tiếng, ấy là nói về tính khí của bà, kiếp sau tôi sinh ra, không phải trên 1 hành tinh, a planet, nhưng mà là 1 ngôi sao chổi, a comet.
Với sự can đảm, tham vọng của người dịch sẽ là bắt chước âm nhạc của bà trong tiếng Anh – nghĩa là trung thành với âm nhạc.
Ngưỡng mộ bà, nhà thơ Balmont đã từng viết, bà đòi hỏi ờ thơ điều chỉ âm nhạc đem lại.

Penguin Russian Poetry

Answer

I'm certainly not a Sibyl;
my life is clear as a stream.
I just don't feel like singing
to the rattle of prison keys.
(1930s)

Anna Akhmatova
Robert Chandler

Song Nam Tang shared Trần Hồng Tiệm's post.

5 hrs

Trần Hồng Tiệm

18 hrs

trả lời

tôi hoàn toàn không phải là đồng cốt
cuộc đời tôi trong vắt tựa suối nguồn
mà đơn giản tôi không muốn hát
dưới tiếng leng keng của khóa nhà tù
những năm 1930
anna akhmatova

Ответ
И вовсе я не пророчица,
Жизнь моя светла, как ручей.
А просто мне петь не хочется
Под звон тюремных ключей.
1930-е годы
Анна Ахматова

‪#‎thodichdonga‬ ‪#‎thongadonga‬

Note: Bản tiếng Anh, cũng vậy.
Có tí khác, tôi không muốn hát theo tiếng leng keng...
Do đọc ba chớp ba nháng, nên dịch trật.
Bài thơ Pasternak tưởng niệm Tsvetaeva cũng dịch trật, nhờ bạn K sửa giùm
Tks all and sorry abt that
NQT

Trả lời

Tôi chắc chắn không phải là 1 Sybil;
Đời tôi thì trong sáng như là con suối
Tôi chỉ không thích nghe
Tiếng leng keng của chùm chìa khoá
Nhà tù

Sibyl, là bà đồng, như Mít gọi, người nói ra những sấm ngôn. Đây là nick của Akhmatova. Số phận của bà giống của Cassandra.
The sibyls were women that the ancient Greeks believed were oracles. The earliest sibyls, according to legend, prophesied at holy sites. Their prophecies were influenced by divine inspiration from a deity; originally at Delphi and Pessinos, the deities were chthonic deities. In later antiquity, various writers attested to the existence of sibyls in Greece, Italy, the Levant, and Asia Minor. [Wiki]

Cassandra, nhân vật trong thần thoại Hy Lạp, được thần Apollo ban cho tài tiên tri, nhưng do từ chối tình yêu của Apollo nên bị thần trù eỏ, mi tiên tri, nhưng đếch ai tin điều mi tiên tri.
Trong bi kịch Agamemnon của Aeschylus, Cassandra cảnh cáo đám Mít Miền Nam, đừng rước Yankee mũi tẹt vô, đừng đuổi Yankee mũi lõ. Đếch ai nghe. Thế là mất mẹ Miền Nam. Đến lúc đó, lời tiên tri mới thành hiện thực!
Nhưng ít người biết số phận của Cassandra, sau khi thành Troy bị mất. Em bị Yankee mũi tẹt bắt, hãm hiếp, và trao cho Víp Va Ka, Trùm VC nằm vùng, làm bồ nhí. Nhưng em bị ám sát, và thê thảm là, em nhìn thấy trước tất cả những điều này!
Hà, hà!

The Case of BNT

Một Bóng Đêm Giữa Ban Ngày Khác

The New York Review of Books
March 15 at 9:41am ·

Last summer a German doctoral student working in the Zurich Central Library made a remarkable discovery, one that will transform our understanding of Arthur Koestler’s finest novel. For Darkness at Noon is a book that, until now, was known to the world only in translation.

A Different ‘Darkness at Noon’

Last July a German doctoral student named Matthias Weßel made a remarkable discovery: a copy of the German manuscript of Arthur Koestler’s masterpiece. The implications are considerable, for Darkness at Noon is that rare specimen, a…
nybooks.com|By Michael Scammell

Speaking in tongues

Trang Bolano

A PERFECT STORY

A while ago, at a lunch with Nicanor Parra, the poet made mention of the stories of Saki, especially one of them, "The Open Window," which is part of the book Beasts and Super Beasts. The great Saki's real name was Hector Hugh Munro and he was born in 1870 in Burma, which in those days was a British colony. His stories, heavily seasoned with black humor, generally belong to the genre of horror and supernatural fiction, so popular among the British. When World War I broke out, Saki enlisted as a volunteer, a fate he could surely have avoided by virtue of his age (he was over forty), and he died fighting at Beaumont-Hamel in 1916.
During that long postprandial conversation, which lasted until nightfall, I thought about a writer of the same generation as Munro, though stylistically he was very different: the great Max Beerbohm, who was born in London in 1872 and died in Rapallo, Italy, in 1956, and who, in addition to stories, wrote novels, newspaper pieces, and essays, without ever giving up two of his first loves: drawing and caricature. Max Beerbohm may be the paradigm of the minor writer and the happy man. In other words: Max Beerbohm was a good and gracious soul. When we finally took our leave of Nicanor Parra and the Caleuche and returned to Santiago, I thought about the story that I believe is Beerbohm's best, "Enoch Soames," which was included by Silvina Ocampo, Borges, and Adolfo Bioy Casares in the magnificent and often hard to find Antologia de la literatura fantastica [Anthology of Fantastic Literature]. Months later I reread it. The story is about a mediocre and pedantic poet whom Beerbohm meets in his youth. The poet, who has written only two books, one worse than the next, befriends the young Beerbohm, who in turn becomes an involuntary witness to his misfortunes. The story thus becomes not just a testament to the life of all poor fools who in a moment of madness choose literature, but to late nineteenth-century London. Thus far, of course, it's a comic tale, vacillating between naturalism and reportage (Beerbohm appears under his real name, as does Aubrey Beardsley), between satire and the broad brushstrokes of costumbrismo. But suddenly everything changes, absolutely changes. The critical moment comes when Enoch Soames, lost in thought, glimpses his mediocrity. He's seized by despair and apathy. One afternoon Beerbohm runs into him at a restaurant. They talk, and the young narrator tries to cheer up the poet. He points out that Soames's financial situation is all right, he can live on his income for the rest of his life, maybe he just needs a holiday. The bad poet confesses that all he wants to do is kill himself and that he would give anything to know whether his name will live on. Then someone at the next table, a man with the look of a scoundrel or miscreant, asks permission to join them. He introduces himself as the Devil and he promises that if Soames sells him his soul he'll send him into the future, say one hundred years, to 1997, to the British Library Reading Room where Soames often goes to work, so he can see for himself, in situ, whether his name has stood the test of time. Despite Beerbohm's pleas, Soames accepts. Before he leaves he agrees to meet Beerbohm again at the same restaurant. The next few hours are described like something out of a dream-a nightmare-in a Borges story. When at last they meet again, Soames is as pale as death. He really has traveled to the future. He couldn't find his name in any encyclopedia, any index of English literature. But he did find the Beerbohm story called "Enoch Soames," in which, among other things, he's mocked. Then the Devil comes and takes him away to hell, despite Beerbohm's efforts to stop him. In the last lines there's still a final surprise, having to do with the people Soames claims to have seen in the future. And there's yet another surprise, this one much smaller, concerning paradoxes. But these two final surprises I'll leave to the reader who buys the Antologia de fa literatura fantdstica or who rifles through libraries in search of it. Personally, if I had to choose the fifteen best stories I've read in my life, "Enoch Soames" would be among them, and not in last place.

Roberto Bolano: Between Parentheses

Truyện ngắn tuyệt hảo
Theo Bolano, truyện ngắn tuyệt hảo, là "Enoch Soames" của Max Beerbohm, trong cuốn truyện quái dị, do Borges & friends biên tập.
Thú vị làm sao, GCC có cuốn này.

Book of Fantasy

Sách & Báo Mới

The disaster takes care of everything
Maurice Blanchot, 1980

To hide and feel guilty would be the beginning of defeat
Milan Kundera, 1978

Hegel says somewhere that all great historic facts and personages recur twice. He forgot to add: "Once as tragedy, and again as farce. "
-Karl Marx, 1852

Câu này, THNM, áp dụng vô xứ Mít, tuyệt!
Trước 1975, thảm họa, sau, trò hề.
Cũng vưỡn nó, Cái Ác Bắc Kít!

I can't go on, I'll go on.
-Samuel Beckett, 1953

1894: Alexandria

ONLY THIS

You said: "I'll go to some other land, I'll go to some other sea
There's bound to be another city that's better by far.
My every effort has been ill-fated from the start;
my heart-like something dead-lies buried away;
How long will my mind endure this slow decay?
Wherever I look, wherever I cast my eyes,
I see all around me the black rubble of my life
where I've spent so many ruined and wasted years."
You'll find no new places, you won't find other shores.
The city will follow you. The streets in which you pace
will be the same, you'll haunt the same familiar places,
and inside those same houses you'll grow old.
You'll always end up in this city. Don't bother to hope
for a ship, a route, to take you somewhere else; they don't exist.
Just as you've destroyed your life, here in this
small corner, so you've wasted it through all the world.

C.P. Cavafy, "The City." Born in Alexandria in 1863 to Turkish Greeks, Cavafy lived in Liverpool for seven years before returning to Egypt to begin a thirty-year career in its ministry of public works. "The City" is one of only a handful of poems he published during his lifetime; he circulated the majority of them among his acquaintances in homemade booklets bound with pins. In 1919 his friend E.M. Forster helped introduce his work to the English-speaking world in an essay that described Cavafy as "standing absolutely motionless at a slight angle to the universe. »

Note: Bài thơ này, TV đã có dịch, nhưng kiếm không ra

THE CITY

You said: 'I'll go to another land, I'll go to another sea.
Another city will be found, a better one than this.
My every effort is doomed by destiny
and my heart - like a dead man - lies buried.
How long will my mind languish in such decay?
Wherever I turn my eyes, wherever I look,
the blackened ruins of my life I see here,
where so many years I've lived and wasted and ruined.'

Any new lands you will not find; you'll find no other seas.
The city will be following you. In the same streets
you'll wander. And in the same neighborhoods you'll age,
and in these same houses you will grow grey.
Always in this same city you'll arrive. For elsewhere - do no
hope-
there is no ship for you, there is no road.
Just as you've wasted your life here,
in this tiny niche, in the entire world you've ruined it.

C.P. Cavafy

Bạn nói: “Tớ sẽ đi tới một biển trời khác,
Và sẽ kiếm thấy một Sài Gòn khác, bảnh hơn Sài Gòn này.”
Mọi cố gắng của tớ thì đều bị số phận trù ẻo
Và trái tim của tớ – như một người chết – bị chôn vùi.
Tớ còn phải nức nở than van bao lâu nữa, trong cái thành phố thối rữa như thế này?
Nhìn đi đâu, về hướng nào,
Thì cũng vẫn những điêu tàn đen đủi, là cuộc đời của tớ mà tớ nhìn thấy,
Ở một nơi trong bao tháng năm, tớ hoang phế đời mình."

Bạn sẽ chẳng tìm thấy một biển trời mới mẻ nào đâu, nghèo mà ham!
Sài Gòn sẽ tò tò bám theo bạn, như một con đỉa đói!
Cũng vẫn những con phố đó,
Nào ngã tư Đinh Tiên Hoàng, Đa Kao (1) nào con hẻm 72 Thị Nghè,
Nào Đống Rác Chợ Cũ, nào Xóm Ken bên kia Thủ Thiêm
Vẫn những chòm xóm đó mà bạn cứ thế mà mòn mỏi, tàn tạ đi
Mớ tóc xam xám, rồi muối tiêu, rồi bàng bạc, rồi trắng toát!
Vẫn Sài Gòn mà bạn sẽ tới!
Ui chao đừng hy vọng, đừng trông mong,
Chẳng có tầu, mà cũng chẳng có đường.
Như bạn tàn tạ cuộc đời của bạn, ở đây.
Ở Sài Gòn-Toronto này!

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