Translations

Translation Tuesday: “A Proper Lady” by Arbër Selmani 

Come with us, let’s shapeshift, let’s resist the expectation to be beautiful in front of the cameras

“A proper lady” (Zonja, in Albanian) is many things, but more than any other, she is expected to be obedient. For this week’s Translation Tuesday, we bring you an incendiary prose-poem against the patriarchy, written by the queer Kosovar poet Arbër Selmani and translated by Suzana Vuljevic. In this mordant poem, a chorus of unnamed women turn society’s expectations upside down, their harsh refrain of “if we were proper ladies” calling attention to the abuse and exploitation inherent in the class aspiration of being “a proper lady.” In the words of the translator: “Proper ladies in the context of the poem largely refers to the kind of women that are forced to follow the rules as it were, becoming inured to male dominion, fulfilling a submissive, obedient role, and falling prey to misogynistic men. At the same time, there is an overtly rebellious undercurrent that calls out the indecencies of societies that take advantage of, abuse and demean women.” Implicit in the poem’s collective point-of-view is an alternative aspiration, a solidarity that can resist the oppression of a misogynist society. Read on!

If we were dignified ladies, we’d have to wake up at the crack of dawn and wash the feet of the patriarchy. If we were proper ladies, we’d be off filling jugs with water, heating them up with the dark bits of our souls. If we were ladies, we’d have to be sure not to make a sound at night. We’d have to fake orgasms, swallow the pain, and then go on to tell ourselves we had it coming. If we were the kinds of ladies society wanted us to be, we’d be in the habit of rolling our eyes and accepting our husbands’ slaps like ordinary boxes of chocolate. If we were ladies, we’d have to cook around the clock to fill the hairy bellies of wretched husbands—husbands long ago turned masters.

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Translation Tuesday: Two Poems by Park Ju-taek

In the night, all arustle with flights of falling leaves, / the wind opens its mouth to read my eulogy / and blows my will away.

For this week’s Translation Tuesday, we’re presenting two highly evocative poems by Korean poet Park Ju-taek. The first, “Missteps”, portrays a group of men, “hard as insomniac stones”, whose fragile companionship seems to be threatened by an overwhelming yet nebulous existential dread. “I Am Not an Atheist” forcefully buffets us with its speaker’s emotional turmoil; a hyperawareness of “the cyanic death that comes with mortality” provokes a confrontation with the divine. But the poems escape clear interpretation, and perhaps feel most similar to paintings—the mysterious cityscapes of Giorgio de Chirico or Edward Hopper come to mind. Heinz Insu Fenkl’s sensuously renders Park’s distinctive atmospheres, bringing his unsettling afterimages into high relief.

Missteps

No one kept track of the time.
The men who needed a long talk did not return to their homes.
A car drove by, its headlights on.
And then—those men of few words—disappeared into a bar;
a brief silence settled in.
It was a starless night,
our natures hard as insomniac stones
and tainted, just like the world.
One man stepped out of the bar,
and as he walked along the visible street—
the dark street, with its open lips—
he saw shadows still trapped in the bar
and insects dead on the cement floor.
The wind blew. The remaining men all rose.
Afterwards, darkness engulfed
the street toward which they walked,
their many hands fluttering in the air.

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Translation Tuesday: “Good Girls” by Olga Campofreda

That ... is how snakes leave their old skins behind: they crawl out of their nest and keep rubbing against the ground, until they’re finally free.

For this Translation Tuesday, we bring you a poignant and introspective excerpt from Olga Campofreda’s novel Ragazze Perbene, translated from the Italian by Federica Silvi. A woman returns to her hometown for a simple mission: attending her cousin’s wedding. But her journey provokes uneasy reflections, as she tracks the trajectory of her cousin’s life, which has adhered to the conventional “good girl” narrative ingrained in their community, and measures its distance from her own. As much as she cherishes her life of openness and freedom, her homecoming resurrects the ghosts of other possibilities—and worse, the fear of not being able to maintain her new identity under the suffocating pressure of the past. Campofreda’s prose brims with quiet tension, exploring the friction between the selves we create for ourselves and the ones we can’t escape.

In the end, no one cheered. The plane glimmered in the sunset-red windows of the business district’s skyscrapers, then landed smoothly in Naples, but none of the usual hand-clapping followed. A single, half-hearted burst had all but died down by the time the wheels touched the ground. Some might blame it on the low season: at this time of year, all the passengers are foreigners, taking advantage of lower prices to visit the islands and hike on the Amalfi Coast. It’s the outfits that give them away, the summer clothes they start wearing before it’s even hot, the shorts and linen vests they bring out as good omens for the weather in the days to come. In the holiday dream world they purchased, there’s nothing but sunshine. They’ll find it even when it eludes them: a power they can only wield in the places they’re seeing for the first time.

“Are you from here?” the delicate woman sitting next to me asked, in English.  

Her husband had woken her when Vesuvius appeared out of the window. She kept pressing her finger on the glass in its direction, ecstatic, a white-haired child. 

“Are you from Naples?”

I nodded; she replied with a contented sigh, then turned away to gape at the scenery some more.   READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: Two Poems by Shin Kyeong-nim

If a human shows any interest at all in pigs, / It’s to snatch one up at random for slaughter.

For this week’s Translation Tuesday, we present a selection of poems by Shin Kyeong-nim, translated from the Korean by Shane Ingan. In “For fallen things,” the speaker reflects on a life spent with the downtrodden, where “the shattered of dreams of fallen things” remain unredeemed. Accepting the bleakness of such a life brings a contentment that grand narratives could never give them. Meanwhile, “Lucky dream” follows a pig farmer who dreams of living as a pig herself. Though her porcine lifestyle would allow her new freedoms, she’s overwhelmed by the reality of the random violence that all dehumanized beings are vulnerable to. Both poems are suffused with quiet dignity as well as an acerbic undertone, which naturally intermingle among meditations on power, fate, and the unseen costs of collective indifference.

For fallen things

Somehow or other, I made my home in the shadows.
I did not take the side of the victorious wrestler,
But stood instead with the defeated, my fist in the air.
I skipped that rally where the multitudes gathered,
And listened instead to the man in the tattered suit
Surrounded by outcasts and orphans.
And so I have always been a bit melancholy, a bit mournful,
But I never thought of myself as unfortunate.
All that time I was happy.
It was the way people lived.

Never once did I believe that the shattered dreams of fallen things
Would be pieced back together by some benevolent hand.

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Translation Tuesday: “The River and the Sea” by Abdoul Ali War

The sea is first / The sea is mother

That a poem so brief can contain a world may seem incredible to some, but here, Mauritanian poet Abdoul Ali War has accomplished just that. In this poem of fourteen short lines, elegantly translated by Patrick Williamson, Ali War offers a sparing vision of the interplay between river and sea, the water of life and the vast, world-separating lacuna from which all life once came, and to which all will, eventually, return. In a brilliant turn, Ali War inverts the traditional movement between the two forces, positing “The river is a branch / The sea is a tree,” calling our attention to the cyclical processes of the natural world, in which all that we the living depend on emerges from a greater, primordial body. Implicit in the brief, plainspoken lines and lack of punctuation is a deep appreciation for the delicacy of the relationship between these forces; we disregard the river and the sea at our peril. Read on!

The river goes to the sea
The sea has its own
space
It has its own
depth
The sea is first
The sea is mother

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Translation Tuesday: “Light in the Wound” by Evgenia Bogianou

The fire burns within N. It burns without guilt in the wounded body.

“She was confirming her existence through pain.” With these words, Greek writer Evgenia Bogianou vividly illustrates the mind of her unnamed narrator, a small girl playing a field at the edge of town, only moments away from witnessing an encounter that will mark her for the rest of her life. Watching a man from her village make love to an unknown woman, the injured girl begins to discern the pain inherent to all desire, the wound in her knee giving way to the lifelong wound of love itself, ever present and impossible to satisfy. Rendered here in a luminous translation by Gina Scarpete Walters, this story is sure to leave you, like its narrator, caught in an impossible position: wanting to persist in a moment that must surely end. Read on!

Ν. was playing in the empty lot. She had scraped her knee, fresh blood on top of the scab. Her hand rebelliously scratched the wound. She felt pleasure from it even though she was in pain. Sometimes, the wound hurt so much that she felt the pain all the way to her head. N. wasn’t worried. She made sure that her body, her knee and everything else was hers, that’s why they hurt. She was confirming her existence through pain, despite the fact that the only thing she was doing was scratching the wound.

The empty lot was just outside the village, in an uninhabited area. If she could, N. would stay there until dawn, scraped knee and all. It was spacious there. In the village, everything was cramped—voices could be heard, the roofs were low and hung to the ground, cutting off the air, cutting off the light. But in the empty lot, the light was abundant. In the afternoons, the light fell sideways on the low fields of grass. In those moments, the grass ceased to be grass and the light, unimaginably brilliant, ceased to be light; it became something else.

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Translation Tuesday: “An Autumn Evening’s Tale” by Okamoto Kanoko

...Their neighbors naturally did not suspect a thing, so they treated Father as a little girl and regarded Mother as a boy.

For this week’s Translation Tuesday, we bring you a short story by Okamoto Kanoko, one of several notable feminist writers who flourished in Japan’s prewar period. In “An Autumn Evening’s Tale,” translated from the Japanese by Elena Paulsen (and edited by Ella Campbell), when a family pauses on their journey back to their hometown, the parents take it as an opportunity to reveal a long-held secret. As they recount their pasts with a mixture of nostalgia and resignation, their children begin to question the underpinnings of their seemingly conventional lives. Okamoto’s equally elegant and playful tale unravels notions of gender, identity, and love against a backdrop of familial pressures and societal expectations. In doing so, she presents a vision for living true to a fluid self which is sparklingly radical even today.

A middle-aged father and mother went on a trip with their son and daughter, who were in their early twenties. 

They took lodgings at almost exactly the halfway point of their trip, a quiet hotel in a lakeside town. It was somewhere between the capital city of that country and the countryside village they had come from, a distance of one hundred and fifty leagues. 

I say “of that country”—but is it Japan or a foreign country, in the present or the past? What will the author decide? But really it doesn’t matter whether it happened in Japan or elsewhere, recently or long ago. The fact of this story, the truth of it, rides upon the craft of the author without a care for those details, and the truth is what I would like to convey to the reader. But it’s hard on anyone who might try their hand at illustrating this story, as they haven’t a clue whether to draw black eyes or blue, curly or long, straight hair. Actually it need not even be humans, it could be grass or trees or wildlife or flowers. Anything at all is fine, so long as it corresponds to the feeling that arises when reading this story. With that said, surely the skill and sensitivity of an artist is such that even with no further instructions the illustrator will be able to convey the essence of the story and have it ring true—so, with your permission, I will go ahead and begin. 

The season was autumn. The harsh evening wind had completely died down, leaving the quiet atmosphere from before what little foliage remained was jostled by the wind. The moon, bright but not too bright, came into view on the peak of the night-time mountain. From the hotel window only the edge of the lake was visible. Yet the complete serene clarity of that edge was enough to give an impression of  jade-like translucence to the whole vast surface, soothing the eyes of the four members of the family. Served in the many dinner plates that the waitstaff set upon the table were fresh, fragrant fish only just taken from the waters of the lake. Here and there amongst the plates were figs picked from the surrounding mountains, the ripe flesh of the fruit seeming fit to burst, barely covered by the glossy skin. The fruits were placed in large bowls and carried out together with strong, aromatic tea. 

—— Father. Tonight we should tell the truth about ourselves to the children, don’t you think? 

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Translation Tuesday: An Excerpt from Buckle by Nirha Efendić

I don’t think that having to prove oneself is right; you break yourself but the people around you see only what they care to see.

Too often, stories about war sensationalize the trauma it inflicts—the dead reduced to numbers, the survivors to lists of symptoms. Not so the work of Bosnian writer Nirha Efendić, whose autobiographical novel Buckle, translated by Ellen Elias-Bursać, offers a compelling vision of what such narratives often omit: the shunning of refugees, the punishments of a post-war economy, the daily psychic grind of living as an undesired and unforeseen survivor. The nature of the narrative is best described by Bosnian author Faruk Šehić, as “. . . a documentary-like, autobiographical work of prose with elements of fiction”—the early chapters narrated by various members of the protagonist Nirha’s family, the later narrated by Nirha alone, following the death of her father and brother in the Srebrenica genocide. The excerpts below are taken from the middle of the novel, following Nirha’s attempts to find her footing after she is finally separated from her father and brother. Of these passages, Elias-Bursać writes: “The challenge in working on this translation was to convey the nuanced sense of the narrator’s grace, strength and gentility as she speaks of such wrenching, tragic subjects.” Read on—

All morning long, Mama and I worked on stitching sturdy yellow cloth for rucksacks. Mama had a Singer sewing machine that my grandfather bought her while she was still in elementary school so she could learn the trade over summer vacation.

Now she was determined to teach me how to sew.

She thought it might come in handy at some point. We knew we had to stuff our whole past into the backpacks, at least the most important parts of it, and set off into the unknown.

This wasn’t easy. There were shells raining down all around us.

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Translation Tuesday: “The Boat” by Rabindranath Tagore

Who is that approaching, singing, rowing to the shore? / When I set my eyes on her, I think we’ve met before.

For this week’s Translation Tuesday, we bring you a lyrical meditation on longing, loss, and ephemeral encounters by India’s eternal poet laureate, Rabindranath Tagore. Set against a monsoon-drenched landscape, “The Boat” captures a moment of solitude as the narrator, tired after a long day of harvesting, watches a mysterious boatwoman pass by. There is a haunting nostalgia in the stranger’s presence, yet she vanishes as quickly as she arrives, leaving behind empty hands and unanswered questions. Tagore infuses his songlike verses with his signature blend of natural symbolism and emotional subtlety. Translated gracefully from the Bengali by Anushka Sen, the poem illuminates a world where human connection is as fleeting as the rains.

The Boat

Through thickets of thunder runs the rapid rain.
I sit alone and helpless by the shore.
The harvest heaped in heavy rows,
draws my labour to a close.
The brimming river grows
to a sickled roar.
The rains arrived as I was threshing grain.

I sit alone in a little field of rice
with little rivers rippling all around.
Smudged against the distant stroke
of watersky, a village glows
through forest fog and cloudy smoke—
So it was I found
myself alone in a little field of rice.

Who is that approaching, singing, rowing to the shore?
When I set my eyes on her, I think we’ve met before.
She hurtles past with streaming sail,
never glancing either way
as desperate waves assail
her boat and turn to spray.
I see her, and feel as though we may have met before.

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Translation Tuesday: “Melonpan” by Sachiko Kishimoto

Is everyone holding on to a piece of their dreams in secret, like this indigo ball of my dream that I’d kept for myself?

What if the price of a better world was the loss of your dreams? That’s the question that Japanese author Sachiko Kashimoto asks in this week’s Translation Tuesday, translated by Yui Kajita. In this spare, subtly plotted short story, an unnamed narrator goes for a short walk to pick dandelions, only to retreat to their apartment after experiencing sudden drowsiness. There, in conversation with their neighbor, the true nature of the narrator’s condition is revealed: their unremembered dreams are the physical substance from which their idyllic world is made. As they begin, once more, to dream, they find themself in an unexpected place, their elusive vision drawing a faint but powerful connection between their utopia and the altogether more painful world of the audience. Read on!

Today I’ll pick a hundred dandelions, I decided and walked out to the riverbank.

The sun was shining bright, the surface of the water glimmering in the warm breeze. It might’ve been a good day for picnicking by the river, too, I thought fleetingly.

All over the bank, green was shooting up from the ground, piercing through the round rocks, and there they were, blazing yellow dandelions, so vivid they almost stung my eyes, thriving everywhere. I would’ve felt sorry to pick five or six from the same clump, so I set a rule that I’d leave at least half of each cluster untouched, then started picking the flowers while counting each one in my head.

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Translation Tuesday: An Excerpt from The Voice of Sulina by Anneleen Van Offel

The baby churns in a maelstrom, her heart rate is high, it’s high tide, high time to get her out.

Few people go through the all-obliterating pain of childbirth and retain enough presence of mind—or even the desire—to portray the experience. But that’s exactly what Belgian writer Anneleen Van Offel sets out to do in this excerpt from her novel The Voice of Sulina. Through prose that ripples, churns, and overflows, the reader is plunged into the narrator’s mind, which leaps wildly between the hospital room, Greek myths, her increasing pain, and the feeling of the nascent life inside her. Van Offel’s entrancing stream-of-consciousness style mirrors the fluidity and chaos of labor, dissolving the distinction between the female body and bodies of water. Fiona Graham‘s electrifying translation of the original Dutch adeptly captures the deepest transformation a person can undergo: a “primal dance of compression and resistance.”

Body of Water

Thinking back to that time, the walls are white, but of course they’re not white, they’re covered in grainy, pale yellow wallpaper, and on them are devices with wires poking out, papers full of procedures and guidelines and a poster showing various labour positions, and there’s an old armchair, and a tile hanging loose from the dropped ceiling, yet when I think of the room, it’s a white room, and it’s empty. Leon and I are standing in the middle of a plain, there’s no vegetation, and it’s silent.
      Utterly silent. For hours on end.

We sit on the bed and walk around a bit, read through all the procedures and guidelines, and from time to time someone comes in to ask if anything’s happening yet, but nothing’s happening, I took the tablets two hours ago with plenty of water, the tablets that will set off the labour pains – it’s better to call them waves, said the midwife on the course we took, they’ll hurt less then. I’m not far gone enough, I think, we’re not ready, and the course didn’t tell us anything about this, even though we studied and practised diligently, on an exercise ball and a yoga mat, and went through the various options, on five consecutive Saturday mornings. Naturally I highlighted passages in the course book and made notes and comments in the margins, because that’s the way I am, and now we’re running through the scenario from beginning to baby. But nothing’s happening.
      A few hours ago I found out that my body is poisoning itself. The gynaecologist rang with the results of my blood test; my liver’s failing and there’s protein in my urine, the HELLP syndrome, she said; you don’t want to hear your doctor utter a name like that, but it’s not a disaster, she added, your pregnancy is far enough advanced. It’s best to give birth as soon as possible.
      This has to do with Leon’s antigens, as I understand it, it’s an auto-immune reaction to his presence in my body. The blood vessels feeding into the placenta are constricted and my body has to pump more blood round, raising the pressure, like water behind a dam, while my own organs are drying out and slackening, meekly making a maternal sacrifice.
      For several days now, a band beneath my breasts has been gradually tightening, a phantom corset, and there’s a tingling in my fingers that I try to squeeze out, clenching my fists until my skin whitens with subcutaneous ink. Now, of all times, the baby is still, as if there were no tablets on their way to drag her by the scruff of her neck out of the bubbling primeval swamp.

But it’s inescapable.

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Translation Tuesday: “Auntie with Two Laughing Braids” by Hoda AbdelKader Mahmoud

My vast darkness is lit with memories of my mother's hand

For this week’s Translation Tuesday, we bring you a poem by Egyptian writer Hoda AbdelKader Mahmoud, translated by Mohamed ElSawi Hassan and Jennifer Jean. Simultaneously delighted by the temerity of a young interlocutor and agonizing over her own age and childlessness, the unnamed narrator of this poem faces herself in the mirror and worries about her frown lines, takes pleasure in the perfect skirt, and feels a wash of nostalgia at the sound of an old song. Torn between comfort in her new identity—the Auntie!—and anxiety over her future, she finds solace in the memory of her own mother and female ancestors, with whom she shares a bond through time, and beyond age.

You are old, Auntie!
This phrase delights, then turns me to face the mirror.
My heart is obliged to follow, every time, and
I catch it red-handed, in a small panic.
I joke with it about the idea of wrinkles and sagging breasts.
My hormones are still the same from late childhood!
And the fact that aging does not come.
If it does, it confirms my beloved will never arrive,
and that Auntie will never be replaced with Mom. READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: Seven Poems by Manglesh Dabral

Opening the invisible doors of air, water, and dust, you have left for a mountain, river, or star, to become a mountain, a river, a star yourself.

For this week’s Translation Tuesday, we bring you a selection of works by Indian poet and journalist Manglesh Dabral. Dabral wrote in deceptively simple yet precise language; his artistic sensibility, which comes across as modest and humble in its ambitions, inquired into some of the most pressing questions of postcolonial India. Ranging from social themes, like the way postcolonial modernity blinds itself to its own past, to themes of personal memory, the experience of displacement, and the unending longing for home, Dabral embraced a vast spectrum of human emotions. A line from “In Memory of my Father” could serve as a statement for his poetic vision: “Within empty containers[,] torn-up books[,] and things infested with granary weevil, whatever life was left in them[,] you used to believe in it.” Translated from the Hindi by Nisarg P., the seven poems featured here are perfect representations of Dabral’s poetics―in their language, their form, and the themes with which they engage.

Here was that River

She wanted to reach there in haste
the place where a man
was heading for a bath in her water
a boat
was waiting for its travelers
and a line of birds
were approaching in search of her water

In that river of our childhood
we used to see our faces moving
on her shore were our houses
always over-flooded
she loved her islands and her stones
days used to begin from that river
her sound
audible at all the windows
her waves knocking on the doors
calling us incessantly
we remember
here was that river [,] in this very sand
where our faces once moved
here was that awaiting boat

now there is nothing
except at night when people are asleep
a voice is sometimes heard from its sand.

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Translation Tuesday: “The Silent Bird” by Csenge Fehér

I vanished too. Bird’s wing, crone’s water, old man’s beard—nothing could hide me.

For this week’s Translation Tuesday, we bring you a haunting short story by Hungarian author Csenge Fehér, translated by Dorottya Mária Cseresnyés. In this eerie tale, A young woman, ostracized for her otherworldly beauty by the inhabitants of her small town, flees into the forest at the exhortations of her abused and overworked mother. There, she is pursued by a huntsman, here transformed from the noble rescuer of Western fairy tales into a rapacious brute, with none but the creatures of the forest to protect her—men and women whose transformations have left them barely human, ravaged by time. But even they cannot protect her forever—not from the violence the huntsman brings.

There lived I, a girl with black nails and pale soul, in a raven ravine, deep into the woods. My small village―bones banging―was wrapped in a thicket. I was so pretty that I was pelted with dung if I dared to speak, was chased by hounds if I dared walk alone. You’re such a treasure, not even pigs would desire you, they said. In vain did the moonbeams weave your skin. In vain does your river of hair flow after your feet. In vain do your eyes mirror the ashes of the nights―no one will desire you. You’ll be of no use, bear no fruit, grow old alone, what a shame.

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