translation quiz
Icelandic poet Árni Ibsen did a wonderfully intriguing thing for the Poetryetc list last week. He translated all our weekly snapshots into Icelandic - without any lineation, to make it less obvious, then we all had to guess which was which.
I'm posting his translation below of just my snapshot poem and then my original underneath. The translation doesn't have the postscript of time and place, by the way:
eins og það sé formið sem skiptir máli hann plokkar flagnandi kalk af veggnum hvað þá með línurnar mínar og teygjur hörundsins stundum henta bílar götunni gætilega hér eru engin rétt horn sem heimta fullkomnun þau brutu greinar hlynsins og birtan æpir inn köttur nágrannans vill ekki þiggja mína huggun tungumál dagsins myndast við að koma spánskt fyrir sjónir hann dreifir mynt eftir stærð til talningar í för minni sum blöð ganga frá hægri til vinstri tefja mig ætíð bugður þínar ég sný út til skýjanna
as if it's form that matters
he picks peeling plaster from the wall
then what of my lines and spans in skin
cars fit the street sometimes gingerly
there are no right angles here asking perfection
they broke the branches of the maple and light cries in
the cat next door won't accept my consolation
today's language shapes up greek
he spreads coins by size to count in my journey
some papers move right to left
your curves will always detain me
I turn out to the clouds
Marrickville, 9.35am, Wed 27 October
I'm posting his translation below of just my snapshot poem and then my original underneath. The translation doesn't have the postscript of time and place, by the way:
eins og það sé formið sem skiptir máli hann plokkar flagnandi kalk af veggnum hvað þá með línurnar mínar og teygjur hörundsins stundum henta bílar götunni gætilega hér eru engin rétt horn sem heimta fullkomnun þau brutu greinar hlynsins og birtan æpir inn köttur nágrannans vill ekki þiggja mína huggun tungumál dagsins myndast við að koma spánskt fyrir sjónir hann dreifir mynt eftir stærð til talningar í för minni sum blöð ganga frá hægri til vinstri tefja mig ætíð bugður þínar ég sný út til skýjanna
as if it's form that matters
he picks peeling plaster from the wall
then what of my lines and spans in skin
cars fit the street sometimes gingerly
there are no right angles here asking perfection
they broke the branches of the maple and light cries in
the cat next door won't accept my consolation
today's language shapes up greek
he spreads coins by size to count in my journey
some papers move right to left
your curves will always detain me
I turn out to the clouds
Marrickville, 9.35am, Wed 27 October
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