Arhiva categoriei 'Traduceri'

22 Noi

„Departure” de Coventry Patmore

IT was not like your great and gracious ways!
Do you, that have naught other to lament,
Never, my Love, repent
Of how, that July afternoon,
You went,
With sudden, unintelligible phrase,
And frighten’d eye,
Upon your journey of so many days
Without a single kiss, or a good-bye?
I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon;
And so we sate, within the low sun’s rays,
You whispering to me, for your voice was weak,
Your harrowing praise.
Well, it was well
To hear you such things speak,
And I could tell
What made your eyes a growing gloom of love,
As a warm South-wind sombres a March grove.
And it was like your great and gracious ways
To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear,
Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash
To let the laughter flash,
Whilst I drew near,
Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear.
But all at once to leave me at the last,
More at the wonder than the loss aghast,
With huddled, unintelligible phrase,
And frighten’d eye,
And go your journey of all days
With not one kiss, or a good-bye,
And the only loveless look the look with which you pass’d:
‘Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways.
Cu toată hotărârea,
Nu însă şi din inimă, îţi spun,
Iubito, rămas bun.
Ne mângâiem măcar
La gândul că ne este drumul clar.
Nimic mai lesnicios decât,
Cu pas sfielnic dar viteaz,
Cu lacrimi pe obraz,
Să mergem pe-un făgaş deosebit:
Tu, către răsărit,
Eu, înspre soare-apune,
Ce-a fost, a fost,
Speranţa nu mai are niciun rost,
Dar, scumpa mea,
Atunci când suferinţa,
Copilul tristei noastre văduvii,
Va fi murit,
Şi roua ochilor nu va-neca
Trandafirul cerului de seară,
Mai ştii?
Uimiţi din cale-afară,
Acolo unde noaptea-aceasta-i zi,
Fără să ne trădăm credinţa
În drumul drept ales de noi,
Ne vom reîntâlni;
Amara noastră pribegie
Se va-ncheia la dulcele hotar;
Şi, nesfârşit,
Ospăţul mulţumirii o să fie
De lacrimile recunoaşterii stropit.
Coventry Patmore traducere de Leon Leviţchi

16 Noi

O chestie

Suprarealism comercial :)

15 Noi

„The Prodigal Son” de Rudyard Kipling

Here come I to my own again,
Fed, forgiven and known again,
Claimed by bone of my bone again
And cheered by flesh of my flesh.
The fatted calf is dressed for me,
But the husks have greater zest for me,
I think my pigs will be best for me,
So I’m off to the Yards afresh.
Întorsu-m-am, iată, iar acasă,
Iertat şi primit iar în casă,
Drăgălit de cosângeni ca să
Îi las a mă strânge la sân.
Din viţelul cel gras în blid mi-au pus,
Dar roşcovele-mi par mai presus…
Şi ei blânzi ca porcii mei blânzi parcă nu-s,
Aşa că plec iar la stăpân.


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09 Noi

Oblon rezistent la foc

Traducerea n-a rezistat, au ars-o :)

08 Noi

„Ode to the West Wind” de Percy Bysshe Shelley

I
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
I
O, vânt de-apus, suflare-a Toamnei crunte,
De care fug – cum fug de-un vrăjitor
Nălucile – noroadele mărunte,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
Gălbui sau negre, ale frunzelor –
Tu, care duci în goana ta sireapă
Seminţele spre paturile lor,
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Unde vor zace ca un hoit în groapă
Până ce Primăvara – sora ta –
De trâmbiţă să sune va să-nceapă
Her clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:
Deasupra gliei, şi va adăpa
Cu aer cârdul florilor, umplând
Cu-arome şi culori orice vâlcea –
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear!
O, duh ce, pretutindenea trecând,
Distrugi şi aperi, te aud suflând!


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01 Noi

„Keith of Ravelston” de Sydney Thompson Dobell

The murmur of the mourning ghost
That keeps the shadowy kine,
‘O Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!’
Aşa se tânguia fantasma
Care năluci de vaci păzea:
„O, Keith din Ravelston, mi-a fost
Osânda stirpei tale, grea…”


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