Eric Ellingsen
Translator
on Lyrikline: 2 poems translated
from: 阿姆哈拉文 to: 英文
Original
Translation
የሀገሬ ባሎች
阿姆哈拉文 | Mihret Kebede
እስኪ ሀገሬ …..ልግጠምልሽ
የኔ መግጠም….. ከጠቀመሽ፤
እንደ ባለቅኔ …. ባልገጥምልሽ እንኳን
እንደ’ክት ባሎችሽ …. ባልሆንልሽ እንኳን
ያልራሰውን መሬት…… በላቤ እንዳለማ
ባ’ጥር እየሾለኩ….. ልሁንሽ ውሽማ፤
እንጂ በርሽማ
የላይ የላዩማ
ላይገጥምሽ ተዘግቶ
ላይሆንሽ ተጣብቶ
ማንን አስገብቶ?
ቢሆንም ቢሆንም ….. ላግባሽ ባልልሽም
እስኪ ሀገሬ ልግጠምልሽ
የኔ መግጠም ከጠቀመሽ ፤
መች ይቀራል…. መግጠሜማ
ሰባስቤ ….የቃል ማማ
የህዝብ ግጥም…. የህዝብ ዜማ፤
ግና እኔ ደርሼ …..ቶሎ እስክገጥምልሽ
ሀረግ ጠማጥሜ ….ቤት እስክመታልሽ
ቀለበት አጥልቄ …. የሁሉ እስካደርግሽ
ሰምሽ እዜህ ማዶ….ወርቅሽ እዚህያ ማዶ
ህብረ-ቃልሽ ሁሉ…. ከባእድ ተሰዶ
የድስትሽ ክዳኑ…. ሳይገጥም ተንከርፍፎ
በኔ እገጥም ……በኔ እገጥም…. ገላሽ ብርድ አትርፎ
ወጥሽ እኮ አለቀ ….. ተጨልፎ ተጨልፎ ::
Audio production: Haus für Poesie, 2022
Husbands of My Dear Country
英文
Let me have a polite conversation with my country
Let me write a poem to benefit my country,
even if I’m not able to write a poem for my country like the wise poets write,
even if I’m not the legal husband of my country or a leader
let me still water the dry land with planted sweat
let me slip in by the fence as a lover.
By the front by the top by the upper upper door
they closed the gate open but the gate never fits,
it never fitted you, probably it never properly
fit the bowl
either way either way…
I don’t want to ask you to marry… Instead, let me write you a poem
Let me fit a poem… to benefit my country.
My writing of poetry will never stop… my writing of poetry will never cease
collecting the hill of words,
The poetry of the people… is the melody of the people
until I grow vines I will… fit you with my poetry,
until I twist lines here I will… build a rhyming house here for you,
Because the lid doesn’t fit and the leaders don’t fit
and they always leave the door open,
and they always leave the lid of the pot open
so the raider can scoop things out and scoop things out and scoop things out…
#evolutionarypoems1
阿姆哈拉文 | Mihret Kebede
በጸጥታ መኃል…. አርምሞ ለሰማ ጸጥታ ወግ አለው…. ሚኒሊክ እንዳለው
አሁን እኔና አንተ… አሁን አንተና እኔ ካወራው ሁላ የትኛው ተወዶ… የትኛው ተጠላ ?፤
ይሄው ከላይ መንደር
ሰው ከቀየው ጋራ… እንዳይነጋገር ወገኛው ወዳጄ…. ለራሱም ያልበጄ ወግ ለሌለው ሃሳብ …ወግ እያሳደደ የመንደሬውን ሃቅ …ቁርሾ እያደረገ
ኮሽ ባለ ቁጥር …. ስንት ማቲ አስፈጄ ? ?
ኽረ እንዴት ነው ጎበዝ …ምንድነው ባገሬው እየሆነ ያለው… ይሄኛው ከተማ…መኃል ሀገር ያለው
የሚለው እያለው… ለምን ነው ዝም ያለው ?
እያልኩ ደጋግሜ…. እሞገተዋልሁ ታሪክ ላጣ ቀየ… ታሪክ እመዛለሁ
እንደዚህ እላለሁ……በጸጥታ መሃል… አርምሞ ለሰማ ጸጥታ ወግ አለው… ሚኒሊክ እንዳለው፤
እንግዲህ ሃሳቤ… በሃሳብ ተቀጣ
ስንት ንጉስ ይንገስ…ስንት ንጉስ ይምጣ
ጸጥ ያለው መንደሬ ….ተንጦ ተንጦ ቅቤ እንዲያወጣ ?፤ አሁንም እዚያው ነኝ… ያልተተነተነ ብርቱ ጥያቄ አለኝ ጸጥ እረጭ እያለ …ቀየው ያወጋኛል
በዝምታው መሃል… ታሪክ ይነግረኛል ታሪክ እየበላ ….ታሪኬን ነጥቆኛል፤
ሳንጃው ጎረቤቴም እንዲህ ያወጋገኛል “የድሮ ዝምታ የድሮ ዝምታ
ለንጉስ መብረቅ ነው ለአምላክ ሹክሹክታ” እያለ እያስባለ…ተስፋ ያስቆርጠኛል ኑሮየን በነበር … በዜሮ እያጣፋ….
ትረካውን ነግሮ ….ታሪክ የማይሰራ ትውልድ ያደርገኛል፤ እኔ ግን እዚያው ነኝ …እኔ ግን እዚያው ነኝ
ከከተማው መሃል …ከተማ ጠፍቶብኝ ሰርክ የምፋለመው ብርቱ ጥያቄ አለኝ፤ “ኽረ አንተ ከተማ …ኽረ አንተ ከተማ
ጸጥ ካለው መንደርህ… ከቅኔው ገጽህ ላይ…. ወርቁን እንዲያወጣ
ስንት ዘመን እንፍጂ…. ስንት ሀሳብ ይቀጣ ጸጥታ ሚያዳምጥ…ንጉስ እስኪመጣ ? ? ?”
Audio production: Haus für Poesie, 2022
#evolutionarypoems1
英文
For he who listens silently to silence, amidst serenity so tranquil,
amidst those silenced, and silence spoken through tales of how Menelik aptly said: silence has its
own say!
From what you and I talked about, so far, so long, which one is left to love, which one is left to hate?
From the status cue above, from that forbore talking to the villagers from above,
and to the person made of talk, with no benefit even for himself,
who by a void thought to try to shadow tales spying on the very truth of the people.
Woe to him, who by a slight sound became a coward, inflicting hidden injury,
letting thousands get killed.
Countrymen! What is this mishap, this catastrophe that rained on our people? Is a stronger silence
needed to be heard?
Why is the city at the centre of silence while it has some truth to tell?
Should I challenge what reigns with new telling stories telling silence on behalf of the people who
lost
their voice to history?
And I say vehemently,
as Menelik aptly said: silence
has its own say! Still my thoughts punished by other thoughts, thinking how many kings shall we
expect,
how many tales shall sound unheard silence anew?
Now my country whips a cream like butter extracted from shaken
milk. Still, now, here I am
with a stringent question
ever unanalyzed ever unanswered.
Though thought so silent, so through thought so unquiet, so the neighbourhood tells me its tale in
tranquility, so narrating
its history, dissolving its history and stealing mine. Now
my old neighbor’s old tale tells like a dagger: ‘The mere ancient silence,
a bolt from the blue for the king, a whisper to God.’
So said the old neighbor, so made us in despair, so nullifies my life, so by a zero cancelled.
So he, by telling his tale of past
silence was loud enough to be heard. And this reduces me to a non-acting generation
that can’t make its own history its own history.
And yet, here I am, still here, still losing a city within a city. Still asking a question that I fight
still in each passing day:
‘O! Dear city, dear city,
In your silent village, you are within a “Wax – and – Gold” complexion.
And to distil the Gold, how many eras shall we exhaust?
How many thoughts shall we crush until we raise a sound king,
who can
listen to our silence.’