Société des écrivains des Nations Unies à Genève United Nations Society of Writers, Geneva Sociedad de escritores de las Naciones Unidas
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BOIS DE JUSSYRunning in woods I came across a man walking in wind with a dog the colour of fox. Striking match after match he was trying to light a pipe, hands cupped- cane on the ground, dog barking and impatient.
keeping the wind company we passed two people riding horses and winter crops of sugar beets growing slow and cold, then: I hear before I see
rising high joy, fear, pain he is running mad, swerving a plane out of control a long yellow and red scarf, confusion fluttering behind him his call splitting. In the distance his mother, lighting a cigarette cautiously crouched from the wind keeps one desperate eye on her big boy, the other on any man, dog or horse that might bring him back to earth. Beth Peoc'h, UNCTAD The Lute and the Golden Key Once upon a time, not so long ago, there was a princess who lived in a little chateau by a little park near a large lake.
that could only play when opened with a special key.
and admired her lovely lute. So much that he asked her hand in marriage. And, being prudent, she said "yes". The nice old king liked to make music on her lovely lute but as time went by he played less often nor did he play too well. And so the years went by. The princess filled them with busy weaving, spinning and sewing.
musician just come back from long voyages over strange seas.
to visit his old kingdom and the princess was alone in her small chateau by the little park near the large lake. The musician dined with her and begged to play her lute since he possessed a golden key and was sure it would play wonderfully well. "But this lute belongs to the king, by marriage, and only he may play" the princess said. Yet, one night, when stars were high and wine had been drunk she let him put his golden key into her lovely lute, just once, and the music was extraordinary. But next day the princess was troubled and she said "We shall play no more because this lute, though mine, belongs by marriage to the King." The musician protested, saying that only his golden key could play it so well, and that music lasted only the time of the playing, but it was in vain.
and autumn followed. Winter brought its cold long nights but there was no music to brighten them, because the princess kept her hands over her lovely ears each time the musician begged to play.
and the lovely lute lay, unsounded, in the little chateau by the small park near the large lake And one day, after many, many, years had passed, the musician met the princess sitting in the small park by the large lake. And she smiled at him and said, "though our hair is white, still we can make music, for the king has gone away, and I am alone." So they went into the little chateau by the small park near the large lake. But when the musician placed his golden key into the lovely lute no sound appeared.
but the key had rusted and the lock would not turn, And so the night remained silent, without music. In the morning, the musician left the princess and set off, by himself, on a journey down a long, long, road alone.
I love this spot, by the fountain of Voltaire, Where people come to read or simply stare, With the sound of water spilling out, And sunshine pouring on my head.
A meeting spot for friends or passers by, Where kindred souls regardless of their lot or time, Find refuge at Ferney’s quaint watering site. Many different sorts have relaxed here before, Pilgrims, writers or the unsuspecting types. Whether conscious of it not, All were warmed by the Patriarch’s benevolent eyes. Under the old maple, across from the baker, At the crossroads of the village’s life, A remnant of yesterdays’ auberge d’Europe, An oasis amid today’s concrete blight. Bohdan Nahajlo, UNHCR Exposure The urge to write is greatest after a glass or two, When surrounded by others, near and distant all at once, Humanity’s babble sets off a chord in me, And spontaneous reflections begin to flow. Marooned amid a crowd of chatting strangers, I feel my individuality become exposed And I try to make some sense of longing and belonging In an improvised inner conversation of my own. Jotting down random notes on paper scraps, Hoping thoughts and feelings can be captured, Like snapshots, to be developed later and framed - Pictures from the ever-changing exhibition called life. Bohdan Nahajlo, UNHCR Inspiration So many ideas have come to me over the years Which I’ve intended to remember and forge into a poem. Unless jotted down, these crude provocations Have invariably been lost, like sparks from a flint. How can we hope to capture that Which magically ignites on striking living matter And fleetingly illuminates our drab lives, Lighting a fire in us and warming those around? So who are you who thrust out from inner being? A friend, a foe, a kindred spirit? What do you want of me? What be your will? Can’t you just let me understand myself by knowing you? Speak, reveal yourself: the mystery is unendurable.
Horace, Carmina II 14 It pleases me to feel death die in me, the harness of each muscle, the beneficial flow of lymphs and humors: you figure, Cynthia, with each stretch your life force widens, brims with regal fortune. But think it over, Cynthia, each one of your sweet stretches leads to her, the rigid, the indomitable One. A CINTIA, II torpe vejez, indomable muerte… Horacio, Carmina, II 14 Pláceme sentir morir en mí la muerte, el pujar de cada músculo, el riego bienhechor de linfas y humores: crees, Cintia, que con cada estirón se te ensancha la vida, creces con ventura de infanta. Mas piénsalo bien, Cintia, cada dulce estirón tiende hacia aquélla, la inmóvil, la indomable. Maria Elena Blanco, UNOV MOTEL Un alpe
tres alpes Alptraum: sueño de alpes, pesado el aire entre las cuatro puertas, cuatro ruedas, ruedas de caucho, de molino, vacas pastando, pastando. El dardo cruza a contramano el mínimo aire, toca pecho de tórtola, derrama gotas de nieve, sangre blanca. Blancas sábanas ondean en el prado, claman al reposo. Pero el blanco alpe clavado en carne propia
y ajena, sueño de alpes doliendo, doliendo. El mudo, sordo sueño de la incauta me alza y quita el aliento, (la honda y el hondero roncan), el suyo, levísimo, me devuelve el sueño. Un alpe, tres alpes, Alptraum: ellos
sueñan con alpes. La pesadilla es mía. Maria Elena Blanco, UNOV La derrota ¿Hay otra manera de saber de ti, Cuando entre los dos hay tanto aire, casas, gente, caminos, paisajes, estaciones? Navego en Internet… tu nombre en el buscador cada una de sus letras, cadencia, como momentos en que estuvimos concientes de estar en el otro. Con ademán de naufrago que hace tiempo dejó de percibir las costas que atestiguan de tus actos, y descubre cansado que aún flota. A veces te sueño… lágrimas sacuden lo que hay debajo de mis sueños, como un grito de la tierra, devasta, esconde tras escombros un dolor que no encontró cauce y que la distancia y el tiempo colocaron en un armario.
poniéndote tras una puerta de cristal, para mirarte a veces diciendo que no te necesito. Quise protegerme poniéndome del otro lado para que el mar impusiera tanto que las lágrimas se retiraran. Pero el traspecho comienza a estar muy sucio y los fantasmas a roerme. En este espacio nadie conoce tu nombre, si acaso se han referido a ti como adjetivo. Como decirles ahora que sigue lloviendo ciertas noches de sueño profundo porque nunca me quisiste y yo, no he vuelto a obsesionarme. Incertidumbre de volvernos a encontrar ¿me encontrarás aún bella? te veré del brazo de Rosy, de Mercedes, (¿como se llama la de ahora?) Una mirada de anciana aguarda para toparse contigo como los ojos con la montaña por donde alguna vez pasamos, fuimos felices, y le dimos la espalda. Yo no se si en donde estés el hilo que tengo engarzado jale el tuyo y te informe con descargas ardientes, breves y constantes que desde la otra mitad de la naranja al otro lado del Atlántico alguien debe reconocer su derrota.
Yo con los hombres vine al mundo duro. La Tortura soy yo, la que en lo oscuro Me entrego a mi faena delicada. Soy la sañuda y de actuar no paro: Con el fiero aguijón de mi picana Yo trabajo de noche y de mañana. La Tortura soy yo, la sin reparo. Por despreciable, rara, inoportuna, Aborrecible, soez, amenazante, Tú hablas de mí torciendo el entrecejo.
Reclamas mi servicio horripilante: La Tortura soy yo, yo soy tu espejo.
Das Kleid schneidern die Ideologen und die werden durch die Wächter des Geldes in eigenen oder in feindlichen Ländern erzogen. Das ist das Spiel der Macht: Der eine dreht sich, wie der Hund nach dem Schweif im Kreis und der Andere lacht. Wertigkeit Wenn ein Mensch denkt er sei dem Anderen weit voraus, da dieser noch den Tieren näher ist, sei ihm gesagt wir alle sind den Tieren nahe der hohe Geist der in uns lebt ist nur geliehen niemand ist zuerst und auserwählt und Tiere unsre Freunde , Brüder. achtet sie denn keine Grausamkeit wird dort verziehen wo man den Schlüssel zum Zauber dieses Lebens hält. Das Heil es reinigt jede Seele wer immer einen Weg für alles Leben wählt. Wir leben frei , doch in der Freiheit prüft uns diese Welt. Urteil Und jene die Gott erwählte die Totenstätten zu bewachen Museen, Monumente, Nekropolen unserer Zeit, es sei euch gesagt nicht für die Toten lebt ihr dort ihr lebt dort um zu verstehen die Lebenden zu lehren: Die Rache muss vergehen ! Gott urteilt nicht wie ein Gelehrter Gott kennt die Wahrheit und sein Urteil
Man muss verstehen: Nur wenn wir nach Wahrheit streben
Wer Urteilt muss sich fragen, ob Wissen, ob Wahrheit seine Stimme lenkt ob er sich betrügt zu leicht gewogen dem Bösen, das er gedenkt zu wehren neue Nahrung schenkt damit die Feuer wieder Fleisch verzehren. Stellt euch die Fragen gut, zu glauben das ist leicht die Wahrheit zu suchen, erfordert Kenntnis und Mut. Ewiges Wissen Unter den Weisen ist der Poet ein Jüngling unter den Menschen erscheint der Poet weise nur ein Hauch im Fluss der Zeit ist das geschriebene Wort kaum berührt es die Seele des Menschen
Gott allein gibt dauerhaftes Wissen Der Menschen Liebe Die Liebe der tiefe Brunnen der lange Atem das besondere Leben der Seele. Den beiden Kindern gibt man Perlen und sie werfen die Perlen in das Meer der Lust Sie ziehen die Netze über den Grund und hoffen sie wieder zu finden wo wir doch täglich die Perlen des Morgens neu am frischen Gras des Lebens erfahren
In 2005, the English translators at the United Nations Headquarters in New York organized an internal poetry translation contest, the first of which they hope will become an annual event (Note: the second annual contest is already under way!!). For the 2005 Feliz Día de San Jerónimo contest, English translation staff from all duty stations were invited to submit their translations of the Soneto a San Jerónimo, a sonnet about St. Jerome, the patron saint of translators. The poem was written more than 40 years ago by UN Spanish translator Manuel Torres and was first published in the Secretariat News in April 1961 (Vol.I, No.8, 28 April 1961). The contest, which was organized by UN English translator Michael Ten-Pow under the patronage of Service Chief Steve Sekel, was won jointly by Lucinda Schultz, from New York Headquarters, and Nigel Lindup, from the UN Office at Geneva. The original Spanish sonnet, the winning translations and honourable mentions are reproduced below:
Tus obras alcanzaron su galardón, mas piensa entre dulzoresque aún penan por el mundo traductores. Manuel Torres, UN Sonnet to St Jerome patron of translators, with a coda by way of ora pro nobis. Oh polyglot Jerome, who by repute The Holy Scriptures Latin made to speak, Experience taught you-a path both long and bleak- Translating's not a trivial pursuit. The insolence of verbs caused pain acute; Through thick thesauri blind you hacked to seek Cruel synonyms; and at th'original oblique You groaned, adrift in darkness absolute. Translator, aye... where many another saint Upward may have moved through sheer devotion- By dint of fasting, or with hairshirt and complaint- You embraced a far far harsher penance: Your eyes at length engulfed in a vast ocean Of particles and gerunds, your life's sentence. You who earned promotion By your works, give thought, 'midst sweets and favours, To translators here below who still must labour.
You learned the hard way, translation's no bed of satin, The insolence of words you suffered. In thickets of cruel synonyms you did thrash, And in the dark night of the source text your teeth did gnash, You were, in a word, a translator, and if so many others, By dint of hairshirts, fasting and tears the task did fulfill, Your penitence was harsher still, When in a sea of syntagms, gerunds and endings your eyes did drown. Your works were rewarded, but from heaven each day, Do think of us translators, still toiling away!
(Patron Saint of Translators) - with a plea that he might pray for us
who didst make the Holy Scriptures speak our vulgate Latin, and knowest from long and hard experience, the uphill task of translation: who didst tame the insolent verb; feeling thy way through the thick darkness of cruel synonyms as, like penitent Jacob, thou wrestled from the original Word (until the breaking of dawn) His true meaning. Like so many others who tread this vale of sleeplessness, hunger and tears thou camest to grips with worse suffering and in a sea churning with phrases, gerunds and declensions, thy sight was spent. Now that thy works are with glory crowned, in thy heavenly bliss Spare a thought for us translators Who still labour here below. Ebenezer First-Quao, UNHQ O many-tongued Jerry with his Lion, who made Scripture chat us up in Latin, thou knowst well from the school of hard knocks translating isn't a slide down the slopes; thou endured verb persnicketyness; thou beatest blindly through the thickets of nasty synonyms and in the murk of your original groaned and roared. O thou, in sum, wert the translator, and if so too were many other dopes by dint of hair shirts and fasts and shrieks; thou kissed some rougher mortifications when thy eyes were drowned in an ocean of gerunds and suffixes and syntax. Though crowned with laurel were thy works, thinkst thou sweetly how many translators still wander through the world in torment.
Running before the wind Running before the wind we plough imaginary seas, Furrowing the billows, sounding the depths. Your love wells up, pauses, balloons the canvas, Whisking me afar, where the sirocco blasts. Affronting white-capped waves, surging through sparkling spray, I drift when the sea’s becalmed. The ocean's roar invades my mind: your eyes penetrate my soul. I drown before your gaze, rise again, twist, sink, float once more, Navigate your currents redolent with seaweed. In your blue depths my passions dissipate. You refresh and then release them as new desire. You’ve made of me a weathered sea dog Running before the wind, confident in stormy waters. A GONFIE VELE by Pietro Barbera English translation by Carl Freeman, UNOG RAINER-MARIA RILKE (1875-1926) The English translations by Alfred de Zayas of the 90 poems of Rilke’s second cycle, the “Larenopfer”, first published in Ex Tempore Nos. VII-XIV, have just appeared in bookform with Red Hen Press in Los Angeles (www.redhen.org) Here are five wonderful translations into French of Rilke poems of the same cycle, by the late Professor Paule Rey Du côté de la Mala Strana Vieilles maisons marquées de par leurs toits en pente, Hautes tours résonnant de cloches envoûtantes Un petit bout de ciel timidement pénètre Au fond de cours étroites, humides de salpêtre. Aux marches d¹escalier, des cupidons sculptés, Sourient d¹un air las, presque désabusé, Alors qu¹haut sur le toit, de grands vases baroques, Dégringolent, en cascades, des roses équivoques. L¹araignée a tissé sa toile sur la porte; Les rayons du soleil vont lui prêter main-forte, En révélant, furtifs, les mots mystérieux Qui ornent la statue de la Mère de Dieu. |
