Louis J. Rodrigues 
Translator

on Lyrikline: 5 poems translated

from: catalão to: inglês

Original

Translation

Llibre dels morts

catalão | Salvador Espriu

Mira que passes sense saviesa
pel vell camí fressat, tan sols un cop,
i que la veu de sobte cridarà
el secret nom que porta en tu la mort.
No tornaràs. Recorda, no t’apartis,
mentre fas via, del que tan senzill
és d’estimar: aquest blat i la casa,
el blanc senyal de barca dins el mar,
el lent or de l’hivern ajaçat a les vinyes,
l’ombra d’un arbre damunt l’ample camp.
Oh, sobretot estima la sagrada
vida de l’arbre i la remor del vent
a les branques que s’alcen vers la llum!

© Sebastià Bonet Espriu
El caminant i el mur, 1954
Audio production: Biblioteca Nacional de Catalunya

Book of the dead

inglês

Mark how you shall pass unwise
along the old worn path, but once,
and how the voice will, of a sudden, cry
the secret name accorded you in death.
You will not return. Remember not to stray,
as you go forward, from what is
so simple to love: this wheat, this house,
the white speck of a boat at sea,
slow winter’s gold, in vineyards, put to sleep,
the shadow of a tree across the ample field.
Oh, above all, revere the sacred life
of that tree and the murmur of the wind
in its branches that reach towards the light.

Translated by Louis J. Rodrigues. Salvador Espriu - Selected Poems: Carcanet 1997.

Amb música ho escoltaries potser millor

catalão | Salvador Espriu

Et diré sempre la veritat.
I si et parlo tan sovint de la meva
quotidiana, solitària mort,
i amb cruel accent carrego
aquesta única síl·laba
del meu petit saber,
és sols perquè m’agradaria que sentissis
dintre teu, ben endins, on acaba
el fred camí al teu darrer sepulcre,
com humilment, silenciós,
t’estimo.
Veus? El suau vent a l’herba,
i tu i jo, una dona i un home,
i tots els noms de tan fràgil bellesa,
i aquesta tarda per a nosaltres
potser immortal.
Però no vols endevinar mai als meus ulls
qui soc jo, com soc jo i ara m’omples
de buida, densa, sorollosa
argila de paraules,
fins a fer-ne un insalvable mur,
aquest curt pas
que ja del tot em separa
de tu.

© Sebastià Bonet Espriu
from: El caminant i el mur
Audio production: Biblioteca Nacional de Catalunya

With music perhaps you'll hear it better

inglês

I'll tell you the truth always.
And if I speak so often of my
daily, solitary death,
and with cruel accent charge
this single syllable
of my little learning,
it's only because it'd please me that you feel
within you, deep down, when
the cold way to your last resting-place is reached,
how humbly, hushed,
I love you.
See? The gentle wind upon the grass,
and you and I, one woman and one man,
and all the names for such frail loveliness,
and this afternoon by ourselves
perhaps immortal.
But you wouldn't guess, from my eyes,
who I am, how I am I; and, now you fill me
with empty, dense, loud
words of clay
until an insuperable wall is built,
this short step
that already severs me entirely
from you.

Translated by Louis J. Rodrigues. Salvador Espriu - Selected Poems: Carcanet 1997.

Pel meu mirall, si vols, passen rares semblances

catalão | Salvador Espriu

Davant el meu últim mirall, en veure’m
sencer, malalt, potser acabat,
potser damnat, tan pàl lid,
vaig dir molt lentament clares paraules
belles, fràgils, altes, les més nobles
que trobava en la foscor del meu record.
Des de sempre, però, allí hi havia
grasses, molles, llefiscoses bèsties,
que dels racons venien fins als llavis,
a rosegar-me els mots mentre naixien:
no sents encara la remor profunda
de pergamí, d’ossos trencats, de vidre?
I al mirall, entretant, es reflectia
a poc a poc una perversa imatge,
el signe de la qual podràs entendre,
si fas també, com jo, l’estranya prova
d’esguardar el teu bon fons, quasevol hora,
tot intentant de nou una impossible,
inútil creació per la paraula.

© Sebastià Bonet Espriu
from: El caminant i el mur
Audio production: Biblioteca Nacional de Catalunya

Strange forms, if you will, appear in my mirror

inglês

Before my final mirror, seeing myself
complete, ill, finished perhaps,
perhaps damned, pale,
I very slowly spoke clear words,
beautiful, fragile, lofty, the noblest
I found in the gloom of my memory.
But always, there have been
fat, soft, sticky beasts there,
that came from corners to the lips,
to nibble at my words as they took form:
don't you still hear the deep rustle
of parchment, broken bones, glass?
And in the mirror, meanwhile,
a perverse image slowly appeared,
whose sign you'll understand
if, at any time, like me, you also attempt
the strange feat of staring into your own depths,
attempting, once again, the impossible,
useless act of creation through the word.

Translated by Louis J. Rodrigues. Salvador Espriu - Selected Poems: Carcanet 1997.

Ish, Isha, Eli, Elis

catalão | Salvador Espriu

Hem pujat el nostre crit a tu
i ens posàvem de puntetes per semblar més alts.
Ens hem vist en la nostra nuesa,
ens hem mirat en la nostra solitud
i hem engendrat després fills i filles,
al llarg de tot el tedi del nostre temps.
Ah, si raonem, quina rialla trista,
en negar-te en la niciesa dels nostres cors!
Ai, si t’estimem, quantes llàgrimes
fa vessar de seguida el nostre amor cruel!
I també hi ha la sang, la fatiga mil·lenària,
immensa, de la sang. Des de la sorra
d’aquest desert, des de l’amarga
profunditat del pou, et clamo
contra l’olor, contra el color, contra el voltor.
Sí, clamem contra la sang, nosaltres,
que hem vist els arbres i sabem prou bé
com el teu nom pot ser burla o silenci.

© Sebastià Bonet Espriu
from: El caminant i el mur
Audio production: Biblioteca Nacional de Catalunya

Ish, Isha, Eli, Elis

inglês

We've lifted up our cry to you
and stood on tiptoe to appear taller.
We've seen ourselves in our nakedness,
watched ourselves in our loneliness,
and later begotten sons and daughters
through all the tedium of our time.
If we stopped to think, what a sorry laugh,
to deny you out of our hearts' foolishness!
Oh, if we love you, how many tears
are shed at once by our cruel love!
And there's the blood too, the immense
millennial weariness of blood. From the sands
of this desert, from the bitter
depths of the well, I cry out to you
against the smell, the colour, the vulture.
Yes, we cry out against the blood, we
that have seen the trees and who know too well
how your name can be a taunt or silence.

Translated by Louis J. Rodrigues. Salvador Espriu - Selected Poems: Carcanet 1997.

Una closa felicitat és ben bé del meu món

catalão | Salvador Espriu

Darrera aquesta porta visc,
però no sé
si en puc dir vida.

Quan al capvespre torno
del meu diari odi contra el pa
(no saps que tinc l'immensa
sort de vendre'm
a troços per una pulcra moneda
que arriba ja a valer
molt menys que res?),
deixo fora un vell abric, l'esperança,
i m'endinso pel camí dels ulls,
pel buit esglai on sento,
enllà, el meu Déu,
sempre enllà, més enllà de falsos
profetes i de rares culpes
i del vell neci emmaltatit per versos
disciplinats, com aquesta d'ara, amb pintes
de fosques marques que l'alè dels crítics
un dia aclarirà per a la meva vergonya.

Sí, em pots trobar, si goses,
darrera el glacial no-res d'aquesta
porta, aquí, on visc i sento
l'enyor i el crit de Déu i sóc,
amb els ocells nocturns de la meva solitud,
un home sense somnis en la meva solitud.

© Sebastià Bonet Espriu
from: El caminant i el mur
Audio production: Biblioteca Nacional de Catalunya

An inner happiness is absolutely of my world

inglês

Behind this door I live,
Yet hardly know
If I can call it life.

Returning in the evening,
After my day-long fight for hated bread
(I have, you know, the great good luck
To sell myself,
Little by little, for a gleaming groat
That now is worth
Far less than nothing),
I leave outside my worn-out coat of hope
And enter, by paths leading through the eyes,
Into the empty horror where I feel,
Out there, my God;
Always out there, beyond all false
Prophets and strange blames,
Beyond the dotard, his head turned by neat,
Orderly verses such as these, with the air
Of obscure slogans which the critics’ insight
Will one day clarify, to my great shame.

Yes, you can find me, if you dare,
Behind the numbing nothingness of this
Door, here, where I live and feel
God’s yearning, hear His cry and am,
With all the night birds of my loneliness,
A man bereft of dreams in loneliness.

Translated by Louis J. Rodrigues. Salvador Espriu - Selected Poems: Carcanet 1997.