2015. július 7., kedd

Angolos műfordító műhely a FISZ-táborban Gerevich Andrással

Idén július 18-22-én rendezik meg a FISZ nyári táborát Visegrádon. A tavalyi, meglehetősen tanulságos alkalom után idén is Gerevich Andrást hívtuk meg a táborba, hogy együtt fordítson velünk angolból. Műhelyvezetőnket tavaly már bemutattuk, idén ugyanakkor több időt tölthetünk vele, éppen ezért négy verset is mellékelt fordításra. Gerevich kérése, hogy a műhelyen résztvenni kívánók fordítsanak le belőle hármat (de legalább kettőt), illetve lehetőség szerint hozzanak magukkal 1-3 önszorgalomból lefordított verset is eredetiben és magyar fordításban. A 3-6 vers fordítását a műhelyvezető az andras.gerevich@gmail.com címre várja.

Gerevich azokra is gondolt, akik nem angolosok: “Ha a fordító nem angolból fordít, akkor készüljön a fordításilag problematikus pontok prezentálására: mi az, amit nem tud magyarul megoldani, vagy amire sok lehetőség van, de egyik sem tűnik jónak vagy pontosnak, és ezeket a csoport közösen megvitatja.”

A beküldés határideje július 17., péntek.

Frank O’Hara

Have you forgotten what we were like then
when we were still first rate
and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth
it's no use worrying about Time
but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves
and turned some sharp corners
the whole pasture looked like our meal
we didn't need speedometers
we could manage cocktails out of ice and water
I wouldn't want to be faster
or greener than now if you were with me O you
were the best of all my days


Lawrence Ferlinghetti


In Goya’s greatest scenes we seem to see
                                           the people of the world
       exactly at the moment when
             they first attained the title of
                                                             ‘suffering humanity’
          They writhe upon the page
                                        in a veritable rage
                                                                of adversity
          Heaped up
                     groaning with babies and bayonets
                                                       under cement skies
            in an abstract landscape of blasted trees
                  bent statues bats wings and beaks
                               slippery gibbets
                  cadavers and carnivorous cocks
            and all the final hollering monsters
                  of the
                           ‘imagination of disaster’
            they are so bloody real
                                        it is as if they really still existed

    And they do

                  Only the landscape is changed

They still are ranged along the roads
          plagued by legionnaires
                     false windmills and demented roosters
They are the same people
                                     only further from home
      on freeways fifty lanes wide
                              on a concrete continent
                                        spaced with bland billboards
                        illustrating imbecile illusions of happiness

                       The scene shows fewer tumbrils
                                                but more strung-out citizens
                                                                     in painted cars
                               and they have strange license plates
                           and engines
                                           that devour America


Ted Hughes


The sea cries with its meaningless voice
Treating alike its dead and its living,
Probably bored with the appearance of heaven
After so many millions of nights without sleep,
Without purpose, without self-deception.

Stone likewise. A pebble is imprisoned
Like nothing in the Universe.
Created for black sleep. Or growing
Conscious of the sun's red spot occasionally,
Then dreaming it is the foetus of God.

Over the stone rushes the wind
Able to mingle with nothing,
Like the hearing of the blind stone itself.
Or turns, as if the stone's mind came feeling
A fantasy of directions.

Drinking the sea and eating the rock
A tree struggles to make leaves-
An old woman fallen from space
Unprepared for these conditions.
She hangs on, because her mind's gone completely.

Minute after minute, aeon after aeon,
Nothing lets up or develops.
And this is neither a bad variant nor a tryout.
This is where the staring angels go through.
This is where all the stars bow down.


Benjamin Fraser


Their spirits beat upon mine
Like the wings of a thousand butterflies.
I closed my eyes and felt their spirits vibrating.
I closed my eyes, yet I knew when their lashes
Fringed their cheeks from downcast eyes,
And when they turned their heads;
And when their garments clung to them,
Or fell from them, in exquisite draperies.
Their spirits watched my ecstasy
With wide looks of starry unconcern.
Their spirits looked upon my torture;
They drank it as it were the water of life;
With reddened cheeks, brightened eyes,
The rising flame of my soul made their spirits gilt,
Like the wings of a butterfly drifting suddenly into sunlight.
And they cried to me for life, life, life.
But in taking life for myself,
In seizing and crushing their souls,
As a child crushes grapes and drinks
From its palms the purple juice,
I came to this wingless void,
Where neither red, nor gold, nor wine,
Nor the rhythm of life are known