Τετάρτη 19 Μαρτίου 2025

Interior: an inside look at the translation of a poem

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.

INTERIOR

Los ojos que se miran
a través de los ángeles domésticos
del humo de la sopa.
En la botella brilladora canta
el ruiseñor del vino.

Reluce y tintinea lo visible
en la fruta, el reloj, la porcelana.
El pan abre su mano cereal
sobre el mantel. Las flores.
En el grabado antiguo toca el arpa
una muchacha de mil ochocientos.
El cigarrillo como que te asciende
la mano. Y una puerta se entreabre
sobre la sala silenciosa y tersa:
y más allá un huerto se presiente
o tal vez el recuerdo de un jardín.
En el espejo estás ya como ausente.
Por un instante se detiene todo
y escuchamos, absortos, lo invisible
de la noche que se abre a nuestro ensueño.
Con el café llega un país lejano.

          El tiempo nada puede.
Todas estas son cosas inmortales.

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.


INTERIOR

The eyes that look at you
through the domestic angels
of the steaming soup.
In the bright bottle
the wine nightingale sings.

The visible shines and tinkles
in the fruit, the clock, the porcelain.
The bread spreads its cereal hand
on the tablecloth. The flowers.
In the old engraving, playing the harp,
a girl of the nineteenth century.
The cigarette seems to raise
your hand. And a door ajar
leads to the silent, polished lounge:
beyond it one senses an orchard
or maybe the memory of a garden.
In the mirror you look already absent.
Everything pauses for an instant
and we listen, absorbed, to the invisible
of the night that opens to our daydream.
A far country arrives with the coffee.

Time is powerless.
All these are things immortal.

I loved the poem and the experience of translating it so much, that translating it into Greek came naturally. It might sound strange, but it seemed more difficult to me than the translation into English. The common Latin roots and the short verbal forms of both languages had helped. The Greek translation is less faithful to the original (in the sense of being less literal), because the differences of the two languages do not facilitate the recreation of nearly identical phrases. However, I hope it is as faithful in spirit, if not in word. 

A comment on the title: the word “interior” in this poem refers to the interior of a house. In English I could use the word as such. In Greek, however, I decided not to use the word “εσωτερικό” (“interior”) but the word “εντός” (“within”), because the sensation it created in me was the same as in the original. If I must rationalise it, I would say that the interior of this house, as presented to us, represents warmth, familiarity, the soul’s innermost core. It is the magical aspect of everyday life we all keep within.


ΕΝΤΟΣ

Τα μάτια που κοιτάζονται
μέσ’ απ’ τους σπιτικούς αγγέλους
του αχνού της σούπας.
Στη λαμπερή μποτίλια τραγουδά
το αηδόνι του κρασιού.

Αστράφτει, κουδουνίζει το ορατό
στα φρούτα, το ρολόι, την πορσελάνη.
Το ψωμί απλώνει το σταρένιο χέρι του
στο τραπέζι. Τα λουλούδια.
Στο παλιό κάδρο παίζει άρπα
μια κοπέλα του περασμένου αιώνα.
Το τσιγάρο σαν ν' ανασηκώνει
στο χέρι σου. Μια πόρτα μισανοίγει
στη σιωπηλή, λουστραρισμένη σάλα:
πιο πέρα η αίσθηση ενός περιβολιού
ή ίσως η ανάμνηση ενός κήπου.
Στον καθρέφτη μοιάζεις κιόλας απούσα.
Για μια στιγμή όλα κοντοστέκουν
προσηλωμένοι ακούμε το αόρατο
της νύχτας μες στο ονειροπόλημά μας.
Ο καφές φέρνει μια χώρα μακρινή.

                Ο χρόνος είναι ανήμπορος.
Όλα τούτα είναι πράγματα αθάνατα.

Δεν υπάρχουν σχόλια:

Δημοσίευση σχολίου