This article was first published in Greek, in Philadelphus magazine, in 2015.
I recently had the joy and privilege to translate a poem from Spanish to English and to have it published. Thanks to the recommendation of a friend (to whom I am deeply grateful both for this opportunity and for his insightful comments on my translation), I collaborated with painter and photographer Dimitris Yeros in translating correspondence regarding his book “Photographing Gabriel García Márquez”, Kerber editions. In this book, which presents photos of Gabriel García Márquez in his personal space from his latest years, there is a photo of the manuscript of a poem, hanging on the wall of his house.
The poem is “Interior” by Colombian poet Eduardo Carranza, published in his collection “Los pasos contados” (“Measured steps”). García Márquez mentions this poem in his text “La penitencia del poder” (“The penance of power”), an homage to the 70th birthday of Belisario Betancur, ex-president of Colombia, endorsed by many poets, among others Carranza’s daughter María Mercedes, also a poet.
Los ojos que se miran
When my translation was published at Philadelphus magazine, I was asked to say a word on the translation process. I must admit it was not easy. I normally do not think about the process of translation while translating, especially not when translating literature. On the other hand, I have read various texts on the theory of translation, which will not doubt have influenced me. Nevertheless, I will attempt to describe the process as if I were observing it instead of actually being immersed in it.
It has been said that translation is the deepest possible lecture of a text. Indeed, every translation is a very deep lecture – and literary translation even more so. The deepest the lecture, the more insightful the translation. This does not mean that we need to analyse the content. Analysing is for critics. We should immerse ourselves in the text, allow the text to permeate us. The translator needs to step as much as possible into the author’s shoes in the way a reader does – to experience the text, not analyse it. The translator should feel as the author felt when they were writing this particular text. They should reproduce the mood. They should transfer the feeling, not the phrases. Of course, they ought to maintain the distinct style and structure, but in order to achieve this they should deconstruct the text inside them and reconstruct it in the target language, in a form not identical but equivalent.
Particularly in poetry, we need to maintain a very special element, of critical importance: musicality. By this I mean all morphological elements which give the poem its special character, be it rhythm, metre, rhyme, alliteration or anything else. In prose we also have musicality, of course, but its role in the overall feeling of the text is less important and rendering it is usually easier (notwithstanding certain exceptions). In poetry, musicality is a key element: if it is lost, the poem is no longer a poem.
I personally believe that in translating poetry, our priority should be transferring musicality and mood, even if this means we must loose something of the “meaning”. Umberto Eco in his book “Postille a ‘Il nome della rosa’ ” (“Postscript to ‘The Name of the Rose’ ”) comments on how intolerable it is to recite poetry ignoring the metre, as if we were reading prose, in an effort to emphasize the meaning. He points out that in order to read a poem, we should accept the melodious rhythm chosen by the author. He illustrates this opinion saying that it is better to recite Dante as if it were diary verses, than to drag behind the meaning at all costs. I believe that what is true for reciting, is also true for translating. It may not always be possible to keep the metre chosen by the author in the original, but there has to be a metre and it has to recreate the same mood (for instance, if we are translating a folk song, we could choose a common form of folk song in the target language for our translation, even if this form is not the same as in the source language, because it will give the same impression to the reader). The meaning is definitely important, but in poetry a large part of the meaning is actually transferred through musicality. Without it the poem is altered in such a degree as to lose the translation goal.
That is why when I translate verse, be it poems or songs, I set aside the quest for meaning and I listen, I simply listen. I read the verses again and again, I sway to their rhythm, I dance in my mind. I let their music invade me. I may let it wander about in my head for hours or days. Till the time comes when I feel capable of singing it in the other language. And then I sit and write – quickly, rhythmically, without pausing. If someone sees me at that moment, they might think I am in a hurry, but actually I am just following the rhythm of the verse. I do not sit and think, because I have already thought – or rather felt – and now the time has come to compose. If a bit does not come immediately and spontaneously, I leave it blank and return to it later, in order to keep following the flow.
After I have this first version on paper, I read the translated text again and again. I hear it, I feel it, I listen to see if it recreates in me the same sensation I had when I first read the original. I make corrections and changes where I think needed – usually very few. Sometimes I might get stuck at a word or a phrase and then I leave it for a while and come back to it later. I let my thoughts wander to other things and return to the task with a clear mind. When I am through with this process, I then read the original together with the translation. Three, four, five, six times, as many as needed to make sure they sound as similar as possible – but no more. After a while, too much re-examination becomes a vicious circle or becomes analysis.
And so Carranza’s poem passed from Spanish into English.
ή ίσως η ανάμνηση ενός κήπου.
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