Borges: Here Today (From Spanish)

Here, Today

By Jorge Luis Borges

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

We're already the oblivion we will be,
the elemental dust that does not know
us and that was red Adam and is now
all men. The dust that we shall never see.

We're already the two dates on the tomb:
The end and the beginning. Now. The casket.
Decomposition and the shroud to mask it.
Triumph of death. The dirges in the gloam.

I'm not the sort of fool who mindlessly

clings to his own name's magic sound. I can

be hopeful as I think about the man

who will not know this earth was home to me.

Under the heavens' indifferent blue yonder

This is a most consoling thing to ponder. 

The Original:

Aquí. Hoy
Jorge Luís Borges

Ya somos el olvido que seremos.
El polvo elemental que nos ignora
y que fue el rojo Adán y que es ahora
todos los hombres, y que no veremos.

Ya somos en la tumba las dos fechas
del principio y el término. La caja,
la obscena corrupción y la mortaja,
los triunfos de la muerte, y las endechas.

No soy el insensato que se aferra
al mágico sonido de su nombre.
Pienso con esperanza en aquel hombre

que no sabrá que fui sobre la tierra.
Bajo el indiferente azul del cielo,
esta meditación es un consuelo.

Pushkin: No It's Just You (From Russian)

No It's Just You

By A.S. Pushkin

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

So you're a Pole. No harm in this.
Kościuszko is. Mickiewicz is.
You could be any kind of foreign.
Be Tatar even. No harm there.
Or be a Jew. I still don't care.
The harm's that you're Vidocq Vulgarin.*

*The original Фигляринъ is a transposition of the name “Булгаринъ” based on the word “фигляръ” (“joker, fool”). I've substituted something else that might have meaning in English.

The Original:

Не то бѣда, что ты полякъ:
Костюшко ляхъ, Мицкевичъ ляхъ!
Пожалуй, будь себѣ татаринъ, —
И тутъ не вижу я стыда;
Будь жидъ — и это не бѣда;
Бѣда, что ты Видокъ Фигляринъ.

Tyutchev: Silentium (From Russian)

Silentium

By Fyodor Tyutchev

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Say not a thing. Be hidden. Keep

your every thought and feeling deep
within your soul. There let them rise
and set like stars across the skies

of night where sound can never ring.
Delight in them. Say not a thing.

How can a heart say what is true?
How can another fathom you
Or know what quickens you or why?
Uttered ideas are a lie.
Delving defiles a flowing spring.
Drink well of it. Say not a thing.

Learn to live in yourself. A whole
world is engendered in your soul
where veiled and magic thoughts abound.

They will be dumbed by outer sound,

dispersed by beams the day will bring.

Attend their song. Say not a thing.

The Original:

Silentium

Ѳедоръ Тютчевъ

Молчи, скрывайся и таи

И чувства и мечты свои –

Пускай въ душевной глубинѣ

Встаютъ и заходятъ онѣ

Безмолвно, какъ звѣзды въ ночи, –

Любуйся ими – и молчи.

Какъ сердцу высказать себя?

Другому какъ понять тебя?

Пойметъ ли онъ, чѣмъ ты живешь?

Мысль изреченная есть ложь.

Взрывая, возмутишь ключи, –

Питайся ими – и молчи.

Лишь жить въ себѣ самомъ умѣй –

Есть цѣлый міръ въ душѣ твоей

Таинственно-волшебныхъ думъ;

Ихъ оглушитъ наружный шумъ,

Дневные разгонятъ лучи, –

Внимай ихъ пѣнью – и молчи!..

Marina Boroditskaya: On-Call Translation (From Russian)

On-Call Translation
By Marina Boroditskaya
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Another commissioned translation. Incoming!
And an alien poet, like aliens from space,
Will enter your atmosphere, space-suit on fire,
And land as a crib on your desk in your face.

Get cracking, then. Pump his chest with your palms, 
Try and find life in this thing from out there. 
Start the heart's rhythm, give mouth-to-mouth,
Till he starts breathing the harsh local air.

Seems this one will live. But others do die. 
And who'll hear you out, if it all just fizzles,
How the muse's honey congealed in your breast,
And refused to be poured into alien vessels?

The Original:

И опять принесут заказной перевод,
И поэт иноземный, как инопланетный,
Прожигая скафандр, в атмосферу войдет
И подстрочником ляжет на стол кабинетный.

Что ж, ладонь на ладонь, жми на впалую грудь,
Силясь жизнь уловить в странном облике внешнем,
Слабый ритм ухватить, что-то влить и вдохнуть,
Чтобы смог он дышать в резком воздухе здешнем.

Этот ладится жить, а иной и помрет,
И кому объяснишь, коль пойдут пересуды,
Как густеет в груди поэтический мед,
Как не хочет он литься в чужие сосуды?

Robert Desnos: Literature (From French)

Literature

By Robert Desnos

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

How I should like to write great verse today

Much like the verse in school we'd read and hear

Sometimes it swung my dreams the other way

Or possibly my brain's a little queer

But counting syllables measuring words to stick

To boundaries seems ant drudgery and would cost

My Latin my Chinese my Arabic

And even sleep the friend I've never lost

Yeah who cares How I talk is how I'll write

And if a slinking grammar cop starts bitching

Damning me from the dark with sneery spite

There's a whole nother field where I'll outpitch him

The Original:

Littérature

 

Je voudrais aujourd’hui écrire de beaux vers

Ainsi que j’en lisais quand j’étais à l’école

Ça me mettait parfois les rêves à l’envers

Il est possible aussi que je sois un peu folle

 

Mais compter tous ces mots accoupler ces syllabes

Me paraît un travail fastidieux de fourmi

J’y perdrais mon latin mon chinois mon arabe

Et même le sommeil mon serviable ami

 

J’écrirai donc comme je parle et puis tant pis

Si quelque grammairien surgi de sa pénombre

Voulait me condamner avec hargne et dépit

Il est une autre science où je puis le confondre

"Summer's Gone" (From Old Irish)

"Summer's Gone"

Anonymous

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Here's my song.   Sad stags moan.

Winter blows,   summer's gone.

High winds lash.    Low, the sun.

Short, its course.   Seas roar on.

Fall-red fern   loses form.

Wildgeese wail   as the norm.

Cold now holds   each bird's wing.

Icy times.   So I sing.

The Original:

Scél lemm dúib   dordaid dam

snigid gaim   ro·fáith sam

Gáeth ard úar   ísel grían

gair a r-rith   ruirthech rían

Rorúad rath   ro·cleth cruth 

ro·gab gnáth   giugrann guth

Ro·gab úacht   etti én

aigre ré   é mo scél

Natan Alterman: Moon (From Hebrew)

Moon
Nathan Alterman
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Even an old landscape has a moment of its birth.
The strange, impregnable 

And birdless skies. 
Under your window, moonlit on the earth,
Your city bathes in cricket-cries.

But when you see the path still looks afar
To wanderers, and the moon

Rests on a cypress spear,
You ask in wonder "Lord! Are all of these still here?
Can I not ask in whispers how they are?"

The waters look at us from their lagoons.
The tree in red of earrings 

Stays a silent tree.
Never, my God, shall Thy huge playthings' sorrow 
Be rooted out of me.

The Original:

יָרֵחַ
נתן אלתרמן

גַּם לְמַרְאֶה נוֹשָׁן יֵשׁ רֶגַע שֶׁל הֻלֶּדֶת.
שָׁמַיִם בְּלִי צִפּוֹר
זָרִים וּמְבֻצָּרִים.
בַּלַּיְלָה הַסָּהוּר מוּל חַלּוֹנְךָ עוֹמֶדֶת
עִיר טְבוּלָה בִּבְכִי הַצִּרְצָרִים.

וּבִרְאוֹתְךָ כִּי דֶּרֶךְ עוֹד צוֹפָה אֶל הֵלֶךְ
וְהַיָּרֵחַ
עַל כִּידוֹן הַבְּרוֹשׁ
אַתָּה אוֹמֵר- אֵלִי, הַעוֹד יֶשְׁנָם כָּל אֵלֶּה?
הַעוֹד מֻתָּר בְּלַחַשׁ בִּשְׁלוֹמָם לִדְרֹשׁ?

מֵאַגְמֵיהֶם הַמַּיִם נִבָּטִים אֵלֵינוּ.
שׁוֹקֵט הָעֵץ
בְּאֹדֶם עֲגִילִים.
לָעַד לֹא תֵעָקֵר מִמֶּנִּי, אֱלֹהֵינוּ,
תּוּגַת צַעֲצוּעֶיךָ הַגְּדוֹלִים.

Al-Muhalhil: Vengeance at Dawn (From Arabic)

This post's guest of honor is ˁAdī bin Rabīˁa of Taghlib, commonly known as Al-Muhalhil "The Verse-weaver." Born presumably at the very end of the 5th century, he is among the earliest Pre-Islamic Arabian poets to whom any surviving verse of substantive length is attributed. He is chiefly known for poems dealing with the Basūs War, in which a 40-year feud between the tribes of Taghlib and Bakr was supposedly ignited when his brother Kulayb was killed for slaughtering another tribe's stray camel.

Vengeance at Dawn
By Al-Muhalhil of Taghlib
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Long was my night of wake at Anˁamayn 　
　While sleepless at the ceaseless stars I gazed.
How can I age in life while a slain man 　
　Of Taghlib still calls for a man to slay?
Oh chide the eyes for tears shed over ruins.　
　In the breast a wound is torn over Kulayb.
In the breast there is a need unsatisfied 　　
　So long as doves among the branches wail.
How can he ever weep over ruined things　
　Who is pledged to war with men in every age?
How can I forget you Kulayb when I've not quelled　
　The sorrow whelming me, the bloodparched rage?

My heart today make good your bloodwit vow　
　When they ride out at dawn retaliate.
They fetch their bows and we flash lightning bolts　
　 As stallions threatening their stallion prey.
We steel ourselves beneath their flashing steel　
　Till they fall pounded by our long hard blades
And can keep up no more. We keep attacking 　

　For the man who keeps the field is war's true mate.

Audio of me reading this poem in Arabic

The Original:

باتَ لَيلي بالأَنْعَمَين طَويلا  أَرْقُبُ النَجْمَ ساهِراً لَنْ يَزولا
كَيف أٌمدي ولَا يزالُ قتيلٌ مِن بَني وائلٍ يُنادي قتيلا
أُزْجُرِ الْعَينَ أَنْ تُبَكِّي الطُلولا إِنَّ في الصَدْرِ مِنْ كُلَيبٍ فَليلا
إِنَّ في الصَدْرِ حاجةً لَنْ تُقَضَّى ما دَعا في الغُصونِ داعٍ هَديلا
كَيفَ يَبْكي الطُلولَ مَن هو رَهْنٌ بِطِعانِ الأنامِ جيلا فَجِيلا
كَيف أَنساكَ يا كلَيبُ  ولمّا أقضِ حُزناً ينوبُني وغَليلا
أيُّها القَلبُ أَنْجِزِ اليومَ نَحْباً مِن بني الحِصْنِ إذ غَدوا وذُحولا
انتَضَوا مَعْجِسَ القِسي وأَبْرَقْـنا كَما تُوعِد الفُحولُ الفُحولا
وصَبَرْنا تَحتَ البوارِقِ حتَّى دَكْدَكَتْ فيهِمِ السُيوفُ طَويلا
لم يُطيقوا أنْ يَنْزِلوا ونَزَلْنا وَأَخو الحَربِ مَن أَطاقَ النُزولا 

Romanization:

Bāta laylī bi-l-'Anˁamayni ṭawīlā arqubu l-najma sāhiran lan yazūlā

Kayfa umdī wa-lā yazālu qatīlun min Banī Wā'ilin yunādī qatīlā

Uzjuri l-ˁayna an tubakkī l-ṭulūlā inna fī l-ṣadri min Kulaybin falīlā

Inna fī l-ṣadri ḥājatan lan tuqaḍḍā mā daˁā fī l-ġuṣūni dāˁin hadīlā
Kayfa yabkī l-ṭulūla man huwa rahnun bi-ṭiˁāni l-'anāmi jīlan fa-jīlā
Kayfa ansāka yā Kulaybu wa-lammā aqḍi ḥuznan yanūbunī wa-ġalīlā
Ayyuhā l-qalbu anjizi l-yawma naḥban min Banī l-Ḥiṣni iḏ ġadaw wa-ḏuḥūlā
Intaḍaw maˁjisa l-qisiyyi wa-'abraqnā kamā tūˁidu l-fuḥūlu l-fuḥūlā
Wa-ṣabarnā taḥta l-bawāriqi ḥattā dakdakat fīhimi l-suyūfu ṭawīlā
Lam yuṭīqū an yanzilū wa-nazalnā wa-'aḫū l-ḥarbi man aṭāqa l-nuzūlā

Imru' al-Qays: From the Muˁallaqa: The Thunderstorm (From Arabic)

My translation of the finale of the famous Mu'allaqa attributed to Imru'l Qays. A terrific thunderstorm rages over the mountains on the northern edge of the Najd. The scene is imagined over so vast an area that it must be poetic fiction. (As the medieval commentators note:  Sitār, Yaḏbul and Qaṭan cannot possibly all be seen from the same place.) I include a recording in a reconstruction of how literary Arabic may have been prounced in the late Umayyad period (largely based on phonetic descriptions from early grammarians). For more on that see my discussion after.

From the Muˁallaqa: A Mountain Storm
Attributed to Imru' al-Qays
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Do you see lightning, friend? Look there: its flash
forks through the cumulus like fingers, quick
to shed its distant light; there: like the lit

lamp of a monk who tilts oil on the wick.

I sat to watch it with my friends, between
Ḍārij and Al-ˁUdhayb. Oh I gazed far
enough to see the storm raise its right arm
on Mount Qaṭan, its left on Al-Sitār,
and dump its rainload round Kutayfa, slamming

trees' faces to the ground as it went wide.
Its shower bucked on over Mount Qanān
sluicing the mountain goats off every side.
It left no palm-trunk standing at Taymā
nor building built of anything but rock. 
Tall Mount Thabīr stood in its water-onslaught
like a tribe's chieftain in a stripelined cloak.
At dawn, debris on Al-Mujaymir's peaks
lay strewn like spun wool on a spindle-tip.
The storm had left its load upon the desert
like goods a merchant loosens from his hip.
That morning, finches noised about the dales
as if blind drunk on pepper-fiery wine.
That evening, raptors lay drowned at its edge
like ripped-out squills that freakishly entwine.

The Original:

أصَاحِ تَرَِى بَرْقاً أُرِيْكَ وَمِيضَـهُ    كَلَمْـعِ اليَدَيْنِ فِي حَبِيٍّ مُكَلَّـلِ

يُضِيءُ سَنَاهُ أَوْ مَصَابِيْحُ رَاهِـبٍ    أهَانَ السَّلِيْـطَ بِالذُّبَالِ المُفَتَّـلِ

قَعَدْتُ لَهُ وصُحْبَتِي بَيْنَ ضَـارِجٍ    وبَيْنَ العـُذَيْبِ بُعْدَمَا مُتَأَمَّـلِ

عَلَا قَطَنا بِالشَّيْمِ أَيْمَنُ صَوْبِـهِ       وَأَيْسَـرُهُ عَلَى السِّتَارِ فَيَذْبُـلِ

فَأَضْحَى يَسُحُّ المَاءَ حَوْلَ كُتَيْفَةٍ     يَكُبُّ عَلَى الأذْقَانِ دَوْحَ الكَنَهْبَلِ

ومَـرَّ عَلَى القَنَـانِ مِنْ نَفَيَانِـهِ        فَأَنْزَلَ مِنْهُ العُصْمَ مِنْ كُلِّ مَنْـزِلِ

وتَيْمَاءَ لَمْ يَتْرُكْ بِهَا جِذْعَ نَخْلَـةٍ     وَلاَ أٌجُماً إِلاَّ مَشِيْداً بِجِنْـدَلِ

كَأَنَّ ثَبِيْـراً فِي عَرَانِيْـنِ وَبْلِـهِ       كَبِيْـرُ أُنَاسٍ فِي بِجَـادٍ مُزَمَّـلِ

كَأَنَّ ذُرَى رَأْسِ المُجَيْمِرِ غُـدْوَةً    مِنَ السَّيْلِ وَالأَغثَاءِ فَلْكَةُ مِغْـزَلِ

وأَلْقَى بِصَحْـرَاءِ الغَبيْطِ بَعَاعَـهُ    نُزُوْلَ اليَمَانِي ذِي العِيَابِ المُحَمَّلِ

كَأَنَّ مَكَـاكِيَّ الجِـوَاءِ غُدَّبَـةً         صُبِحْنَ سُلافاً مِنْ رَحيقٍ مُفَلْفَـلِ

كَأَنَّ السِّبَـاعَ فِيْهِ غَرْقَى عَشِيَّـةً     بِأَرْجَائِهِ القُصْوَى أَنَابِيْشُ عُنْصُـلِ

Note:

The Arabic of my audio recording is in what I choose to call "Early Classical Arabic" pronunciation. To put it grandiosely, it is a kind of Arabic that hasn't been heard for over a thousand years. To put it plainly, it is a speculative reconstruction of the kind of Arabic pronunciation the grammarian Sibawayh might have used, based on his description of Arabic speech-sounds, and augmented with some inference based on typology. The main differences from textbook Classical Arabic as it is taught and learned today are as follows:

The ج was /ɟ/ (not /dʒ/)
The ش was /ɕ/ (not /ʃ/) 
The ص was (for an indeterminate number of speakers including Sibawayh) an affricate /t͡sˤ/ rather than the fricative /sˁ/.  (For reasoning behind this reconstruction see this article by Ahmad Al-Jallad).
The ض was a pharyngealized lateral, probably /ɮˤ/ or /d͡ɮˤ/ (the modern /dˁ/ pronunciation is much more recent)
The ت and ك appear to have been quite strongly aspirated /kʰ tʰ/. 
In addition to the familiar three vowels /a: i: u:/ there existed /e:/ for many speakers (and, more marginally, /o:/ for some.) 
The vowel /a:/ was optionally raised to [e:] due to i-mutation under a complex of different circumstances, partially neutralizing the contrast between /a:/ and phonemic /e:/ and giving the realizations of /a:/ a range and distribution not commonly heard in modern elevated poetic recitations. 

Although I render ش as alveolo-palatal /ɕ/, full disclosure requires noting that another possibility would be a true palatal non-sibilant /ç/, which is what many (perhaps most) posit based on a strict interpretation of Sibawayhi's statement. Now, Sibawayhi, who doesn't get enough credit as a phonetician, could probably have distinguished palatal from alveolo-palatal articulation. But whether he would have cared to is a different question. Although he groups ي ش ج at the same place of articulation, it is only ش which causes assimilation of the definite article. Thus there was something about šīn that made it pattern, for assimilation purposes, with the coronals rather than the dorsals. The most straightforward interpretation would be that this is because šīn was indeed a sibilant. Sibilants as an articulatory class involve a centerline grooved tongue focusing the airstream such that it strikes the teeth. Whereas non-sibilant fricatives do not involve the teeth as a secondary articulator. Sibilants, probably because of the need to involve the teeth, are always coronal. Alveolo-palatal articulation sits uneasily in a no-man's land between the dorsal and coronals, and is as far back as you can go and still produce a sound that behaves acoustically and structurally like a sibilant. For /ç/ to function as a sibilant, it must thus have front articulation [ç̟], which (notational and theoretical games aside) makes it functionally /ɕ/. 

One phonologically interesting way in which Sibawayhi's Arabic was likely counterintuitive from the standpoint of many modern accents of the standard language, and doubly so for non-native Arabic speakers given how they tend to be taught, is that what we normally think of as voiced plain stops /b d ɟ/ and voiceless plain stops /t k/ did not — strictly speaking — have presence or absence of voicing per se as their distinguishing feature. In this, Sibawayh's Arabic would align with certain modern dialects like San'ani Arabic. (See Phonation and glottal states in Modern South Arabian and San’ani Arabic by Janet Watson and Barry Heselwood for this and more, including a good explanation of a crucial articulatory category in Sibawayh's description.) The chief featural distinction between the two sets was probably aspiration in the latter and non-aspiration (with adductive glottal tension) in the former. In a dialect like this, although /b d ɟ/ probably did not have fully specified voicing, much of the time this would be of little phonetic consequence since in most positions voicing would be triggered positionally. In post-pausal position, however, although /b d ɟ/ would trigger a glottal prephonation state, their actual voice-onset time would not necessarily be different from that of a voiceless non-aspirated stop. 

Théophile de Viau: Lament for Clairac (From French)

Lament for Clairac

Théophile de Viau (1590 – 1626)
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Go hear to hear me read this poem in Early Modern French and in English

Sun-hallowed walls where I once loved Philis,

Sweet places where my soul knew charm and wonder,
Today, beneath our wrecked roofs, just a piece

Of a high-handed army's bloody plunder.

Altar cloth gone in smoke, great church now scorched
Unholy ruin, mysteries undone,
Horrific relicts of a city torched:
Men, horses and great halls buried as one.

Deep moats packed with debris from shattered walls,
Tableaux of horror, shrieks and burials,
River where blood will not stop running high.

Slaughterfields where the wolves and crows gorge free,
Clairac! For the one birth you gave to me
How many, many deaths you make me die.

The Original:

Sacrez murs du Soleil où j'adouray Philis,
Doux sejour où mon ame estoit jadis charmee,
Qui n'est plus aujourd'huy soubs nos toits desmoulis
Que le sanglant butin d'une orgueilleuse armee;

Ornemens de l'autel qui n'estes que fumee,
Grand Temple ruiné, mysteres abolis,
Effroyables objects d'une ville allumee,
Palais, hommes, chevaux, ensemble ensevelis;

Fossez larges et creux tous comblés de murailles,
Spectacles de frayeur, de cris, de funerailles,
Fleuve par où le sang ne cesse de courir,

Charniers où les Corbeaux et loups vont tous repaistre,
Clairac pour une fois que vous m'avez fait naistre,
Helas! combien de fois me faictes vous mourir.

Fatemeh Shams: A Poem for Iran (From Persian)

A Poem For Iran

By Fatemeh Shams
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

To never go to sleep because a nightmare terrifies,


to sit awake each night until dawn breaks into the skies,


to stagger woozy somewhere between sleep and wakening


to die in life's own name as blindness teeters on the eyes,

in pointless hollow love that just repeats relentlessly,

 in all that "Oh I love you dear!" and "Oh do you love me?"

 in wanting that all comes to naught for all that never comes

 in pointless work and plunged in out-of-work banality,

to have at last no memory, no border and nowhere,

 to drift through men's and women's cold embraces here and there,

 to haul a suitcase and three hundred books from place to place

 to have, among all colors in the world, a shroud's to wear,

to break the heart away from every face the veils obscure

 from every man whose inmost being is a rancid sewer

 to break the heart away from the strange city of my childhoods

 that still holds within its soil a sorrow clean and pure

from endlessly not going back as hesitations weigh

 through waking dreams in exile's arms without You night and day

 through boundless yearning for what I will never see again,

 through the despair of having turned a word like "hope" cliché

with no love and no homeland in this mad perplexity,

 stuck in this narrow alley whose dead end runs endlessly,

 to vomit You from me and, oh, to ask with all my love

 "Dear wounded country, my sick home! Do You still think of me?"

The Original:

شعرى براى ايران

از ترس یک کابوس تا هرگز نخوابیدن هر شب نشستن تا طلوع صبح را دیدن

جایی میان خواب و بیداری، تلو خوردن در برزخ ِ کوری به نام ِ زندگی مُردن

در جا زدن در عشق‌های پوچ ِ تکراری در دوستت دارم عزیزم! دوستم داری

در خواستن‌هایی که از دم بی‌سرانجامند در شغل‌های آبکی، در قعر ِ بیکاری

بی‌حافظه، بی‌مرز، بی شهر و وطن بودن آواره در آغوش ِ سرد ِ مرد و زن بودن

یک ساک و سیصد جلد را هی جا به جا کردن بین تمام ِ رنگ‌ها، رنگ ِ کفن بودن

دل کندن از هر کس که بر صورت نقابی داشت هر کس که در قعر وجودش منجلابی داشت

دل از کندن از شهر ِ غریب کودکی‌هایم آنجا که در خاکش غم و اندوه نابی داشت

از برنگشتن‌های بی‌پایان ِ پُر تردید بیدارخوابی بی تو در آغوش این تبعید

دلتگی ِ بی‌مرز از هرگز ندیدن‌ها سرخوردگی از ابتذال واژه امید

بی‌سرزمین، بی‌عشق، در اوج همین مستی در کوچه باریک ِ بی پایان ِ بن‌بستی

آوردنت بالا و هی با عشق پرسیدن ای سرزمین خسته! توی فکر من هستی

Al-Mutanabbi: On the Recapture of Al-Ḥadath (From Arabic)

The year is 954 A.D. Al-Ḥadath Al-Ḥamrā is a strategically important town on the Arab-Byzantine border, between Marˁaš and Malaṭiya, which depended for protection on a fortress built on nearby Mount Uḥaydib. After being captured and demilitarized in 950 by the Byzantines, it was retaken in October of 954 by Sayfu l-Dawla Abū Ḥasan Bin Ḥamdān, the Emir of Aleppo (whom I have seen fit to anglicize as Lord Ali the Realmsword) who set about refortifying it, only to be interrupted by the appearance of Byzantine forces under the command of Bardas Phocas. Before the end of the month, a decisive battle was fought around Mount Uhaydib. After a day of heavy fighting, Lord Realmsword with a small company of hardened men broke through the Byzantine line. Bardas' forces retreated, leaving members of his own family as prisoners. Lord Realmsword was then able to finish up the fortification of Al-Hadath, whereupon he had the pleasure of hearing his court poet Abū Ṭayyib Al-Mutanabbī recite the poem translated here in celebration of the occasion.

Oh and here's a recording of me reciting the Arabic text:

A. Z. Foreman · Al-Mutanabbi's panegyric to Sayfu l-Dawlah on the taking of Al-Hadath

In Praise of Lord Realmsword on the Recapture of Al-Hadath
By Al-Mutanabbī
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

This translation is dedicated to Tahera Qutbuddin, in whose wonderful seminar I had the pleasure of reading this and other poems by Al-Mutanabbī and got some idea of how to translate him. 

Resolutions measure　a man's resolve
　and noble deeds　a noble name.
Small deeds loom large　to little eyes

　and great deeds shrink　in a great man's gaze.

Behold Lord Ali　of the house of Hamdan,
　See how Realmsword　is rightly his name.
He wills his forces　to show the force of his will
　which hardened brigades　can hardly attain
He expects of his men　no more than himself
　but more than the lordliest　of lions can claim.
Agelong vultures　of the vast drylands
　would pledge their lives　to protect his blades.
They'd meet no harm　though made talonless
　since his sturdy arms　of steel were made.
Does that Red City　still realize her color,⁽²⁾
　whether cloudbursts brought　the blood or the rain?
Where first she drank　of flashing clouds
　she drank of skulls　the day he came.
While blade beat blade　he built and braced her
　where she shook from the force　of the Fates' brute waves.
She lay mad in the hold　of an unholy spell
　that dead bodies broke　at break of day.

Displaced by Fate　to a foreign creed,
　the strike of your swords　restored her Faith.
What nights yield to you　is yours forever.
　What they steal from you　they soon must repay.
Plans you pass are verbs　in the present now 
　having moved to past　before men can negate.
No Roman or Viking⁽³⁾ 　could raze that stronghold
　raised with pikethrusts　 for pillars and base.
No wronged man died　and no wrongdoer lived
　when they called her to justice.　The Judge was Fate.

So clad in steel　they came at you
　their coursers seemed legless　crossing the plain.
When they flashed, their blades 　all blended in
　with steel garments　aglint with day,
An army on the crawl　from east and west
　clamoring till the ears　of Orion⁽⁴⁾ ached,
A horde of tangled　tongues and peoples
　with translators for each　order relayed. 

Then that molten time　melted fake mettle 
　till only war's metal　and men remained
Every sword shattered　that failed to shatter
　the bulwark of bloodwood　and bucklers and mail
Every fool turned gutless　in fear of gutting
　fled from the ranks　of fighters that day. 
Where standing meant death　you stood your ground
　as if on the sleeping　eyelids of bane.
While wounded, fright-fouled　fighters ran past you
　you fought with a smile　and a shining face
and went beyond bounds　of bravery and reason
　till they said you knew　the Numen's ways.

I know how hawks 　will hold birds down
　in a grip to gut 　their grounded game.⁽⁵⁾
You squeezed the foe's wings　on a squirming heart
　and dealt hard death　to downstruck prey.
You skivered their skulls　when you still hadn't won
　then their vitals and throats　as victory came. 
You detested lances 　and tossed them aside,
　your sword spitting　on spears at close range. 

Let any who look　for the light of conquest
　see it in the luster　of lightweight blades.
You strewed them hard　over Uháydib like coins
　strewn over a woman　on her wedding day.  
Your horses trampled　the hilltop nests
　where fodder galore　before them lay.
Eaglets imagined 　it was their mothers you brought,
　not the sturdy wingfoot 　steeds that raced
till they slipped and you had them　slide on their bellies　
　across the earth　like crawling snakes. 

Will the Domesticus⁽⁶⁾ dare　every day against you
　with his neck fighting 　his advancing face? 
Does he not sense lions' 　scent till he tastes it?
　Even wildbeasts can sense　a lion on the way. 
Our leader's sorties　struck him hard 
　when his son, his wife's brother 　and his son were slain.
Troops helped him scamp　to escape the swords
　that were busy hacking 　their heads away. 
He got the message 　of Mashrafi⁽⁷⁾ steel
　to his men, though told　 in the tongue of strangers. 
He was glad to surrender　not in stupidity,
　but after his loss　even life was a gain.　
You are no mere king　who conquers his peer⁽⁸⁾
     but the one God's triumph　over triune pagans,
You have ennobled 　all of Adnan⁽⁹⁾,
　 Pride of the Outlands⁽¹⁰⁾　and all creation. 
The praise is yours　for my pearls of verse:
　I just string them. 　You set their shape. 　　
Your gifts⁽¹¹¹⁾ gallop with me　through the grind of war
　so you bear no regrets　and I no blame
On a steed whose feet 　fly to battle
　as soon as it hears　the howling fray.

Oh Realmsword unsheathed 　and ready forever,
　held in no doubt　nor held at bay.
Joy to skull-strikers,　to stout men's deeds,
　to them that love you　and Islam: you are safe. 
And why wouldn't God　still guard your edge
　to behead his foes　with you for a blade?

Notes:


2 — Hali l-ḥadaṯu l-ḥamrā'u taˁrifu lawnahā? (Literally: "Does Red Al-Hadath know her color?")

"Red" was a term that could be used for non-Arabs, especially Persians, Greeks or "Franks" (Western Europeans) who were seen as being of lighter complexion. E.g. Atānī kullu aswada minhum wa'aḥmar "Every one of them, Arab and not, came to me". A saying attributed to Muhammad has it that buˁiṯtu ilā l-'aḥmari wa-l-aswad "I was sent to the red and the black" of which the most straightforward interpretation is "to all mankind, Arab and not." The term Al-Ḥamrā' as a collective adjective may also be used to refer generically to foreigners, or to emancipated slaves.

Al-Hadaṯ Al-Ḥamrā' "Red Hadath" is the traditional appellation of the city. The color is — I think — being played on at multiple levels. She (the city is morphosyntactically feminine) is in the most obvious sense "red" after being soaked with blood. But she was also a "red" (foreign, Greek) city when under Byzantine rule, which she no longer is. She is now "red" (emancipated from bondage) now that Lord Realmsword has relieved her of foreign control. Despite her traditional appellation, she may not even know that she is now red in one sense, and was red in the other, so completely has she now been redeemed to her proper place under Islamdom.

3 — "Vikings". The original text uses the word Rūs which in Modern Arabic simply means "Russians." Anglophone commenters on this poem have usually translated it thus, and Arabic commentaries often leave the word unglossed as though its meaning were transparent. But the Arabic word Rūs, at this time, actually referred to Norsemen (specifically the Byzantine Varangian guard is probably what is meant.) Since English "Rus" is far too scholarly, and "Norsemen" would be a bit too specific, I have used the most readily intelligible term Vikings. (I considered calquing off of Old Norse Garðmaðr and rendering the phrase as "Greeks and Garthmen" or the like. But somehow it felt a bit silly to go to such an extreme.)

4 — The original actually refers to Gemini, a different constellation. But makes for a more transparent image of an anthropomorphized stellar figure.

5 — This verse, like some others in my translation, does not have an exact counterpart in the original. But it served in English to make the image clearer. Al-Mutanabbī's description evokes the way a hawk pounces on larger types of prey. The predator holds its prey to the ground, delivering blows to the skull to dispatch it fully before slashing into the throat.

6 — Domesticus (or, rather δομέστικος) was Bardas' Byzantine military title, loaned into Arabic as dumustuq, which is the word Al-Mutanabbī uses.

7 — In poetry, good swords are often said to be "Mashrafi" after an obscure place called Mashraf. Nobody quite knows why, though everybody likes to guess.

8 — Literally "You are monotheism defeating polytheism (širk)". That Christians have in some sense diluted the principle of monotheism by worshipping a trinity was — as it still is — a commonplace of anti-Christian Muslim polemic.

9 — Adnan: the Northern Arabs are supposedly descendants of ˁAdnān.

10 — "Outlands" is my rendering of ˁawāṣim. The word has often been misread as meaning "capitals" which is its sense in Modern Arabic. The term ˁawāṣim here refers to a part of the frontier zone between the Byzantine Empire and the Empire of the Caliphs. The forward strongholds of this zone were called ṯuġūr "mouths", while those further rearward were called the ˁawāṣim "guardianesses". 

11 — Lord Realmsword had gifted the poet with some horses.

The Original:

عَلى قَدْرِ أهْلِ العَزْم تأتي العَزائِمُ   وَتأتي علَى قَدْرِ الكِرامِ المَكارمُ

وَتَعْظُمُ في عَينِ الصّغيرِ صغارُها وَتَصْغُرُ في عَين العَظيمِ العَظائِمُ

يُكَلّفُ سيفُ الدّوْلَةِ الجيشَ هَمّهُ وَقد عَجِزَتْ عنهُ الجيوشُ الخضارمُ

وَيَطلُبُ عندَ النّاسِ ما عندَ نفسِه وَذلكَ ما لا تَدّعيهِ الضّرَاغِمُ

يُفَدّي أتَمُّ الطّيرِ عُمْراً سِلاحَهُ نُسُورُ الفَلا أحداثُها وَالقَشاعِمُ

وَما ضَرّها خَلْقٌ بغَيرِ مَخالِبٍ وَقَدْ خُلِقَتْ أسيافُهُ وَالقَوائِمُ

هَلِ الحَدَثُ الحَمراءُ تَعرِفُ لوْنَها وَتَعْلَمُ أيُّ السّاقِيَيْنِ الغَمَائِمُ

سَقَتْها الغَمَامُ الغُرُّ قَبْلَ نُزُولِهِ فَلَمّا دَنَا مِنها سَقَتها الجَماجِمُ

بَنَاهَا فأعْلى وَالقَنَا يَقْرَعُ القَنَا وَمَوْجُ المَنَايَا حَوْلَها مُتَلاطِمُ

وَكانَ بهَا مثْلُ الجُنُونِ فأصْبَحَتْ وَمِنْ جُثَثِ القَتْلى عَلَيْها تَمائِمُ

طَريدَةُ دَهْرٍ ساقَها فَرَدَدْتَهَا على  الدّينِ بالخَطّيّ وَالدّهْرُ رَاغِمُ

تُفيتُ کللّيالي كُلَّ شيءٍ أخَذْتَهُ وَهُنّ لِمَا يأخُذْنَ منكَ غَوَارِمُ

إذا كانَ ما تَنْوِيهِ فِعْلاً مُضارِعاً مَضَى قبلَ أنْ تُلقى علَيهِ الجَوازِمُ

وكيفَ تُرَجّي الرّومُ والرّوسُ هدمَها وَذا الطّعْنُ آساسٌ لهَا وَدَعائِمُ

وَقَد حاكَمُوهَا وَالمَنَايَا حَوَاكِمٌ فَما ماتَ مَظلُومٌ وَلا عاشَ ظالِمُ

أتَوْكَ يَجُرّونَ الحَديدَ كَأنّمَا سَرَوْا إليك بِجِيَادٍ ما لَهُنّ قَوَائِمُ

إذا بَرَقُوا لم تُعْرَفِ البِيضُ منهُمُ ثِيابُهُمُ من مِثْلِها وَالعَمَائِمُ

خميسٌ بشرْقِ الأرْضِ وَالغرْبِ زَحْفُهُ وَفي أُذُنِ الجَوْزَاءِ منهُ زَمَازِمُ

تَجَمّعَ فيهِ كلُّ لِسْنٍ وَأُمّةٍ فَمَا يُفْهِمُ الحُدّاثَ إلاّ الترَاجِمُ

فَلِلّهِ وَقْتٌ ذَوّبَ الغِشَّ نَارُهُ فَلَمْ يَبْقَ إلاّ صَارِمٌ أوْ ضُبارِمُ

تَقَطّعَ ما لا يَقْطَعُ الدّرْعَ وَالقَنَا وَفَرّ منَ الفُرْسانِ مَنْ لا يُصادِمُ

وَقَفْتَ وَما في المَوْتِ شكٌّ لوَاقِفٍ كأنّكَ في جَفنِ الرّدَى وهْوَ نائِمُ

تَمُرّ بكَ الأبطالُ كَلْمَى هَزيمَةً وَوَجْهُكَ وَضّاحٌ وَثَغْرُكَ باسِمُ

تجاوَزْتَ مِقدارَ الشّجاعَةِ والنُّهَى إلى قَوْلِ قَوْمٍ أنتَ بالغَيْبِ عالِمُ

ضَمَمْتَ جَناحَيهِمْ على القلبِ ضَمّةً تَمُوتُ الخَوَافي تحتَها وَالقَوَادِمُ

بضَرْبٍ أتَى الهاماتِ وَالنّصرُ غَائِبٌ وَصَارَ إلى اللّبّاتِ وَالنّصرُ قَادِمُ

حَقَرْتَ الرُّدَيْنِيّاتِ حتى طَرَحتَها وَحتى كأنّ السّيفَ للرّمحِ شاتِمُ

وَمَنْ طَلَبَ الفَتْحَ الجَليلَ فإنّمَا مَفاتِيحُهُ البِيضُ الخِفافُ الصّوَارِمُ

نَثَرْتَهُمُ فَوْقَ الأُحَيْدِبِ كُلّهِ كمَا نُثِرَتْ فَوْقَ العَرُوسِ الدّراهمُ

تدوسُ بكَ الخيلُ الوكورَ على الذُّرَى وَقد كثرَتْ حَوْلَ الوُكورِ المَطاعِمُ

تَظُنّ فِراخُ الفُتْخِ أنّكَ زُرْتَهَا بأُمّاتِها وَهْيَ العِتاقُ الصّلادِمُ

إذا زَلِقَتْ مَشّيْتَها ببُطونِهَا كمَا تَتَمَشّى في الصّعيدِ الأراقِمُ

أفي كُلّ يَوْمٍ ذا الدُّمُسْتُقُ مُقدِمٌ قَفَاهُ على الإقْدامِ للوَجْهِ لائِمُ

أيُنكِرُ رِيحَ اللّيثِ حتى يَذُوقَهُ وَقد عَرَفتْ ريحَ اللّيوثِ البَهَائِمُ

وَقد فَجَعَتْهُ بابْنِهِ وَابنِ صِهْرِهِ وَبالصّهْرِ حَمْلاتُ الأميرِ الغَوَاشِمُ

مضَى يَشكُرُ الأصْحَابَ في فوْته الظُّبَى لِمَا شَغَلَتْهَا هامُهُمْ وَالمَعاصِمُ

وَيَفْهَمُ صَوْتَ المَشرَفِيّةِ فيهِمِ على أنّ أصْواتَ السّيوفِ أعَاجِمُ

يُسَرّ بمَا أعْطاكَ لا عَنْ جَهَالَةٍ وَلكِنّ مَغْنُوماً نَجَا منكَ غانِمُ

وَلَسْتَ مَليكاً هازِماً لِنَظِيرِهِ وَلَكِنّكَ التّوْحيدُ للشّرْكِ هَازِمُ

تَشَرّفُ عَدْنانٌ بهِ لا رَبيعَةٌ وَتَفْتَخِرُ الدّنْيا بهِ لا العَوَاصِمُ

لَكَ الحَمدُ في الدُّرّ الذي ليَ لَفظُهُ فإنّكَ مُعْطيهِ وَإنّيَ نَاظِمُ

وَإنّي لَتَعْدو بي عَطَايَاكَ في الوَغَى فَلا أنَا مَذْمُومٌ وَلا أنْتَ نَادِمُ

عَلى كُلّ طَيّارٍ إلَيْهَا برِجْلِهِ إذا وَقَعَتْ في مِسْمَعَيْهِ الغَمَاغِمُ

ألا أيّها السّيفُ الذي لَيسَ مُغمَداً وَلا فيهِ مُرْتابٌ وَلا منْهُ عَاصِمُ

هَنيئاً لضَرْبِ الهَامِ وَالمَجْدِ وَالعُلَى وَرَاجِيكَ وَالإسْلامِ أنّكَ سالِمُ

وَلِمْ لا يَقي الرّحم?نُ حدّيك ما وَقى وَتَفْليقُهُ هَامَ العِدَى بكَ دائِمُ

Anonymous: Deor (From Old English)

This poem refers to stock characters — real and fictional — from Germanic lore. Some of the figures are now obscure, and most are not known directly from Old English versions of the story. I have modernized many of the names in my translation, giving them forms that would be plausible as Modern English versions of the name. The biggest exception is Wayland, whose Old English name would actually have been Weeland or Weland had it survived into the modern period.

Wayland (Old English Wéland, Old Norse Vǫlundr, Old High German Wiolant) was a smith renowned for his metal working ability. He was forced to work for Nithad (OE Niþhad, ON Níðuðr) who hamstrung him to stop his escape. Wayland avenged himself by killing the king's sons, raping his daughter Beadild (OE Beadohilde, ON Bǫðvildr). Mathild and Geat are opaque. They appear to be famous lovers that met a tragic end, like Romeo and Juliet, or Layla and Majnun. The ablest guess is that they correspond to Magnhild and Gaute of a Scandinavian ballad tale recorded in the 19th century, but even if so the story as it was known to the poet's English audience may well have differed greatly from the version known from Scandinavia a thousand years later. Thedric is Theodoric, the Ostrogothic emperor who ruled in Italy from 493 to 526. Armenric is Ermanaric the Goth, another famous tyrant, known to us from Beowulf and Widsith. (I confected the form Armenric by positing that the vowel of Eormanric underwent pre-rhotic lowering to /a/ in Late Middle English and, as in most native words, failed to raise again in the Early Modern period. Eormanric becomes Armenric just like "feorr", "deorc" do "far", "dark".)

The phonology of my recording below is not based on the extant West Saxon text in the Exeter Book. That'd be too easy and I wanted to do something different. Trying to date a poem as short as this is difficult, but its subject matter and in particular its preservation of genuine Old English reflexes of mythical proper names suggests that it isn't much younger than the 9th century if that. I based my reading on the Mercian dialect recorded in the Vespasian Psalter. Thus vowel length has collapsed in inflectional endings, /ĕ̄o/ and /ĭ̄o/ have merged, and Mercian second fronting is in full effect. The text shown in the video is meant to give an idea of what the text in the Exeter Book might have looked like if it were copied out faithfully from a Mercian exemplar.

Deor
By Anonymnous
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Wayland in Wormland　went through harrows,
The strongminded smith　suffered in exile.
Worry and longing 　walked beside him,
winter-raw anguish.　He ached for escape
after King Nithad　cramped his sinews　

and bound a slave　of the better man.

That passed in time.　So too can this. 

To Beadild's mind　her brothers' deaths
weren't as wounding　as what she faced
herself when she came　to clearly see
that she was pregnant.　That princess unwed
could not handle　what would become of her.

That passed in time.　So too can this.

We know the tale  　of tragic Mathild.
the Geat bore her　a bottomless passion,
all sleep banished 　by a baneful love

That passed in time.　So too can this.

Tyrant Thedrick　for thirty winters
ruled the Mearings,　as many know.

That passed in time.　So too can this.

We have all heard tell　of Armenrick
and his wolfsick mind.　He was one cruel king,
That overlord　of the outland Goths
whose state was set　in strung-up hearts　
as strong men sat　in sorrow-chains
awaiting the worst,　and wishing so much
for a foe to liberate　the land of their king.

That passed in time.　So too can this.

A man sits mournful,　mind ripped from joy.
His spirit in dark,　he deems himself
foredoomed to endure　ordeals forever.
Then he may think　how throughout the world

the Wise God goes　and works around:
meting out grace,　mercy and certain
success to some,　suffering to many.

Of myself I want　to say just this:
I was high poet　　to the Hedenings once,
Dear to my master.　"Deer" was my name.
For many winters　 I was a man in that hall
And the heart of my lord.　But Herrend came
And reaped the riches　and rights of land
That guardian of men 　once granted me,
And stole my place 　with a poet's skill. 

That passed in time.　So too can this.

The Original:

Wélond him be wurman 　wreces cunnade

ánhýdiġ eorl 　earfoða drég

hefde him tó ġesíþþe　 sorġe end longoþ

wintercalde wræce 　wéan oft onfond

seoþþan hine níþhád on 　néde leġde

swoncre seonobende 　on sellan mon

þes oferéode　 þisses swé meġ

Beadohilde ne wes　 hire bróðra déaþ
on seofan swé sár 　swé hire seolfre þing,
þet híe ġearolíċe　 onġeten hefde
þet híe écen wes;　 ǽfre ne mehte
þríste ġeþencan, 　hú ymb þet ṡċolde.

þes oferéode þisses swé meġ

Wé þet Mǽþhilde　 monġe ġefrugnon
wurdon grundléase　 Ġéates fríge,
þet him séo sorglufu　 slép alle binom.

þes oferéode þisses swé meġ

Þéodríċ áhte 　þrítiġ wintra
Méringa burg; 　þet wes moneġum cúþ.

þes oferéode þisses swé meġ

Wé ġeáscadun　 Éormonríċes
wylfenne ġeþóht;　 áhte wíde folc
Gotena ríċes.　 Þet wes grim cyning.
Set seċġ moniġ　 sorgum ġebunden,
wéan on wénan,　 wyṡċte ġenehhe
þet þes cyneríċes　 ofercumen wére.

þes oferéode þisses swé meġ

Siteþ sorgċeriġ,　 sélum bidǽled,
on seofan swerċeþ,　 seolfum þinceþ
þet síe endeléas 　earfoða dæl.
Meġ þonne ġeþencan, 　þet ġeond þás weoruld

wítiġ dryhten　 wendeþ genehhe,
eorle monegum　 áre geṡċéawaþ,
wíslícne bléd, 　sumum wéana dǽl.

Þet iċ bi mé seolfum　 seċġan wille,
þet iċ hwíle wes　Heodeninga sċop,
dryhtne déore.　 Mé wes Déor noma.
Áhte iċ feola wintra　 folgaþ tilne,
holdne hláford, 　oþþet Heorrenda nú,
léoþcreftiġ monn 　londreht ġeþáh,
þet mé eorla hléow　 ǽr ġesalde.

þes oferéode þisses swé meġ