Van Gogh was relieved of his ear,
because he didn’t need it:
he had already heard Genius.
Al-Ma’arri actually saw as much,
that no longer
eyes were so important.
Charents had no grave,
because
he is not dead yet.
I greet people with my left hand,
because with my right hand
I have already greeted God…
Translated from Armenian by Artur Avagyan
***
Life lives me with all my details,
and I turn around it
as a color of another brush.
My canvases are full of hole
as a Japanese coin,
through that in turn
all my loves always rescue out
from me with outgoing ringing
about my wonderful loss…
And my claps
are heavier me.
So I’ve collected them
in my hand
as an tattered paper
and keep them
for the last – the death
to revamp its masks,
that will be hole one day,
as my canvases are.
And I’ll ring out forever,
and life will live on me
with all my details…
Translated from Armenian by Vanuhy Alabekyan
***
Under the window of poetry
from each end till the beginning of the century
I lavish serenades drunk…
And till around me membranes chewing
prostitute times,
for captivating my heart,
are changing the hues of
their die for barren underclothing,-
my beloved color in the world
Is the poetry…
***
Summers are crumbling flushing,
as Rodin’s «Danaide’s» membranes of brain…
Autumns are weary untidy from fate,
out from their hue –
as painter’s bra- splitted in barocco style…
Winters are self-refute pistils’
pallid prolongation
from green dreams of angels …
But still I’m the spring
of unrequited love…
Translated from Armenian by Ani Hakobyan
***
Red,
red,
among your red oaths
the colours of the angels
are reluctantly raining;
the rain is punctuating squalls
on my soul’s pavement,
which you’re
breathing
now-
as a crock-crow…
***
I am plucking now
the eyelashes of silence piece by piece
and patching my prayer,
which has splitted by nuances of word…
Now the nuance is more than the voice…
And now I’m already
entering the church of Hope barefooted,
for my steps won’t draw voices to my fortune.
How many footprints have been splitted by the whispers…
And my footprint
is my prayer of love,
which never ends,
as it’s never coloures in words…
And now
the main colour is,
that love is the poem of the feeling…
That muses don’t become to women…
Translated from Armenian by Herminée Arshakyan
1 comment
HarVart (Harout VARTANIAN) says:
Dec 26, 2013
Hello Granish, I congratulate the English version with all my “literary heart.” It’s a bold step forward. I strongly believe in constructive criticism, and if I can make a positive differece with a humble remark of mine through this window, be it for the good of Armenian Poetry.
I know Eduard Harents in person, I am familiar with some of his work. I did translate two of his poems. I appreciate his unique art. Translation is a very serious responsibility indeed. As I read the second poem published here, “*** Life lives me with all my details…” translated by one respectable Vanuhy ALABEKYAN, I reminisced the Armenian original, which I happened to hear being recited by Harents himself on two occasions during a poetry fesival in Armenia. I vividly remember the first reading at Stop Club at Moskovyan street, Yerevan and the second during a bus trip within the Poetry Festival. Harents’ work contains moments of meshy metaphors, where language–even in the Armenian original–is sometimes telling us more than it can carry, it is an illusive-magical state of pondering; to translate this: not only one must master the intricacies of English; but should definitely possess a fine literary sense of poetic sensibilities at least (or be a poet at most.)
With all due respect to Ms. Vanuhy ALABEKYAN, this translated version is a CATASTROPHE, is a high-calibre massacre in a bloody abbatoir. I can go line by line, I can dive into the translated version verbatim, I can even ask for the Armenian original from Harents in order to make a statement about this translation not celebrating the shine of the jewel it deserves. The translator clearly lacks knowledge of literary (not to say poetic) English, she devoured sentences and structures to the extent of extinguishing the magic of the original, which, I repeat, had the honor to hear twice from the lips of Harents.
If this translation is in its primary stage, then it needs serious revising. If it is in its finished state, then its a CATASTROPHE. I make some quick remarks of apparent mistakes using the following signs [], ()(not touching upon the matter of linguistic realization of the poem, in hand, in English for the time being)
***
Life lives me with all my details,
and I turn around it
as a color of another brush.
My canvases are full of hole[s]
as a Japanese coin,
[[through that in turn
all my loves always rescue out (rescue out from me?!?!)
from me with outgoing ringing]] (sentence needs serious review)
about my wonderful loss…
And my claps
[[are heavier me.]] (this is grammatically wrong!)
So I’ve collected them
in my hand
as an [a] tattered paper (a tattered, not an tattered)
and keep them
for the last – [the] death
to revamp its masks,
that will [be hole] one day,
as my canvases are.
And I’ll ring out forever, (ring out?!?!)
and life will live [on] me (in the beginning “life lives me” was used)
with all my details…
With all respect to Granish readers and staff,
Yours,
HarVart