Homecoming (Vol. 6)

JOURNAL OF LITERARY TRANSLATION

VOL. VI

MARCH 2018

EDITORIAL Homecoming - we went old school in our pick for the theme of JoLT Vol. VI, but the choice was irresistible. Our western literary tradition begins with Odysseus’ long and tormented journey home; to this day poetry and prose continues to visit and revisit nostos in charting the course of the human journey, through Aeneas’ foundation of Rome to the glowing infernos of Brecht’s hometown and beyond…

The theme is a poignant one for the moment this Journal finds itself in. JoLT was forced to go out of circulation in 2016-17; it seemed only fitting that in turning a new leaf for JoLT we should seek home, and return to principles that brought this project to Trinity. I might issue thanks here to a long line of JoLT ‘old hands’ who reached out from different corners of of the globe to offer support and counsel and encouragement, including: Susanna Galbraith, Anna D’Alton, Claudio Sansone, and Thomas Rodgers Endersby, among others. This edition owes a lot to their insight, but more importantly to their kindness in reaching out.

Dr. Peter Arnds has supported JoLT tirelessly from its genesis and continues in this vein, serving as Academic Advisor for this volume. This edition would not have been possible without his wise oversight and encouragement, not to mention his liaising with various departments and bureaucracies in College on our behalf throughout the year.

This project has been kept on track by a senior editorial team of stalwarts. Thanks are due here to Étáin Sweeney for her tremendous work on the Irish language and to Oisín Vince Coulter and Michael Foley for managing our layout. Thanks also to the wider editorial team for their support.

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From day one I have been fortunate enough to draw on the support of a friend and a talent. Rory O’Sullivan has served JoLT as deputy editor for Vol. VI with consummate professionalism and dedication, for which I am very grateful.

Finally, this issue is here in your hands because of the enthusiasm and hard work of our contributors. We are delighted with the variety of languages showcased in this edition. Homecoming in this volume takes you across three different continents, from ancient to modern Greek, through to French and German; from Irish to Japanese; and from the rock of Acragas to the launch of Sputnik. We hope you enjoy the ride.

Andrew Beazley Editor

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Introduction

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CONTENTS

4-9

French Les Regrets,1558 Le Refuge Le retour au pays

10-11 12-15 16-19

German Gedanken über die Dauer des Exils Rückkehr

20-23 24-25

Ancient Greek Odyssey Empedocles

26-27 28-29

Modern Greek ΕΠΙΣΤΡΟΦΉ

30-37

Irish Óró mo Bháidín Fill Arís Caledonia

38-39 40-41 42-45

Italian To the New Moon

46-47

Japanese A Star Innocence

48-49 50-51

Spanish Mexican National Anthem

52-55

Appendix

56-59

CONTRIBUTOR BIOS Andrew Beazley is a Senior Sophister Classics student and the Editor of of JoLT. His hobbies include basketball, roller-derby, and furniture repair & restoration. His favourite book is Virgil’s Georgics.

Hannah Bowman is in her third year of European Studies at Trinity, which she is spending abroad in France. Although she is sometimes a little too liberal when she translates, she believes that poetry should not be tampered with and has tried to remain faithful to the simplicity of the original work.

Guillermo Dillon is a Senior Sophister Classics student at Trinity, and is originally from Monterrey, Mexico.

Clare Healy is a Senior Freshman English and French student.

Ríoghnach Hyland is a Senior Freshman Theoretical Physics student from Waterford.

Sophia-Maria Metti is a Greek-Cypriot from Paphos, living in Ireland. She is a Senior Freshman mature student in Classics in Trinity, as well as a mother of three and an aspiring writer, poet and lyricist.

Aoibh Ní Mhuireartaigh is a Senior Freshman Spanish and French (TSM) student from Donegal.

Ciara Mullarkey is a Junior Sophister German and Sociology student. She is interested in all things German and has a great love of German literature.

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Hitomi Nakamura is an alumnus of TCD and is currently an associate professor at Ritsumeikan University, Japan.

Rory O’Sullivan is a Junior Sophister English and Greek student, and the deputy editor of JoLT. He is originally from Cork, and does sometimes go home so that his parents can put his jeans and jumpers in the washing machine.

Paul Rodrigue is a Senior Sophister Classics student. Étáin Sweeney is a Senior Freshman Law and Political Science student from Leitrim. The last book she read is Advanced Furniture Repair and Restoration by A. Beazley.

Anita Vollmer is an environmental science student from Lüneburg, currently spending a year in France. She loves Jane Austen and thinks tea is just glorified hot water. She spends a lot of time translating ‘fascinating’ administrative documents so literary translation makes a nice change.

Michael Foley, is the Editor of Trinity News His favourite book is 1984 by George Orwell.

Oisín Vince Coulter is a Communist.

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HOMECOMING

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FRENCH

LES REGRETS,1558 JOACHIM DU BELLAY Heureux qui, comme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage, Ou comme cestuy-là qui conquit la toison, Et puis est retourné, plein d’usage et raison, Vivre entre ses parents le reste de son âge !

Quand reverrai-je, hélas, de mon petit village Fumer la cheminée, et en quelle saison Reverrai-je le clos de ma pauvre maison, Qui m’est une province, et beaucoup davantage ?

Plus me plaît le séjour qu’ont bâti mes aïeux, Que des palais Romains le front audacieux, Plus que le marbre dur me plaît l’ardoise fine : Plus mon Loire gaulois, que le Tibre latin, Plus mon petit Liré, que le mont Palatin, Et plus que l’air marin la doulceur angevine.

Celui qui avait tout prédit, c’est l’oncle Grésillard L’oncle Grésillard qui portait malheur à tout le monde La Vache !

Et le Breton pense à sa soeur Qui travaille à Vaugirard À son frère mort à la guerre Pense à toutes les choses qu’il a vues

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SONNET XXXI, THE REGRETS, 1558 TRANSL. PAUL RODRIGUE Happy he who like Ulysses went on a fine journey, Or like that one who has fetched the fleece And has come back, brimming with custom and sense, Live amongst his relatives the rest of his age.

When shall I see again, alas, from my little village Smoke the chimney, and in which season Shall I see again my modest home garden That is a province to me, and even far more?

To me more enticing the abode is that my forebears built Than of the Roman palaces the audacious pediment More than hard marble, is enticing thin slate: More my Gallic Loire than the Latin Tiber, More my little Liré than Palatine Hill, And more than sea air, the Angevine mildness.

He who had predicted it all was his uncle Grésillard His uncle Grésillard who brought misfortune to everyone The Bastard!

And the Breton thinks of his sister Who works at Vaugirard Of his brother who died in the war Thinks of all the things he saw All the things he did

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FRENCH

LE REFUGE “COLETTE” 13 AVRIL 1915 Il y a, aux portes de Paris, un refuge pour les bêtes, où le dernier zeppelin laissa choir, en passant, une bombe médiocre, qui tua une demi-douzaine de chiens et fit d’une porte pleine une porte à clairevoie. On me montre les dégâts, mais j’y suis moins attentive, je l’avoue, qu’à une certaine catégorie de pensionnaires, quelques chiens à collier et à médailles d’identité qui semblent représenter, parmi soixante vagabonds sans maîtres et sans licou, une aristocratie d’abandonnés.

— Ceux-là, me dit une gardienne, ce sont des chiens de mobilisés. Ils attendent...

Ils attendent. Ils ne font, ils ne peuvent pas faire autre chose. Les autres chiens, ramassés dans la rue ou dans le terrain vague, cueillis chancelants de faim sous les roues d’un taxi ou jetés le soir pardessus le mur du refuge, les autres flânent, digèrent, jouent, s’ennuient, hurlent à la liberté. Les chiens des mobilisés attendent. La pâtée, l’eau fraîche, la natte de paille, ils l’acceptent, mais comme un super-flu. Le nécessaire ne saurait leur venir que par la porte où pend une clochette, la porte cent fois ouverte et fermée...

— Le blanc et jaune, — là, madame, — son maître nous l’a apporté au mois d’août, un soir, au moment où il partait pour le front. Il disait tout le temps : « Je n’ai que ce chien...

Je n’ai que ce chien. » A la fin, il l’a laissé et s’est mis à courir dehors, pour ne pas entendre la voix du chien... Mais regardez12

THE SHELTER TRANSL. CLARE HEALEY April 13, 1915 There is an animal shelter just outside of Paris where the last zeppelin, while passing over, dropped a defective bomb, killing a half-dozen dogs and making a latticed door out of a solid one. I am shown the damage, but I’m paying it less attention, I admit, than I am a certain group of residents here, a small number of dogs wearing collars and tags which seem to mark them out, among sixty masterless, halterless strays, as an elite class of the abandoned.

“Those ones,” a caretaker tells me, “are the dogs left behind by the draft. They’re waiting …”

They’re waiting. They don’t, can’t do anything else. The other dogs, rounded up in the streets or in the barrens, found shaking with hunger under the wheels of a taxi or thrown over the wall of the shelter in the nighttime—they laze about, reflect, play, get bored, howl for freedom. The dogs of the drafted wait. They accept their feed, cold water, straw mats, but as afterthoughts. The only thing that matters will come to them through the door over which a small bell hangs, the door that’s been opened and closed a hundred times already …

“The white and yellow one—there, madam—its owner brought it to us one evening in August, as he was leaving for the front. He kept saying: ‘This dog is all I have … This dog is all I have.’ Eventually, he left it and ran outside, so as not to hear the dog’s cries … But look at this one, bouncing off the walls! A real war dog, madam, the 13

moi celui-là, qui ne tient pas en place ! Un vrai chien de guerre, madame, le chien d’un sergent belge, parti au feu, avec son maître, blessé avec lui, rapporté avec lui ! Le sergent est retourné à son poste, mais le chien...

C’est un petit bâtard noir, vif, anxieux. Il va sans cesse d’une clôture à l’autre, avec une telle fièvre qu’il semble très gai, d’autant plus gai qu’il sautille sur trois pattes. La quatrième patte danse, vide d’os, raccourcie par la mi- traille. Une tonsure bleuâtre, sur le dos, marque la place d’un éclat d’obus. La gueule haletante, les yeux brillants et jaunes, la claudication, tout a l’air de rire, dans ce petit martyr frétillant.

— La plus triste, c’est la pauvre Linda, la chienne du capitaine. Ils vivaient tous les deux, n’est-ce pas, c’était aussi un militaire sans famille... Elle est déjà vieille, vous voyez... Linda! Linda!

Je répète : « Linda! Linda! » sans succès. La veille épagneule ne soulève pas ses oreilles en rouleaux, qui la coiffent comme nos aïeules.

— On n’a pas de nouvelles de son maître, dit la gardienne. On croit bien qu’il est mort...

Elle a baissé la voix et s’est penchée vers mon oreille, inconsciemment, à cause du regard humain de la chienne.

— Linda ! Linda !

Linda ne bouge pas. Chaque fois que la clochette tinte, son poil bouclé tremble sur tout son corps. Mais elle se garde de tourner les yeux tout de suite vers la porte, parce qu’elle veut espérer, une seconde de plus, le miracle, le retour de celui qu’elle ne reverra plus.

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dog of a Belgian sergeant, gone off to the firing line with his master, injured with him, brought back with him! The sergeant has resumed his post, but the dog …”

It’s a little black mongrel, lively, nervous. He goes back and forth from one side of the enclosure to the other, with such ardour that you’d think him very merry, hopping around on his three paws. The fourth paw dances, boneless, trimmed by a spray of bullets. A bluish bald spot on his back marks where the shrapnel got him. His panting mouth, his yellowed, glistening eyes, his limp—everything about the twitching little martyr seems to laugh.

“The saddest one is poor Linda, the captain’s dog. The two of them lived together, you see—another soldier without a family … She’s already old, see … Linda! Linda!”

I join in: “Linda! Linda!” without success. The old spaniel does not lift her ears, hanging in rolls like the hair of a grandmother.

“We haven’t heard anything from her owner,” she says. “We’re pretty sure that he’s dead …”

The caretaker has lowered her voice and leaned in closer to me, unconsciously, spurred on by the human-like gaze of the dog.

“Linda! Linda!”

Linda doesn’t move. Every time the bell rings, her curly hair trembles all over her body. But she stops herself from turning her eyes towards the door right away, wanting to believe, one second longer, in the miracle, the return of a person who she will never see again.

15 5

FRENCH

LE RETOUR AU PAYS JACQUES PRÉVERT, 1946 C’est un Breton qui revient au pays natal Après avoir fait plusieurs mauvais coups.

Il se promène devant les fabriques à Douarnenez Il ne reconnaît personne Personne ne le reconnaît Il est très triste.

Il entre dans une crêperie pour manger des crêpes Mais il ne peut pas en manger, Il y a quelque chose qui les empêche de passer Il paye Il sort Il allume une cigarette Mais il ne peut pas la fumer.

Il y a quelque chose Quelque chose dans sa tête Quelque chose de mauvais Il est de plus en plus triste Et soudain il se met à se souvenir Quelqu’un lui a dit quand il était petit, « Tu finiras sur l’échafaud » Et pendant des années, Il n’a jamais osé rien faire Pas même traverser la rue Pas même partir sur la mer Rien, absolument rien.

Il se souvient

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HOMECOMING TRANSL. HANNAH BOWMAN A Breton returns to his birthplace Having done many a bad deed.

He walks in front of the factories in Douarnenez He recognises no one No one recognises him He is very sad.

He goes into a crêperie to eat some crêpes But he can’t eat any, There is something that stops them from passing his lips He pays He leaves He lights a cigarette But he cannot smoke it.

There is something Something in his head Something bad He gets sadder and sadder And suddenly he starts to remember: Someone told him when he was little, “You will end up on the gallows” And over the years, He never dared do anything Not even cross the road Not even travel the sea Nothing absolutely nothing.

He remembers

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Celui qui avait tout prédit, c’est l’oncle Grésillard L’oncle Grésillard qui portait malheur à tout le monde La Vache !

Et le Breton pense à sa soeur Qui travaille à Vaugirard À son frère mort à la guerre Pense à toutes les choses qu’il a vues Toutes les choses qu’il a faites La tristesse se serre contre lui Il essaie une nouvelle fois D’allumer une cigarette Mais il n’a pas envie de fumer Alors il décide d’aller voir l’oncle Grésillard Il y va Il ouvre la porte L’oncle ne le reconnaît pas Mais lui le reconnaît Et il lui dit : « Bonjour oncle Grésillard » Et il lui tord le cou Et il finit sur l’échafaud à Quimper Après avoir mangé deux douzaines de crêpes Et fumé une cigarette.

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He who had predicted it all was his uncle Grésillard His uncle Grésillard who brought misfortune to everyone The Bastard!

And the Breton thinks of his sister Who works at Vaugirard Of his brother who died in the war Thinks of all the things he saw All the things he did Sadness tightens itself around him He tries once more To light a cigarette But he doesn’t feel like smoking So he decides to visit his Uncle Grésillard He goes He opens the door His uncle does not recognise him But he recognises his uncle And he says: “Hello Uncle Gréssilard” And he wrings his neck And he ends up on the gallows at Quimper After having eaten two dozen crêpes And smoking a cigarette.

19

GERMAN

GEDANKEN ÜBER DIE DAUER DES EXILS BERTOLT BRECHT 1939 I Schlage keinen Nagel in die Wand Wirf den Rock auf den Stuhl.

Warum vorsorgen für vier Tage?

Du kehrst morgen zurück.

Lass den kleinen Baum ohne Wasser.

Wozu noch einen Baum pflanzen?

Bevor er so hoch wie eine Stufe ist Gehst du fort von hier.

Zieh die Mütze ins Gesicht, wenn Leute vorbeigehn!

Wozu in fremden Grammatiken blättern?

Die Nachricht, die dich heimruft Ist in bekannter Sprache geschrieben.

So wie der Kalk vom Gebälk blättert (Tue nichts dagegen!)

Wird der Zaun der Gewalt zermorschen Der an der Grenze aufgerichtet ist Gegen die Gerechtigkeit.

II Sieh den Nagel in der Wand, den du eingeschlagen hast: Wann, glaubst du, wirst du zurückkehren?

Willst du wissen, was du im Innersten glaubst?

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THOUGHTS ON THE DURATION OF EXILE TRANSL. CIARA MULLARKEY 1939 I Do not hammer a nail into the wall Throw your coat down on the chair.

Why prepare for four days?

You will return back tomorrow.

Leave the small tree without water.

Why plant another tree?

Before it grows to be as high as a step You will be leaving here.

Pull your hat down over your face, as people pass you by!

Why peruse foreign grammar?

The news that calls you home Is written in familiar language.

As the lime peels from the woodwork (Do nothing to stop it!)

The fence of violence That stands at the border to oppose justice Will rot.

II Look at the nail you have hammered into the wall: When, do you think, you will return?

Do you want to know, what you really believe?

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Tag um Tag Arbeitest du an der Befreiung Sitzend in der Kammer schreibst du.

Willst du wissen, was du von deiner Arbeit hältst?

Sieh den kleinen Kastanienbaum im Eck des Hofes Zu dem du die Kanne voll Wasser schlepptest!

22

Day by day You work for liberation Sitting in the bedroom you write Do you want to know what you think of your work?

Look at the small chestnut tree in the corner of the garden To which to have hauled a can full of water!

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GERMAN

RÜCKKEHR BERTOLT BRECHT

Die Vaterstadt, wie find ich sie doch?

Folgend den Bomberschwärmen Komm ich nach Haus.

Wo denn liegt sie? Wo die ungeheuren Gebirge von Rauch stehn.

Das in den Feuern dort Ist sie.

Die Vaterstadt, wie empfängt sie mich wohl?

Vor mir kommen die Bomber. Tödliche Schwärme Melden euch meine Rückkehr. Feuersbrünste Gehen dem Sohn voraus.

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RETURNING TRANSL. ANITA VOLLMER

My hometown, what has she become?

Following the flocks of bombers I return home.

Where then does she lie? Where the immense Mountains are filled with smoke That in those blazes there Is she My hometown, how will she welcome me?

Ahead of me the bombers fly. Deadly flocks Signal my return to you. Glowing infernos Precede the son.

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ANCIENT GREEK

ODYSSEY 13.291-310 HOMER κερδαλέος κ᾽ εἴη καὶ ἐπίκλοπος ὅς σε παρέλθοι ἐν πάντεσσι δόλοισι, καὶ εἰ θεὸς ἀντιάσειε. σχέτλιε, ποικιλομῆτα, δόλων ἆτ᾽, οὐκ ἄρ᾽ ἔμελλες, οὐδ᾽ ἐν σῇ περ ἐὼν γαίῃ, λήξειν ἀπατάων μύθων τε κλοπίων, οἵ τοι πεδόθεν φίλοι εἰσίν. ἀλλ᾽ ἄγε, μηκέτι ταῦτα λεγώμεθα, εἰδότες ἄμφω κέρδε᾽, ἐπεὶ σὺ μέν ἐσσι βροτῶν ὄχ᾽ ἄριστος ἁπάντων βουλῇ καὶ μύθοισιν, ἐγὼ δ᾽ ἐν πᾶσι θεοῖσι μήτι τε κλέομαι καὶ κέρδεσιν: οὐδὲ σύ γ᾽ ἔγνως Παλλάδ᾽ Ἀθηναίην, κούρην Διός, ἥ τέ τοι αἰεὶ ἐν πάντεσσι πόνοισι παρίσταμαι ἠδὲ φυλάσσω, καὶ δέ σε Φαιήκεσσι φίλον πάντεσσιν ἔθηκα, νῦν αὖ δεῦρ᾽ ἱκόμην, ἵνα τοι σὺν μῆτιν ὑφήνω χρήματά τε κρύψω, ὅσα τοι Φαίηκες ἀγαυοὶ ὤπασαν οἴκαδ᾽ ἰόντι ἐμῇ βουλῇ τε νόῳ τε, εἴπω θ᾽ ὅσσα τοι αἶσα δόμοις ἔνι ποιητοῖσι κήδε᾽ ἀνασχέσθαι: σὺ δὲ τετλάμεναι καὶ ἀνάγκῃ, μηδέ τῳ ἐκφάσθαι μήτ᾽ ἀνδρῶν μήτε γυναικῶν, πάντων, οὕνεκ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ἦλθες ἀλώμενος, ἀλλὰ σιωπῇ πάσχειν ἄλγεα πολλά, βίας ὑποδέγμενος ἀνδρῶν.

26

ODYSSEY 13.291-310 TRANSL. RORY O’SULLIVAN It would take a real fortune-seeker, a real thief, to get around you and all your snares – even if it was a God dealing with you – You awful man! You’ve a mind like a maze! You mad bait-layer!

You don’t even plan, here – in your own country – on giving up on these deceptions and thieves’ words, not even for your countrymen.

But come on, we’ll say nothing more about that – we’re both profiteers, you and I. You’re the best of all the mortals at strategies and spinning stories, and I’m famous among the Gods for cleverness and cunning. Don’t you recognise me – Pallas Athena, daughter of Zeus, who always stood with you through every hardship, who protected you and put you on good terms with the Phaiakians?

I’ve come now to weave a new scheme with you; to hide the gold that the holy Phaiakians gave you on your journey home, which was my plan all along; and to tell you about what fate commands you to do in the palace you built. You need to be strong and not tell anyone who you are, not one man or woman; suffer everything. And if anyone uses force against you, submit to them.

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ANCIENT GREEK

FRAGMENT B112 EMPEDOCLES

ὦ φίλοι, οἳ μέγα ἄστυ κατὰ ξανθοῦ Ἀκράγαντος ναίετ’ ἀν’ ἄκρα πόλεος, ἀγαθῶν μελεδήμονες ἔργων, < ξείνων αἰδοῖοι λιμένες, κακότητος ἄπειροι > χαίρετ’· ἐγὼ δ’ ὑμῖν θεὸς ἄμβροτος, οὐκέτι θνητός πωλεῦμαι μετὰ πᾶσι τετιμένος, ὥσπερ ἔοικα ταινίαις τε περίστεπτος στέφεσίν τε θαλείοις πᾶσι δ᾽ ἅμ’ εὖτ’ ἂν ἵκωμαι ἐς ἄστεα τηλεθάοντα ἀνδράσιν ἠδὲ γυναιξὶ σεβίζομαι· οἱ δ’ ἅμ’ ἕπονται μυρίοι ἐξερέοντες ὅπῃ πρὸς κέρδος ἀταρπός, οἱ μὲν μαντοσυνέων κεχρημένοι, οἱ δ’ ἐπὶ νούσων παντοίων ἐπύθοντο κλύειν εὐηκέα βάξιν δηρὸν δὴ χαλεπῇσι πεπαρμένοι <ἀμφ’ ὀδύνῃσι>.

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FRAGMENT B112 TRANSL. ANDREW BEAZLEY

O Friends of mine! – who dwell in the great city of yellow Acragas, up on the highest peaks of the city, who care about good deeds <, harbours of compassion to strangers, untested by wickedness > rejoice! I – to you a god undying and no longer mortal – go about among all, honoured, just as I seem, crowned with ribbons and with festive wreaths. The second I set foot in the flourishing cities, I am worshiped by all, men and women. Immediately they follow me, in their tens of thousands, asking where is it, the path to profit. There are those enquiring for oracles, and others afflicted by all kinds of diseases, sought to hear a curing utterance, pierced about by sharp pains – for too long a time…

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ANCIENT GREEK

ΕΠΙΣΤΡΟΦΉ ΣΟΦΊΑ-ΜΑΡΊΑ ΜΕΤΤΉ Είναι χειμώνας σαν ξυπνάω, Κι η παγωνιά με συναντάει, Τον τόπο γύρω μου κοιτάω, Μα η ομίχλη εμπόδια σκορπάει. Σαν το ξημέρωμα ζυγώνει, Το πάγος ντύνει τη ματιά μου, Εικόνες άσπρες με γεμίζει, Και κρύο δάκρυ την καρδιά μου. Αυτό τον τόπο έχω διαλέξει, Να ξαναρχίσω τη ζωή μου, Ελπἰδες κι όνειρα έχω φέρει, Σαν πίσω μ’ άφησα το νησί μου. Καινούριο δρόμο είχα πάρει, Κι αντίο είπα στα παλιά, Στου μυαλού μου το πατάρι, Όλα εκείνα σφάλισα. Το χθες σαν καημό θυμάμαι, Και αναμνήσεις πολιορκούν Το μυαλό μου, και φοβάμαι, Τις πληγές που θ’ανοιχτούν. Πόθος, πώς τολμάς, ακάλεστος, Να μπαίνεις μέσα στην καρδιά, Νόστος, αλύπητος, σκληρός, Πώς τρυπώνεις σαν φωτιά; Της ψυχής μου τα πάντα έχω δώσει, Κι ακόμα δίνω και θα δώσω ακόμα, 30

RETURN TRANSL. SOPHIA-MARIA METTI It’s winter when I wake, And the freezing cold greets me, The place around me I see, But the mist scatters obstacles.

As dawn approaches, The frost dresses my sight, It fills me with white pictures, And my heart with a cold tear.

I have chosen this place, To restart my life, Hopes and dreams I have brought, As I left my island behind me.

A new road I had taken, And I said goodbye to the old, In the attic of my mind, I stored all that.

I remember yesterday in sorrow, And memories besiege My mind, and I am afraid, The wounds that will open.

Lust, how dare you, uninvited, Enter within my heart, Nostos, merciless, cruel, How do you creep in like fire?

I have given everything of my soul, And I still give and shall give still, 31

Αγώνες, μάχες – δεν έχω τελειώσει, Να χτίζω της ζωής αυτής το δώμα. Είναι το νόστος το δικό μου, Που νοσταλγώ και καρτερώ, Κι ας ξέρω πως εδώ ανήκω, Το ελληνικό μου νησί πεθυμώ. Μ ’όνειρα πάω κάθε βράδι, Στο στρώμα για να κοιμηθώ, Και με όνειρα, στο σκοτάδι, Νοιώθω πως θα βυθιστώ. ‘Κειν’ τα όνειρα σκορπάνε, Σε ανέμους μακρινούς, Τίποτ’άλλο δεν φοβάμαι, Μόνο άδειους σκοπούς. Θρύψαλα γίνονται οι ελπίδες, Αίμα πίκρας στάζει η καρδιά, Σκόνη κι όλες οι προσδοκίες, Και πουθενά παρηγοριά. Εδώ με βλέπω να κολλάω, Γυρισμό δεν βλέπω πια, Κι αν μου λεν’ πως θα γυρίσω, Δεν πιστεύω λέξη μια, Επιστροφή καμιά. Αγαπάω αυτή τη χώρα, Μ ’υποδέχθηκε ζεστά, Κι ας είναι κρύα η φωλιά της, Μ΄έχει πάρει αγκαλιά. Μου’χει δώσει χαρές και δώρα, Μ ’έχει κάνει μάνα ξανά, Κάθε μέρα δίνει τόσα, Μα κάθε βράδι μοναξιά.

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Fights, battles – I have not finished, Building this life’s room.

It is the nostos of mine, That I feel nostalgic and I wait for, Even though I know that I belong here, I miss my Greek island.

And with dreams, in the dark, I feel that I shall sink.

Those dreams scatter, To distant winds, I fear nothing else, Just empty goals.

The hopes become fragments, The heart leaks blood of bitterness, Dust all the expectations too, And comfort nowhere.

I see myself stuck here, I see no return anymore, Even if they tell me that I shall return, I believe no word, No return.

I love this country, It welcomed me warmly, Even if its nest is cold, It has embraced me.

It has given me joys and gifts, It has made me a mother again, It gives me so much every day, But loneliness every night.

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Κι όμως όσο κι αν με θέλει, Σκέφτομαι πώς να ‘ναι αυτή, Ναι, την Κύπρο μου πονάω, Την ακτή της την λαμπερή. Κλείνω τα μάτια και την βλέπω, Μπλε το χρώμα ζωντανό, Της Μεσογείου το πράο κύμα, Του καλοκαιριού ζεστό, μικρό. Και οι αμμουδιές λαμπρό χρυσάφι, Πώς στον ήλιο αντανακλούν, Η άμμος έξυπνα γλυστράει, Απ’τα δάχτυλα που την κρατούν. Το αεράκι σχεδόν υπάρχει, Γλυκό, μυρωδάτο, τρυφερό, Το θερμό μου μάγουλο αγγίζει, Και για δροσιά το ευχαριστώ. Αυτά θυμάμαι και πονάω, Το μπλε νησί μου νοσταλγώ, Μα εδώ το μέλλον μου κεντάω, Και ξανά έχω μάθει ν’ αγαπώ. Η Κύπρος πάντα θα μου λείπει, Και με τη σκέψη της θα ζω, Πότε-πότε θα με βλέπει, Και με αγάπη θα τη χαιρετώ. Μα εδώ η νέα μου πατρίδα, Αυτό το πράσινο νησί, Η πανέμορφη Ιρλανδία, Μου’ ‘χει δώσει νέα πνοή. Ποιητές και λόγιοι έχουν γράψει, Τραγούδια κι εγκώμια πολλά,

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But as much as it wants me, I think about how she may be, Yes, I ache for my Cyprus, Her shiny coast.

I close my eyes and I see her, Blue the vivid colour, The calm wave of the Mediterranean, The summer’s warm, small.

And the beaches bright gold, How they reflect in the sun, The sand cleverly slips away, Through the fingers that hold it.

The breeze almost exists, Sweet, fragrant, tender, It touches my hot chick, And I thank it for its coolness.

These I remember and I ache, I feel nostalgic for my blue island, But here I embroider my future, And again I have learned to love.

I will always miss Cyprus, And I shall live with its thought, She will see me from time to time, And I will greet her with love.

But here is my new country, This green island, The beautiful Ireland, Has given me a new breath.

Poets and scholars have written, Many songs and encomiums,

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Για τα πράσινα λιβάδια, Την γοητευτική της ομορφιά. Όπως και για την Ιρλανδία, Και για την Κύπρο έχουν γραφτεί, Για την Ελληνική μας ιστορία, Που παντού έχει τόσο θαυμαστεί. Κι οι δυο οι τόποι είναι πατρίδες, Τόποι μεγάλοι και τρανοί, Νησιά για όνειρα κι ελπίδες, Πίστης και περηφάνιας πηγή. Το ίδιο χρυσό φεγγάρι βλέπω, Είτε είμαι εκεί, είτε είμαι εδώ, Τα ίδια αστέρια αγναντεύω, Τον ίδιο ουρανό, όπου κι αν ζω. Κι αν η σελήνη μου μιλάει, Όπου κι αν είμαι ακούω πιστά, Αφού κι αυτή πιστά στο μήνα, Απ΄ το ταξίδι της γυρνά. Στα δυο χωρίζει η καρδιά μου, Δύο φυλάω στην ψυχή, Εδώ είναι πια το σπιτικό μου, Κι όνειρο είν’ η επιστροφή.

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About the green fields, Its charming beauty.

Just like about Ireland, They have written about Cyprus too, About our Greek history, That has been so admired everywhere.

Both these places are my countries, Places grand and great, Islands for dreams and hopes, Source of loyalty and pride.

The same gold moon I see, Whether I’m there, whether I’m here, The same stars I gaze upon, The same sky, wherever I live.

And if the full moon speaks to me, Wherever I am I listen faithfully, Since she too faithfully upon the month, From her journey she returns.

My heart divides in two, I keep two in my soul, Here is now my home, And a dream is return.

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IRISH

ÓRÓ MO BHÁIDÍN PÁDRAIG MAC PIARAS Crochfaidh mé seolta ‘S rachaidh mé siar, Óró mo churachín ó, ‘S go Oíche Fhéil’ Eoin Ní thiocfadh mé aniar. Óró mo chuarachín ó Óró mo bháidín Óró mo churachín ó, Óró mo bháidín.

Nach deas í mo bháidín Ag snámh ar a’ gcuan Óró mo churachín ó, Faighimis na máidí, ‘S téimis chun siúil, Óró mo bháidín. Óró mo chuarachín ó Óró mo bháidín Óró mo churachín ó, Óró mo bháidín.

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OH MY LITTLE DEAR BOAT TRANSL. AOIBH NÍ MHUIREARTAIGH I will lift up the sails And back I will go, Oh, my little currach.

And til St.John’s night, I shall not come home, Oh my little currach, Oh my little dear boat, Oh my little currach, Oh my little dear boat.

Isn’t she beautiful, At swim on the bay, Oh, my little currach.

We’ll fetch the oars, And we’ll row away, Oh, my little boat.

Oh my little currach, Oh my little dear boat, Oh my little currach, Oh my little dear boat.

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IRISH

FILL ARÍS SEÁN Ó’ RÍORDÁN Fág Gleann na nGealt thoir, Is a bhfuil d’aois seo ár dTiarna i d’fhuil, Dún d’intinn ar ar tharla Ó buaileadh Cath Chionn tSáile, Is ón uair go bhfuil an t-ualach trom Is an bóthar fada, bain ded mheabhair Srathar shibhialtacht an Bhéarla, Shelley, Keats is Shakespeare: Fill arís ar do chuid, Nigh d’intinn is nigh Do theanga a chuaigh ceangailte i gcomhréiribh ’Bhí bunoscionn le d’éirim: Dein d’fhaoistin is dein Síocháin led ghiniúin féinig Is led thigh-se féin is ná tréig iad, Ní dual do neach a thigh ná a threabh a thréigean.

Téir faobhar na faille siar tráthnóna gréine go Corca Dhuibhne, Is chífir thiar ag bun na spéire ag ráthaíocht ann An Uimhir Dhé, is an Modh Foshuiteach, Is an tuiseal gairmeach ar bhéalaibh daoine: Sin é do dhoras, Dún Chaoin fé sholas an tráthnóna, Buail is osclófar D’intinn féin is do chló ceart.

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RETURN AGAIN TRANSL. RÍOGHNACH HYLAND Leave Glannagalt, The valley of Lunatics, back East, In this age our Lord is in your veins, Close your mind to what happened, From the defeat at Kinsale, From then the burden has been heavy, And the long road, remove from your mind, The civil yoke of English, Shelley, Keats and Shakespeare: Return to your own, Wash your mind and wash Your tongue that has been tangled up in syntax It was opposite to your way of thinking: Do your penance and make Peace with yourself And your own home and don’t abandon them, It’s unnatural for a human to abandon their home or tribe.

Return from the cliff edge On a Sunny evening to Corca Dhuibhne, You will see in the West at the horizon Flourishing there The dual number, and the Subjunctive Mood, And the vocative case on the lips of people:

That’s your door,

Dún Chaoin under the evening light,

Knock and it’ll be opened

Your own mind and your proper language.

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IRISH

CALEDONIA DOUGIE MACLEAN I don’t know if you can see? the changes that have come over me, In these last few days, I’ve been afraid that I might drift away, So I’ve been telling old stories, singing songs, that make me think about where I came from, That’s the reason why I seem so far away today, Let me tell you that I love you, And I think about you all the time, Caledonia you’re calling me, I’m going home, But if I should become a stranger, It would make me more than sad, Caledonia’s been everything I’ve ever had, Now I’m sitting here before the fire, The empty room, the forest choir, The flames that couldn’t get any higher, Well they’ve withered now they’ve gone, But I’m steady thinking, my way is clear and I know what I will do tomorrow, When the hands have shaken and the kisses flow then I will disappear.

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CALEDONIA TRANSL. ÉTAIN SWEENEY (IRISH) Níl a fhios agam, an bhfeiceann tú?

Na hathruithe atá tagtha orm, Sna laethanta seo bíonn eagla orm, Roimh bheith tarraignt i bhfad ó bhaile Bhíos ag insint scéalta, Ag canadh amhráin a chuireann cuimhní i mo chroí, Faoin áit ina cónaím, sin an cúis a táim mar sin inniú, Lig dom insint duit gur thú mo ghrása, ‘S go smaoiním fút an t-am ar fad, Tá Caladóin ag glaoch orm, Táim chun filleadh ar ais, Dá mbeadh m’aghaidh ag dul i ndearmad, Bhrisfeadh sé mo chroí, Ní raibh ach Caladóin i m’anam riamh, Anois suím anseo cois tine, An seomra folamh le cór na choille, Tá na lasracha ag éírí fuar, Múchadh iad agus d’imigh siad, Ach tá mé cailte i mo smaointe, Tá pleann agam go sóiléir críochnaithe, Nuair atá lámha croithe agus beanachtaí roinnte, Ansin, raichaidh mé le sruth,

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Let me tell you that I love you, And I think about you all the time, Caledonia you’re calling me, I’m going home, But if I should become a stranger, It would make me more than sad, Caledonia’s been everything I’ve ever had.

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Lig dom insint duit go bhfuil tú i mo chroí ‘S go smaoiním fút an t-am ar fad Tá Caladóin ag glaoch orm, Táim chun filleadh ar ais Dá mbeadh m’aghaidh ag dul i ndearmad Bhrisfeadh sé mo chroí Ní raibh ach Caladóin i m’anam riamh.

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ITALIAN

ALLA NUOVA LUNA SALVATORE QUASIMODO

In principio Dio creò il cielo e la terra, poi nel suo giorno esatto mise i luminari in cielo e al settimo giorno si riposò.

Dopo miliardi di anni l’uomo, fatto a sua immagine e somiglianza, senza mai riposare, con la sua intelligenza laica, senza timore, nel cielo sereno d’una notte d’ottobre, mise altri luminari uguali a quelli che giravano dalla creazione del mondo. Amen.

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TO THE NEW MOON TRANSL. RORY O’SULLIVAN SCH.

In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth, then, on the same day exactly, he put the lights into the sky, and later, on the seventh day, he rested.

After billions of years, man, made from his imagination, in his image, never resting, with the same layman’s intelligence, without fear, put into the serene sky on one night in October other lights, the same as those which have been turning since the creation of the world. Amen.

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JAPANESE

A STAR PATRICK KAVANAGH TRANS. HITOMI NAKAMURA Beauty was that Far vanished flame, Call it a star Wanting better name.

And gaze and gaze Vaguely until Nothing is left Save a grey ghost-hill.

Here wait I On the world’s rim Stretching out hands To Seraphim.

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「星」 パトリック・カヴァナ

「美」 であったのは 遠くに消失した炎、 星と呼んでくれ ましな名を欲しがってはいるが。 そして見つめ続けてほしい ぼんやりと 灰色の亡霊のような丘のほか 何も見えなくなるまで。 ここで俺は待っている この世界の端で セラフィムのもとへと 手を差しのべながら。

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JAPANESE

INNOCENCE PATRICK KAVANAGH TRANS. HITOMI NAKAMURA They laughed at one I loved The triangular hill that hung Under the Big Forth. They said That I was bounded by the whitethorn hedges Of the little farm and did not know the world.

But I knew that love’s doorway to life Is the same doorway everywhere.

Ashamed of what I loved I flung her from me and called her a ditch Although she was smiling at me with violets.

But now I am back in her briary arms The dew of an Indian Summer morning lies On bleached potato-stalks What age am I? I do not know what age I am, I am no mortal age; I know nothing of women, Nothing of cities, I cannot die Unless I walk outside these whitethorn hedges.

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「無垢」 パトリック・カヴァナ

やつらは俺の愛するものを笑ったー ビッグ・フォースにかかる あの三角の丘。 やつらは言った 小さな農場のさんざしの垣根に 縛りつけられた俺は、世間知らずだと。 でも俺は知っている 生へと続く愛の戸口は どこにでも同じ戸口としてあることを。 愛するものを恥じて 俺は彼女さえはねのけ どぶと呼んだ すみれを手に微笑んでいてくれたというのに。 いま 俺は彼女のいばらの腕の中 小春日和の朝のしずくが 白くなったじゃがいもの茎についているー 俺は何歳だ？ 俺は自分の歳を知らない、 ひとのいう歳はない、 女性も知らない、 都市も知らない、 俺は死ぬはずがない このさんざしの垣根の外へ歩き出ぬかぎり。

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SPANISH

NATIONAL ANTHEM OF MEXICO FRANCISCO GONZÁLEZ BOCANEGRA Chorus Mexicanos, al grito de guerra el acero aprestad y el bridón.

Y retiemble en sus centros la Tierra, al sonoro rugir del cañón.

Y retiemble en sus centros la Tierra, al sonoro rugir del cañón!

1st Verse Ciña ¡oh Patria! tus sienes de oliva de la paz el arcángel divino, que en el cielo tu eterno destino por el dedo de Dios se escribió.

Mas si osare un extraño enemigo profanar con su planta tu suelo, piensa ¡oh Patria querida! que el cielo un soldado en cada hijo te dio.

2nd Verse ¡Guerra, guerra! sin tregua al que intente De la patria manchar los blasones! ¡Guerra, guerra! Los patrios pendones En las olas de sangre empapad. ¡Guerra, guerra! En el monte, en el valle Los cañones horrísonos truenen, Y los ecos sonoros resuenen Con las voces de ¡Unión! ¡Libertad!

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NATIONAL ANTHEM OF MEXICO TRANSL. GUILLERMO DILLON Chorus Mexicani, clamore belli ferrum atque frenum succingite.

Attrematque nucleus telluris, armorum sonoro strepitui!

Attrematque nucleus telluris, armorum sonoro stepitui!

1st Verse Tempora tua, o Patria! olivis divinus archangelus pacis concingit, quia in caelo aeternum fatum scriptum est digito Dei. Sin aliquis alienus hostis audeat planta humum tuum contaminare, memento, o Patria! caelum dedisse tibi militem cum quoquo filio.

2nd Verse Bellum, bellum! sine indutiis, cui conatur patriae imagines maculare!

Bellum, bellum! Patriotica signa cruentate undis sanguineis.

Bellum, bellum! Colle atque valle arma horrida fremant resonentque echus sonorae clamantes; Concordia! Libertas!

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3rd Verse Antes, patria, que inermes tus hijos Bajo el yugo su cuello dobleguen, Tus campiñas con sangre se rieguen, Sobre sangre se estampe su pie.

Y tus templos, palacios y torres Se derrumben con hórrido estruendo, Y sus ruinas existan diciendo: De mil héroes la patria aquí fue.

4th Verse ¡Patria! ¡Patria! Tus hijos te juran Exhalar en tus aras su aliento, Si el clarín con su bélico acento los convoca a lidiar con valor. ¡Para ti las guirnaldas de oliva! ¡Un recuerdo para ellos de gloria! ¡Un laurel para ti de victoria! ¡Un sepulcro para ellos de honor!

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3rd Verse Priusquam, o Patria, inermes filii tui Colla sua sub iugum mittunt, Campi tui sanguine aspergant, Supra sanguinem pedes sui imprimat Itaque templa tua, regiae tuae, et turres tuae horrido strepitu ruant, Et ruinae suae exsistant dicentes: milibus heroibus Patria hic facta est.

4th Verse O Patria! O Patria! Filii tui iurant Propter te exspirare animas suas Si tuba cum accentu bellico suo fortiter committare pugnatum exhortetur Tibi coronae olivarum!

Illis memoria gloriae!

Tibi laurea victoriae!

Illis sepulcrum honoris!

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APPENDIX In order of appearance This appendix contains short descriptions of the works contained in this journal - written by the contributors themselves and setting their selection in context. We have also listed the online sources of the original works which our editorial team worked from.

Joachim du Bellay, Les Regrets, 1558 A little sonnet written in French by our famous national poet, Joachim du Bellay, who established once and for all the codes of our language.

Source: https://www.frenchtoday.com/french-poetry-reading/heureux-qui-comme-ulysse-joachim-bellay

“Colette”, Le Refuge, 1915 “The Shelter” (“Le Refuge”) is a chapter from The Long Hours (Les Heures longues), a wartime novel by the French writer known simply as Colette, published in installments between 1914 and 1917.

Source: https://archive.org/stream/lesheureslongues00cole/ lesheureslongues00cole_djvu.txt

Jacques Prévert, Le Retour au Pays, 1946 Jacques Prévert was a French poet and screenwriter born in 1900. This poem appears in his most famous collection of poems, Paroles, published in 1946. His poetry is known for its informal language and focus on the ordinary and the everyday.

Source: https://poesiefrancophone.wordpress.com/2015/08/25/leretour-au-pays-jacques-prevert/

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Bertolt Brecht, Gedanken über die Dauer des Exils, 1939 Gedanken über die Dauer des Exils (Thoughts on the Duration of Exile) is a poem written by Bertolt Brecht during his time in exile from Nazi Germany. Fearing prosecution, Brecht left Germany in February 1933, right after Hitler came to power. He fled from Germany through Prague, Zurich, Paris and to Denmark where he spent 6 years in Svendborg on Funen and wrote a collection of poems on his experience (Svendborg Gedichte, 1939).

The poem I have chosen explores the life situation of a person in exile and describes the inner disunity caused by this ostracism.

So many people live in forced displacement in our modern world and homecoming is not an option. This is a theme found in a lot of Brecht’s work.

Source: http://www.literaturepochen.at/exil/multimedia/pdf/brechtdauerexil. pdf

Bertolt Brecht, Rückkehr, 1943.

Bertolt Brecht wrote this poem in 1943 from his exile in the USA. It reflects his trepidation at returning home to a devastated Germany once the war was over.

Source: http://www.gedicht-schreiben.de/Die-Rueckkehr

Homer, Odyssey, 13.291-310.

Odysseus, thrown off course for 10 years, has finally landed in Ithaca. All the way, the goddess Athena guided and watched over him – and now she reveals herself to him for the first time, to warn him about the suitors occupying his home. But nothing is as simple as that with these two: Athena makes herself unrecognisable, and the suspicious Odysseus, imagining her to be a stranger, gives a fake name and backstory. They play along at this for a while until Athena decides enough is enough.

Source: http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus%3Atext%3A1999.01.0135%3Abook%3D13%3Acard%3D287

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Empedocles, Fragment B112.

Plato stands at the head of the Western philosophical tradition, but there was before him a whole wisdom tradition of Greek poets who philosophized on cosmology, theology, ethics and every aspect of the natural world. An early 5th century philosopher-healer, Empedocles was one of the most amazing poets in this tradition. He wrote hexameter poetry (partially preserved in fragments) on cosmology and ritual purifications. In this famous fragment, the poet returns to his homeland - Acragas in Sicily having become a God. Source: The Poem of Empedocles ed. Inwood [1992]

Pádraig Mac Piaras, Óró mo Bháidín. Óró Mo Bháidín is an Irish folk lullaby by Pádraig Mac Piaras.

In it, he recalls the movement of the traditional Irish ‘currach’ on the waves and yearns to return to his boat, to where he is most at home.

Source: http://www.celticlyricscorner.net/ryan/oro.htm

Seán Ó Ríordáín, Fill Arís, 1964.

This poem refers to the revival of the Irish language and return from the English language, which Seán Ó’Ríordáin considers a foreign language, to the native language of Ireland.

Source: https://apoemforireland.rte.ie/shortlist/fill-aris/

Dougie MacLean, Caledonia, 1977.

Caledonia’ was composed by a very homesick Dougie McClean on a beach in Brittany France, as he thought of his native Scotland. Composing the folk ballad had such an emotional effect on McClean that he returned home a day later Source: https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/celticwoman/caledonia.html

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Salvatore Quasimodo, Alla Nuova Luna, 1958.

Alla Nuova Luna commemorates the launch of Sputnik 1; the Italian is almost Latin, borrowed from the Latin Bible: what we have left, we return to again. For Quasimodo, language, life, history and everything else is a circle.

Source: https://www.isoladellapoesia.com/poesie_famose/24-poesia-alla-nuova-luna-quasimodo.php

Patrick Kavanagh, A Star, 1936; Innocence, 1960.

My Japanese translation of Patrick Kavanagh’s work strives to preserve the stylistic features of the poems. In these two poems, Kavanagh pursues the universal in his hometown Inniskeen.

Sources: https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-star-13/ https://www.tcd.ie/English/patrickkavanagh/innocence.html

Francisco González Bocanegra, National Anthem of Mexico The spiritual wellbeing of a nation depends on the capacity of its citizens to protect and cherish their cultural inheritance. It’s for this reason that I’ve translated the Mexican National Anthem into Latin, believing that my country’s cultural inheritance is not only indigenous but also European, and that it is only by starting an odyssey into our Western roots that we will solve our identity crisis. May this translation be a call for us to embark on this journey.

Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Himno_Nacional_Mexicano#Lyrics_ competition

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