Poet and translator | Independent translator | Published: 17 March, 2019
ISSUE 14 | Pages: 218-232 |
PDF | DOAJ 
| https://doi.org/10.24162/EI2019-8875 
2019 by Pura López Colomé | Enrique Alda |
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Introduction. On Enrique Alda’s versions
Upon reading Seamus Heaney’s early poetry collections – and this was a long time ago – I was surprised by his subtle way of offering up his own versions of poems by other authors as a way to making them his own and moulding them with exacting precision into the specific theme of each given collection. Rather than referring to them as “translations”, he used the word after as an antecedent (to works by the likes of Dante, Baudelaire, Virgil, and some Gaelic authors) with the aim of reworking them into newly inspired viewpoints a posteriori; thus, the poem’s metaphors and images, initially belonging to a different language, would be born again, this time to a different voice and melody – his own – in such a way that his harmonious yet elusive “music of events” was crafted into something visible and audible. I owe this great Captain the sudden epiphany of conceiving translation as creation, as an opportunity of feeding foreign sounds to a symphony of musical inimitability. As time went on, I had the chance to be present at some of his poetry readings, attended by audiences of varying sizes, where – to put it this way – “the yellow bittern”, otherwise known as the seventeenth-century “An Bunnán Bui”, would take flight in yet another twentieth-century poem by Heaney.
The Irish tradition is fortunate enough to host poet-translators whose bilingual output has been fostered by the co-existence of two languages: these authors write in what they feel to be their mother tongue, and then harken back to their second language. While those of us who live under different linguistic circumstances come across this realization in alternative ways, considering this background there is no room for doubt that the person wishing to render a poem into a different language must necessarily be a poet, or else should have experienced first-hand the implications of writing without colliding against semantic plurality. This poet-translator may have never published their poems; however, he or she has written them into existence, even if privately and far from the gaze of discerning eyes, or will do so in the future. Deep down, nevertheless, this poet must firmly believe that “translating” poetry is far from being a mere task of chancing upon perfect equivalents. It is precisely in this light that renowned poet Anne Carson defines as synonymy the realtionship between poetry and translation, even if one is faced with muttering or complete silence. After all, absolute ownership of a poem has grown to matter less and less now that we have come to understand Homer as a conglomerate of poets rather than an individual entity.
Enrique Alda’s translations of Caitlín Maude (1941-1982) and Mary O’Malley – the former being an excellent example of the Gaelic-English-Spanish triangle and the latter’s poetry in English likewise dancing to vibrant Gaelic rhythms – are Greek in their approach: that is, they see language as the veil under which the truth of all things shines away, and poetry as the revealing rip in the fabric elaborated by the individual language in question. The intense flow of his versions immediately catches the eye, in a way which recalls the literary compulsion of the naturally risk-taking poet, rather than the careful craftsman. His achievements remind one of Borges’s perceptions on translation: “Translations are far from being inferior to the original, but we must necessarily perceive a difference between them … which is not within the reach of the translator; rather, it lies in the way poetry is read”.
Both poets owe themselves to Connemara, by which I mean that each utilizes her own style to replicate the deep rhythms and tonalities of the regional voice. While Maude’s poetry stems from the Gaelic language, O’Malley’s poetry is in English, which bridges both poets with Enrique Alda’s language.
Caitlín Maude’s versions (not the originals) have been put forth by a variety of authors intent on paying tribute to her genuine way of singing in the dark (in the corner of a room, or the darkness underneath the speaker’s closed eyes) and the quiet summoning of readers or listeners willing to participate. Translators into English such as Trodden Keefe, Fitzmaurice, Hartnett and Ní Chonchúir show the necessity to emulate the brief and mostly nasal pauses, the long syllables at the end of sentences, the glissandos, and even the endings struggling to be spoken rather than sung – in itself a trait of ancient a cappella singing. Enrique is aware of the incapacity of the Spanish language to achieve that effect. He decides, therefore, to bestow his poetic enterprise with precise originality through the use of careful repetitions and impeccably flawless Castilian cadences; he never loses sight of the translator’s task of contributing something beyond the original version, an outcome in turn to be desired from an artistic point of view, as Walter Benjamin and George Steiner have noted. The titles he chooses exceed mere literalism (“Tangled” is “Maraña”; “Interval” becomes “Arrebato”; “Entreaty” is translated into “Súplica”, to mentioned but a few), thus instating a rigorous identification between meaning and content which he later sends to multiple directions and ends with his own personal touch in the form of a risky addendum. Let me briefly sample the poem “Maraña”, which might as well have been composed in our own language. So faultlessly does the musicality of the final lines strengthen the original meaning that the protagonist/speaker feels compelled to actively – rather than passively – descend, wander out, and be swallowed whole by the depths of sorrow and loneliness: “Pasea esta noche por la playa,/mi amor,/ pasea y detén tus lágrimas,/ levántate y pasea esta noche,/no te arrodilles más/ante esa tumba en la montaña,/sus flores están marchitas/y mis huesos descompuestos…/esta noche te llamo/desde las profundidades del océano…./Una vez recorrí la orilla/hasta el final de la playa,/donde las olas jugaban/y la blanca espuma besaba mis pies./Inundando lentamente mi mirada/allí, en lo más profundo,/en la maraña de olas y espuma,/vi la soledad en tus ojos/y la pena en tu rostro”.
These are both the original and Alda’s solution to the ending of the poem:
“I wandered out in the depths/From knees to waist/And from waist to shoulders/Until I was swallowed/In sorrow and loneliness”.
“Descendí hasta las profundidades/de la rodilla a la cintura/y de la cintura a los hombros,/hasta que me hundí/en la soledad y la pena”.
It is likely that the spiritual direction of this song of love and lament has influenced the translator’s choice of a well-defined musicality, which is evidenced in the speaker’s desire to actually sink.
In the case of Mary O’Malley, Enrique’s approach unearths further nuances of meaning and, as I see it, seeks to identify himself with the voice of the female through the reverberation of an intimate, private, and womanly speech, one which reaches out to its echo in the world. This time, poetic music does not lead the way; instead, it is the author’s voice – whose particularly opaque elevation is painted with a religious, historical, mythological and legendary veneer and, as such, is not necessarily melodious – that weaves together landscape and word, place and syllable, home and consonants, brusque, loss-inducing, rupture-sounding silences and traditional moulds which have long lost their arbitrariness. The emotions of the natural world are brought to life in Spanish through the names of flowers and the most minute details of humans and animals, encapsulating both into a destiny which, far from being always entirely happy, is oftentimes cruel. I can earnestly say that in Alda’s versions I do not search for the leftovers of poetic English: I am captivated by his symbols in Spanish of a present time blended into a continuous past: “Lo sabe por los caballos/ parados en todas partes/en los campos, la mirada/fluida como versos,/dejados de lado durante años/junto al rosario y las oraciones/pero abundantes de nuevo/como prímulas o aulagas;/por el sucinto temblor en su piel/sabe que escuchan/las noticias que atañen/nuestro destino y el suyo”.
A distinguished translation of poetry can come exceedingly close to the original. It can let death abandon the pile of worn-out topics and come to the fore (in, as Enrique phrases it, “las voces atrapadas de los ahogados/ o el extraño grito de criaturas mudas/que anhelan algo más,/ser humanas”). It can make sure that speaking a language or not does not guarantee anything, thereby letting us prove that languages are not commanded. That poetry transcends all this.
Pura López Colomé
(Translated into English by Germán Asensio Peral)
A note by the editor
Every effort has been made to trace copyright holders and to obtain their permission for the use of copyright material. The editor apologizes for any errors or omissions and would be grateful if notified of any corrections that should be incorporated in this year’s issue of Estudios Irlandeses.
Poems by Caitlín Maude
| Aimhréidhe |
Siúil, a ghrá,Cois trá anocht – Siúil agus cuir uait na deora – éirigh agus siúil anocht ná feac do ghlúin feasta ag uaigh sin an tsléibhe – tá na blátha sin feoite agus tá mo chnámhasa dreoite… (Labhraim leat anocht ó íochtar mara – labhraim leat gach oíche ó íochtar mara…) Shiúileas lá cois trá shiúileas go híochtar trá – rinne tonn súgradh le tonn – ligh an cúr bán mo chosa – d’ardaíos mo shúil go mall gur ansiúd amuigh ar an domhain in aimhréidhe cúir agus toinn chonaic an t-uaigneas id shúil ‘gus an doilíos id ghunúis Shiúileas amach ar an domhain ó ghlúine go com agus ó chom go guaillí nó gur slogadh mé sa doilíos gus san uaigneas |
| Tangled | Maraña |
| Wander, my love along the shore tonight – wander and stop your weeping – rise up and wander tonight bend your knees no more at that mountain grave – those flowers are wihtered and my bones are mouldering… I speak to you tonight from sea-depth — I speak to you every night from sea depth…
I once wandered along the shore I wandered to shore-end – wave made game with wave – white foam licked my feet – slowly seeping into my vision there out in the depths in the tangle of foam and wave I saw the loneliness in your eyes and the sorrow in your face
I wandered out in the depths from knees to waist and from waist to shoulders until I was swallowed in sorrow and loneliness
(Trans. Joan Trodden Keefe) | Pasea esta noche por la playa mi amor pasea y detén tus lágrimas, levántate y pasea esta noche, no te arrodilles más ante esa tumba en la montaña, sus flores están marchitas y mis huesos descompuestos… esta noche te llamo desde las profundidades del océano todas las noches te llamo desde las profundidades del océano…
una vez recorrí la orilla hasta el final de la playa, donde las olas jugaban y la blanca espuma besaba mis pies. Inundando lentamente mi mirada allí, en lo más profundo, en la maraña de olas y espuma, vi la soledad en tus ojos y la pena en tu rostro.
descendí hasta las profundidades de la rodilla a la cintura y de la cintura a los hombros, hasta que me hundí en la soledad y la pena. |
Impí |
A ógánaigh, ná tar i mo dháil, ná labhair… is binn iad briathra grá — is binne aríst an friotal nár dúradh ariamh — níl breith gan smál — breith briathar amhlaidh atá is ní bheadh ann ach ‘rogha an dá dhíogh’ ó tharla an scéal mar ‘tá… ná bris an ghloine ghlan ‘tá eadrainn (ní bristear gloine gan fuil is pian) óir tá Neamh nó Ifreann thall ‘gus cén mhaith Neamh mura mairfidh sé go bráth? — ní Ifreann go hIfreann iar-Neimhe… impím aríst, ná labhair, a ógánaigh, a ‘Dhiarmaid’, is beidh muid suaimhneach — an tuiscint do-theangmhaithe eadrainn gan gair againn drannadh leis le saol na saol is é dár mealladh de shíor — ach impím… ná labhair… |
| Entreaty | Súplica |
| Young man, do not come near me, do not speak… the words of love are sweet — but sweeter still is the word that was never uttered — no choice is without stain — the choice of words is much the same and this would be to choose between evils in our present situation…
Do not break the clear glass between us (no glass is broken without blood and pain) for beyond is Heaven or beyond is Hell and what good is Heaven if it is not for ever? — the loss of Heaven is the worst Hell…
I again implore you, do not speak, young man, my «Diarmaid», and we will be at peace — untouchable understanding between us we will have no cause to touch it ever as it ever allures us — but I implore you… do not speak…
(Trans. Gabriel Fitzmaurice) | Joven no te acerques no hables… dulces son las palabras de amor pero más dulce es aún la palabra no pronunciada ninguna elección carece de mácula, ni siquiera con las palabras, elegirlas en esta situación sería decidir entre la espada y la pared…
no rompas el diáfano cristal que nos separa (ninguno se quiebra sin sangre y dolor) al otro lado se hallan el cielo o el infierno y ¿de qué sirve el cielo si no es eterno? no hay peor infierno que haber conocido el cielo…
de nuevo, te lo imploro no hables mi Diarmaid y tendremos paz, nunca habrá necesidad de tocar ese entendimiento intangible entre nosotros que siempre nos tienta pero, te lo ruego, no hables…
|
Lá amháin |
Lá amháin bhí an clóscríobhaí tinn — bhí ar stiúrthóir an chomhlachta an clóscríobhán a thabhairt isteach ina oifig féin chuir na litreacha an oiread déistin air gur stróic sé iad ‘gus gur scríobh sé dán tamall ina dhiaidh d’éirigh sé as a phost ‘gus ina dhiaidh sin a theach a bhean agus a chlann agus anois tá sé ina fhile an fear bocht |
| One Day | Un Día |
| One day the typist was sick
the company director had to take the typewriter into his office
the letters so disgusted him that he tore them up and wrote a poem
shortly after that he left his job and after that his house his wife his kids
and now he’s a poet
the poor fucker.
(Trans. Michael Hartnett) | Un día la mecanógrafa se puso enferma
el director de la empresa tuvo que llevar la máquina de escribir a su despacho
las cartas le desagradaron tanto que las rompió y escribió un poema
poco después dejó el trabajo y más tarde dejó su casa a su mujer y a su familia
ahora es poeta,
el pobre idiota. |
| Tá sé in am dán deiridh a scríobh |
Tá sé in am dán deiridh a scríobh. dán mar ‘bheadh inneall nua-aoiseach den scoth a bhfuil chuile smaoineamh i dtaisce ina chroí. dán mar ‘bheadh leabhar nach gá a léamh mar ‘bheadh foclóir aon leathanaigh aon teangan mar ‘bheadh pictiúr Ghairdín Pharrthais th’éis pheaca Éabh’. dán teilifíse le nuacht an lae dán a bhrisfeas do chroí blaosc uibhe do chroí ar an toirt dán a bhfuil muirín fhada air na mílte dánta beaga gleoite ar imeall an phictiúir dánta grá ‘le fíormhothúchán’ dán siopa 29/11 dán tourists a thugann aicídeacha teochreasacha leo agus airgead a thugann drochsmaointe don easpag a chaitheann seanmóir bhreise a scríobh don deoise lena choinsias a ghlanadh dán galánta dán leathghalánta ciomach de dhán |
| It’s Time To Write A Poem | Es Hora De Escribir Un Poema |
| It’s time to write a poem a poem like the best most modern machine every thought stored up inside it a poem like a book one need not read like a dictionary with one page with one language like a picture of Paradise after Eve’s sin
a telly-poem with daily news a poem to break your heart your eggshell heart your egg of putty heart on the spot
a longtailed poem thousands of pretty poemlets at the edge of the picture a love poem «with true emotion»
a shop poem 29/11 a poem for tourists that gives them tropical diseases and money that gives bad thoughts to the bishop who has to write an extra sermon for the diocese
a stylish poem a half-stylish poem a slut of a poem a poem for women and children a totally useless poem poem litany poem.
(Trans. Michael Hartnett) | Es hora de escribir un poema un poema que sea la mejor de las máquinas modernas que almacene todos los pensamientos un poema semejante a un libro que no es necesario leer, a un diccionario de una página y un idioma, a una imagen del paraíso después del pecado de Eva
un poema telediario un poema que te rompa el corazón la delicada cáscara de tu corazón tu corazón maleable al instante
un poema que traiga cola miles de bonitos poemitas al borde de la imagen un poema de amor «con verdadera emoción»
un poema comercial un año y un día un poema para turistas que les transmita enfermedades tropicales y dinero que inspire malos pensamientos al obispo y le obligue a escribir un sermón más para la diócesis
un poema elegante un poema medio elegante un poema puta un poema para mujeres y niños un poema totalmente inútil poema letanía poema |
| Treall |
Tabhair dom casúr nó tua go mbrisfead is go millfead an teach seo, go ndéanfad tairseach den fhardoras ‘gus urláir de na ballaí, go dtiocfaidh scraith agus díon agus simléir anuas le neart mo chuid allais… Sín chugam anois na cláir is na tairní go dtóigfead an teach eile seo… Ach, a Dhia, táim tuirseach! |
| Interval | Arrebato |
| Hand me a hammer or a hatchet to demolish and to smash this house, to make a threshold of the lintel and floors of the walls, so that the scraws and roof and chimney are razed with the force of my sweat…
Now hand me the planks and the nails so that I can build this other house…
But, my God, I’m tired!
(Trans. Nuala Ní Chonchúir) | Dame un martillo o un hacha para derribar y hacer pedazos esta casa, para crear un umbral con el dintel y suelos con las paredes, para desmantelar la techumbre de turba y la chimenea con el sudor de mi frente…
Ahora, dame tablas y clavos para construir otra casa…
Pero, ¡Dios mío!, estoy tan cansada… |
Na blátha |
Chuas amach an mhaidin sin i mo pháiste folaithe, do-ghonta – tháinigeas isteach i mo dhuine fásta m’anam nocht feannta – céadbhlátha an earraigh – blátha buí – sláimín, i lár an ghairdín – ní raibh ann ach ala gan chomhaireamh inar bhlaiseas rud éicint nár den tsaol seo inar cuireadh ó aithne orm féin mé gur thuigeas go rabhas leonta le lann na háille – lann ar a hainm le glaine le géire níor bhlátha na blátha ach beos áille agus céasadh. |
| The Flowers | Las Flores |
| I went out that morning a child unaware, invulnerable –
I returned an adult my soul bared, flayed –
spring’s first flowers – tufted buttery blooms, standing in the garden –
it was only a passing moment in which I tasted something otherworldly in which I was pulled out of myself to understand that I’d been wounded by beauty’s blade –
beauty’s name made clean keen
these flowers were not just flowers but life beauty and torment.
(Trans. Nuala Ní Chonchúir) | Aquella mañana salí siendo una niña inconsciente, invulnerable
Regresé adulta con el alma desnuda, desollada
las primeras flores de primavera, ramilletes de brotes dorados, nacían en el jardín
fue un instante fugaz en el que percibí algo sobrenatural, en el que despojada de mí misma comprendí que me había herido el filo de la belleza
y su nombre se reveló puro nítido
no eran simples flores, sino vida belleza y tormento |
Poems by Mary O’Malley
| News | Noticias |
| He knows by the horses that are everywhere in the fields
unemployed, their gaze fluent as verses,
put aside for years with the rosary beads and prayers
but lately plentiful again as primroses or furze;
by the quick shivers of their skin he knows they are listening
to news that concerns our fate and theirs.
| Lo sabe por los caballos parados en todas partes
en los campos, la mirada fluida como versos,
dejados de lado durante años junto al rosario y las oraciones
pero abundantes de nuevo como prímulas o aulagas;
por el sucinto temblor en su piel sabe que escuchan
las noticias que atañen nuestro destino y el suyo.
|
| Space Time Curve | Espacio Tiempo Curva |
| He was my knife then. There were flashes Of steel in the sun. He cut an orange into quarters and handed me one, the blade sweet with juice.
That’s how it was in the sun, Strawberries for lunch and a swim Into life itself. Life tastes Of salt and strawberries And the flat lick of steel Then the sting of a thorn in your heel
When time swerves and curls Backwards and we’re poised at the top of a wave all unfurled The girl, the fruit and the man With the knife in his hand.
| Entonces era mi cuchillo. Destellos de acero en el sol. Cortó una naranja en cuatro trozos y me ofreció uno, la hoja empapada en dulce zumo.
Así era en el sol, fresas para comer y un baño en la vida misma. La vida sabe a sal y fresas a lamer la hoja de acero, después, una espina en el pie.
Cuando el tiempo vira y se encrespa hacia atrás y estamos suspendidos en lo alto de una ola desplegada la joven, la fruta y el hombre con el cuchillo en la mano.
|
| Goldfinches | Jilgueros |
| Who can believe that God plays dice and make a way through life?
A foot from the window a cloud Of goldfinches descend on the niger seed.
Nothing I have done merits this charm their cat faces yellow and red, as if
exotic flowers had taken to the air transformed and came here
to Seanbhaile, Maigh Cuilinn, the world our egocentric sun revolves around
as Shakespeare saw the sun spin around the earth because we all cling
when all the Gods are banished down to Saturn or Pandemonium
to a steady planet with a friendly sun circling around us, even Einstein.
| ¿Quién cree que Dios juega a los dados y sigue su camino?
A un palmo de la ventana, un tropel de jilgueros desciende sobre las semillas de Níger.
Nada de lo que he hecho merece semejante encanto, caras de gato amarillas y rojas, como si
unas flores exóticas hubieran levantado el vuelo transformadas y llegado
a Seanbhaile, Maigh Cuilinn, al mundo en torno al que orbita nuestro egocéntrico sol
tal como lo vio girar Shakespeare rodeando la Tierra, porque
cuando los dioses se destierran a Saturno o el Pandemonio
todos nos aferramos a un planeta inmóvil con un sol complaciente que da vueltas a nuestro alrededor, incluso Einstein.
|
| Descent | Descenso |
| I have looked for you among the Greeks Where hate and love are close as blood And blood is worth so much and no more
I went down among the Greeks reluctantly not trusting in cheap plunder but there is no more time. Threads have been pulled
time woven, knotted, snipped. I went to the cities and the far islands and met statues, women with blind eyes
and no mercy. In temples and bars and houses everywhere I saw your likeness, and everywhere women with their bored gaze
fixed beyond me, on some blue island with dolphins, an olive tree, the dangerous bull in his maze, and the woman who holds the thread.
None of them spoke to me, just one more Crazed mother searching for her daughter They are used to that here.
| Te he buscado entre los griegos en los que el odio y el amor son cercanos como la sangre, y la sangre se valora, y nada más
Descendí entre los griegos a regañadientes sin confiar en el expolio fariseo, pero ya no hay tiempo. Se ha tirado de los hilos
el tiempo se ha tejido, anudado, cortado. Fui a las ciudades y las islas lejanas y encontré estatuas, mujeres con ojos ciegos
y despiadadas. En templos, en bares y casas, en todas partes vi tu semejanza, y en todas partes mujeres con mirada cansada
fija en la lejanía, en una isla azul con delfines y un olivo, el peligroso toro en su laberinto, y la mujer que sujeta el hilo.
Ninguna me habló, solo era otra madre desesperada buscando a su hija Allí están acostumbradas.
|
| Vigil | Vigilia |
| I have paid the coin time has extracted With another in my mouth for the shroud A willing deposit for when you are found.
I will stand in the helical stream with the winds Scorching my ankles until someone looks up And says ‘Bargain’ and then I will go down
To meet her and bring the small red Seeds of the sun to remind her of home. I will stand there until the dark breaks open. | He pagado la moneda que el tiempo me ha extraído en mi boca hay otra para el sudario un pago voluntario para cuando te encuentren.
Permaneceré en la corriente helicoidal y los vientos me abrasarán los tobillos, hasta que alguien mire y diga «trato hecho», entonces me hundiré
para reunirme con ella y llevarle las semillas rojas del sol que le recuerden su hogar. Permaneceré allí hasta que quiebre la oscuridad |