Best Translation Poems
The peacocks dance
at grove near the cool pond;
and the lotuses brace
lamps like raised heads;
Nimbus clouds thrum
like loud drums;
and violet lilies scrutinize
the scene with bulbous eyes;
Hushed wavelets
array like curtains;
and the bees harmonize sweet songs,
like soothing tunes of (fish-shaped) harp;
Amidst this picturesque place,
the MARUDHAM is enthroned
*Marudham- The God of fertile land
The old Tamil literature describes the five species of lands,
kurunji-mountain land
marudam-cultivated land/farm land
mullai- forest land
neydal-beach/maritime tract
paalai- desert
This is my translation of a poem from Kamba Ramayanam
Kamba Ramayanam, is a Tamil epic that was written by the Tamil poet Kambar during the 12th century. Based on Valmiki's Ramayana (which is in Sanskrit), the story describes the life of King Rama.
This is a translation of the famous Bengali Poem " Banalata Sen". The author is
the renowned surrealist poet of India - Jibanananda Das (1899 - 1954). This poem is considered as his best and one of the all-time greatest poems of Bengali Literature.
I wandered for thousands of years on the paths of the world,
from the seas of Ceylon to the oceans of Malaya, through the darkness of nights,
I have travelled so much; in the distant grey world of Bimbisar and Ashoka -
I was there; still farther in the darkness of the city of Bidarva;
I am a weary soul, amid the wild foamy seas of life;
Banalata Sen of Natore bestowed me some peace for a few moments.
her hair reminds the dark nights of the long-lost Bidisha,
her face the fine carvings of Srabasti; in the farthest corner of the sea,
the sailor whose sail is broken, and who has lost directions,
when he spots a green, grassy island with cinnamon,
I sighted her the same way; she said, "Where have you been for so long? "
raising her eyes, like a bird's nest, Banalata Sen of Natore.
evening dawns like the sound of dews, the eagle wipes out the smell of sun from its wings,
all the colours of the world fade, I write the manuscript
of the story, the scintillating fireflies shine bright,
all birds return to their nests ~ all rivers meet their ends ~
all borrowings and lendings of life are complete,
nothing remains but the darkness, and Banalata Sen sitting across me face to face.
Translated by : Malabika Ray Choudhury
Somebody suggested I write the tale using the correctly spelled words because my story (below here in the Homophone contest) is simply too distracting to understand with homophones. Hope you will take a peek!!
When Harry Met Terry
Once upon a time in a wood, a very nice prince named Harry
met in the mist, high on the bough of a tree, a fairy named Terry.
The fairy felt low, for he was weak, and he was in need of some meat.
He bawled, “Woe is me. I can’t even stand here on my own two feet!
My poor heart is breaking, and I’m in pain. The last time that I ate
was days ago. You see, I’m in a haze and do not feel so great.”
I perish and long for wine and ham. Even better would be lamb!
But I would settle for a piece of bread with some sweet berry jam.”
Prince Harry knew he had some mints, some Tic Tacs that were in the pair
of new red jeans he wore. He took them out and waved them in the air.
“Licorice too I have right here!” Prince Harry told the fairy.
“It’s not much, but please do eat. Later on, we’ll dine and make merry.”
Prince Harry placed the fairy Terry on his pale white horse.
Then away the royal with the fairy hastened on his homeward course.
All day long they rode and rode. When the fairy started to groan.
Suddenly, from the horse, both the man and fairy were thrown.
Hungrily, they paced beneath the setting sun and through the night.
They pressed on until morning. Harry’s residence came into sight.
Prince Harry’s wife had supper ready, and she’d made a pie.
From utter happiness, the fairy thought that he might die.
She heated up their food for them. They both had grown so pale!
She listened as the fairy Terry told his tragic tale. . .
of how he’d lost his way and, for food, had not one crumb
until her dear spouse rescued him. At last, his prince had come!
The deception of “free verse”: Dreams II, Translation of Etiemble’s “L’imposture du vers libre” by T. Wignesan
“Free verse, free not to be verse” – Audiberti
My love is not blue like a lake
my love is not blue like a sky
but red swollen with blood
and of ire
No lapping sounds of oars
playing out a nocturne
Bienne lake or that of Bourget
ever beat out the loping of my heart
My love’s neither blue nor like a lake
nor like a sea of oil
In the cauldron of boiling oil
a witch throws in a thumb
and the formula
My witching love
sputters and bursts out
stinging these busts and this lip
red
Vehement like a she-demon
it dances in a mad whirl
My left temple
wails
with the furious ocean
which rumbles under my pillow
What ships wreck in this sunken heart
still bleeding
of all the hearts it peeled
bleeding bodies of the young girl
And this heart weeps over its deaths
Like those on All Souls’ Day
the old hoary woman weeping
twisted up into wailing somersaults
which pad the cries of skeletons
clinging to rapacious granite
My heart beating on the pillow
muffles the voice of the friend
which begged the evening gone by
“Tell me it’s not over yet!”
And like the ocean cowardly
I collapse into my bed
to better listen to the tolling
of my temples and my heart
a delusionary
song of joy.
Signed: Jean Louverné (pseudonym)
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2014 (Translation
Tiens mes pensées
close let your dreams lie
impassioned albeit pensive
succumb to the sultry beats
echoing across empty hearts
and within the day breeze
tomber en moi
Faraway but close enough to see
you no longer holding me
I know
yes
I see
Translation of " Bésame Mucho " from the lyrics by Consuelo Velasquez
Refrain :
Kiss me longingly long
Kiss me, kiss me longingly long
As though this night has to be
The very last
Kiss me longingly long
Kiss me, kiss me longingly long
For seized am I with the fear of losing you
Losing you hereafter
(Refrain repeated twice)
I long to hold you close to me
While gazing deep into your eyes
Making us look as but one together
The thought nags perchance tomorrow
I'll have already gone far away
Far far from you
(Refrain repeated thrice)
For seized am I with the fear of losing you
Losing you hereafter
The original lyrics in Spanish :
Bésame mucho
Bésame, bésame mucho
Como si fuera esta noche
La ultima vez
Bésame mucho
Que tengo miedo a pederte
Pederte despues
(Refrain twice)
Quiero tenerte muy cerca
Mirarme en tus ojos
Verte junto a mi
Pienso que tal vez manana
Yo ya estare lejos
Muy lejos de ti
(Refrain thrice)
Que tengo miedo a pederte
Pederte despues
© T. Wignesan - Paris, May 12, 2018
Ich have y-don al myn youth
“I have done it all my youth”
(anonymous Middle English poem)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I have done it all my youth:
Often, often, and often!
I have loved long and yearned zealously ?
And oh what grief it has brought me!
Original Middle English poem:
Ich have y-don al myn youth,
Oftë, ofte, and ofte;
Longe y-loved and yerne y-beden ?
Ful dere it is y-bought!
Keywords/Tags: Middle English, translation, medieval, rhyme, epigram, lament, complaint, youth, love, loved, longing, longed, grief, sorrow, depression, oft, often, yearning, zeal, zealous, zealously, desire, lust, passion, yearn, yearned, yearning, long, longing, dear, dearly bought, purchased, cost, price, expense, expensive, England
Pell-mell from you as from a blazing torch
Molten shards,
Aflame you know not if the fire heralds freedom.
Or will consume all you cherish
Will only ashes be left,
Hurled into the abyss from the tempest?
Or do the ashes hold the glory
Of a celestial diamond
The Dawn of everlasting triumph.
Cyprian Norwid
Translated by: Christopher Johnston
Bernard is writing Esther: "I have a family, a nice shed,
I always take the lead and have never in life been lead.
In the mornings I walk Jess, at night I drink rum, eat bread
But when I see you - can hardly breathe as if I'm already dead."
Bernard is writing Esther: “I have a pond nearby,
Children run there to swim, but often lie
That to swim. I’ve seen it all – Singapore from bird’s eye
From Iceland fjords to Somaly ore plies
But if you are taken away from me – I would die.”
Bernard is writing: "Income, finances, audit,
Jeep with a driver, stereo sound with voice of Edith,
And a thirty percent discount at favorite bar -
I can drink with no cards or cash or credit.
If you look me in the eye - God's staring from afar."
Bernard is writing Esther: "I'm forty eight like others of beau monde who are bald,
I recall who I am with help of visas, passport and driver's license - I'm old.
Flooded trench pit, nuclear grave digger scolds,
Subordinates like ninepins - I count their heads
But if words were also a currency,
Then you're out of my word league, flag of red."
“My little girl, you are just as beautiful as Banshee,
You’ve come to tell me I’ll die but not yet and not she.
Don’t write me, Esther, please don’t write. You’ll see
It's that I would not possess enough soul,
My old tired soul has been savaged by me.”
BELTAINE (English and
Spanish Translation)
If I could gather for you, flowers fair,
the first of summer, slip them in your hair,
to light your face, the tremble of your smile,
how much in love I'd be at what is there.
If I could welcome May in all her bliss,
the window into summer's melting kiss,
I'd know the greatest joy, though for a while,
and die among the gods, for only this.
If I could open summer, and her pain,
each ray of sunlight fair, each drop of rain,
each courting dove, each flit of butterflies
each welcoming of death, that ends all pain.
If I could capture Beltaine at sunrise,
'twould shine much like the light there in your eyes...
.BELTAINE
Si podría recolectar para usted, florece favorablemente, el primer
del verano, los deslizan en su pelo, para encenderse la cara, el
temblor de su sonrisa, cuánto en amor sería en cuál hay.
Si podría dar la bienvenida a mayo en toda su dicha, la ventana en el
beso que derrite del verano, sabría la alegría más grande, aunque
por un rato, y el dado entre los dioses, para solamente esto.
Si podría abrir verano, y su dolor, cada rayo de la feria de la luz
del sol, cada gota de la lluvia, cada paloma que corteja, cada
revoloteo de mariposas el cada dar la bienvenida de la muerte, que
termina todo el dolor.
Si podría capturar Beltaine en la salida del sol, ' brillo del twould
como la luz allí en sus ojos.
© Ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet)
Have you heard the symphony, the voyage of an eternal time?
Its Chariot is the swiftest one, gone soon, gone long
Beating hearts touch the innermost mind
Darkness. wrapped in encircled mourning, befallen with the fallen, starlight.
O My Friend !
That nomadic time, a traveler one
Engulfed me again, with her embracing vest of time
Took me to her gypsy churn,
A quest toward an intrepid one.
Farther and farther away from yours.
It seems only in mind, that I escaped death
Happening in a thousand more times.
Today, the new dawn with the mountain-peak
Where , the chariot left a trace of agitated wind blower speed
With my older name.
There is no turning back
If you ponder from a distance, looking back
you will not find me as one you knew too close.
I bid you farewell, My friend!
Let it be that - we are simply disconnected
And all of it that was before is now neglected.
Just as in an international call
And I'll stop knowing what you whisper all
Over her right ear,
Petting her mere
Hair. Listening to the cheerful imps
Of your disturbing thoughts. A glimpse.
And recognizing every rustle
Around you. A twitching muscle.
Here's the sound of keys jingling,
Here are her fingers mingling
With your fringe, here's the wind strangled in the curtains,
The load of memories it burdens...
Sms beep, the block is off,
The parquetry squeaks yet the steps are easy,
Flick of a lighter and that's it - the tone. How cheesy...
And I'll stay a bit in the telephone booth
Reciting poems of my youth.
Awaiting for the firing of invisible squadrons in my temples to cease.
Oh would I ever feel the ease?
Of simple being, I'm happy as old colonel Frehley
Who died with a reciever in his hand.
Let it be that as if it's five years past.
And we are all steady here at last.
We're not as booming with the decibels,
But we're worth a 1000 for a ticket.
There might as well be time for cricket.
We are working like real men,
Making money as easy as trimming a bush. We stem.
We're not giving our minds any downtime.
What's mine is mine.
And I am aware of what I am worth.
It doesn't matter that nobody is willing to pay the price.
We run in circles just like mice.
We meet and knock back three
Glasses of Chilean semi dry and you look at me.
And then you say "I am pround of you, Polozkova!"
But no - nothing breaks inside me.
That August we were still drinking outside
And you were wearing
My jacket - we are joking, singing and smoking...
Probably you never knew that from that night on you
Become the protagonist of my hysterics and mimes. All anew.
One day we'll recall this -
And wouldn't be able to believe it ourselves...
Let it be that my vim and naughtiness
Are back; My slouch and flabbiness
Are gone; And nothing's beating me inside
No pain within me would reside.
And there's no need to write
My poems. How can I ignite?
Let it be that I don't sob hoarsely with every chorus
Just like a dyed-haired singer with little morals.
How nice that you're sitting
In front of the screen and thinking
That you're reading
Of somebody else.
I crave a piece of land,
Oh! Parasakthi!
I crave a piece of land...
Amidst the piece of land,
build me a palace grand
with sundecks and picturesque pillars;
everything in pristine colors.
And near the well,
the long pinnate leaves
and the tender coconut dwell.
Around ten to twelve coconut trees should be near;
the moonlight should glow like the pearl luster;
songs of the Asian koels, I should hear,
and when my soul relishes, should embrace, breeze cluster.
To blend the songs,
I need my virtuous wife beside,
and our rejoicement jolly along,
the poetic verses pride.
In the midst of this land,
Oh my dear divine mother,be a guard.
With my poetic adroitness,
I should take care of this world.
* Parasakthi- Almighty / Goddess
This is the translation of Mahakavi Bharathiyar's tamil poem,' kaani nilam' - 'A piece of land'
I am an ardent fan of Bharathiyar. He died so young(39) .He was fluent in many languages including Bengali, Hindi, Sanskrit, French and English and frequently translated works from other languages into Tamil. It is immensely tough to translate someone like him. I hope I did atleast a little bit of justice
Wikipedia:
Subramania Bharati (11 December 1882–12 September 1921) was an Indian writer, poet and journalist, and Indian independence activist and social reformer from Tamil Nadu. Popularly known as "Mahakavi Bharati", he was a pioneer of modern Tamil poetry and is considered one of the greatest Tamil literary figures of all time. His numerous works were fiery songs kindling patriotism and nationalism during the Indian Independence movement.
Translation of Cuppiramania Bharathiyar’s poem: Kannamma, My Love! (Kannamma En Kaathali) by T. Wignesan
Yet another poem by the most famous modern Tamil poet, written a century ago – despite the commonplace imagery – follows in the original very complex classical Tamil prosodic rules in the execution of initial and end-rhymes, alliteration in each line and in the immediate and successive lines as a whole, the inner rhymes of assonance and consonance notwithstanding. The non-Tamil can best savour these poetic and/or musical qualities by listening to the version of the poem set to music, and here sung by Mahathi:
YouTubeFR: Aasai Mugam Jukebox – Songs of Bharathiyar – Tamil Patriotic Songs (It’s the 4th song down on the left column)
Does not the endearing warmth of our mutual gaze – Kannamma
Reflect the light of the sun and moon alike?
Does not the precious circular eye – Kannamma
Dispel the darkness of the skies?
Dressed in deep blue-black silk – the sari
Inlaid with choice diamonds
While in the core of pitch darkness – glitter
The scintillating stars – Dear-Girlie!
Does not the blossoming grove fade – lit by your
Illuminating smile?
Even as blue-tinted sea waves –your
Breast heaves in unison – Girlie-Dear!
Just as the enticing cuckoo call – your
Sweet dulcet tones invade, My Dear!
O! You unspoilt young maiden! – Kannamma!
The bridal feast* has yoked my heart, alas!
You speak of comparing birth-charts* - Kannamma
What avails such astrological omens?
For those who can hardly repress yearning – Kannamma
Might the stars forebode greater bliss?
If our elders will bestow approval – nuptial
Arrangements we will later formalize
Will I be waiting for you, My Dear – to seal
Our vows – plant I this kiss on your cheek!
Notes
• According to Hindu custom, the brides’s family has to offer a sumptuous dinner to the formally-invited bride-groom.
• Hindu marriages are often contracted after verification of
birth-charts, drawn up by astrologers, to ascertain the compatibility of the bride to the bride-groom.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2015
The Last Hope, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s sonnet : Dernier espoir
There stands a tree in the cemetery
Thrusting itself up in total freedom,
By no means the fruit of bereavement –
Spreading itself out on stone unobtrusively.
In this tree, be it summer or winter,
A bird alights to trill clearly
It’s sad song of such fidelity.
This tree and this bird do us bind together :
You the object of my thoughts, I the absence
That time takes stock of in evanescence…
Ah ! To live again propped up against your knees !
Ah ! To be alive again ! But stay yet awhile, my lover,
Let not the void be my chilling victor…
At the least, say : I live but in your intimate core ?
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013